Nestleton Magna Part 19

"Oh, how will crime engender crime! Throw guilt Upon the soul, and, like a stone cast on The troubled waters of a lake, 'Twill form in circles, round succeeding round, Each wider than the first."

_Colman._

A cold December wind was blowing to and fro the dead brown leaves in Thurston Wood, a large tract of plantation that bounded the northern and higher side of Squire Fuller's park. Gaunt and grim loomed the naked trees through the foggy air, and the long gra.s.s was wet and dank with the perpetual drip of the moisture-laden boughs. The brief dark day was rapidly deepening into night, but a darker deed was about to be perpetrated in that lonely and sombre place.

Through the woods there flowed a broad and deep stream, fringed with willows, elder bushes, hemlocks, and reeds. This was known as Thurston Beck. Its rapid waters poured themselves over a rocky ledge, just within the borders of the park, and falling in the form of a cascade into a deep pit, filled it to the brim, overflowed rapidly through a smaller channel, fed the extensive fish-ponds on the southern side, and then again meandering through the valley of Waverdale, rippled and bickered through the village of Nestleton, and a little beyond Kesterton joined its waters to the River Ouse. There was a foot-path through the wood close by the borders of the beck, and here it was that Black Morris, gun in hand, and half resolved on suicide, found himself face to face with Bill Buckley. Unable to restrain his anger, Morris strode up to his now hateful companion, and hissed through his set teeth,--

"Bill Buckley, stand off! I feel like murder to my fingers' ends. What right had you to trap me into your brutal attack on Farmer Crabtree?

you black villain!"

"Ho, ho!" said Buckley, his scowling features white with rage. "Two can play at that game. Take care what you're aboot, or ah'll gi'e you an oonce o' leead! Thoo's intiv it, an' thoo can't get oot on't!" he continued, with a mocking laugh.

"You lie!" said Black Morris. "Let them that did it swing for it:" for he had settled in his own mind that Crabtree had got his death-blow, "and I'll lend a hand to help 'em."

"Will you?" said Fighting Bill, drawing a step nearer. "If thoo means to split, ah'll let dayleet through the' ribs. Thoo shared i' t' swag, an' thoo mun share i' t' danger."

"My share o' t' swag," said Morris, "has gone back to Farmer Crabtree, and I wrote and told"----

"You black d----!" shouted Buckley, livid with pa.s.sion, and, pointing his gun at his unwary victim, shot him down like a dog! The blood gushed from his face and temples, sprinkling the raiment of his murderer; he fell heavily on the plashy gra.s.s with a shrill scream which echoed and re-echoed through the lonely wood, until a thousand voices seemed to curse the doer of the awful deed! Unrepentant and unpitying, the a.s.sa.s.sin kicked the prostrate body, and with an oath upon his lips, he rolled his victim into the rapid beck; a dull splash succeeded, and the silent waters closed over their hapless burden and went on their heedless way. Seizing his gun, Bill Buckley made rapid strides along the borders of the stream, away from the stains of blood, away from the park, and speedily put many miles between him and the place which he had rendered horrible for evermore.

An hour after the perpetration of the dreadful deed, Philip Fuller trod the sodden path through Thurston Wood, returning from his visit to Sir Harry Elliott's, after a day spent in copse and covert, and still oppressed and depressed by the remembrances of his morning's interview with his angry father. With his gun across his shoulder he was rapidly making his way homeward, when his foot struck suddenly against some object in the gra.s.s, and he fell at full length across the very spot where, just before, the gun of Bill Buckley had sped its dreadful messenger, and laid his hapless victim low. Wet and muddy, and stained, though he knew it not, with human blood, he rose to his feet, and looking for the obstacle which had tripped him up, he found a gun, and a few yards off, an old black felt cap. Suspicion was now thoroughly aroused. He examined the ground more carefully, detected the hue of blood in the pale moonlight which now and then vanquished the veil of intervening cloud, noticed how the gra.s.s and weeds were pressed down to the edge of the stream, and felt that he was gazing on the results of some sad accident or hideous crime. He remembered the fearful scream which he had heard on the still night air. "Murder!"

said he, turning sick and trembling with horror at the fearful thought. At that moment a gust of wind blew suddenly, stirring the shrubs and reeds. To his excited mind this was the motion of some living being, his gun dropped from his hand and his first impulse was to turn and flee. Re-a.s.sured, he resolved to leave the gun and cap where he had found them, then to hasten to the hall and give the alarm, and bring the servants and a constable to search the spot.

Seizing the gun which lay at his feet, Philip ran with speed towards Waverdale Hall.

Crossing the park he met Piggy Morris, who was returning from a sale of live stock, and was taking a short cut across Squire Fuller's park, despite the warning to trespa.s.sers, for in that direction there was no right of way.

"Don't go through Thurston Wood!" said Philip, running up to him in hot haste.

The ex-farmer, slightly muddled by too long a halt at "The Plough,"

did not catch the drift of his expression, but understood him to oppose his pa.s.sage through the park. Under the influence of a little Dutch courage, he laid hold on Philip to repel what he imagined was a personal attack. A short scuffle succeeded, during which the gun fell to the ground and was seized by Piggy Morris. Philip succeeded in removing his apprehension, and the gun was being handed back, when Morris suddenly exclaimed,--

"This is our Jack's gun, as sure as eggs is eggs! How have you come by that?"

Philip hastily told him what he had seen. Morris listened, thoroughly sobered now, and laying his hand on the young man's shoulder, he hissed between his set teeth,--

"My son Jack is murdered! The son of the man who turned me off my farm, the Philip Fuller that robbed my lad of his sweetheart, and that threatened him before witnesses, is the man that did the deed!"

Shocked, stunned, paralysed at the awful imputation, and at the d.a.m.ning circ.u.mstantial evidence forthcoming, at that moment Philip looked guilty, and Piggy Morris's suspicions were confirmed.

"I'm not going to lose sight of you, young man," said Morris, and despite the solemn denial of the distressed and confounded youth, Piggy Morris insisted on accompanying his "prisoner," as he called him, to Waverdale Hall. There the young man told his story to his father. With a heart oppressed by forbodings of calamity, the squire and a posse of servants accompanied them to Thurston Wood. While Philip had been telling his story, Morris had noted the mire on his shooting jacket and the blood upon his cuffs, and pointed them out to the squire with more exultation than was befitting a bereaved father.

Piggy Morris, however, had not any great amount of affection for his son. They found the cap, which Morris identified at once, and one of the servants, picking up a gun, exclaimed, "Why, this is Master Philip's gun!" A hush as of death fell upon the party, broken first by a groan from the agonised squire, then Piggy Morris seized Philip by the arm, and dragging him to his father's presence, cried, "Behold the murderer of my son!"

"Hands off!" shouted Philip, stung beyond endurance, "It's a hideous lie!"

"Peace! my son," said the squire, in accents which thrilled every listener, by their concentrated grief and resolute dignity. "Mr.

Morris, you know where to find my son when he is wanted, and now, good-night!"

A heavy cloud rested on all who dwelt within the mansion of Waverdale.

The servants of the establishment, from butler to stable-boy, from housekeeper to scullery-maid, entertained a true affection and regard for their kind-hearted and open-handed young master, and one and all were in genuine distress. Squire Fuller, in a long and anxious conference with his son, in which his own first agonising doubts were removed and Philip's innocence of the dreadful charge made clear to himself, sat by his waning lamp far into the night. He was in sad straits. The events of the morning, when he had threatened to disinherit his boy, and now this new and grievous trouble, bowed his spirit to the ground. His son's erratic and mortifying connection with the Methodists, the awfully d.a.m.ning evidence against him as to the dark deed of Thurston Wood, the humiliating publicity which would drag his honoured name through the mire of disgrace: these things, coupled with the deep, strong love he had for Philip, stung his soul to the quick. He had discarded religion, had imbibed a strong unbelief in and contempt for prayer, and yet such is the native instinct of the soul to cry unto the Lord in distress, that he could not refrain from groaning aloud, "Lord, save my boy!" Thus the hours pa.s.sed, until, worn-out and weary, he slumbered in his chair. Waking as the grey light of morning peeped through the heavy window curtains, he rose with a bitter sigh and sought his chamber. Pa.s.sing Philip's bedroom door, he paused as he heard a voice within, "Don't! father, don't!

Dear father! Lucy, my darling! Farewell! Adam Olliver, you have given me a Saviour! Give me a father! What's this? Blood! Morris! I didn't do it! Oh! oh! oh!"

The squire opened the door, sprang to the bed, and saw his son, sitting up, with bloodshot eye-b.a.l.l.s, scarlet face and hands lifted in an imploring att.i.tude. Squire Fuller perceived at a glance that his son was raving in the madness of brain fever! To rouse the housekeeper, call the servants, and to send the groom at a hard gallop to fetch Dr. Jephson was the work of a moment, and then the wretched father went back to keep anxious vigil by the bedside of his stricken boy. Mrs. Bruce, the housekeeper, well-skilled in all the experiences of a sick-room, applied ice and wet cloths to the sufferer's burning brow, and by and bye the paroxysm seemed partially to subside. Thus they waited, waited in the darkened chamber, waited in silence, for not one word did the squire utter, but sat with his eyes fixed on the moaning youth, listening through hours that seemed ages, until he heard the hoofs of a horse at a rapid gallop ringing on the road, and knew that Dr. Jephson had arrived. Standing by his bed, with his hand upon his patient's wrist, and looking at the distended pupils of his eyes, the doctor turned at last to speak to the statuesque father by his side. The words, sad words, died upon his tongue. Anything but hope spoken to that shrinking form would have killed him where he stood!

There was sorrow also in the house of Piggy Morris. The weakly and ailing mother mourned the loss of her first-born as only a mother may.

Could she have only known that he was prepared for his sudden and terrible exit from the world she could have better borne the blow. To her, Black Morris had not been a bad or cruel son. His love for his mother was great and abiding, and had it not been for the evil set into which their unhappy choice of a locality had thrown him, she believed with reason, that he would have led a n.o.bler and more reputable life. Her gentle daughter, Mary, though sore crushed by this bereavement, was sustained by the religious principles and experiences obtained by means of the Methodist services in the village, and was enabled to succour her weeping mother in this trying hour. Piggy Morris himself, cannot be credited with any great amount of grief for the loss of his son. His own harsh and repellant nature had loosened his hold upon the wayward youth, and led to an open rebellion which threatened an irreparable breach. His vindictive nature, however, was quick to seize the opportunity, now offered, of revenging himself on those who, according to his crooked notions of right and wrong, had "ruined him," by dismissing him from his ill-managed and wasted farm.

He would not hesitate to gird a halter beneath the grey locks of the squire if he had the chance, and revelled in the prospect of dragging the scion of the hated house of Fuller to the gallows, and extinguishing the race for evermore. For Piggy Morris, to do him justice, never doubted for a moment that Philip Fuller was guilty of the dreadful tragedy which had flung a nameless horror over Thurston Wood.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"BALAAM" IS TAKEN INTO CONSULTATION.

"The a.s.s learnt metaphors and tropes, But most on music fixed his hopes."

_Gay._

"Methought I heard a voice, and yet I doubted, Now roaring like the ocean, when the winds Fight with the waves, now in a still small tone."

_Dryden._

As may be imagined, the next day or two was occupied by the Nestletonians in discussing matters pertaining to the startling event which had taken place in Thurston Wood. Thurston Beck was dragged and re-dragged, even the deep pool into which the "cascade" poured its waters was explored as far as the limited means at the disposal of rural justice would permit, but all in vain; the body of Black Morris could not be found. There were some, indeed, who ventured to express an opinion that the marks in the woods and the discovered gun were capable of some other explanation. Meanwhile Philip Fuller lay helplessly in the grip of strong disease, and w.i.l.l.y-nilly, examination and arrest must be suspended for awhile, Squire Fuller, himself a J.P. for the county, undertaking surveillance of his son until such times as he could answer for himself. Here for the present we must leave the painful story, and turn our attention in a widely different direction.

Blithe Natty was up at his work betimes, as his custom was. The cheery sound of his ringing anvil, and the cheerier sound of his grand tenor voice, mingled musically in the morning air. The glittering sparks from the red-hot iron, out of which he was developing a horse-shoe, glanced at his leather ap.r.o.n, and sprinkled the floor with dull dark flakes. The fire on the hearth flamed and flickered, casting its reflection on the wall, on which hung rows of shoes ready to be nailed on the hoofs of whatever horses had cast or worn out their metal armour. Screwkeys, patterns, boring-braces, and other implements of the grimy craft were suspended in similar fashion; and leaning in the corners, and laid upon the rough beams overhead were numerous long bars and rods and sheets of iron, the raw material, out of which his deft and skilful handicraft evolved all sorts of articles for farming or domestic use.

Blithe Natty was evidently in good spirits this morning, judging from the cheery nature of his song:--

When troubles and trials are gathering round, The best thing to do, never doubt it, Is to tell them to Jesus; He'll help, I'll be bound; Then go, tell the Lord all about it.

His people need never, no never despair-- And I for one never will doubt it; But I'll go to the feet of my Saviour in prayer-- I'll go tell my Lord all about it.

The sceptic may sneer, and the world may deride, And laugh at my folly and scout it; Every need of my life to my G.o.d I'll confide-- I'll go tell my Lord all about it.

Though as strong as Goliath my sorrow may be, A word from my Saviour can rout it; My eyes His salvation shall speedily see-- I'll go tell my Lord all about it.

Men may smile at my faith in His word if they will; No matter how much they may flout it, I'll hold to His covenant promises still, And go tell my Lord all about it.

The love of my Saviour's my strength and my stay-- I could never be happy without it; So I'll trust in His faithfulness; happen what may, I'll go tell my Lord all about it.

And when I am landed on Canaan's bright sh.o.r.e, Before angels and saints will I shout it; Give glory and praise to my King evermore, The King that I told all about it.