When Charles Fairfield, ascending the steep and narrow road which under tall trees darkly mounts from the Glen of Carwell to the plateau under the grey walls of the Grange, had reached that sylvan platform, he saw there, looking in the direction of Cressley Common, in that dim, religious light, Tom Clinton, in his fustian jacket, scratching his head and looking, it seemed, with interest, after some receding object. A little behind him, similarly engrossed, stood old Mildred Tarnley, with her hand above her eyes, though there was little need of artificial shade in that solemn grove, and again, a little to her rear, peeped broad-shouldered Lilly Dogger, standing close to the threshold of the yard door.
Tom Clinton was first to turn about, and sauntering slowly toward the house, he spoke something to Mrs. Tarnley, who, waiting till he reached her, turned about in the same direction, and talking gravely, and looking over their shoulders, as people sometimes do in the direction in which a runaway horse has disappeared, they came to a standstill at the door, under the great ash-tree, whose columnar stem is mantled with thick ivy, and there again looking back, the little girl leaning and listening, unheeded, against the doorpost, the group remained in conference.
Had Charles Fairfield been in his usual state of mind his curiosity would have been piqued by an appearance of activity so unusual in his drowsy household. As it was, he cared not, but approached, looking down upon the road with his hands in his pockets listlessly.
Mrs. Tarnley whispered something to Tom and jogged him in the ribs, looking all the time at the approaching figure of Charles Fairfield.
The master of the Grange approached, looked up, and saw Tom standing near, with the air of one who had something to say. Mrs. Tarnley had drawn back, a little doubtful possibly, of the effect on his nerves.
“Well, Tom, Chubbs will lend the horse,” said Charles. “We’ll go round to the stable, I’ve a word to say.”
Tom touched his hat, still looking in his face with an inquiring and ominous expression.
“Do you want to say anything particular, Tom?” asked his master, with a sudden foreboding of some new ill.
“Nothing, sir, but Squire Rodney of Wrydell, has come over from Wykeford.”
“He’s here—is he?” asked Charles, paler on a sudden.
“He’s gone, sir, please.”
“Gone, is he? Well, well, there’s not much in that.”
“ ’Twas only, sir, that he brought two men wi’ him.”
“Do you mean?—you don’t mean—what men did he bring?”
“Well, they was constable folk, I believe, they must a’ bin, for they made an arrest.”
“A what, do you mean?”
“He made out a writin’, and he ’ad me in, and questioned me, but I’d nout to tell, sir, and he asked where you was, and I told him, as you ordered I was to say, you was gone, and he took the mistress’s her story, and made her make oath on’t, and the same wi’ the others—Mrs. Tarnley, and the little girl, and the blind woman, she be took up for murder, or I don’t know for what, only he said he could not take no bail for her, so they made her sure, and has took her off, I do suppose, to Wykeford pris’n.”
“Of course, that’s right, I suppose, all right, eh?” Charles looked as if he was going to drop to the earth, so leaden was his hue, and so meaningless the stare with which he looked in Tom’s face.
“But—but—who sent for him? I didn’t. D⸺ you, who sent for him? ’Twasn’t I. And—and who’s master here? Who the devil sent for that meddling rascal from Wykeford?”
Charles’s voice had risen to a roar as he shook Tom furiously by the collar.
Springing back a bit, Tom answered, with his hand grasping his collar where the squire had just clutched him.
“I don’t know, I didn’t, and I don’t believe no one did. It’s a smart run from here across the common. I don’t believe no one sent from the Grange—I’m sure no one went from this—not a bit, not a toe, not a soul, I’m sure and certain.”
“What’s this, what’s this, what the devil’s all this, Tom?” said the squire, stamping, and shaking his fist in the air, like a man distracted.
“Why did you let her go—why did you let them take her—d⸺ you? I’ve a mind to pitch you over that cliff and smash you.”
“Well, sir,” said Tom, making another step or two back, and himself pale and stern now, with his open hand raised, partly in deprecation, “where’s the good o’ blamin’ me? what could I do wi’ the law again me, and how could I tell what you’d think, and ’twarn’t no one from this sent for him, not one, but news travels apace, and who’s he can stop it?—not me, nor you,” said Tom, sturdily, “and he just come over of his own head, and nabbed her.”
“My God! It’s done. I thought you would not have allowed me to be trampled on, and the place insulted; I took ye for a man, Tom. Where’s my horse—by heaven, I’ll have him. I’ll make it a day’s work he’ll remember. That d⸺ Rodney, coming down to my house with his catchpoles, to pay off old scores, and insult me.”
With his fist clenched and raised, Charles Fairfield ran furiously round to the stable yard, followed cautiously by Tom Clinton.
XL
Pursuit
Having her own misgivings as to the temper in which her master would take this coup of the arrest, Mildred Tarnley prudently kept her own counsel, and retreated nearly to the kitchen door, while the éclaircissement took place outside. Popping in and out to see what would come of it, old Mildred affected to be busy about her mops and tubs. After a time, in came Tom, looking sulky and hot.
“Is he
