Then the vicar entered, and Elsie, leading Martin, and the two pupils carrying the gigantic cat. Mrs. Johnson and the governess-companion had remained with the tent and would drive home in the dogcart.

Mr. Herbert's glowing account of Martin's conduct, combined with a judicious reference to his anxiety when he discovered that the hour for his lesson had pa.s.sed, placed even Bolland in a good humor. Once again the boy filled the mouths of the mult.i.tude, since nothing would serve the farmhands but they must carry off the cat to the fair for exhibition before they skinned it.

The doctor came, waylaid on his return from the "Black Lion." He removed the salt-soaked bandages, washed the wounds in tepid water, examined them carefully, and applied some antiseptic dressing, of which he had a supply in his dogcart for the benefit of George Pickering.

"An' how is Mr. Pickerin' te-night?" inquired Mrs. Bolland, who was horrified at first by the sight of Martin's damages, but rea.s.sured when the doctor said the boy would be all right in a day or two.

"Not so well, Mrs. Bolland," was the answer.

"Oh, ye don't say so. Poor chap! Is it wuss than ye feared for?"

"No; the wound is progressing favorably, but he is feverish. I don't like that. Fever is weakening."

No more would the doctor say, and Mrs. Bolland soon forgot the sufferings of another in her distress at Martin's condition. She particularly lamented that he should be laid up during the Feast.

At that the patient laughed.

"Surely I can go out, doctor!" he cried.

"Go out, you imp! Of course, you can. But, remember, no larking about and causing these cuts to reopen. Better stay in the house until I see you in the morning."

So Martin, fearless of consequences, hunted up "Rokeby," and read it with an interest hardly lessened by the fact that that particular poem is the least exciting of the magician's verse. At last the light failed and the table was laid for supper, so the boy's reading was disturbed.

More than once he fancied he had heard at the back of the house a long, shrill whistle which sounded familiar. Curiosity led him to the meadow.

He waited a little while, and again the whistle came from the lane.

"Who is it?" he called.

"Me. Is that you, Martin?"

"Me" was Tommy Beadlam, but his white top did not shine in the dark.

"What's up?"

"Come nearer. I mustn't shout."

Wondering what mystery was afoot, Martin approached the hedge.

"Yon la.s.s," whispered Tommy--"I can't say her name, but ye ken fine whe 'tis--she's i' t' fair agen."

"What! Angle?"

"That's her. She gemme sixpence te coom an' tell yer. I've bin whistlin'

till me lips is sore."

"You tell her from me she is a bad girl and ought to go home at once."

"Not me! She'd smack my fece."

"Well, I can't get out. I've had an accident and must go to bed soon."

"There's a rare yarn about you an' a cat. I seed it. Honest truth--did you really kill it wi' your hands?"

"Yes; but it gave me something first. Can you see? My arms and left hand are all bound up."

"An' it jumped fust on Elsie Herbert?"

"Yes."

"An' yer grabbed it offen her?"

"Yes."

"Gosh! Yon la.s.s is fair wild te hear all about it. She greeted when Evelyn Atkinson telt her yer were nearly dead, but yan o' t' farmhands kem along an' we axed him, an' he said ye were nowt worse."

Martin's heart softened when he heard of Angle's tears, but he was sorry she should have stolen out a second time to mix with the rabble of the village.

"I can't come out to-night," he said firmly.

"Happen ye'd be able to see her if I browt her here?"

The white head evidently held brains, but Martin had sufficient strength of character to ask himself what his new friends, the Herbert family, would think if they knew he was only too willing to dance to any tune the temptress played.

"No, no," he cried, retreating a pace or two. "You must not bring her.

I'm going to supper and straight to bed. And, look here, Tommy. Try and persuade her to go home. If you and Jim Bates and the others take her round the fair to-night you'll all get into trouble. You ought to have heard the parson to-day, and Miss Walker, too. I wouldn't be in your shoes for more than sixpence."

This was crafty counsel. Beadlam, after consulting Jim Bates, communicated it to Angle. She stared with wide-open eyes at the doubting pair.

"Misericorde!" she cried. "Were there ever such idiots! Because he cannot come himself, he doesn't want me to be with you."

There was something in this. Their judgment wavered, and--and--Angle had lots of money.

But she laughed them to scorn.

"Do you think I want you!" she screamed. "Bah! I spit at you. Evelyn, ma chrie, walk with me to The Elms. I want to hear all about the man who was stabbed and the woman who stabbed him."

Thereupon, Evelyn and one of her sisters went off with a girl whom they hated. But she was clever, in their estimation, and pretty, and well dressed, and, oh, so rich! Above all, she was not "stuck up" like Elsie Herbert, but laughed at their simple wit, and was ready to sink to their level.

Martin, taking thought before he slept, wondered why Angle had not come openly to the farm. It did not occur to him that Angle dared not face John Bolland. The child feared the dour old farmer. She dreaded a single look from the shrewd eyes which seemed to search her very soul.

CHAPTER X

DEEPENING SHADOWS

The doctor came late next morning. He did not reach Elmsdale until after eleven o'clock. He called first at the White House and handed Mrs.

Bolland a small package.