THERE was a long pause after the tramp had addressed Mr. Brander. In spite of herself, Olivia found herself at last holding her breath with impatience to hear the clergyman’s answer. She would not look at him, although through the gaps in the rough stonework she might easily have done so; but her hands, with which she had at first tried to stop her ears, fell down at her sides. When at last he spoke, Mr. Brander’s voice was low and husky, affected by some strong feeling.
“Yes, Abel, it’s a long time—a very long time.”
The blood rushed to Olivia’s face, and her cold hands stole together; there was something in the vicar’s voice which told so clearly of years of keen suffering that a great throb of pity wrung the girl’s heart; and she hoped, as eagerly as if the matter had affected her personally, that this tramp would keep his secret.
“Ay,” said Abel, in whose tones, to do him justice, there was no malignity. “Ah’ve kept ma word, parson. Ah promised ye that neeght as Ah’d go on straight wi’out resting hereabouts. An’ on Ah went, and Ah nivver said nowt, and Ah’ve nivver been nigh t’ pleace from that day to this. Now that’s straight dealin’, parson, arn’t it?”
“Yes, Abel; I always knew you for a straight man.”
Mr. Brander spoke gravely and appreciatively, but there was no undue humility in his tone, as of a man demanding mercy. Abel resumed.
“Ay, parson, so I be. Ah’m not mooch of a Christian, as tha knaws, an’ if so be a mon treats ma ill, Ah loike to be even wi’ him. But if so be a mon treats ma fair, Ah treat him fair beck. An’ tha’s treated ma more nor fair, parson, mony’s the time. An’ so, when tha says, ‘Shut tha mooth an’ mak’ nae guesses,’ Ah shuts ma mooth, an’ Ah doan’t guess nowt.”
“What brings you here now, then?” asked Mr. Brander, abruptly, with perceptible anxiety in his tone.
“Weel, parson, tha knaws Ah wur born and bred hereaboots. An’ though Ah been fond o’ trampin’ it i’ ma time, Ah’m not so spry-like as Ah wur, an’ Ah’d like to settle in t’ pleace where Ah wur bred.”
“You’ve saved some money, then?” asked Mr. Brander as sharply as before.
“Not so mooch, not so mooch, mester, but Ah doan’t count to end ma days in an eight-roomed villa, like t’ gentlefowk.”
There was a pause, and then the vicar spoke in a constrained tone, in which the effort to repress some strong feeling was more manifest than ever.
“And if I ask you not to settle here, Abel, but to pitch your tent for the remainder of your days somewhere else, what would you do? Come, I don’t want to throw in your face what I’ve done for you, but what would you do?”
Olivia heard the man clearing his throat undecidedly, and kicking with his wooden leg against the gravestones.
“You doan’t trust ma, parson, an’ it’s a bit hard, after howdin’ ma tongue nigh eleven year. Eh, but if Ah’d wanted to ha’ spoke, wadn’t Ah ha’ spoke afore now?”
“If you had wanted to speak about the business, I should never have wasted my breath asking you not to,” said Mr. Brander with decision. “I trust you, Abel, as much as one man may trust another. But judging you as I should judge myself, I say it would be impossible for you to live in this neighborhood, where that night’s occurrences are still continually being raked up and discussed, without its leaking out that you were here on that night, and that you met me. That, as you know, I wish to keep secret.”
“But, parson,” began the man slowly, in a troubled tone——
Mr. Brander interrupted him.
“Now we’ve nothing further to discuss, Abel. I want the whole story forgotten.”
“But it’s not a whole story, Mester Brander, an’ that’s why it nivver will be forgotten. It’s a mystery to all but—to ivverybody; an’ until t’ fowk knaw what become o’ Nellie Mitchell, a mystery it’ll be, an’ they’ll talk aboot it. Why, parson, dost knaw t’ tales as goes round?”
“What do tales matter as long as they are only idle ones?” said Mr. Brander, hastily. “Now, Abel Squires, which is it to be? Is the parson to have his way, or has he been wasting his breath?”
“He maun ha’ his way, Ah reckon: but Ah tell thee, parson, it’s all no use. It’ll be none o’ ma doin’, but—murder will oot, tha knaws.”
He dropped his voice to a low, portentous whisper for the last words.
“Murder!” echoed Mr. Blander, also in a low voice. “What are you talking about? Didn’t I tell you it was not murder?”
“Ay, that tha did,” said Abel, rather drily.
“And did you see anything?”
“Weel, not that neeght, but next day——”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mr. Brander, sharply. “Then you didn’t keep your word; you didn’t go straight on!”
The man’s answer came deliberately.
“Ah went straight on that neeght, mester, as Ah towd tha Ah would. But Ah coom back next mornin’. It wur only human natur’; an’ Ah took a look round. Ay! parson, Ah hid summat as would ha towd a tale.”
“What was that?” asked Mr. Brander, slowly, and, as it seemed, with difficulty.
“There wur marks on those steps down to t’ crypt as is now blocked oop. An’ down at t’ bottom. An’ Ah tramped ’em oot. An’ there war marks in other pleace as Ah made away. An’ it wur all for ye, parson, for Ah thowt of what ye’d done for ma when Ah wur ill and nobody to care for ma, an’ Ah did what Ah could.”
“You’re a good fellow, Abel,” said Mr. Brander, huskily, after a few moments’ pause. “And you’ve been a good friend to me.”
“Ah, Mester Brander, but Ah’d ha’ liked to ha’ served ye a better way,” said the man, who seemed affected in his turn.
The vicar silenced him with a peremptory “Sh-sh.” Then he said—
“You won’t be able to get far to-night on foot. It will be snowing heavily in an hour from now. You must get home by train to-night.”
Olivia guessed that he must have put money into the man’s hand, for Abel Squires answered reluctantly—
“Ah doan’t tak’ it for howding ma tongue, parson. But if ye want ma to go further, it’s but fair ye should pay for it. Here’s good-day to you, sir, and may you nivver——”
The voices were growing fainter. Olivia peeped between the stones for the first time, and saw that the oddly assorted couple were making their way among the ruined gravestones to the gate, where the vicar shook hands with the tramp, who went back up the lane towards the Sheffield road as fast as his wooden leg would let him. Mr. Brander stood at the gate until long after Abel had disappeared from sight at a bend of the lane. His back was towards Olivia, and all that she could see was that he remained extraordinarily still. The snow, which from a few feathery flakes had gradually thickened into a blinding storm, grew at last so dense that no mental abstraction could shut it out. The vicar suddenly threw back his head, and apparently taking in the fact that he was getting wet through, gave himself a violent shake to get rid of the white covering which already enveloped him, turned and walked rapidly back to the church.
As soon as Olivia heard the rattle of the lock, she sprang out of her shelter, struggling with her umbrella as she went, hurried over the uneven ground within the ruined aisle, where a few minutes before Mr. Brander and the tramp had been standing, and steering rapidly and neatly between the broken and scattered tombstones, reached the gate in very few seconds. As she flitted quickly through, however, a gust of wind blew the skirt of her waterproof against the bars of the gate, which swung to behind her with a loud creaking noise. She ran on, and in a minute was out of sight to any one at the church door, hidden by the churchyard wall. But Mr. Brander, hearing the noise, and being naturally rather startled by the idea that some one had been about during his very private conversation with Squires, was too quick for her. He was out of the church and on the track of the intruder before she had got many steps up the lane. She was just past the bend when he suddenly came up with her. One umbrellaed and waterproofed woman in a snowstorm is so like another that he had not the slightest idea who his quarry was until he had passed her and turned to look back. As he did so he caught sight of her face, and instantly stopped.
Olivia stopped too, and holding back her umbrella, met his glance with a frank, straight gaze. He raised his hat, seemed about to speak to her, but hesitated. She smiled and held out her hand. He saw at once that this was not the ordinary greeting of an acquaintance she was tendering him. The muscles about her mouth were quivering, and her eyes, as they met his for a moment before dropping modestly, were luminous with generous feeling, maidenly shame struggling with womanly sympathy. Mr. Brander took her hand with some constraint. As he touched it, however, something in the firm clasp of the girl’s fingers gave him confidence.
“Miss Denison,” he said, gravely, while his keen black eyes seemed to read the thoughts in her brain before they were uttered, “you have been in the churchyard. Where were you?”
The blood, which was already crimson in Olivia’s cheeks, mounted to her forehead, until her whole face was aglow. Her eyes fell, and it was in a low, almost faltering, voice that she answered.
“I was in the ruined part of the church—where the roof is left.”
Mr. Brander was startled by this confession. He did not at once speak, being evidently occupied in trying to recall the very words of the conversation she must have overheard. But he soon gave up that attempt, and asked, impatiently—
“Then you heard—what?”
Olivia’s breath come almost in sobs, as she answered at once, with bent head, and almost in a whisper—
“I heard nearly all you said—you and the man. I am very, very sorry and ashamed, and I ask your pardon. But I did not dare to come out while you were there. I hoped to get away without your seeing me.”
“But what did I say? What did he say? What did you understand by it all?” asked he, so eagerly that he almost seemed to be bullying her.
“Oh, I don’t know. Pray don’t ask me. I don’t want to remember. I would rather forget it all. I never meant that a word about it should pass my lips, and it will not after this,” said she, hurriedly without looking up.
Mr. Brander said nothing to this at first, and Olivia, raising her head to steal a look at his face, judged by his expression that he was in the throes of some terrible mental struggle, the outcome of which would be some passionate outburst. But he recovered command of himself, and when he at last spoke to her, it was in a very quiet voice.
“I am keeping you standing in the snow, Miss Denison; I must not do that. But we must come to a word of understanding now; it will put us on a right footing for the future.”
“You need not say another word to me, Mr. Brander,” interrupted Olivia, vehemently. “The understanding between us is clear enough; you are a most warm-hearted gentleman, and have shown me more delicate kindness than I ever received in my life; I am, and shall be as long as you let me, your grateful friend. What understanding do you want more than that?”
Her clear young voice rang out with enthusiastic warmth, which threw the clergyman off his balance. He began to tremble like a leaf, and again his thin, mobile face showed signs of the emotion within him. But he still kept it under restraint, and spoke in a perfectly steady voice.
“Thank you; I expected generosity from you. But—do you quite understand the position I am in, I wonder? Did you understand that man—that tramp—is keeping a secret for me?”
“Yes,” answered Olivia, steadily.
“And you are aware of its nature?”
The girl drew a deep breath, but she answered bravely, though in a low voice, “Yes.”
“And after that, and after hearing everything that you have heard, that you must have heard, about this miserable story, you still are ready to call yourself—my friend?”
He kept his voice at the same quiet pitch, but on the last two words it broke a little. There was a pause of only a few seconds.
Then Olivia answered in a veritable whisper, but with the same sweet and dignified seriousness, “Yes, Mr. Brander.”
She might reasonably have expected some acknowledgement of the gracious, womanly daring of this speech; but instead of giving any sign of gratitude, Mr. Brander, to her astonishment, turned upon her quite sharply.
“Well, that’s quixotic, illogical, pretty perhaps from a boarding-school young lady’s point of view, but not worthy of a woman of sense.”
Olivia was surprised, but she was true woman enough to have her answer.
“I think I can justify it,” she said, holding her head back rather obstinately.
“Very well. Justify yourself for being ready to make friends with a man believed to have committed a very atrocious and cowardly murder.”
Olivia looked at him full and earnestly.
“I don’t believe——” she began, doubtfully.
“You don’t believe what?”
“That you—ever—did it.”
“Because I have the assurance to take the bull by the horns, waylay you, and insist upon coming to an explanation?”
“No—o, not because of that.”
“Why then?”
Olivia continued to gaze at him as solemnly as if she had been a judge passing sentence.
“It is very difficult to say quite why,” she began, deliberately. “They say women hardly ever can say why they believe a thing.”
“Is that all your answer?”
“No,” she replied rather sharply, beginning to be a little annoyed at the irony in his tone. “They have never proved it, for one thing although they tried. And—how can a man have changed so in ten years?”
“The first is a reason; the other is not. But you have just seen with your own eyes the only witness to my actions on that night, and heard with your own ears that he has not been in the neighborhood since.”
Olivia assented.
“Then you say, ‘How can a man have changed so much in ten years?’ But I tell you I have changed so much in that time that, except for externals, I might pass for a different man. Now what becomes of your reasons for thinking me innocent?”
“I will believe you did it if you tell me so, of course,” said Olivia quietly.
“And what then?”
“What then? I shall be sorry again, and puzzled.”
“And you will withdraw all those pretty professions of friendship?”
Olivia debated with herself for a few moments only. Then she answered, vehemently, in a strong voice—
“No. You were my friend—a very good friend too—before I heard anything against you. You were good to us, as I hear you are good to everybody. When you met that man in the churchyard just now, you spoke like a brave man, and not like a coward. I hear from every one about the noble, self-denying life you lead. If you didn’t do it you are almost a martyr; if—if you did, you are expiating what you did in a manner which justifies our respect. Now if you call these women’s reasons, I don’t care; they are good enough for me, Mr. Brander.”
“And for me, too, Miss Denison. I——”
He tried to keep his voice under proper command. But educated to self-control by long years as he was, he gave way under the unexpected rush of warm and generous feeling. A choking in his throat checked his utterance; his keen eyes grew moist and dim. He saw, as in a mist, a hand held out to him, and seizing it, he wrung it in a pressure which made Olivia wince.
“Look here,” he said at last, in a voice still husky, while he continued to hold her fingers in a strong nervous clasp; “I have nothing to say to you; no confession, no explanation, nothing. But you are a grand girl—a grand girl.”
He released her hand suddenly, as if with an effort, and then at once struggled into his usual manner.
“You’re half frozen with standing in the cold (a very just penalty for eavesdropping, by the way), and you’ll be half buried before you get back. I must see you home.”
“Oh, no, indeed, I’m not going to drag you all that way on a day like this.”
“But I choose to be dragged. You rash young woman, accustomed to the peaceful security of Streatham; you must learn that it is not safe for a young lady to tramp about this part of the world alone so late in the day.”
“But it’s not late.”
“It will be dark before you get home. Go on up the hill, and I will fetch my mackintosh and overtake you.”
He went into his bare-looking house while Olivia tramped on obediently. She had not noticed, until then, how thickly the snowflakes were falling, nor how the gloom of the leaden sky was deepening. Now, too, she became aware, for the first time, that her jaws were stiff, and her hands and feet bitterly cold; for the interview with Mr. Brander had been too exciting to allow her to notice these things. He overtook her in a very few minutes, and walked by her side, conversing on different topics, until that scene by the churchyard scarcely seemed a reality. They passed only one person, a rough-looking collier of unsteady gait, whom Mr. Brander made use of to point a moral.
“Now, is that the sort of person you would care to meet if you were alone?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t have been afraid of him,” answered Olivia.
“No; if he had been sober he would have been vastly afraid of you, and of most girls I should say. So he is when he’s drunk. But your courage doesn’t want stimulating; it wants repressing. For I tell you my collier boys are good lads in the main, but there are black sheep among them as among other folk, and you mustn’t risk falling in with one towards nightfall on a lonely road. Do you hear?”
He spoke with playful peremptoriness, but Olivia understood that he was giving a serious warning, which she promised to heed. He went on talking about the colliers, who formed the bulk of the inhabitants of his scattered parish, with affectionate interest which awakened a sympathetic curiosity in her, until they reached the inn at the entrance of Rishton village. Mr. Brander had grown so warm over what Olivia afterwards discovered to be his favorite subject that, quite unconsciously, his steps, and consequently hers, had grown slower and slower, while his voice grew more and more eager until a passer-by would have taken them for a pair of lovers reluctant to separate. They had come to a complete standstill in the farmyard by the corner of the house, when they heard the opening of the front door, a man’s footstep, and then a woman’s strong shrill voice——
“It’s no use looking for her, Charles. She won’t be in yet. Olivia never did care a straw for your comfort or for mine.”
Olivia turned to Mr. Brander, and held out her hand with a doleful shake of the head.
“There,” she said, “isn’t that more eloquent than the longest description? There’ll be an end to everything now she’s come!”
Fortunately it had grown by this time so dark that under her umbrella the hot blushes which mounted to Olivia’s cheeks as soon as this speech had escaped her lips could not be seen. Giving Mr. Brander her hand very hastily, and not leaving him time for something, he half hesitated, but wanted to say, she turned, and with a hasty “Good-bye; thank you very much for coming,” ran round towards the front of the house.