Part 21 (1/2)

Dixon had turned livid with rage, but kept his head.

”You are a poor, drunken fool, and don't know what you are saying, or I'd make you swallow your words.”

”You wouldn't! I could prove them!” went on Tom, choking with pa.s.sion.

”And as you've cheated in work, you've cheated in love. You've cheated me, and you've cheated that one as followed you sobbing and crying from the place where you last came from, and who you'd promised faithful to marry, and who you'd walked with for three years and more. I had the story from the woman where I lodge. The girl spent the night there, and she was pretty nigh broken-hearted. She'd even got her wedding-gown.”

Dixon sprang across the road like a tiger, and gave Tom such a swinging box on the ear that, for a moment, he reeled again. And then, all the devil in Tom was loosed, and he leaped on his foe, gripping him by the throat until every vein in his forehead stood out in blue knots. The action was so unexpected and so rapid that Dixon found it impossible to free himself. The men swayed to and fro in each other's embrace, finally falling heavily together with a sickening thud upon the road.

Tom was uppermost, and picked himself up with a rather ghastly smile, but Dixon lay there rigid and motionless.

”Get up!” said Tom, poking him with the toe of his boot. ”You won't be so ready to interfere with me another time.” But Dixon did not stir.

Rose, who had tried to stop the quarrel by every artifice in her power, knelt down by the side of her lover. And suddenly a cry so shrill, so despairing, broke the air, that Tom's heart stood still and the blood froze in his veins.

”Tom! Tom!--you wicked man, you've killed him!” she shrieked.

And Tom, sobered by the cry, and realizing in all its horror the meaning of the words, turned like guilty Cain and fled. There was but one place for him now: the river--the river, and the end of it all. He was making for it straight, flying by the nearest cut across the fields, leaping ditches, scrambling through hedges, regardless of the brambles that scored his face and hands. Like a hare hunted by the hounds he fled; away from his own guilty action, away from the woman he loved, to the river which would sweep him swiftly, painlessly to rest and forgetfulness. But would it? He had stumbled accidentally into the path which led towards the cottage where he lodged, and turned his head as he ran to take one last glance at the light which glimmered in the window. He could see the river now; he was nearing the brink.

There was but one field between him and it, when he became conscious of a pursuing step. Somebody was already on his scent. The question now was whether he should die by his own act, or be delivered over to the terrible hands of justice; and at that thought Tom redoubled his speed to outstrip his pursuer. It was a desperate race, for his strength was nearly spent. His long fast had told upon him, and the fict.i.tious power of the spirit he had swallowed had pa.s.sed away. His breath was coming in quick, short gasps. His foot caught in a tussock of gra.s.s, and he fell face foremost to the ground, and, before he could regain his feet, a hand was on his collar.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Before he could regain his feet, a hand was on his collar.]

”Let me go! Let me go!” he cried, struggling desperately in the hands of his capturer. ”If I've killed him I'm ready to die too. You can't do more than hang me! One more moment and I'd have been in the river.

Let me go, I say!”

”I shall _not_ let you go; you are either mad or drunk--incapable of taking care of yourself,” said a low, clear voice; and Tom was lifted to a standing posture by the rector's strong arms.

When Dixon had called late on Sat.u.r.day night to ask the rector to put up his banns on the morrow, Mr. Curzon's thoughts flew straight to Tom.

So this was the end of his love-story, poor fellow! and he feared that it would go hardly with the lad.

”Maybe he will come to see me to-morrow. And, if not, I will see him,”

he had said.

He had noticed with satisfaction that Tom was in his accustomed place on Sunday morning, and did not see him slip out of church after the publis.h.i.+ng of the banns; but on Sunday night he missed him, and, the minute service was ended, he set off for the cottage where he lodged.

He had reached the field-path which led to it, when he heard the sound of footsteps that stumbled in their running, and, pausing to look round, he saw a figure, which he did not immediately recognize in the moonlight as Tom's, das.h.i.+ng across the pathway in the direction of the river. Almost before he knew what he was doing the rector gave chase, for he felt the man meant mischief: a conviction which grew into certainty as he gained upon the runaway, and recognized him as the man whom he sought.

Tom attempted no further resistance, and, from his incoherent utterances, Mr. Curzon presently gathered what had occurred.

”And you ran off and left Rose with her dead lover? I could not have believed you such a coward, Tom!” he said, unable to keep back the indignation and scorn he felt. ”This is no place for you and me; we must go back at once, and see if anything can be done.”

Nothing was said as the two hastened back to the spot where Dixon was left lying; but, to the utter astonishment of both, when they arrived there, Rose and Dixon had gone.

”Either some vehicle has driven by which has conveyed Dixon to the Court, or he was, by G.o.d's mercy, only stunned,” said the rector.

”We'll go on and find out.”

Tom made no answer, but followed the rector's lead. In a kind of dumb despair he felt he was walking to meet his fate. They made their way first to the stables, anxious not to give the alarm at the house until they knew the extent of the mischief. The usual orderly quiet prevailed, and, in response to the rector's knock, the groom, who had played such a faithless part by Rose, appeared.

”Is Dixon in? Can I see him for a moment?” asked Mr. Curzon, guardedly.