Robert Audley looked up suddenly, and the shadow of suspicion passed away from his face.
“I understand,” he said, “I understand. Tell me all; tell me how it was that my poor friend was saved.”
“I was at work up at Atkinson’s farm, last September,” said Luke Marks, “helping to stack the last of the corn, and as the nighest way from the farm to mother’s cottage was through the meadows at the back of the Court, I used to come that way, and Phoebe used to stand in the garden wall beyond the lime-walk sometimes, to have a chat with me, knowin’ my time o’ comin’ home.
“I don’t know what Phoebe was a-doin’ upon the evenin’ of the —I rek’lect the date because Farmer Atkinson paid me my wages all of a lump on that day, and I’d had to sign a bit of a receipt for the money he give me—I don’t know what she was a-doin’, but she warn’t at the gate agen the lime-walk, so I went round to the other side o’ the gardens and jumped across the dry ditch, for I wanted partic’ler to see her that night, as I was goin’ away to work upon a farm beyond Chelmsford the next day. Audley church clock struck nine as I was crossin’ the meadows between Atkinson’s and the Court, and it must have been about a quarter past nine when I got into the kitchen garden.
“I crossed the garden, and went into the lime-walk; the nighest way to the servants’ hall took me through the shrubbery and past the dry well. It was a dark night, but I knew my way well enough about the old place, and the light in the window of the servants’ hall looked red and comfortable through the darkness. I was close against the mouth of the dry well when I heard a sound that made my blood creep. It was a groan—a groan of a man in pain, as was lyin’ somewhere hid among the bushes. I warn’t afraid of ghosts and I warn’t afraid of anythink in a general way, but there was somethin in hearin’ this groan as chilled me to the very heart, and for a minute I was struck all of a heap, and didn’t know what to do. But I heard the groan again, and then I began to search among the bushes. I found a man lyin’ hidden under a lot o’ laurels, and I thought at first he was up to no good, and I was a-goin’ to collar him to take him to the house, when he caught me by the wrist without gettin’ up from the ground, but lookin’ at me very earnest, as I could see by the way his face was turned toward me in the darkness, and asked me who I was, and what I was, and what I had to do with the folks at the Court.
“There was somethin’ in the way he spoke that told me he was a gentleman, though I didn’t know him from Adam, and couldn’t see his face; and I answered his questions civil.
“ ‘I want to get away from this place,’ he said, ‘without bein’ seen by any livin’ creetur, remember that. I’ve been lyin’ here ever since four o’clock today, and I’m half dead, but I want to get away without bein’ seen, mind that.’
“I told him that was easy enough, but I began to think my first thoughts of him might have been right enough, after all, and that he couldn’t have been up to no good to want to sneak away so precious quiet.
“ ‘Can you take me to any place where I can get a change of dry clothes,’ he says, ‘without half a dozen people knowin’ it?’
“He’d got up into a sittin’ attitude by this time, and I could see that his right arm hung close by his side, and that he was in pain.
“I pointed to his arm, and asked him what was the matter with it; but he only answered, very quiet like: ‘Broken, my lad, broken. Not that that’s much,’ he says in another tone, speaking to himself like, more than to me. ‘There’s broken hearts as well as broken limbs, and they’re not so easy mended.’
“I told him I could take him to mother’s cottage, and that he could dry his clothes there and welcome.
“ ‘Can your mother keep a secret?’ he asked.
“ ‘Well, she could keep one well enough if she could remember it,’ I told him; ‘but you might tell her all the secrets of the Freemasons, and Foresters, and Buffalers and Oddfellers as ever was, tonight: and she’d have forgotten all about ’em tomorrow mornin’.’
“He seemed satisfied with this, and he got himself up by holdin’ on to me, for it seemed as if his limbs was cramped, the use of ’em was almost gone. I felt as he came agen me, that his clothes was wet and mucky.
“ ‘You haven’t been and fell into the fishpond, have you, sir?’ I asked.
“He made no answer to my question; he didn’t seem even to have heard it. I could see now he was standin’ upon his feet that he was a tall, fine-made man, a head and shoulders higher than me.
“ ‘Take me to your mother’s cottage,’ he said, ‘and get me some dry clothes if you can; I’ll pay you well for your trouble.’
“I knew that the key was mostly left in the wooden gate in the garden wall, so I led him that way. He could scarcely walk at first, and it was only by leanin’ heavily upon my shoulder that he managed to get along. I got him through the gate, leavin’ it unlocked behind me, and trustin’ to the chance of that not bein’ noticed by the under-gardener, who had the care of the
