True to his Colours Part 14

"Thank you for your trouble," said Bradly, "and I'll keep the ring till the real owner turns up; and meanwhile, my friend, just take my advice, and keep as clear of the inside of the Green Dragon as you possibly can."

When the railway clerk had left him, Thomas Bradly sat for some minutes in deep thought, and then sought his sister. "Dear Jane," he said, "there's just another step we're being guided; 'tain't a very broad one, but I believe it's in the right direction." He then gave her an account of what he had just heard from his visitor.

"And what do you make of his story, Thomas?" she asked. "Do you think that the ring really belongs to Lydia Philips, and that she knows anything about the bag?"

"Yes, Jane, I do; and I'll tell you why. I believe that she was the person who dropped the Bible in at William Foster's window. Why she did so, of course I can't say. But I believe the ring slipped off while she was dropping the book, and now she's afraid to acknowledge the ring for her own. You know the Bible and the bracelet were in the same bag; so, as she knew about the Bible, it seems pretty certain she must have known about the bracelet too. If she owns to the ring, of course it's as good as owning as she was the person who dropped the Bible. She knows quite well, you may be sure, that the ring fell into Foster's room, and that it can only be Foster or his wife that's produced the ring, and she's afraid of inquiries being set on foot which may trace the missing bag and bracelet to her. So she's content to lose her ring, and persists in saying it ain't hers; because if she owned to it, it would raise suspicions that she or some of her people was concerned with making away with or hiding away the bag and bracelet, and that might get the Green Dragon a bad name, and spoil their custom, or even get her and her family into worse trouble. That's just my opinion; there's foul play, somewhere, and she knows something about it. The bag's in the place, hid away somewhere, and she knows where, or she knows them as has had to do with getting hold of it, and keeping it for their own purposes. So we must watch and be patient. I feel convinced we're getting nearer and nearer to the light. So let us leave it now in the Lord's hands, and be satisfied for him to guide us step by step, one at a time. I haven't a doubt we've traced the ring to its right owner, so we'll put it by for the present, and it can come out and give its evidence when it's wanted."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

WILD WORK AT CROSSBOURNE.

It was now the beginning of April; a month had pa.s.sed since the temperance meeting, and James Barnes and William Foster were keeping clear of the drink and of their old unG.o.dly companions. But it was not to be supposed that the enemies were asleep, or willing to acquiesce patiently in such a desertion from their ranks. Nevertheless, little stir was made, and open opposition seemed nearly to have died out.

"How quietly and peaceably matters are going on," said the vicar to Thomas Bradly one morning; "I suppose the intemperate party feel they can do our cause no real harm, and so are constrained to let Foster and Barnes alone."

"I'm not so sure about that, sir," was Bradly's reply. "I'm rather looking out for a breeze, for things are too quiet to last; there's been a queerish sort of grin on the faces of Foster's old mates when they've pa.s.sed me lately, as makes me pretty sure there's something in the wind as mayn't turn out very pleasant. But I'm not afraid: we've got the Lord and the right on our side, and we needn't fear what man can do unto us."

"True, Thomas, we must leave it there; and we may be sure that all will work together for the furtherance of the good cause in the end."

"I've not a doubt of it, sir; but for all that, I mean to keep a bright look-out. I'm not afraid of their trying their games with me; it's Barnes and Foster as they mean to pay off if they can."

That same evening James Barnes knocked at Bradly's Surgery door, and closed it quickly after him. There was a scared look in his eyes; his dress was all disordered; and, worse still, he brought with him into the room an overpowering odour of spirits. Poor Thomas's heart died within him. Alas! was it really so? Had the enemy gained so speedy a triumph?

"So, Jim, you've broken, I see," exclaimed Bradly sorrowfully. "The Lord pardon and help you!"

"Nothing of the sort," cried the other; "I've never touched a drop, Thomas, since I signed, though a good big drop has touched me."

"What do you mean, Jim?" asked Bradly, greatly relieved at the tone of his voice. "Are you sure it's all right? Come, sit down, and tell me all about it."

"That I will, Thomas; it's what I've come for. You'll easily believe me when I tell you," he continued, after taking a seat, "that they've been at me every road to try and get me back, badgering, chaffing, threatening, and coaxing: it's strange what pains they'll take as is working for the devil. But it wouldn't act. Well, three or four nights ago, when I got home from my work, I found two bottles on my table.

They was uncorked; one had got rum, and the other gin in it. Now, I won't say as my mouth didn't water a bit, and the evil one whispered 'Just take a gla.s.s;' but no, I wasn't to be done that way, so I lifts up a prayer for strength, and just takes the bottles at once out into the road, and empties them straight into the gutter. There was some looking on as would let the enemy know. So to-night, as smooth ways wouldn't act, they've been trying rough 'uns. Four of my old mates, Ned Taylor among 'em, watches when my missus went off to the shop, and slips into the kitchen where I was sitting. They'd brought a bottle of rum with them, and began to talk friendly fas.h.i.+on, and tried might and main to get me to drink. But I gave the same answer--I'd have none of it. Then one of them slipped behind my chair, and pinned me down into it, and Ned Taylor tried to force my mouth open, while another man held the bottle, ready to pour the rum down my throat. But just then our little Bob, seeing how roughly they were handling me, bolted out into the street, screaming, 'They're killing daddy! They're killing daddy!' So the cowardly chaps, seeing it was time to be off, took to their heels, all but Ned Taylor. He'd taken the bottle of rum from the man as held it, and he took and poured it all down my coat and waistcoat, and said, 'If you won't have it inside, you shall have it out;' and then he burst out into a loud laugh, and went after the rest of them. If you examine my clothes, Thomas, you can see as I'm telling the truth. However, they've just been and cut their own throats, for they've only made me more determined than ever to stick to my tee-totalism."

"All right, Jim," said the other cheerfully; "they've outwitted themselves. I've an old coat and waistcoat as I've nearly done with, but they've got a good bit of wear in them yet. They'll just about fit you, I reckon. You shall go back in them, and keep them and welcome, and we'll make these as they've spoilt a present to the dunghill. I only wish all other bad habits, and more particularly them as comes through rum, brandy, and such like, could be cast away on to the same place. You did quite right, Jim, to come straight to me."

"Ay, Thomas, I felt as it were best; for I were in a towering rage at first, and I think I should have half killed some of 'em, if I could only have got at them."

"Ah, well, Jim, you just let all that alone. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' We'll get our revenge in another way some day; we may heap coals of fire on some of their heads yet. But you leave matters now to me. I shall see Ned Taylor to-morrow myself, and give him a bit of my mind; and warn him and his mates that if they try anything of the kind on again, they'll get themselves into trouble."

"Thank you, Thomas, with all my heart, for your kindness: 'a friend in need's a friend indeed.' But there's just another thing as I wants to talk to you about afore I go. I meant to come up to-night about it anyhow, even if this do hadn't happened."

"Well, Jim, let's hear it."

"Do you remember Levi Sharples, Thomas?"

"What! That tall, red-haired chap, with a cast in his left eye, and a mouth as wide and ugly as an ogre's?"

"Yes, that's the man. You'll remember, Thomas, he was concerned in that housebreaking job four years ago, and the police have been after him ever since."

"To be sure, Jim, I remember him fast enough; he's not a man one's likely to forget. I suppose a more thorough scoundrel never set foot in Crossbourne. It was a wonderful thing how he managed to escape and keep out of prison after that burglary business. But what about him?"

"Why, Thomas, I seed him in this town the day before yesterday."

"Surely, Jim, you must be mistaken. He durstn't show his face in Crossbourne for the life of him."

"No, I know that; but he's got himself made up to look like another man,--black hair, great black whiskers, and a thick black beard, and a foreign sort of cap on his head,--and he's lodging at the Green Dragon, and pretends as he's an agent for some foreign house to get orders for rings, and brooches, and watches, and things of that sort."

"But are you certain, Jim, you're not mistaken?"

"Mistaken! Not I. I used to know him too well in my drinking days.

He'll never disguise that look of that wicked eye of his from them as knows him well; and though he's got summat in his mouth to make him talk different, I could tell the tw.a.n.g of his ugly voice anywheres."

"Well, Jim?"

"Ah, but it ain't well, Thomas, I'm sorry to say: there's mischief, you may be sure, when the like of him's about. You know he used to be a great man with Will Foster's old set; and, would you believe it, I saw him yesterday evening, when it was getting dark, standing near Foster's house talking with him. They didn't see me, for I was in the shadow; I'd just stooped down to fasten my boot-lace as they came up together.

I'd had a message to take to William's wife, and was coming out the back way, when I heard footsteps, and I knew Levi in a moment, as the gas lamp shone on him. I didn't want to play spy, but I _did_ want to know what that chap was up to. So, while their backs was towards me, I crawled behind the water-b.u.t.t without making any noise, and I could catch a few words now and then, as they were not far-off from me."

"Well, Jim, and what did you hear?"

"Why, Levi said, 'It won't do for me to be seen here, so let us have a meeting in some safe place.'--'Very well,' says William, and then they spoke so low I could only catch the words, 'Cricketty Hall;' but just as Levi were moving off, he said in a loud whisper, 'All right, then-- Friday night;' and I think he mentioned the hour, but he spoke so low I couldn't clearly mate out any more. So I've come to tell you, Thomas Bradly, for there's mischief of some sort up, I'll be bound."

Bradly did not answer, but for a time a deep shade of anxiety settled on his features. But after a while the shadow pa.s.sed away. "James," he said earnestly, "I can't believe as there's anything wrong in this matter in William Foster. I can't believe the Lord's led him so far, in the right way, and has now left him to stray into wrong paths. I've watched him narrowly, and I'm certain he's as true as steel. But I think with you as there's mischief brewing. Though William has got a clever head, yet he's got a soft heart along with it, and he's not over wide-awake in some things; and I'll be bound he's no match for a villain like that Levi. I tell you what it is, Jim: it strikes me now, just as we're speaking, as Levi's being set on by some of William's old mates to draw him out of the town to a place where they can play him some trick, or do him some harm, without being hindered or found out. I can't explain how, of course, but that's my thought. Now, if you'll lend me a helping hand, I'm persuaded as we shall be able, if the Lord will, to turn the tables on these fellows in such a way as'll effectually tie their hands and stop their tongues for many a long day to come."

"All right, Thomas," cried Barnes, "I'm your man; I think you're on the right scent."

"Very good, Jim; Cricketty Hall, and Friday night, that's where and when the meeting's to be. It means next Friday no doubt, for Levi Sharples won't stay in this neighbourhood a moment longer than he can help. You may depend upon it, when these two meet at the old ruin, Levi'll have some of their old mates not far-off, and there'll be wild work with poor William when they've got the opportunity. But we'll give 'em more company than they'll reckon for. But now, Jim, we must be cautious how we act. Of course I could go and tell William privately what I think Levi's up to, but I shall not do that; I want to catch that rascal in his own trap, and get him out of the country for good and all, and give the rest of them such a lesson as they'll not soon forget. So it won't do for you or me to be seen going out towards Cricketty Hall on Friday evening, for they are sure to set spies about, and we should spoil all.

I'll tell you how we'll manage. I've been wanting a day at Foxleigh for some time, as I've some business of my own there. You get leave to meet me there, and I'll pay your fare. Go by the eight a.m. train on Friday morning, and I'll take the train that starts at dinner-time. No one'll ever suspect us of going to Cricketty Hall that way. I shall tell the police at Foxleigh my business, and they'll be glad enough to send some men with us when they know that Levi Sharples will be there, the man they've been wanting to catch. We can get round to the woods above Cricketty Hall from Foxleigh without being seen, when it begins to be dark, and can get down into the ruins without their noticing us, for they'll never think of any one coming by that road, such a roundabout way. And mind, Jim, not a word to any one, not even to your missus.

All you need tell her is, that I've wanted you to meet me about some business at Foxleigh, and you won't be back till late."

"All right, Thomas," said Barnes; "you may depend on it I shan't say nothing to n.o.body. I shall just tell my missus afore I'm setting off on the Friday morning as I've got a job to do for you, and she mustn't expect me home till she sees me; and no one'll be surprised at my turning up at the station, as they all know as I used to be porter there."

Cricketty Hall was one of those decayed family mansions which are to be met with in many parts of England. Its original owners had been persons of importance many generations back, but their name and fame had pa.s.sed away. The lands connected with the Hall had become absorbed into other properties; and the building itself had gradually crumbled down, many a neighbouring farm-house owing some of its most solid and ornamental portions to the ma.s.sive ruins from which they had been borrowed or taken. Still, enough had been left to show that the place had once been a mansion of considerable pretensions. The old gateway, with its portcullis and drawbridge, was still standing, while the moat which surrounded the entire building indicated that it had been originally of very capacious dimensions. The roof and most of the walls had long since disappeared; trees grew in the centre, and spread out their branches over the s.p.a.ce once occupied by the dormitories, while a profusion of ivy concealed many a curiously carved arch and window.

From the gateway the ground sloped rapidly, affording a fine view of the neighbouring country. Behind the house was high ground, once thickly wooded, and still partially covered with trees and underwood. The Hall was about two miles distant from Crossbourne, and was well-known to most of its inhabitants, though but seldom visited, except occasionally by picnic parties in summer-time. Old tradition p.r.o.nounced it to be haunted, but though such an idea was ridiculed now by everybody whenever the superst.i.tion was alluded to, yet very few persons would have liked to venture into the ruins alone after dark; and, indeed, the loneliness of the situation made it by no means a desirable place for solitary evening musings.

The ordinary way to the Hall was by a footpath leading to it out of the highroad across fields for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. It could also be approached by a much less frequented track, which pa.s.sed along sequestered lanes out of the main road from the town of Foxleigh, the nearest town to Crossbourne by rail, and brought the traveller to it, after a walk of six miles from Foxleigh, through the overhanging wooded ground which has been mentioned as rising up in the rear of the old ruins.

The only exception to the dilapidated state of the premises was a large vaulted cellar or underground room. Its existence, however, had been well-nigh forgotten, except by a few who occasionally visited it, and kept the secret of the entrance to it to themselves.

The Friday on which the appointment between Foster and Levi Sharples was to be kept at Cricketty Hall, was one of those dismal April days which make you forget that there is any prospect of a coming summer in the chilly misery of the present. Cold showers and raw breezes made the pa.s.sers through the streets of Crossbourne fold themselves together, and expose as little surface as was possible to the inclemency of the weather; so that when James Barnes and Thomas Bradly left the station by the early and mid-day trains, there were but few idlers about to notice their departure.

At length the mills loosed, and Foster hurried home, and, after a hasty tea, told his wife that an engagement would take him from home for a few hours, and that she must not be alarmed if he was a little late. Then, having put on a stout overcoat, he made his way through the higher part of the town, and past the vicarage, and was soon in the open country.

It was past seven o'clock when he reached the place where the footpath leading to the old Hall met the highroad. It was still raining, though not heavily; but thick, leaden-coloured clouds brooded over the whole scene, and served to deepen the approaching darkness. It was certainly an evening not calculated to raise any one's spirits; and the harsh wind, as it swept over the wide expanse of the treeless fields, with their stern-looking stone fences, added to the depressing influences of the hour. But Foster was a man not easily daunted by such things, and he had stridden on manfully, fully occupied by his own thoughts, till he reached the stile where the footpath to the ruins began. Here he paused, looked carefully in all directions, listened attentively without hearing sound of traveller or vehicle, and then whistled in a low tone twice. A tall figure immediately rose up from the other side of the hedge and joined him.

"Well, Levi," said Foster, "I have kept my appointment; and now what would you have with me?"

"I'll tell you, William," replied his companion. "You know I'm a marked man. The police are looking out for me on account of that housebreaking job--more's the pity I ever had anything to do with it. However, I'm a changed man now, I hope: I think I've given you some proof of that already, William, so you may trust me. A man wouldn't come back and thrust his head into the lion's mouth as I've done, to show his sincerity and sorrow for the past, if he hadn't been in earnest. Now, what I want you to do is this:--You know how many Sunday afternoons you and I, and others of our old mates, have spent in card-playing in the cellar of that old Hall--the Lord forgive me for having wasted his holy day in such sin and folly! Now, I've a long story to tell, and I should like to tell it in that same place where you and I joined in what was sinful in our days of ignorance and darkness. I can tell you there how I was brought to see what a fool's part I had been playing, and how I came to my right mind at last. You can give me some good advice; and I want to leave one or two little things with you to give or send to my poor old mother when I'm far away. And when we've had our talk out, we'll part at the old ruin, and I shall make the best of my way out of the country, and begin a new and better life, I trust, where I'm not known. I'm sorry to have given you the trouble to come out all this way, specially on such a night as this; but I really don't feel safe anywhere in or near Crossbourne, as the police might pop on me at any moment, and I felt sure, from what I heard of the change that has taken place in you, that you wouldn't mind a little trouble to help an old companion out of the mire. You needn't be afraid to come with me; I can have no possible motive to lead you into danger."