CHAPTER XXXVIII
OF THE TERROR BY NIGHT
June coming in glory had flamed out in splendour. August glowed from dewy dawn to dusky eve; upon the warm and slumbrous air was the fragrance of ripening fruit and herb; flowers bloomed sedately in cottage gardens, they rioted in the hedges, fields and uplands were ablaze with them where butterflies wheeled and hovered and bees hummed drowsily about their unceasing labours. The river, winding sleepily between reedy banks, made little slumbrous noises, the very brooks, by reason of the pervading heat and universal somnolence, seemed to hush their chatter; and neighbours in shirt-sleeves, meeting in shady places, yawningly informed each other of the very obvious fact that it was “tur’ble waarmish-loike!”
Even Mr. Dumbrell, that “aged soul,” perched upon his accustomed stile, admitted that, in his vast experience, he had “knowed a colder August.... But, Lord, young man, to ’ear folks talk, you’d think ’twas that ’ot! But look at oi, so grig an’ sproy for arl my aage, look at oi, will ’ee!”
“Thou’rt a truly wonderful man!” answered Sir John.
“Ay, sartin-sure-indeed, oi be!” answered the Aged One. “But oi knawed that afore you was barn!”
“Indeed, Mr. Dumbrell, you look heartier than ever——”
“Well, oi bean’t! ’Ow can oi be—wi’ a musket-ball a-rattlin’ my innards an’ a granddarter a-rattlin’ my out’ards—wi’ a bresh? Mak’s me wash my face twoice a day, she du—twoice!”
“Consequently you look extreme cool and clean.”
“Clean!” snarled the Aged Soul. “Doan’t ’ee say so, young man, or oi shall ’ate ’ee! No one ’as no call t’ be so clean as oi be ’cept p’r’aps in theer coffins—an’ even then I dunno! Theer was Joel Sams, never kemped ’is ’air in arl ’is days, oi du believe, never shaved—not ’im! Only washed of a Sunday ’cos ’is woife made ’im ... a reg’lar loight-’earted chap were Jo tell ’e took an’ doied. Well, when I come to ’elp ’im intu ’is coffin, they’d washed ’im an’ breshed ’im an’ shaved ’im till oi didn’t roightly know whether ’e were the corp’ or no.... An’ they’d made ’is coffin too small, but in ’e ’ad to go. So oi doubled ’im ’ere, an’ oi twisted ’im theer, an’ got ’e in some’ow—oi knawed pore Joel wouldn’t moind.... An’ talkin’ o’ corpses, wot about your sweet-’eartin’, young man?”
“Thank you, it progresses as well as can be expected.”
“Ah, but ’ow much do ye expect, young man, that be the p’int. Theer’s folk as generally-arlways expects too much, an’ theer’s folks as doan’t never expect nothin’ no’ow ... loike Diggory Small’s woife as never expected an’ wouldn’t expect ... said ’twas nowt but wind ’er did ... an’ so when the child were born everybody called it ‘Windy Small,’ which were ’ard on the child seein’ as Diggory ’ad ’ad it named ‘Noble’ arter Farmer Axeford’s gurt cow.... An’ talkin’ o’ cows, Pen ’aryott’s witched ’er ol’ cottage into a noo ’un, she ’ave ... arl noo painted an’ thatched so trig as never was, it be. Which ain’t nowise nat’ral—not in Dering it bean’t, wheer no cottages bean’t never painted nowhen. So ’tis witchcraft sure-lye, spells an’ black magic, I rackon—unless it be the doing o’ liddle Mus’ Dobbs.”
“And pray, who is he?” inquired Sir John lazily.
“Lord!” exclaimed the Aged Soul in deepest scorn, “oi wouldn’t ha’ beleft as nobody nowheers didn’t know ’e. Mus’ Dobbs be a liddle ol’ chap as bean’t a pharysee an’ yet moighty loike a pharysee tu, as works an’ labours whoiles folks sleep.... An’ yonder be that ’ere sweet-eart o’ yourn at last akerchally a-kissin’ ol’ Pen goo’-bye! An’ a rare purty lass ’er be tu! Moves so free an’ easy as a young blood-mare, doan’t ’er? Carries ’er ’ead ’igh an’ proud-loike! A foine wench she be sure-lye.... Nay, boide wheer ye be, young man, oi’ll go to ’er d’rackly-minute an’ say a word for ’ee, aye I will so. ’Tis loike enough oi’ll arg’ ’er into weddin’ of ’ee afore she knows it, so boide wheer ye be an’ leave it arl to oi.”
So saying, the Aged One hobbled away, and Sir John, seated beside the stile, watched the little old man salute my lady with hat a-flourish and, bare-headed, offer her his arm.
The sun had set, but earth and heaven were still glorious with his passing; from blooming hedge, fragrant meadow and open down stole a thousand scents that seemed but to strengthen as the shadows fell, a mingled sweetness upon the warm, still air; borne to his ears came the lowing of cows calling to be milked, the plod of horses jingling stablewards, friendly voices murmurous with distance, and an intermittent rustling in the opposite hedge. And Sir John, seated beside the old stile, breathing this warm and fragrant air and hearkening to these peaceful sounds, was none the less suddenly chilled by an intuitive sense of impending evil and turned instinctively to glance towards the opposite hedge where it grew very dense and high, shutting the road from the little spinney beyond. Watching this, it seemed that something crouched there, a something that moved stealthily ever and anon; and there grew within him an uncomfortable feeling that he was watched by unseen eyes, and with this, a consciousness of ever-growing peril. So he sat with head bowed as one in thought, but with eyes keenly watchful and ears heedful of that intermittent rustling so soft and yet so purposeful. For some while he remained thus, his every faculty alert though the leafy stir had ceased and nothing to be heard except the plaintive evensong of the birds.... And yet, was there something that moved again beyond the hedge, something that crept nearer and ever nearer with a dreadful patient slowness? A dog? No! A sheep? Perhaps! A man? Well, whatever it was, would soon be directly opposite where he sat, surely it was there already. Once again came a sound of stealthy movement as of something gently forcing itself a passage towards him through the hedge itself....
Sir John cocked the small pistol in his pocket and waited, his eyes grown suddenly fierce. A dog barked in the distance, a sheep-bell tinkled faintly ... and then was a sound of light footsteps near by and Ann Dumbrell came slowly along the lane and paused near by, her gaze intent upon some distant point, as one who awaited an expected presence; then Sir John, himself unseen where he crouched, beheld her start, saw her hands clasp each other, heard the fall of quick-striding feet that paused suddenly and then came on again, but more slowly.
“Why, ’tis never you, Mus’ Doubleday?” she exclaimed as one amazed by some phenomenon.
“None other, Mrs. Ann,” answered the Corporal, halting and surveying her shy loveliness with gloomy eyes. “You see,” he explained, “it so happens as I ... chanced to be ... coming this way and ... well, here I am, mam!”
“Yes, Mus’ Doubleday. An’ us be arlways pleased to see ’ee whenever it be ... though granfer bean’t in yet.... I—I were just agoing tu look for ’e. An’ ’ow be you, sir?”
“As well as can be expected!” he sighed dismally. “Lord love me, Mrs. Ann, but ye look younger than ever this evening!”
“But I be older than I were this marnin’, sir.”
“Why, so you told me yesterday,” answered the Corporal reproachfully, his gloom deepening, “an’ yet here y’ are this evening lookin’ younger than ever!”
“O Mus’ Doubleday,” she laughed, “’ow may that be? I were a liddle baby once, an’ looked younger then, I rackon.”
“I wish,” said the Corporal bitterly—“I wish that you—no, I wish that I had been—but what’s the use o’ wishing? Only ... if you had only been a ... bit older ... if only you had——”
“Aye, an’ what then, sir?” she questioned eagerly.
“No matter, mam.”
“But, Mus’ Doubleday, I du be a-growin’ older an’ older every day!”
“Aye,” groaned the Corporal, “so am I!”
“An’ yonder comes grandfer along o’ Mrs. Rose! She be rarely ’andsome, don’t ’ee think?”
“So, so!” sighed the Corporal.
“O Mus’ Doubleday! I’m sure she’s the rarest beauty!”
“Maybe,” admitted the Corporal, “only I don’t ’appen to ha’ noticed.”
“But you got eyes, sure?”
“Aye, I have,” nodded the Corporal, looking at pretty Ann until she blushed again, “an’ I think I know a fair lass when I happen to see one, but ... being a man o’ forty-five winters, mam, an’ no young galli-vantin’ lad, I looks, and thinks, and says nothing.”
“Why, then, Mus’ Doubleday,” sighed she, “won’t ’ee come an’ say it indoors—afore grandfer sees us?”
And so they passed on, walking very close together, though the Corporal resolutely kept his hands buried in the deep side-pockets of his coat.
Then Sir John arose lazily and made a great business of yawning and stretching, though keeping well in the shadow of the tree behind him, and presently sauntered along the lane to where the thick hedge opposite was pierced by a gate. Here his manner underwent a sudden change; in a flash he had vaulted the gate, and, pistol ready, crouched where he might behold the other side of this rustling hedge.... No one! And yet how should a hedge rustle so very persistently and no wind stirring? And now his quick glance saw that which answered the question beyond all doubt: the place was a tangle of lusty weeds and wild-flowers that stood very dense and lush save immediately behind the hedge, for here they showed bent and broken as by the recent passage of a heavy body, a narrow trail, following the line of hedge, a betraying track that swung off at a right angle towards the leafy solitude of the little spinney. Had baffled Murder crept that way? Did it skulk there still?
Staying not to debate the point, Sir John set hand to gate and vaulted back into the lane—to the vociferous indignation of Mr. Dumbrell, for being startled by this so sudden appearance, the Aged Soul stamped and swore and shook his stick at Sir John in highly ferocious manner.
“Dannel ye!” he snarled. “Will ’ee goo for tu frouden a old, aged, ancient soul as would be j’yful tu be a-diggin’ your grave for ’ee d’rackly-minute? ’Tidn’t respectful, no! Dannel ’ee twoice!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Well, ’ee can go on a-beggin’; ’ee wun’t get no pardon from oi. A-jumpin’ out ’pon a aged man as ’ave been a-makin’ love fur ’ee till oi du be nigh black i’ the faace!”
“Then I am deeply grateful, and——”
“Aye, an’ oi told a mort o’ loies fur ’ee, oi did!”
“Lies?”
“Aye, didn’t oi tell ’er you was a-poinin’ fur ’er—an’ you ain’t! Didn’t oi tell ’er as the best o’ food sech as beef an’ pork wouldn’t nowise lay easy on your stummick arl along o’ her? Didn’t oi tell ’er as you was a foine, up-standin’, ’andsome young felley—which you ain’t—not by no manner o’ means, an’ that if she didn’t mak’ sure of ’ee, there was a mort o’ purty lasses arl ready for to snap ’ee up? Which they ain’t. An’ now ’ere be you a-doin’ your best to frouden a pore, ancient creeter into ’is grave afore ’is toime!... D’ye call that gratitood?”
“Forgive me!”
The Aged Soul snorted.
“Arl of a trimble oi be. The next lass as you think o’ marryin’, you can woo ’er yourself—doan’t ax oi! Ah, an’ oi be glad now as she said what she did say!”
“And what was that, Ancient One?”
“Says as she’d wait and see which o’ they purty lasses would snap at ’ee first, she did.... An’ I rackon she’ll ’ave to wait a tur’ble long time.”
“And pray, where is she now?”
“A-settin’ ’long o’ my granddarter an’ Mus’ Doubleday, fur sure.”
But my lady was leaning upon the old stile, and fresh from the sighful confidences of shy Ann in the little kitchen and the Corporal’s halting disparagement of the age forty-five in the little garden, was thinking only of him for whom she waited, of herself and the future; thus when hearing his step she glanced up, Sir John saw that in her look which stirred him to such joyous wonder that he yearned to clasp and kiss her then and there; but she, aware of this, drew back, so truly shy and off her guard for once that she quite forgot to act. So he turned and took the little, old man by the shoulders instead.
“O Mr. Dumbrell!” quoth he rapturously; the old man snorted. “Aged Soul!” Mr. Dumbrell scowled. “Friend Hosea!” The old man stared. “To-day my respect of thee mounteth high as heaven ... thou’rt a far better wooer than I dreamed! So shall sit in comfort all thy days henceforth. And so good-night, my ancient Hosea, thou honoured, Aged Soul—good-night!”
Then Sir John vaulted the stile, aided my lady over, and side by side they set out for Alfriston through a peaceful countryside glorious with sunset. Forgotten now the sinister rustling of hedges and all else under heaven save the sweet, shy droop of her lashes so new in his experience of her, for here no longer was prideful coquetry full of modish affectations, but rather the Rose-child of his dreams, and what else could matter so long as her hand lay thus within his arm and her foot trod with his the velvet ling.
“Rose,” said he, halting suddenly, “a while ago love looked at me from thine eyes.... O child, come, kiss me!” And then his arm was about her; but, though very conscious of the tender yearning of his voice, and even while yielding to the mastery of his arm, she laughed a little unsteadily.
“Indeed, John, the Aged Soul did plead thy cause so irresistibly ... it seems thou canst neither eat nor sleep ... he told me thy—thy ‘innards be arl shook to pieces with love’ ... he urged the woes o’ thy poor stomach so passionately that I looked to see him weep....”
“Hum!” quoth Sir John; and then: “Rose, when will you marry me?”
“This depends on how long you intend playing the part of John Derwent, sir.”
“And this again, Rose, depends on how soon my Lady Herminia will marry Sir John Dering.”
“Nay, first, John, she is determined on wedding my Aunt Lucinda to your friend, Sir Hector.”
“’S life, and is she so, child?” he exclaimed a little ruefully. “’Faith, ’tis like the contrary Herminia, for here is plaguy difficult problem.”
“And yet should be easily resolved betwixt us, John.”
“Nay, but the Duchess called Sir Hector an ogre, and he blenches at mere mention of her name....”
“To be sure, John, the situation is very promising and needeth but a little dexterous management. You will prompt Sir Hector, I’ll plague my aunt ... is’t agreed, John?”
“It is!” he laughed. “And now—come, kiss me?” But she held him off, viewing him grave-eyed.
“John,” said she solemnly, “to-day old Penelope was monstrous strange and full of foreboding on your account ... ’twas as she knew some danger threatened. But it is all so sweetly peaceful, what should harm you here?”
“What indeed?” he answered, glancing furtively towards the lengthening shadows behind them.
“And yet old Penelope was so awesome o’ speech and look.... I can mind her every word: ‘He hath raised what only blood can lay!’ said she. Sounds not this dreadful, John? And then: ‘Bid him beware the peril o’ solitary places,’ quo’ she, ‘of things that creep i’ the dark! Day and night bid him look behind him wherever——”
My lady paused suddenly, for Sir John was indeed glancing back over his shoulder.
They had crossed the stile beyond the little footbridge and were following a path bordered by dense underbrush and shaded by tall trees. Sir John’s quick ear had caught a faint creak such as a stealthy foot might make on the rickety planking of the bridge; moreover, his eyes had glimpsed a vague shape that flitted unheard among the brush.
“John,” said my lady breathlessly, “why d’ye look so?... Ah, what is it?” And he winced beneath the pressure of her fingers upon his wounded arm.
“Pray loose me!” he whispered, and slipped hand into pocket.
“John,” she breathed, “tell me what cometh yonder?”
“Nay, this I must discover,” he answered, and loosed her hands, for now, plain to hear, was a faint rustling amid the brush.... And then she had leapt between Sir John and this scarce-heard, unseen thing, had twined strong arms about him, holding him so close that he might sense all the fragrant warmth of the soft and pliant body that shielded his; thus stood they awhile, her soft cheek against his, and now he could feel the heavy beating of her heart against his own. The stealthy rustling came again, crept nearer, paused, crept past them, died away, and nothing to be heard except the melodious murmur of the brook hard by. And then my lady spoke, her voice low but undismayed:
“’Tis gone, I think, and.... O John!”
His arms were about her, straining her closer yet, and when he spoke his voice was strangely hoarse and shaken:
“O thou dear, brave soul! Thou very woman!... Yon creeping terror hath shown thee greater, nobler than I dared dream thee!... When, when wilt marry me?”
“Nay, John,” she answered gently, “how may I tell thee this till thou ask Herminia?... Go to her, John, seek and woo the poor, despised, solitary soul.”
“Aye, I will—but when? Where?”
“To-morrow afternoon, John, at the cottage ... and come as Sir John Dering.”