Chapter XXXIII: Bereavement

Stupefied, overwhelmed by the tragedy of the sight before him, Brion sat motionless a moment. Then aware, down the vista of the track, of a swarm of dark shapes issuing from the gate, with an oath he clapped spurs to his horse, and in one wild rush covered the distance.

Hangdog, threatening, sullen, loweringly defiant now the deed was done and themselves committed beyond recall, the mob stood to meet the onset, and to counter-strike if need be. He pulled up before them, his eyes blazing, his hands vicious on the reins.

‘Ye bloody devils!’ he roared. ‘What deed is this and wherefore?’ Then anguish caught at his heart in a sick spasm. ‘My Uncle!’ he cried--‘Where is he? What have ye done to him?’

They were coming out by twos and threes, while the flames still crackled and reverberated behind them, tossing and devouring the last blazing sticks of ruin; they were coming in a haste now to get away before the soldiers arrived. Fear added to guilt sped their footsteps, and they were in no temper to be delayed. Some one bade him, with an ugly snarl, to stand away, whoever he was, if he valued his life.

‘At a dozen of yours,’ he cried, and swift as a flash his sword was in his hand. They fell from him, scowling, while he faced them all. He heard a sound behind him, and looked round.

‘Go back, Joan!’ he cried--‘Go back--do you hear?’

It was but an instant, but enough for their mood and purpose, and with a dash they were upon him. Trying to get play with his blade, a furious stroke from a cudgel broke it in his hand. His horse rearing at the same moment, and plunging wildly, cleared a space about him; but the next instant, slipping on a stone, it was down, and he with it. And as he fell, unhurt but helpless, there came a thud of hoofs, and the girl had pulled up between him and his assailants. Her cheek was flushed; her breast heaved.

‘Dare, now!’ she cried. ‘I will know all your faces, and remember them.’

‘Joan!’ he commanded. He had staggered to his feet, and was tumultuously urging his horse to his. ‘Go back--go away--and leave them to me!’

The mere shame of her womanhood had held them off for a moment: at Brion’s words, with a deep growl of fury, they were beginning again to close in, when a sudden shout brought them to an instant stop:--

‘The soldiers!’

And, even as they turned to scatter, there came wheeling with jingling harness round the western wall, which, with the booming flames, had muffled the sounds of their approach, a squad of stalwart troopers, a very cool and lordly young Ancient riding at their head. He opened his eyes with wonder on the scene before him, seemed to grasp in a measure its import, and, halting his troop, rode up to the couple and, doffing very courteously to the lady, expressed a hope that they two were not personally affected by this calamity, which, unfortunately, too late information had made it impossible on his part to prevent; but for which full retribution, they might make very sure, would be exacted.

‘Indeed, Sir,’ answered Joan, a little wearily: ‘that is well; yet while you talk they escape.’

He smiled superior. ‘As the mouse escapes the cat. A little “law,” as we call it, Madam, and then to round them up in the open. Believe me, if you have suffered at their hands----?’ he paused significantly.

‘Ask of my husband, Sir,’ said Joan, with a fine blush. ‘He hath but late returned from sailing overseas with Sir Richard Grenville, and to-day, but this moment, returning home, hath lighted on this welcome.’

The Ancient exclaimed, between interest and commiseration:--

‘What, Master Middleton himself! This, Sir, is indeed a lamentable homing for you!’

Brion bowed mechanically. His eyes were wild, distracted. ‘My Uncle?’ he said feverishly: ‘I must go seek him, find him. Mayhap he had warning to escape.’

He was making for the now emptied archway, through which the crashing embers of the fire shone as from a furnace door, when the young officer detained him, leaning from his horse:--

‘Nay, do you not know?’

‘Know what, Sir?’

‘If ’tis of Master Bagott you speak, he is dead.’

‘Dead!’

‘Some weeks gone. He had an accident, falling from the stairs.’

Brion stood stupidly, as if he had not understood. The Ancient nodded, and, some instinct of propriety in him judging it timely to withdraw, wheeled sharply and called up his troop. They answered, and like a clattering wind went past and disappeared round the eastern bend of the wall.

Still the young man stood motionless.

‘Brion!’ whispered a soft entreating voice. She had slipped from her saddle and come to him. He turned, with a sort of sob, and caught her to him, and held her convulsively against his breast.

‘And you were so joyous, my own love,’ she said pitifully.

He held her fiercely, passionately, to him:--

‘And I am joyous still, Joan. Never think but that I am joyous still. What is this loss’--he tossed his head to the glowing wreck behind him--‘to the immeasurable rapture of my gain. He is gone, all his weaknesses and his troubles at rest; and, for that, why should I, who loved him, repine? Only, what does this all mean, and, if not directed against him, against whom? Yet against whomsoever, the meaning is plain for one. Ah, my girl, so single-hearted and so brave, who takest the blow as all for me and none for thyself, who would have given thy dear, dear life for mine, dost thou realise to what we are saved together--the doom of poverty?’

‘Nay, all the riches I ever asked was Brion.’

He stood up, with a great breath, and, his arm encircling her, bade her come with him and look upon their home. They went over the little bridge and through the gateway together, and peering thence, not venturing to push farther, saw the devastation. Flame and volumes of smoke still poured upwards from the massed ruin, but through an empty shaft of blackened walls and tottering chimneys. In all the burning desolate place no corner remained to hang a memory on. He turned to her with a wistful smile:--

‘Well, our love go with it, Joan. We must seek other lodgings for the night. But why, why, why, girl; and where are all they I left here--ah, to fear, to submit, and to make no fight to save it?’

It was a question so far unanswerable; yet not long before receiving a certain illumination. They went and sat upon a bank, awaiting the troop’s return, and, while sitting there together, talked low of ancient days, and of the dead man, and of the future with its brave resolves: and, as they talked, suddenly there were the soldiers riding back, and a dozen of them with each a prisoner roped and running at his saddle-bow. They came past, these captives, sick and lead-faced, with all the evil knocked out of them, and, at the Ancient’s word, were sent forward on the road to Ashburton, while he dismounted to inform the two of his success.

‘We ran them down in the open,’ said he, wiping his hot brow with a pretty cambric napkin--‘and caught them scattered--a good fifty in all, vermin from the fishing ports. And some we thwacked, and the worst we bagged, and they will be made to answer for it. There was one, a pitiful, tallow-faced loon, that would turn Queen’s evidence to save his skin.’

His eyes were all for Joan while he spoke--bold points of admiration.

‘What evidence?’ asked Brion quickly.

‘Why, that these dogs were secretly inflamed and invited to the deed by one Warlock, or Harlock--an old hag, acting housekeeper, it seems, to this Melton himself.’

‘Melton!’ exclaimed Brion in amazement.

‘Ay, Melton. That was the name of him that had lived here since the Judge’s death, and alone, ’twas said, with her that betrayed him. They both perished in the fire together.’

‘What!’ cried Brion--‘perished! my poor old Harlock perished?’

He was so confounded and bewildered by the whole affair, that Joan begged the young officer to abandon the subject for the time being. And he very amiably acquiesced, suggesting that the best course would be for Brion to see and question the prisoner himself presently, and obtain from him what further evidence he might. Having decided which, he proposed that they should all ride for Ashburton together, to which the others agreeing, they mounted and left the melancholy scene without further delay.

The Ancient was garrulous by the way, opening out to Brion as being, though indirectly, one of Raleigh’s men, like himself, and as such a comrade in arms. He was particular in describing how he had received directions from the Seneschal of the County of Exeter to keep a watch on the district; and how he had obeyed his instructions to such good effect, that the private news he had received had enabled him to ride from that city almost coincidently with the starting of the incendiaries from Teignmouth, when, could but a mile or two have been deducted from the total of fifteen or so he had had to traverse, he would have been able to forestall the catastrophe by a timely arrival. He was full of regrets for that, but clearly attributed his failure to the unreasonable distance, and not to any miscalculation of his own. Having explained which, he turned to the subject of the voyage, in which he was truthfully much more interested than in this paltry local uprising, and asked Brion a thousand questions, which the poor fellow made shift in his distraction to answer to the best satisfaction he could.

As they neared Ashburton, they met many curious folks, who had got late wind of the business, hurrying out to visit the scene of the catastrophe; and the town itself, when they entered it, was seething with excitement over the prisoners just brought in. Brion, being recognised, evoked much wondering comment, and was glad when the inn was reached, and he could help down Joan, to take refuge with him in a private chamber. He was turning to enter, having delivered their horses to the hostler, when a great fellow, bursting his way through the onlookers, fell on his knees before him, and held up his clasped hands in a very agony of emotion.

‘O, my young master!’ cried the man--‘O, my young master! To see you home again, and to this!’

Brion looked at him, with hardly less emotion.

‘Why, Nol,’ he said--‘Nol! Methought you could not all have deserted me.’

Then, conscious of the listening throng, he bade the poor good creature to rise, and follow him into the house.

‘Now,’ said he, when they were all shut away into privacy: ‘here at least is one witness that I need, and that will bring light to my beclouded soul.’ Then, seeing the porter’s inflamed eyes fixed in bewilderment on Joan: ‘Ay, lad,’ he said; ‘it is a dear bride I have brought home with me, and had thought to commit to all your love and service. But that is done.’

And that opened the floodgates.

‘God bless her sweet face!’ bellowed Nol; and then, in vociferous outcry: ‘O, my pretty mistress, here be a home-coming indeed for ’ee!’

He had only just heard the news, it seemed, and had been about to run all the way to the Grange to verify it, when he had caught sight of his young master. And so, after a little, they reached the subject of all, and Brion learned what there was to learn of the happenings of the last six months--of his Uncle’s violent death, and of the machinations which had preceded and followed it.

‘A was a villain rogue, that Melton,’ cried Nol, ‘so to corrupt his Honour’s mind.’

‘To corrupt,’ said Brion sadly. ‘Ah, Nol! What were my orders?’

‘We obeyed them, master,’ cried the poor fellow eagerly, ‘we obeyed them faithful and true we did, keeping watch on the man, and never leaving him, day or night, while a lay a’mending. And the moment a was fit to travel, out a was bundled. But a returned at night by some way unknown to us, and found his way in to his Honour, and from that time never left him.’

Some way unknown? Alas, could he not guess what way? Brion cried out in his heart over his own folly and shortsightedness.

‘Why did you not drive him forth again?’ he groaned.

‘We went to do it, master, and his Honour turned on us like a mad thing, and bade us henceforth treat the man as his guest, and serve and honour him on peril of dismissal. And from that time a kept the stranger always about him, and the devil came to possess him in his shape, so that one day a sent for me and Phineas, and, before witness of two lawyers a had summoned, told us a had bequeathed the Grange and all in it to his dearest friend, John Melton, and hoped, did the man survive him, a would continue to keep us all in his service. And that Melton promised, and so did we to serve him, his Honour was that pleading and gentle with us we had no heart to refuse. But, having said it, we never thought to lose him so soon--alackaday, alackaday!’

He cut short a very howl to mop his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘Go on,’ said Brion sadly, mourning to recall all that fateful premonition, which, in utmost caution’s despite, had yet come to fulfil itself: and Nol continued, grievously snuffling:--

‘After his Honour was laid in the ground, and we, his loving servants, had come home from the funeral, there was John Melton awaiting us, the Will he had won in his hand, and his lawyer backer beside him. And he dismissed us three then and there--me and Phineas and boy William--making least whit of his promise. And the lawyer upheld un by the law, so that we had naught for it but to obey, and out we trundled, with our packs and our wages. But as to Gammer Harlock, a axed her to stay on to keep house for him; and she consented, while we cursed her for a runagate, knowing naught of the dark purpose she had at heart--God rest her soul. Then Phineas and William they agreed that there was nothing for it but to jog for Lunnon, and me, if I would, with them. But that I would not, thinking what it would be to you to come home unexpected, and find that devil in possession, and all of us gone without a word to tell you why. So, while they went, I bided on at Ashburton, getting work on a farm to keep me. And here have I been ever since, Master Brion, which is the whole truth; and God forgive me that it is wi’ such news I have to greet thy return--and this dear lady at thy side.’

What was there to say, since the past could not be redeemed, unless and until, after Clerivault’s thought, Death should come presently to roll it up backwards, like a long stretched drugget, obliterating all its dusty footprints? Brion put his hands on the shoulders of the faithful servant, and, looking affectionately into his eyes, ‘Ah, Nol!’ said he, ‘big as thy body is, thy great soul must find in it but narrow house room. Now we are met, is it ever to part again?’

‘Never till death,’ cried the giant, in an explosion of love and gratitude; and so the pact was made.

‘And now,’ said Brion, looking dearly at his love, ‘methinks, before we rest, I should go see this same rascal attorney, that hath played the petty devil to a greater rogue, and to whom Nol will conduct me.’

‘Ay--right joyously!’ cried the porter; ‘and eke return him some of his own. Shall I take a cudgel, master?’

‘Thy little finger will serve,’ said Brion dryly.

Joan parted with him a little anxiously, urging diplomacy rather than violence; but he reassured her, answering for himself as a model of discretion.

And, indeed, Master Harnett, when found, discovered himself in too abjectly disarming a mood to invite retaliation. Terrified by events, and fawningly eager to propitiate, he was only too ready to curry favour with the old heir by damning the pretensions of the new. The man was burnt to ashes, he said, and with him the Will which had made him master of the estate. His covetousness would never part with it, and, with its destruction, there was an end of his title. If Captain Middleton--as the rogue was pleased to call him--knew of another Will assigning him heir to the estate, that Will would now hold good. At the same time he would not have Captain Middleton assume an injustice of his Uncle. The deceased, as he knew for a fact, had made him in the later Will his residuary legatee--implying his succession to a sum which, if inconsiderable, owing to the testator’s reckless habits, was yet some earnest of his thoughtfulness--and would no doubt have left him all, had not his mind been somewhat basely practised on. He hoped Captain Middleton would remember that, and perhaps his own share in venturing to suggest such a course to the testator.

He lied as to that, as Brion very well understood; but the information was as balm to an aching wound. It had not been the thought of poverty which had caused it, but of the estranged affection which could have condemned him to it. And now he knew. He thought nothing of the smallness of the bequest: the fact that it had been made at all was solace enough.

He left the attorney, with an expression of formal obligation to him so stiff and chill as almost to sound like an affront, and, being obsequiously bowed into the street, turned his steps for St Lawrence’s graveyard, before going home to life and love. For home was wherever Joan was--that was a new and lovely thought.