P. C. Benson, all unconscious of the rod in pickle for his broad back, strolled in about the eating hour. Mrs. Bolland, brindling with repressed fury, could scarce find words wherewith to scold him.

"Well, of all the brazen-faced men I've ever met--" she began.

"So you've heerd t' news?" he interrupted.

"Heerd? I should think so, indeed! Martin kem yam----"

"Martin! Did he know?"

"Know!" she shrilled. "Wasn't it ye as said it?"

"No, ma'am," he replied stolidly. "Mrs. Atkinson told me, and she said that Mr. Pickerin' had ta'en his solemn oath te do't in t' presence of t' super and t' squire!"

"Do what?" was the chorus.

"Why, marry Betsy, to be sure, as soon as he can be led te t' church.

What else is there?"

This stupendous addition to the flood of excitement carried away even Martha Bolland for the moment. In her surprise she set a plate for Benson with the others, and, after that, the paramount rite of hospitality prevented her from "having it out wi' him" until hunger was sated. Then, however, she let him "feel the edge of her tongue"; he was so fl.u.s.tered that John had to restore his mental poise with another pint of ale.

Meanwhile, Martin managed to steal out un.o.bserved, and made the best of his way to The Elms. Although in happier mood, he was not wholly pleased with his errand. He was not afraid of Mrs. Saumarez--far from it, but he did not know how to fulfill his mission and at the same time exonerate Angle. His chivalrous nature shrank from blaming her, yet his unaided wits were not equal to the task of restoring so much money to her mother without answering truthfully the resultant deluge of questions.

He was battling with this problem when, near The Elms, he encountered the Rev. Charles Herbert, M.A., vicar of Elmsdale, and his daughter Elsie.

Martin doffed his straw hat readily, and would have pa.s.sed, but the vicar hailed him.

"Martin, is it correct that you were in the stableyard of the 'Black Lion' last night and saw something of this sad affair of Mr.

Pickering's?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir."

Martin blushed. The girl's blue eyes were fixed on his with the innocent curiosity of a fawn. She knew him well by sight, but they had never exchanged a word. He found himself wondering what her voice was like.

Would she chatter with the excited volubility of Angle? Being better educated than he, would she pour forth a jargon of foreign words and slang? Angle was quiet as a mouse under her mother's eye. Was Elsie aping this demure demeanor because her father was present? Certainly, she looked a very different girl. Every curve of her pretty face, each line in her graceful contour, suggested modesty and nice manners. Why, he couldn't tell, but he knew instinctively that Elsie Herbert would have drawn back horrified from the mad romp overnight, and he was humbled in spirit before her.

The worthy vicar never dreamed that the farmer's st.u.r.dy son was capable of deep emotion. He interpreted Martin's quick coloring to knowledge of a discreditable episode. He said to the girl:

"I'll follow you home in a few minutes, my dear."

Martin thought that an expression of disappointment swept across the clear eyes, but Elsie quitted them instantly. The boy had endured too much to be thus humiliated before one of his own age.

"I would have said nothing to offend the young lady," he cried hotly.

Very much taken aback, Mr. Herbert's eyebrows arched themselves above his spectacles.

"My good boy," he said, "I did not choose that my daughter should hear the--er--offensive details of this--er--stabbing affray, or worse, that took place at the inn."

"But you didn't mind slighting me in her presence, sir," was the unexpected retort.

"I am not slighting you. Had I met Mr. Beckett-Smythe and sought information as to this matter, I would still have asked her to go on to the Vicarage."

This was a novel point of view for Martin. He reddened again.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "Everything has gone wrong with me to-day. I didn't mean to be rude."

The vicar deemed him a strange youth, but tacitly accepted the apology, and drew from Martin the story of the night's doings.

It shocked him to hear that Martin and Frank Beckett-Smythe were fighting in the yard of the "Black Lion" at such an hour.

"How came you to be there?" he said gently. "You do not attend my church, Martin, but I have always regarded Mr. Bolland as a G.o.d-fearing man, and your teacher has told me that you are gifted with intelligence and qualities beyond your years or station in life."

"I was there quite by accident, sir, and I couldn't avoid the fight."

"What caused it?"

"We fought to settle that question, sir, and it's finished now."

The vicar laughed.

"Which means you will not tell me. Well, I am no disbeliever in a manly display of fisticuffs. It breaks no bones and saves many a boy from the growth of worse qualities. I suppose you are going to the fair this afternoon?"

"No, sir. I'm not."

"Would you mind telling me how you will pa.s.s the time between now and supper?"

"I am taking a message from my mother to Mrs. Saumarez, and then I'll go straight to the Black Plantation"--a dense clump of firs situate at the head of the ghylls, or small valleys, leading from the cultivated land up to the moor.

"Dear me! And what will you do there?"

The boy smiled, somewhat sheepishly.

"I have a nest in a tree there, sir, where I often sit and read."

"What do you read?"

"Just now, sir, I am reading Scott's poems."

"Indeed. What books do you favor, as a rule?"

Delighted to have a sympathetic listener, Martin forgot his troubles in pouring forth a catalogue of his favorite authors. The more Mr. Herbert questioned him the more eager and voluble he became. The boy had the rare faculty of absorbing the joys and sorrows, the n.o.ble sentiments, the very words of the heroes of romance, and in this scholarly gentleman he found an auditor who appreciated all that was. .h.i.therto dumb thought.

Several people pa.s.sing along the road wondered what "t' pa.s.son an' oad John Bolland's son were makkin' sike deed about," and the conversation must have lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, when the vicar heard the chimes of the church clock.

He laughed genially. Although, on his part, there was an underlying motive in the conversation, Martin had fairly carried it far afield.

"You have had your revenge on me for sending my daughter away," he cried. "My lunch will be cold. Now, will you do me a favor?"

"Of course, sir; anything you ask."

"Nay, Martin, make that promise to no man. But this lies within your scope. About four o'clock leave your crow's nest and drop over to Thor ghyll. I may be there."