The Hounds of Fate

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　In the fading light of a close dull autumn afternoon Martin Stonerplodded his way along muddy lanes and rut-seamed cart tracks thatled he knew not exactly whither. Somewhere in front of him, hefancied, lay the sea, and towards the sea his footsteps seemedpersistently turning; why he was struggling wearily forward tothat goal he could scarcely have explained, unless he waspossessed by the same instinct that turns a hard-pressed stagcliffward in its last extremity. In his case the hounds of Fatewere certainly pressing him with unrelenting insistence; hunger,fatigue, and despairing hopelessness had numbed his brain, and hecould scarcely summon sufficient energy to wonder what underlyingimpulse was driving him onward. Stoner was one of thoseunfortunate individuals who seem to have tried everything; anatural slothfulness and improvidence had always intervened toblight any chance of even moderate success, and now he was at theend of his tether, and there was nothing more to try. Desperationhad not awakened in him any dormant reserve of energy; on thecontrary, a mental torpor grew up round the crisis of hisfortunes. With the clothes he stood up in, a halfpenny in hispocket, and no single friend or acquaintance to turn to, with noprospect either of a bed for the night or a meal for the morrow,Martin Stoner trudged stolidly forward, between moist hedgerowsand beneath dripping trees, his mind almost a blank, except thathe was subconsciously aware that somewhere in front of him lay thesea. Another consciousness obtruded itself now and then--theknowledge that he was miserably hungry. Presently he came to ahalt by an open gateway that led into a spacious and ratherneglected farm-garden; there was little sign of life about, andthe farm-house at the further end of the garden looked chill andinhospitable. A drizzling rain, however, was setting in, andStoner thought that here perhaps he might obtain a few minutes'shelter and buy a glass of milk with his last remaining coin. Heturned slowly and wearily into the garden and followed a narrow,flagged path up to a side door. Before he had time to knock thedoor opened and a bent, withered-looking old man stood aside inthe doorway as though to let him pass in."Could I come in out of the rain?" Stoner began, but the old maninterrupted him."Come in, Master Tom. I knew you would come back one of thesedays."Stoner lurched across the threshold and stood staringuncomprehendingly at the other."Sit down while I put you out a bit of supper," said the old manwith quavering eagerness. Stoner's legs gave way from veryweariness, and he sank inertly into the arm-chair that had beenpushed up to him. In another minute he was devouring the coldmeat, cheese, and bread, that had been placed on the table at hisside."You'm little changed these four years," went on the old man, in avoice that sounded to Stoner as something in a dream, far away andinconsequent; "but you'll find us a deal changed, you will.There's no one about the place same as when you left; nought butme and your old Aunt. I'll go and tell her that you'm come; shewon't be seeing you, but she'll let you stay right enough. Shealways did say if you was to come back you should stay, but she'dnever set eyes on you or speak to you again."The old man placed a mug of beer on the table in front of Stonerand then hobbled away down a long passage. The drizzle of rainhad changed to a furious lashing downpour, which beat violentlyagainst door and windows. The wanderer thought with a shudder ofwhat the sea-shore must look like under this drenching rainfall,with night beating down on all sides. He finished the food andbeer and sat numbly waiting for the return of his strange host.As the minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock in the corner anew hope began to flicker and grow in the young man's mind; it wasmerely the expansion of his former craving for food and a fewminutes' rest into a longing to find a night's shelter under thisseemingly hospitable roof. A clattering of footsteps down thepassage heralded the old farm servant's return."The old missus won't see you, Master Tom, but she says you are tostay. 'Tis right enough, seeing the farm will be yours when shebe put under earth. I've had a fire lit in your room, Master Tom,and the maids has put fresh sheets on to the bed. You'll findnought changed up there. Maybe you'm tired and would like to gothere now."Without a word Martin Stoner rose heavily to his feet and followedhis ministering angel along a passage, up a short creaking stair,along another passage, and into a large room lit with a cheerfullyblazing fire. There was but little furniture, plain, old-fashioned, and good of its kind; a stuffed squirrel in a case anda wall-calendar of four years ago were about the only symptoms ofdecoration. But Stoner had eyes for little else than the bed, andcould scarce wait to tear his clothes off him before rolling in aluxury of weariness into its comfortable depths. The hounds ofFate seemed to have checked for a brief moment.In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as heslowly realized the position in which he found himself. Perhapshe might snatch a bit of breakfast on the strength of his likenessto this other missing ne'er-do-well, and get safely away beforeanyone discovered the fraud that had been thrust on him. In theroom downstairs he found the bent old man ready with a dish ofbacon and fried eggs for "Master Tom's" breakfast, while a hard-faced elderly maid brought in a teapot and poured him out a cup oftea. As he sat at the table a small spaniel came up and madefriendly advances."'Tis old Bowker's pup," explained the old man, whom the hard-faced maid had addressed as George. "She was main fond of you;never seemed the same after you went away to Australee. She died'bout a year agone. 'Tis her pup."Stoner found it difficult to regret her decease; as a witness foridentification she would have left something to be desired."You'll go for a ride, Master Tom?" was the next startlingproposition that came from the old man. "We've a nice little roancob that goes well in saddle. Old Biddy is getting a bit up inyears, though 'er goes well still, but I'll have the little roansaddled and brought round to door.""I've got no riding things," stammered the castaway, almostlaughing as he looked down at his one suit of well-worn clothes."Master Tom," said the old man earnestly, almost with an offendedair, "all your things is just as you left them. A bit of airingbefore the fire an' they'll be all right. 'Twill be a bit of adistraction like, a little riding and wild-fowling now and agen.You'll find the folk around here has hard and bitter minds towardsyou. They hasn't forgotten nor forgiven. No one'll come nighyou, so you'd best get what distraction you can with horse anddog. They'm good company, too."Old George hobbled away to give his orders, and Stoner, feelingmore than ever like one in a dream, went upstairs to inspect"Master Tom's" wardrobe. A ride was one of the pleasures dearestto his heart, and there was some protection against immediatediscovery of his imposture in the thought that none of Tom'saforetime companions were likely to favour him with a closeinspection. As the interloper thrust himself into some tolerablywell-fitting riding cords he wondered vaguely what manner ofmisdeed the genuine Tom had committed to set the whole countrysideagainst him. The thud of quick, eager hoofs on damp earth cutshort his speculations. The roan cob had been brought up to theside door."Talk of beggars on horseback," thought Stoner to himself, as hetrotted rapidly along the muddy lanes where he had trampedyesterday as a down-at-heel outcast; and then he flung reflectionindolently aside and gave himself up to the pleasure of a smartcanter along the turf-grown side of a level stretch of road. Atan open gateway he checked his pace to allow two carts to turninto a field. The lads driving the carts found time to give him aprolonged stare, and as he passed on he heard an excited voicecall out, "'Tis Tom Prike! I knowed him at once; showing hisselfhere agen, is he?"Evidently the likeness which had imposed at close quarters on adoddering old man was good enough to mislead younger eyes at ashort distance.In the course of his ride he met with ample evidence to confirmthe statement that local folk had neither forgotten nor forgiventhe bygone crime which had come to him as a legacy from the absentTom. Scowling looks, mutterings, and nudgings greeted himwhenever he chanced upon human beings; "Bowker's pup," trottingplacidly by his side, seemed the one element of friendliness in ahostile world.As he dismounted at the side door he caught a fleeting glimpse ofa gaunt, elderly woman peering at him from behind the curtain ofan upper window. Evidently this was his aunt by adoption.Over the ample midday meal that stood in readiness for him Stonerwas able to review the possibilities of his extraordinarysituation. The real Tom, after four years of absence, mightsuddenly turn up at the farm, or a letter might come from him atany moment. Again, in the character of heir to the farm, thefalse Tom might be called on to sign documents, which would be anembarrassing predicament. Or a relative might arrive who wouldnot imitate the aunt's attitude of aloofness. All these thingswould mean ignominious exposure. On the other hand, thealternative was the open sky and the muddy lanes that led down tothe sea. The farm offered him, at any rate, a temporary refugefrom destitution; farming was one of the many things he had"tried," and he would be able to do a certain amount of work inreturn for the hospitality to which he was so little entitled."Will you have cold pork for your supper," asked the hard-fadedmaid, as she cleared the table, "or will you have it hotted up?""Hot, with onions," said Stoner. It was the only time in his lifethat he had made a rapid decision. And as he gave the order heknew that he meant to stay.Stoner kept rigidly to those portions of the house which seemed tohave been allotted to him by a tacit treaty of delimitation. Whenhe took part in the farm-work it was as one who worked underorders and never initiated them. Old George, the roan cob, andBowker's pup were his sole companions in a world that wasotherwise frostily silent and hostile. Of the mistress of thefarm he saw nothing. Once, when he knew she had gone forth tochurch, he made a furtive visit to the farm parlour in anendeavour to glean some fragmentary knowledge of the young manwhose place he had usurped, and whose ill-repute he had fastenedon himself. There were many photographs hung on the walls, orstuck in prim frames, but the likeness he sought for was not amongthem. At last, in an album thrust out of sight, he came acrosswhat he wanted. There was a whole series, labelled "Tom," a podgychild of three, in a fantastic frock, an awkward boy of abouttwelve, holding a cricket bat as though he loathed it, a rathergood-looking youth of eighteen with very smooth, evenly partedhair, and, finally, a young man with a somewhat surly dare-devilexpression. At this last portrait Stoner looked with particularinterest; the likeness to himself was unmistakable.From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on mostsubjects, he tried again and again to learn something of thenature of the offence which shut him off as a creature to beshunned and hated by his fellow-men."What do the folk around here say about me?" he asked one day asthey were walking home from an outlying field.The old man shook his head."They be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Aye, 'tis a sadbusiness, a sad business."And never could he be got to say anything more enlightening.On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival ofChristmas, Stoner stood in a corner of the orchard which commandeda wide view of the countryside. Here and there he could see thetwinkling dots of lamp or candle glow which told of human homeswhere the goodwill and jollity of the season held their sway.Behind him lay the grim, silent farm-house, where no one everlaughed, where even a quarrel would have seemed cheerful. As heturned to look at the long grey front of the gloom-shadowedbuilding, a door opened and old George came hurriedly forth.Stoner heard his adopted name called in a tone of strainedanxiety. Instantly he knew that something untoward had happened,and with a quick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in hiseyes a place of peace and contentment, from which he dreaded to bedriven."Master Tom," said the old man in a hoarse whisper, "you must slipaway quiet from here for a few days. Michael Ley is back in thevillage, an' he swears to shoot you if he can come across you.He'll do it, too, there's murder in the look of him. Get awayunder cover of night, 'tis only for a week or so, he won't be herelonger.""But where am I to go?" stammered Stoner, who had caught theinfection of the old man's obvious terror."Go right away along the coast to Punchford and keep hid there.When Michael's safe gone I'll ride the roan over to the GreenDragon at Punchford; when you see the cob stabled at the GreenDragon 'tis a sign you may come back agen.""But--" began Stoner hesitatingly."'Tis all right for money," said the other; "the old Missus agreesyou'd best do as I say, and she's given me this."The old man produced three sovereigns and some odd silver.Stoner felt more of a cheat than ever as he stole away that nightfrom the back gate of the farm with the old woman's money in hispocket. Old George and Bowker's pup stood watching him a silentfarewell from the yard. He could scarcely fancy that he wouldever come back, and he felt a throb of compunction for those twohumble friends who would wait wistfully for his return. Some dayperhaps the real Tom would come back, and there would be wildwonderment among those simple farm folks as to the identity of theshadowy guest they had harboured under their roof. For his ownfate he felt no immediate anxiety; three pounds goes but littleway in the world when there is nothing behind it, but to a man whohas counted his exchequer in pennies it seems a good starting-point. Fortune had done him a whimsically kind turn when last hetrod these lanes as a hopeless adventurer, and there might yet bea chance of his finding some work and making a fresh start; as hegot further from the farm his spirits rose higher. There was asense of relief in regaining once more his lost identity andceasing to be the uneasy ghost of another. He scarcely botheredto speculate about the implacable enemy who had dropped fromnowhere into his life; since that life was now behind him oneunreal item the more made little difference. For the first timefor many months he began to hum a careless lighthearted refrain.Then there stepped out from the shadow of an overhanging oak treea man with a gun. There was no need to wonder who he might be;the moonlight falling on his white set face revealed a glare ofhuman hate such as Stoner in the ups and downs of his wanderingshad never seen before. He sprang aside in a wild effort to breakthrough the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough branchesheld him fast. The hounds of Fate had waited for him in thosenarrow lanes, and this time they were not to be denied.