CHAPTER VI
WHEREIN THE RED BLOOD FLOWS

They fought like a couple of young bulls. Frank intended to demolish his rival at the outset. He was a year older and slightly heavier, but Martin was more active, more sure-footed, sharper of vision. Above all, he had laid to heart the three-pennyworth of tuition obtained in the boxing booth a few hours earlier.

He had noted then that a boxer dodged as many blows with his head as he warded with his arms. He grasped the necessity to keep moving, and thus disconcert an adversary’s sudden rush. Again, he had seen the excellence of a forward spring without changing the relative positions of the feet. Assuming you were sparring with the left hand and foot advanced, a quick jump of eighteen inches enabled you to get the right home with all your force. You must keep the head well back and the eye fixed unflinchingly on your opponent’s. Above all, meet offense with offense. Hit hard and quickly and as often as might be.

These were sound principles, and he proceeded to put them into execution, to the growing distress and singular annoyance of Master Beckett-Smythe.

Ernest acted as referee – in the language of the village, he “saw fair play” – but was wise enough to call “time” early in the first round, when his brother drew off after a fierce set-to. The forcing tactics had failed, but honors were divided. The taller boy’s reach had told in his favor, while Martin’s newly acquired science redressed the balance.

Martin’s lip was cut and there was a lump on his left cheek, but Frank felt an eye closing and had received a staggerer in the ribs. He was aware of an uneasy feeling that if Martin survived the next round he (Frank) would be beaten, so there was nothing for it but to summon all his reserves and deliver a Napoleonic attack. The enemy must be crushed by sheer force.

He was a plucky lad and was stung to frenzy by seeing Angèle offer Martin the use of a lace handkerchief for the bleeding lip, a delicate tenderness quietly repulsed.

So, when the rush came, Martin had to fight desperately to avoid annihilation. He was compelled to give way, and backed toward the hedge. Behind lay an unseen stackpole. At the instant when Beckett-Smythe lowered his head and endeavored to butt Martin violently in the stomach, the latter felt the obstruction with his heel. Had he lost his nerve then or flickered an eyelid, he would have taken a nasty fall and a severe shaking. As it was, he met the charge more than halfway, and delivered the same swinging upper stroke which had nearly proved fatal to his gamekeeper friend.

It was wholly disastrous to Beckett-Smythe. It caught him fairly on the nose, and, as the blow was in accord with the correct theory of dynamics as applied to forces in motion, it knocked him silly. His head flew up, his knees bent, and he dropped to the ground with a horrible feeling that the sky had fallen and that stars were sparkling among the rough paving-stones.

“That’s a finisher. He’s whopped!” exulted Jim Bates.

“No, he’s not. It was a chance blow,” cried Ernest, who was strongly inclined to challenge the victor on his own account. “Get up, Frank. Have another go at him!”

But Frank, who could neither see nor hear distinctly, was too groggy to rise, and the village girls drew together in an alarmed group. Such violent treatment of the squire’s son savored of sacrilege. They were sure that Martin would receive some condign punishment by the law for pummeling a superior being so unmercifully.

Angèle, somewhat frightened herself, tried to console her discomfited champion.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It was all my fault.”

“Oh, go away!” he protested. “Ernest, where’s there a pump?”

Assisted by his brother, he struggled to his feet. His nose was bleeding freely and his face was ghastly in the moonlight. But he was a spirited youngster. He held out a hand to Martin.

“I’ve had enough just now,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. “Some other day, when my eye is all right, I’d like to – ”

A woman’s scream of terror, a man’s cry of agony, startled the silent night and nearly scared the children out of their wits.

Someone came running up the garden path. It was Kitty Thwaites. She swayed unsteadily as she ran; her arms were lifted in frantic supplication.

“Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you’ve killed him!” she wailed. “Murder! Murder! Come, someone! For God’s sake, come!”

She stumbled and fell, shrieking frenziedly for help. Another woman – a woman whose extended right hand clutched a long, thin knife such as is used to carve game – appeared from the gloom of the orchard. Her wan face was raised to the sky, and a baleful light shone in her eyes.

“Ay, I’ll swing for him,” she cried in a voice shrill with hysteria. “May the Lord deal wi’ him as he dealt wi’ me! And my own sister, too! Out on ye, ye strumpet! ’Twould sarve ye right if I stuck ye wi’ t’ same knife.”

With a clatter of ironshod boots, most of the frightened children stampeded out of the stable yard. Martin, to whom Angèle clung in speechless fear, and the two Beckett-Smythes alone were left.

The din of steam organ and drums, the ceaseless turmoil of the fair, the constant fusillade at the shooting gallery, and the bawling of men in charge of the various sideshows, had kept the women’s shrieks from other ears thus far. But Kitty Thwaites, though almost shocked out of her senses, gained strength from the imminence of peril. Springing up from the path just in time to avoid the vengeful oncoming of her sister, she staggered toward the hotel and created instant alarm by her cries of “Murder! Help! George Pickering has been stabbed!”

A crowd of men poured out from bar and smoking-room. One, who took thought, rushed through the front door and snatched a naphtha lamp from a stall. Meanwhile, the three boys and the girl on the other side of the hedge, seeing and hearing everything, but unseen and unheard themselves, took counsel in some sort.

“I say,” Ernest Beckett-Smythe urged his brother, “let’s get out of this. Father will thrash us to death if we’re mixed up in this business.”

The advice was good. Frank forgot his dizziness for the moment, and the two raced to secure their bicycles from a stall-holder’s care. They rode away to the Hall unnoticed.

Martin remained curiously quiet. All the excitement had left him. If Elmsdale were rent by an earthquake just then, he would have watched the toppling houses with equanimity.

“I suppose you don’t wish to stop here now?” he said to Angèle.

The girl was sobbing bitterly. Her small body shook as though each gulp were a racking cough. She could not answer. He placed his arm around her and led her to the gate. While they were crossing the yard the people from the hotel crowded into the garden. The man with the lamp had reached the back of the house across the bowling green, and a stalwart farmer had caught Betsy Thwaites by the wrist. The blood-stained knife fell from her fingers. She moaned helplessly in disjointed phrases.

“It’s all overed now. God help me! Why was I born?”

Already a crowd was surging into the hotel through the front door. Martin guided his trembling companion to the right; in a few strides they were clear of the fair, only to run into Mrs. Saumarez’s German chauffeur.

He was not in uniform; in a well-fitting blue serge suit and straw hat, he looked more like a young officer in mufti than a mechanic. He was the first to recognize Angèle, and was so frankly astonished that he bowed to her without lifting his hat.

“You, mees?” he cried, seemingly at a loss for other words.

Angèle recovered her wits at once. She said something which Martin could not understand, though he was sure it was not in French, as the girl’s frequent use of that language was familiarizing his ears with its sounds. As a matter of fact, she spoke German, telling the chauffeur to mind his own business, and she would mind hers; but if any talking were done her tongue might wag more than his.

At any rate, the man did then raise his hat politely and walk on. The remainder of the road between Elmsdale and The Elms was deserted. Martin hardly realized the pace at which he was literally dragging his companion homeward until she protested.

“Martin, you’re hurting my arm! What’s the hurry?.. Did she really kill him?”

“She said so. I don’t know,” he replied.

“Who was she?”

“Kitty Thwaites’s sister, I suppose. I never saw her before. They were not bred in this village.”

“And why did she kill him?”

“How can I tell?”

“She had a knife in her hand.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps she killed him because she was jealous.”

“Perhaps.”

“Martin, don’t be angry with me. I didn’t mean any harm. I was only having a lark. I did it just to tease you – and Evelyn Atkinson.”

“That’s all very fine. What will your mother say?”

The quietude, the sound of her own voice, were giving the girl courage. She tossed her head with something of contempt.

“She can say nothing. You leave her to me. You saw how I shut Fritz’s mouth. What was the name of the man who was killed?”

“George Pickering.”

“Ah. He walked down the garden with Kitty Thwaites.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. When I get in I can tell Miss Walker and Françoise all about it. They will be so excited. There will be no fuss about me being out. V’là la bonne fortune!”

“Speak English, please.”

“Well, it is good luck I was there. I can make up such a story.”

“Good luck that a poor fellow should be stabbed!”

“That wasn’t my fault, was it? Good-night, Martin. You fought beautifully. Kiss me!”

“I won’t kiss you. Run in, now. I’ll wait till the door opens.”

“Then I’ll kiss you. There! I like you better than all the world – just now.”

She opened the gate, careless whether it clanged or not. Martin heard her quick footsteps on the gravel of the short drive. She rattled loudly on the door.

“Good-night, Martin – dear!” she cried.

He did not answer. There was some delay. Evidently she had not been missed.

“Are you there?” She was impatient of his continued coldness.

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you speak, silly?”

The door opened with the clanking of a chain. There was a woman’s startled cry as the inner light fell on Angèle. Then he turned.

Not until he reached the “Black Lion” and its well-lighted area did he realize that he was coatless and hatless. Jim Bates had vanished with both of these necessary articles. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound! There would be a fearful row, and the thrashing would be the same in any case.

He avoided the crowd, keeping to the darker side of the street. A policeman had just come out of the inn and was telling the people to go away. All the village seemed to have gathered during the few minutes which had elapsed since the tragedy took place. He felt strangely sorry for Betsy Thwaites. Would she be locked up, handcuffed, with chains on her ankles? What would they do with the knife? Why should she want to kill Mr. Pickering? Wouldn’t he marry her? Even so, that was no reason he should be stabbed. Where did she stick him? Did he quiver like Absalom when Joab thrust the darts into his heart?

At last he ran up the slight incline leading to the White House; there was a light in the front kitchen. For one awful moment he paused, with a finger on the sneck; then he pressed the latch and entered.

John Bolland, grim as a stone gargoyle, wearing his Sunday coat and old-fashioned tall hat, was leaning against the massive chimneypiece. Mrs. Bolland, with bonnet awry, was seated. She had been crying. A frightened kitchenmaid peeped through the passage leading to the back of the house when the door opened to admit the truant. Then she vanished.

There was a period of chill silence while Martin closed the door. He turned and faced the elderly couple, and John Bolland spoke:

“So ye’ve coom yam, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An’ at a nice time, too. Afther half-past ten! An hour sen yer muther an’ me searched high and low for ye. Where hev ye bin? Tell t’ truth, ye young scamp. Every lie’ll mean more skin off your back.”

Mrs. Bolland, drying her eyes, now that Martin had returned, noticed his disheveled condition. His face was white as his shirt, and both were smeared with blood. A wave of new alarm paled her florid cheeks. She ran to him.

“For mercy’s sake, boy, what hev ye bin doin’? Are ye hurt?”

“No, mother, not hurt. I fought Frank Beckett-Smythe. That is all.”

“T’ squire’s son. Why on earth – ”

“Go to bed, Martha,” said John, picking up a riding whip. But Mrs. Bolland’s sympathies discerned a deeper reason for Martin’s escapade than a mere boyish frolic which deserved a thrashing. He was unnaturally calm. Something out of the common had happened. He did not flinch at the sight of the whip.

“John,” she said sternly, “ye shan’t touch him t’-night.”

“Stand aside, Martha. If all my good teachin’ is of no avail – ”

“Mebbe t’ lad’s fair sick o’ yer good teachin’. You lay a hand on him at yer peril. If ye do, I don’t bide i’ t’ house this night!”

Never before, during thirty years of married life, had Martha Bolland defied her husband. He glowered with anger and amazement.

“Would ye revile the Word te shield that spawn o’ Satan?” he roared. “Get away, woman, lest I do thee an injury.”

But his wife’s temper was fierce as his own when roused. She was a Meynell, and there have been Meynells in Yorkshire as long as any Bollands.

“Tak’ yer threats te those who heed ’em,” she retorted bitterly. “D’ye think folk will stand by an’ let ye raise yer hand te me?.. David, William, Mary, coom here an’ hold yer master. He’s like te have a fit wi’ passion.”

There was a shuffling in the passage. The men servants, such as happened to be in the house, came awkwardly at their mistress’s cry. The farmer stood spellbound. What devil possessed the household that his authority should be set at naught thus openly?

It was a thrilling moment, but Martin solved the difficulty. He wrenched himself free of Mrs. Bolland’s protecting arms.

“Father, mother!” he cried. “Don’t quarrel on my account. If I must be beaten, I don’t care. I’ll take all I get. But it’s only fair that I should say why I was not home earlier.”

Now, John Bolland, notwithstanding his dealing in the matter of the pedigree cow, prided himself on his sense of justice. Indeed, the man who does the gravest injury to his fellows is often cursed with a narrow-minded certainty of his own righteousness. Moreover, this matter had gone beyond instant adjustment by the unsparing use of a whip. His wife, his servants, were arrayed against him. By the Lord, they should rue it!

“Aye,” he said grimly. “Tell your muther why you’ve been actin’ t’ blackguard. Mebbe she’ll understand.”

Mrs. Bolland had the sense to pass this taunt unheeded. Her heart was quailing already at her temerity.

“Angèle Saumarez came out without her mother,” said Martin. “Mrs. Saumarez is ill. I thought it best to remain with her and take her home again. Frank Beckett-Smythe joined us, and he – he – insulted her, in a way. So I fought him, and beat him, too. And then George Pickering was murdered – ”

“What?”

Bolland dropped the whip on the table. His wife sank into a chair with a cry of alarm. The plowmen and maids ventured farther into the room. Even the farmer’s relentless jaw fell at this terrific announcement.

“Yes, it is quite true. Frank and I fought in the yard of the ‘Black Lion.’ George Pickering and Kitty Thwaites went down the garden – at least, so I was told. I didn’t see them. But, suddenly, Kitty came screaming along the path, and after her a woman waving a long knife in the air. Kitty called her ‘Betsy,’ and said she had killed George Pickering. She said so herself. I heard her. Then some men came with a light and caught hold of Betsy. She was going to stab Kitty, too, I think; and Jim Bates ran away with my coat and hat, which he was holding.”

The effect of such a narration on a gathering of villagers, law-abiding folk who lived in a quiet nook like Elmsdale, was absolutely paralyzing. John Bolland was the first to recover himself. A man of few ideas, he could not adjust his mental balance with sufficient nicety to see that the tragedy itself in no wise condoned Martin’s offense.

“Are ye sure of what ye’re sayin’, lad?” he demanded, though indeed he felt it was absurd to imagine that such a tale would be invented as a mere excuse.

“Quite sure, sir. If you walk down to the ‘Black Lion,’ you’ll see all the people standing round the hotel and the police keeping them back.”

“Well, well, I’ll gan this minit. George Pickerin’ was no friend o’ mine, but I’m grieved te hear o’ sike deeds as these in oor village. I was maist angered wi’ you on yer muther’s account. She was grievin’ so when we failed te find ye. She thowt sure you were runned over or drownded i’ t’ beck.”

This was meant as a graceful apology to his wife, and was taken in that spirit. Never before had he made such a concession.

“Here’s yer stick, John,” she said. “Hurry and find out what’s happened. Poor George! I wish my tongue hadn’t run so fast t’ last time I seed him.”

Bolland and the other men hastened away, and Martin was called on to recount the sensational episode, with every detail known to him, for the benefit of the household. No one paid heed to the boy’s own adventures. All ears were for the vengeance taken by Betsy Thwaites on the man who jilted her. Even to minds blunted almost to callousness, the crime passionel had a vivid, an entrancing interest. The women were quick to see its motive, a passive endurance stung to sudden frenzy by the knowledge that the faithless lover was pursuing the younger sister. But how did Betsy Thwaites, who lived in far-off Hereford, learn that George Pickering was “making up” to Kitty? The affair was of recent growth. Indeed, none of those present was aware that Pickering and the pretty maid at the “Black Lion” were so much as acquainted with each other. And where did Betsy spring from? She could not have been staying in the village, or someone aware of her history must have seen her. Did Kitty know she was there? If so, how foolish of the younger woman to be out gallivanting in the moonlight with Pickering.