“Come away from the door, Phoebe,” said Lydia. “Wait here with me until I give you leave to go,” she added, as the girl moved towards the inner door. “Now,” she said, turning courteously to the policeman, “what is the matter?”
“I ask your pardon, mum,” said the constable, agreeably. “Did you happen to see any one pass hereabouts lately?”
“Do you mean a man only partly dressed, and carrying a black coat?” said Lydia.
“That’s him, miss,” said the policeman, greatly interested.” Which way did he go?”
“I will show you where I saw him,” said Lydia, quietly rising and going with the man to the door, outside which she found a crowd of rustics, and five policemen, having in custody two men, one of whom was Mellish (without a coat), and the other a hooknosed man, whose like Lydia had seen often on racecourses. She pointed out the glade across which she had seen Cashel run, and felt as if the guilt of the deception she was practising was wrenching some fibre in her heart from its natural order. But she spoke with apparent self-possession, and no shade of suspicion fell on the minds of the police.
Several peasants now came forward, each professing to know exactly whither Cashel had been making when he crossed the glade. While they were disputing, many persons resembling the hooknosed captive in general appearance sneaked into the crowd and regarded the police with furtive hostility. Soon after, a second detachment of police came up, with another prisoner and another crowd, among whom was Bashville.
“Better go in, mum,” said the policeman who had spoken to Lydia first. “We must keep together, being so few, and he ain’t fit for you to look at.”
But Lydia had looked already, and had guessed that the last prisoner was Paradise, although his countenance was damaged beyond recognition. His costume was like that of Cashel, except that he was girt with a blue handkerchief with white spots, and his shoulders were wrapped in a blanket, through one of the folds of which his naked ribs could be seen, tinged with every hue that a bad bruise can assume. A shocking spectacle appeared where his face had formerly been. A crease and a hole in the midst of a cluster of lumps of raw flesh indicated the presence of an eye and a mouth; the rest of his features were indiscernible. He could still see a little, for he moved his puffed and lacerated hand to arrange his blanket, and demanded hoarsely, and with greatly impeded articulation, whether the lady would stand a dram to a poor fighting man wot had done his best for his backers. On this some one produced a flask, and Mellish volunteered, provided he were released for a moment, to get the contents down Paradise’s throat. As soon as the brandy had passed his swollen lips he made a few preliminary sounds, and then shouted,
“He sent for the coppers because he couldn’t stand another round. I am ready to go on.”
The policemen bade him hold his tongue, closed round him, and hid him from Lydia, who, without showing the mingled pity and loathing with which his condition inspired her, told them to bring him to the castle, and have him attended to there. She added that the whole party could obtain refreshment at the same time. The sergeant, who was very tired and thirsty, wavered in his resolution to continue the pursuit. Lydia, as usual, treated the matter as settled.
“Bashville,” she said, “will you please show them the way, and see that they are satisfied.”
“Some thief has stole my coat,” said Mellish, sullenly, to Bashville. “If you’ll lend me one, governor, and these blessed policemen will be so kind as not to tear it off my back, I’ll send it down to you in a day or two. I’m a respectable man, and have been her ladyship’s tenant here.”
“Your pal wants it worse than you,” said the sergeant. “If there was an old coachman’s cape or anything to put over him, I would see it returned safe. I don’t want to bring him round the country in a blanket, like a wild Injin.”
“I have a cloak inside,” said Bashville. “I’ll get it for you.” And before Lydia could devise a pretext for stopping him, he went out, and she heard him reentering the lodge by the back door. It seemed to her that a silence fell on the crowd, as if her deceit were already discovered. Then Mellish, who had been waiting for an opportunity to protest against the last remark of the policeman, said, angrily,
“Who are you calling my pal? I hope I may be struck dead for a liar if ever I set my eyes on him in my life before.”
Lydia looked at him as a martyr might look at a wretch to whom she was to be chained. He was doing as she had done — lying. Then Bashville, having passed through the other rooms, came into the library by the inner door, with an old livery cloak on his arm.
“Put that on him,” he said, “and come along to the castle with me. You can see the roads for five miles round from the south tower, and recognize every man on them, through the big telescope. By your leave, madam, I think Phoebe had better come with us to help.”
“Certainly,” said Lydia, looking steadfastly at him.
“I’ll get clothes at the castle for the man that wants them,” he added, trying to return her gaze, but failing with a blush. “Now boys. Come along.”
“I thank your ladyship,” said the sergeant. “We have had a hard morning of it, and we can do no more at present than drink your health.” He touched his helmet again, and Lydia bowed to him. “Keep close together, men,” he shouted, as the crowd moved off with Bashville.
“Ah,” sneered Mellish, “keep close together like the geese do. Things has come to a pretty pass when an Englishman is run in for stopping when he sees a crowd.”
“All right,” said the sergeant. “I have got that bundle of colored handkerchiefs you were selling; and I’ll find the other man before you’re a day older. It’s a pity, seeing how you’ve behaved so well and haven’t resisted us, that you won’t drop a hint of where those ropes and stakes are hid. I might have a good word at the sessions for any one who would put me in the way of finding them.”
“Ropes and stakes! Fiddlesticks and grandmothers! There weren’t no ropes and stakes. It was only a turn-up — that is, if there was any fighting at all. I didn’t see none; but I s’pose you did. But then you’re clever, and I’m not.”
By this time the last straggler of the party had disappeared from Lydia, who had watched their retreat from the door of the Warren Lodge. When she turned to go in she saw Cashel cautiously entering from the room in which he had lain concealed. His excitement had passed off; he looked cold and anxious, as if a reaction were setting in.
“Are they all gone?” he said. “That servant of yours is a good sort. He has promised to bring me some clothes. As for you, you’re better than — What’s the matter? Where are you going to?”
Lydia had put on her hat, and was swiftly wrapping herself in a shawl. Wreaths of rosy color were chasing each other through her cheeks; and her eyes and nostrils, usually so tranquil, were dilated.
“Won’t you speak to me?” he said, irresolutely.
“Just this,” she replied, with passion. “Let me never see you again. The very foundations of my life are loosened: I have told a lie. I have made my servant — an honorable man — an accomplice in a lie. We are worse than you; for even your wild-beast’s handiwork is a less evil than the bringing of a falsehood into the world. This is what has come to me out of our acquaintance. I have given you a hiding-place. Keep it. I will never enter it again.”
Cashel, appalled, shrank back with an expression such as a child wears when, in trying to steal sweetmeats from a high shelf, it pulls the whole cupboard down about its ears. He neither spoke nor stirred as she left the lodge.
Finding herself presently at the castle, she went to her boudoir, where she found her maid, the French lady, from whose indignant description of the proceedings below she gathered that the policemen were being regaled with bread and cheese, and beer; and that the attendance of a surgeon had been