The Missioner Part 18

"He killed him, anyhow," Hurd said brokenly. "What time was it when you first saw him?"

"About midnight, I should think," Macheson answered. "He came down the lane like a drunken man."

"What was he like?" Hurd asked.

"Small, and I should say a foreigner," Macheson answered. "He spoke English perfectly, but there was an accent, and when he was asleep he talked to himself in a language which, to the best of my belief, I have never heard before in my life."

"A foreigner?" Hurd muttered. "You are sure of that?"

"Quite," Macheson answered. "There could be no mistake about it."

Stephen Hurd mounted his cob and turned its head towards home. He asked no more questions; he seemed, if possible, graver than ever. Before he started, however, he pointed with his whip towards the shelter.

"You've no right there, you know," he said. "We can't allow it. You must clear out at once."

"Very well," Macheson answered. "I'm trespa.s.sing, of course, but one must sleep somewhere."

"There is no necessity for you to remain in Thorpe at all," Hurd said.

"I think, in the circ.u.mstances, the best thing you can do is to go."

"In the circ.u.mstances!" The irony of the phrase struck home. What did this young man know of the circ.u.mstances? There were reasons now, indeed, why he should fly from Thorpe as from a place stricken with the pestilence. But no other soul in this world could know of those reasons save himself--and she.

"I should not, of course, think of holding my services at present,"

Macheson said gravely. "If you think it would be better, I will go away."

Stephen Hurd nodded as he cantered off.

"I am glad to hear you say so," he declared shortly. "Go and preach in the towns where this sc.u.m is reared. There's plenty of work for missioners there."

Macheson stood still until the young man on his pony had disappeared.

Then he turned round and walked slowly back towards the slate quarry.

The black waters remained smooth and unrippled; there was no sound of human movement anywhere. In the adjoining field a harvesting-machine was at work; in the spinney itself the rabbits, disturbed last night by the storm, were scurrying about more frolicsome than usual; a solitary thrush was whistling in the background. The sunlight lay in crooked beams about the undergrowth, a gentle west breeze was just stirring the foliage overhead. There was nothing in the air to suggest in any way the strange note of tragedy which the coming of this hunted man had nevertheless brought.

Macheson was turning away when a slight disturbance in the undergrowth on the other side of the quarry attracted his notice. He stood still and watched the spot. The bracken was shaking slightly--then the sound of a dry twig, suddenly snapped! For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned on his heel and walked abruptly away. With almost feverish haste, he flung his few belongings into his portmanteau, leaving in the shelter his flask, a suit of clothes, and several trifles. Five minutes later he was on his way down the hill, with his bag upon his shoulder and his face set southwards.

CHAPTER XIII

A CREATURE OF IMPULSE

Up the broad avenue to the great house of Thorpe, Stephen Hurd slowly made his way, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes fixed upon the ground. But his appearance was not altogether the appearance of a man overcome with grief. The events of the last few days had told upon him, and his deep mourning had a sombre look. Yet there were thoughts working even then in his brain which battled hard with his natural depression.

Strange things had happened--stranger things than he was able all at once to digest. He could not see the end, but there were possibilities upon which he scarcely dared to brood.

He was shown into the library and left alone for nearly twenty minutes.

Then Wilhelmina came, languid, and moving as though with tired feet. Yet her manner was gentler and kinder than usual. She leaned back in one of the vast easy-chairs, and murmured a few graceful words of sympathy.

"We were all so sorry for you, Mr. Hurd," she said. "It was a most shocking affair."

"I thank you very much--madam," he replied, after a moment's pause. It was better, perhaps, for the present, to a.s.sume that their relations were to continue those of employer and employed.

"I do not know," she continued, "whether you care to speak about this shocking affair. Perhaps you would prefer that we did not allude to it for the present."

He shook his head.

"I am not sure," he answered, "that it is not rather a relief to have it spoken of. One can't get it out of one's mind, of course."

"There is no news of the man--no fresh capture?"

"None," he answered. "They are dragging the slate quarry again to-day. I believe there are some very deep holes where the body may have drifted."

"Do you believe that that is the case?" she asked; "or do you think that he got clean away?"

"I cannot tell," he answered. "It seems impossible that he should have escaped altogether without help."

"And that he could not have had, could he?" she asked.

He looked across at her thoughtfully, watching her face, curious to see whether his words might have any effect.

"Only from one person," he said.

"Yes?"

"From Macheson, the fellow who came here to convert us all," he said deliberately.

Beyond a slight elevation of the eyebrows, his scrutiny was in vain, for she made no sign.

"He scarcely seems a likely person, does he, to aid a criminal?" she asked in measured tones.

Stephen Hurd shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps not," he admitted, "but at any rate he sheltered him."

"As he doubtless would have done any pa.s.ser-by on such a night," she remarked. "By the bye, what has become of that young man?"

"He has left the neighbourhood," Hurd answered shortly.

"Left altogether?" she inquired.

"I imagine so," Hurd answered. "I had the shelter destroyed, and I gave him to understand pretty clearly what your wishes were. There really wasn't much else for him to do."

Her eyelids drooped over her half closed eyes. For a moment she was silent.

"If you hear of him again," she said quietly, "be so good as to let me know."

Her indifference seemed too complete to be a.s.sumed. Yet somehow or other Hurd felt that she was displeased with him.