the fading light of a close dull autumn afternoon
Martin Stoner plodded his way along muddy lanes and rut-seamed cart tracks
that led he knew not exactly whither. Somewhere in front of him, he fancied,
lay the sea, and towards the sea his footsteps seemed persistently turning;
why he was struggling wearily forward to that goal he could scarcely have
explained, unless he was possessed by the same instinct that turns a hard-pressed
stag cliffward in its last extremity. In his case the hounds of Fate were
certainly pressing him with unrelenting insistence; hunger, fatigue, and
despairing hopelessness had numbed his brain, and he could scarcely summon
sufficient energy to wonder what underlying impulse was driving him onward.
Stoner was one of those unfortunate individuals who seem to have tried
everything; a natural slothfulness and improvidence had always intervened
to blight any chance of even moderate success, and now he was at the end
of his tether, and there was nothing more to try. Desperation had not awakened
in him any dormant reserve of energy; on the contrary, a mental torpor
grew up round the crisis of his fortunes. With the clothes he stood up
in, a halfpenny in his pocket, and no single friend or acquaintance to
turn to, with no prospect either of a bed for the night or a meal for the
morrow, Martin Stoner trudged stolidly forward, between moist hedgerows
and beneath dripping trees, his mind almost a blank, except that he was
subconsciously aware that somewhere in front of him lay the sea. Another
consciousness obtruded itself now and then---the knowledge that he was
miserably hungry. Presently he came to a halt by an open gateway that led
into a spacious and rather neglected farm-garden; there was little sign
of life about, and the farm-house at the further end of the garden looked
chill and inhospitable. A drizzling rain, however, was setting in, and
Stoner thought that here perhaps he might obtain a few minutes' shelter
and buy a glass of milk with his last remaining coin. He turned slowly
and wearily into the garden and followed a narrow, flagged path up to a
side door. Before he had time to knock the door opened and a bent, withered-looking
old man stood aside in the doorway as though to let him pass in.
``Could I come in out of the rain?''
Stoner began, but the old man interrupted him.
``Come in, Master Tom. I knew you
would come back one of these days.''
Stoner lurched across the threshold
and stood staring uncomprehendingly at the other.
``Sit down while I put you out a
bit of supper,'' said the old man with quavering eagerness. Stoner's legs
gave way from very weariness, and he sank inertly into the arm-chair that
had been pushed up to him. In another minute he was devouring the cold
meat, cheese, and bread, that had been placed on the table at his side.
``You'm little changed these four
years,'' went on the old man, in a voice that sounded to Stoner as something
in a dream, far away and inconsequent; ``but you'll find us a deal changed,
you will. There's no one about the place same as when you left; nought
but me and your old Aunt. I'll go and tell her that you'm come; she won't
be seeing you, but she'll let you stay right enough. She always did say
if you was to come back you should stay, but she'd never set eyes on you
or speak to you again.''
The old man placed a mug of beer
on the table in front of Stoner and then hobbled away down a long passage.
The drizzle of rain had changed to a furious lashing downpour, which beat
violently against door and windows. The wanderer thought with a shudder
of what the sea-shore must look like under this drenching rainfall, with
night beating down on all sides. He finished the food and beer and sat
numbly waiting for the return of his strange host. As the minutes ticked
by on the grandfather clock in the corner a new hope began to flicker and
grow in the young man's mind; it was merely the expansion of his former
craving for food and a few minutes' rest into a longing to find a night's
shelter under this seemingly hospitable roof. A clattering of footsteps
down the passage heralded the old farm servant's return.
``The old Missus won't see you, Master
Tom, but she says you are to stay. 'Tis right enough, seeing the farm will
be yours when she be put under earth. I've had a fire lit in your room,
Master Tom, and the maids has put fresh sheets on to the bed. You'll find
nought changed up there. Maybe you'm tired and would like to go there now.''
Without a word Martin Stoner rose
heavily to his feet and followed his ministering angel along a passage,
up a short creaking stair, along another passage, and into a large room
lit with a cheerfully blazing fire. There was but little furniture, plain,
old-fashioned, and good of its kind; a stuffed squirrel in a case and a
wall-calendar of four years ago were about the only symptoms of decoration.
But Stoner had eyes for little else than the bed, and could scarce wait
to tear his clothes off him before rolling in a luxury of weariness into
its comfortable depths. The hounds of Fate seemed to have checked for a
In the cold light of morning Stoner
laughed mirthlessly as he slowly realized the position in which he found
himself. Perhaps he might snatch a bit of breakfast on the strength of
his likeness to this other missing neer-do-well, and get safely away before
any one discovered the fraud that had been thrust on him. In the room downstairs
he found the bent old man ready with a dish of bacon and fried eggs for
``Master Tom's'' breakfast, while a hard-faced elderly maid brought in
a teapot and poured him out a cup of tea. As he sat at the table a small
spaniel came up and made friendly advances.
``'Tis old Bowker's pup,'' explained
the old man, whom the hard-faced maid had addressed as George. ``She was
main fond of you; never seemed the same after you went away to Australee.
She died 'bout a year agone. 'Tis her pup.''
Stoner found it difficult to regret
her decease; as a witness for identification she would have left something
to be desired.
``You'll go for a ride, Master Tom?''
was the next startling proposition that came from the old man. ``We've
a nice little roan cob that goes well in saddle. Old Biddy is getting a
bit up in years, though 'er goes well still, but I'll have the little roan
saddled and brought round to door.''
``I've got no riding things,'' stammered
the castaway, almost laughing as he looked down at his one suit of well-worn
``Master Tom,'' said the old man
earnestly, almost with an offended air, ``all your things is just as you
left them. A bit of airing before the fire an' they'll be all right. 'Twill
be a bit of a distraction like, a little riding and wild-fowling now and
agen. You'll find the folk around here has hard and bitter minds towards
you. They hasn't forgotten nor forgiven. No one'll come nigh you, so you'd
best get what distraction you can with horse and dog. They'm good company,
Old George hobbled away to give his
orders, and Stoner, feeling more than ever like one in a dream, went upstairs
to inspect ``Master Tom's'' wardrobe. A ride was one of the pleasures dearest
to his heart, and there was some protection against immediate discovery
of his imposture in the thought that none of Tom's aforetime companions
were likely to favour him with a close inspection. As the interloper thrust
himself into some tolerably well-fitting riding cords he wondered vaguely
what manner of misdeed the genuine Tom had committed to set the whole countryside
against him. The thud of quick, eager hoofs on damp earth cut short his
speculations. The roan cob had been brought up to the side door.
``Talk of beggars on horseback,''
thought Stoner to himself, as he trotted rapidly along the muddy lanes
where he had tramped yesterday as a down-at-heel outcast; and then he flung
reflection indolently aside and gave himself up to the pleasure of a smart
canter along the turf-grown side of a level stretch of road. At an open
gateway he checked his pace to allow two carts to turn into a field. The
lads driving the carts found time to give him a prolonged stare, and as
he passed on he heard an excited voice call out, ``'Tis Tom Prike! I knowed
him at once; showing himself here agen, is he?''
Evidently the likeness which had
imposed at close quarters on a doddering old man was good enough to mislead
younger eyes at a short distance.
In the course of his ride he met
with ample evidence to confirm the statement that local folk had neither
forgotten nor forgiven the bygone crime which had come to him as a legacy
from the absent Tom. Scowling looks, mutterings, and nudgings greeted him
whenever he chanced upon human beings; ``Bowker's pup,'' trotting placidly
by his side, seemed the one element of friendliness in a hostile world.
As he dismounted at the side door
he caught a fleeting glimpse of a gaunt, elderly woman peering at him from
behind the curtain of an upper window. Evidently this was his aunt by adoption.
Over the ample midday meal that stood
in readiness for him Stoner was able to review the possibilities of his
extraordinary situation. The real Tom, after four years of absence, might
suddenly turn up at the farm, or a letter might come from him at any moment.
Again, in the character of heir to the farm, the false Tom might be called
on to sign documents, which would be an embarrassing predicament. Or a
relative might arrive who would not imitate the aunt's attitude of aloofness.
All these things would mean ignominious exposure. On the other hand, the
alternatives was the open sky and the muddy lanes that led down to the
sea. The farm offered him, at any rate, a temporary refuge from destitution;
farming was one of the many things he had ``tried,'' and he would be able
to do a certain amount of work in return for the hospitality to which he
was so little entitled.
``Will you have cold pork for your
supper,'' asked the hard-faced maid, as she cleared the table, ``or will
you have it hotted up?''
``Hot, with onions,'' said Stoner.
It was the only time in his life that he had made a rapid decision. And
as he gave the order he knew that he meant to stay.
Stoner kept rigidly to those portions
of the house which seemed to have been allotted to him by a tacit treaty
of delimitation. When he took part in the farm-work it was as one who worked
under orders and never initiated them. Old George, the roan cob, and Bowker's
pup were his sole companions in a world that was otherwise frostily silent
and hostile. Of the mistress of the farm he saw nothing. Once, when he
knew she had gone forth to church, he made a furtive visit to the farm
parlour in an endeavour to glean some fragmentary knowledge of the young
man whose place he had usurped, and whose ill-repute he had fastened on
himself. There were many photographs hung on the walls, or stuck in prim
frames, but the likeness he sought for was not among them. At last, in
an album thrust out of sight, he came across what he wanted. There was
a whole series, labelled ``Tom,'' a podgy child of three, in a fantastic
frock, an awkward boy of about twelve, holding a cricket bat as though
be loathed it, a rather good-looking youth of eighteen with very smooth,
evenly parted hair, and, finally, a young man with a somewhat surly dare-devil
expression. At this last portrait Stoner looked with particular interest;
the likeness to himself was unmistakable.
From the lips of old George, who
was garrulous enough on most subjects, he tried again and again to learn
something of the nature of the offence which shut him off as a creature
to be shunned and hated by hiss fellow-men.
``What do the folk around here say
about me?'' he asked one day as they were walking home from an outlying
The old man shook his head.
``They be bitter agen you, mortal
bitter. Ay, 'tis a sad business, a sad business.''
And never could he be got to say
anything more enlightening.
On a clear frosty evening, a few
days before the festival of Christmas, Stoner stood in a corner of the
orchard which commanded a wide view of the countryside. Here and there
he could see the twinkling dots of lamp or candle glow which told of human
homes where the goodwill and jollity of the season held their sway. Behind
him lay the grim, silent farm-house, where no one ever laughed, where even
a quarrel would have seemed cheerful. As he turned to look at the long
grey front of the gloom-shadowed building, a door opened and old George
came hurriedly forth. Stoner heard his adopted name called in a tone of
strained anxiety. Instantly be knew that something untoward had happened,
and with a quick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in his eyes
a place of peace and contentment, from which he dreaded to be driven.
``Master Tom,'' said the old man
in a hoarse whisper, ``you must slip away quiet from here for a few days.
Michael Ley is back in the village, an' he swears to shoot you if he can
come across you. He'll do it, too, there's murder in the look of him. Get
away under cover of night, 'tis only for a week or so, he won't be here
``But where am I to go?'' stammered
Stoner, who had caught the infection of the old man's obvious terror.
``Go right away along the coast to
Punchford and keep hid there. When Michael's safe gone I'll ride the roan
over to the Green Dragon at Punchford; when you see the cob stabled at
the Green Dragon 'tis a sign you may come back agen.''
``But---'' began Stoner hesitatingly.
``'Tis all right for money,'' said
the other; ``the old Missus agrees you'd best do as I say, and she's given
The old man produced three sovereigns
and some odd silver.
Stoner felt more of a cheat than
ever as he stole away that night from the back gate of the farm with the
old woman's money in his pocket. Old George and Bowker's pup stood watching
him a silent farewell from the yard. He could scarcely fancy that he would
ever come back, and he felt a throb of compunction for those two humble
friends who would wait wistfully for his return. Some day perhaps the real
Tom would come back, and there would be wild wonderment among those simple
farm folks as to the identity of the shadowy guest they had harboured under
their roof. For his own fate he felt no immediate anxiety; three pounds
goes but little way in the world when there is nothing behind it, but to
a man who has counted his exchequer in pennies it seems a good starting-point.
Fortune had done him a whimsically kind turn when last he trod these lanes
as a hopeless adventurer, and there might yet be a chance of his finding
some work and making a fresh start; as he got further from the farm his
spirits rose higher. There was a sense of relief in regaining once more
his lost identity and ceasing to be the uneasy ghost of another. He scarcely
bothered to speculate about the implacable enemy who had dropped from nowhere
into his life; since that life was now behind him one unreal item the more
made little difference. For the first time for many months he began to
hum a careless light-hearted refrain. Then there stepped out from the shadow
of an overhanging oak tree a man with a gun. There was no need to wonder
who he might be; the moonlight falling on his white set face revealed a
glare of human hate such as Stoner in the ups and downs of his wanderings
had never seen before. He sprang aside in a wild effort to break through
the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough branches held him fast.
The hounds of Fate had waited for him in those narrow lanes, and this time
they were not to be denied.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .