The Hounds of Fate
In the fading light of a close dull autumn afternoon Martin Stoner plodded hisway along muddy lanes and rut-seamed cart tracks that led he knew not exactlywhither. Somewhere in front of him, he fancied, lay the sea, and towards the seahis footsteps seemed persistently turning; why he was struggling wearily forwardto that goal he could scarcely have explained, unless he was possessed by thesame instinct that turns a hard-pressed stag cliffward in its last extremity. Inhis case the hounds of Fate were certainly pressing him with unrelentinginsistence; hunger, fatigue, and despairing hopelessness had numbed his brain,and he could scarcely summon sufficient energy to wonder what underlying impulsewas driving him onward. Stoner was one of those unfortunate individuals who seemto have tried everything; a natural slothfulness and improvidence had alwaysintervened to blight any chance of even moderate success, and now he was at theend of his tether, and there was nothing more to try. Desperation had notawakened in him any dormant reserve of energy; on the contrary, a mental torporgrew up round the crisis of his fortunes. With the clothes he stood up in, ahalfpenny in his pocket, and no single friend or acquaintance to turn to, withno prospect either of a bed for the night or a meal for the morrow, MartinStoner trudged stolidly forward, between moist hedgerows and beneath drippingtrees, his mind almost a blank, except that he was subconsciously aware thatsomewhere in front of him lay the sea. Another consciousness obtruded itself nowand then - the knowledge that he was miserably hungry. Presently he came to ahalt by an open gateway that led into a spacious and rather neglected farm-garden; there was little sign of life about, and the farm-house at the furtherend of the garden looked chill and inhospitable. A drizzling rain, however, wassetting in, and Stoner thought that here perhaps he might obtain a few minutes'shelter and buy a glass of milk with his last remaining coin. He turned slowlyand wearily into the garden and followed a narrow, flagged path up to a sidedoor. Before he had time to knock the door opened and a bent, withered-lookingold man stood aside in the doorway as though to let him pass in."Could I come in out of the rain?" Stoner began, but the old man interruptedhim."Come in, Master Tom. I knew you would come back one of these days."Stoner lurched across the threshold and stood staring uncomprehendingly at theother."Sit down while I put you out a bit of supper," said the old man with quaveringeagerness. Stoner's legs gave way from very weariness, and he sank inertly intothe arm-chair that had been pushed up to him. In another minute he was devouringthe cold meat, cheese, and bread, that had been placed on the table at his side."You'm little changed these four years," went on the old man, in a voice thatsounded to Stoner as something in a dream, far away and inconsequent; "butyou'll find us a deal changed, you will. There's no one about the place same aswhen you left; nought but me and your old Aunt. I'll go and tell her that you'mcome; she won't be seeing you, but she'll let you stay right enough. She alwaysdid say if you was to come back you should stay, but she'd never set eyes on youor speak to you again."The old man placed a mug of beer on the table in front of Stoner and thenhobbled away down a long passage. The drizzle of rain had changed to a furiouslashing downpour, which beat violently against door and windows. The wandererthought with a shudder of what the sea-shore must look like under this drenchingrainfall, with night beating down on all sides. He finished the food and beerand sat numbly waiting for the return of his strange host. As the minutes tickedby on the grandfather clock in the corner a new hope began to flicker and growin the young man's mind; it was merely the expansion of his former craving forfood and a few minutes' rest into a longing to find a night's shelter under thisseemingly hospitable roof. A clattering of footsteps down the passage heraldedthe old farm servant's return."The old Missus won't see you, Master Tom, but she says you are to stay. 'Tisright enough, seeing the farm will be yours when she be put under earth. I'vehad a fire lit in your room, Master Tom, and the maids has put fresh sheets onto the bed. You'll find nought changed up there. Maybe you'm tired and wouldlike to go there now."Without a word Martin Stoner rose heavily to his feet and followed hisministering angel along a passage, up a short creaking stair, along anotherpassage, and into a large room lit with a cheerfully blazing fire. There was butlittle furniture, plain, old-fashioned, and good of its kind; a stuffed squirrelin a case and a wall-calendar of four years ago were about the only symptoms ofdecoration. But Stoner had eyes for little else than the bed, and could scarcewait to tear his clothes off him before rolling in a luxury of weariness intoits comfortable depths. The hounds of Fate seemed to have checked for a briefmoment.In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as he slowly realizedthe position in which he found himself. Perhaps he might snatch a bit ofbreakfast on the strength of his likeness to this other missing neer-do-well,and get safely away before any one discovered the fraud that had been thrust onhim. In the room downstairs he found the bent old man ready with a dish of baconand fried eggs for "Master Tom's" breakfast, while a hard-faced elderly maidbrought in a teapot and poured him out a cup of tea. As he sat at the table asmall spaniel came up and made friendly advances."'Tis old Bowker's pup," explained the old man, whom the hard-faced maid hadaddressed as George. "She was main fond of you; never seemed the same after youwent away to Australee. She died 'bout a year agone. 'Tis her pup."Stoner found it difficult to regret her decease; as a witness for identificationshe would have left something to be desired."You'll go for a ride, Master Tom?" was the next startling proposition that camefrom the old man. "We've a nice little roan cob that goes well in saddle. OldBiddy is getting a bit up in years, though 'er goes well still, but I'll havethe little roan saddled and brought round to door.""I've got no riding things," stammered the castaway, almost laughing as helooked down at his one suit of well-worn clothes."Master Tom," said the old man earnestly, almost with an offended air, "all yourthings is just as you left them. A bit of airing before the fire an' they'll beall right. 'Twill be a bit of a distraction like, a little riding and wild-fowling now and agen. You'll find the folk around here has hard and bitter mindstowards you. They hasn't forgotten nor forgiven. No one'll come nigh you, soyou'd best get what distraction you can with horse and dog. They'm good company,too."Old George hobbled away to give his orders, and Stoner, feeling more than everlike one in a dream, went upstairs to inspect "Master Tom's" wardrobe. A ridewas one of the pleasures dearest to his heart, and there was some protectionagainst immediate discovery of his imposture in the thought that none of Tom'saforetime companions were likely to favour him with a close inspection. As theinterloper thrust himself into some tolerably well-fitting riding cords hewondered vaguely what manner of misdeed the genuine Tom had committed to set thewhole countryside against him. The thud of quick, eager hoofs on damp earth cutshort his speculations. The roan cob had been brought up to the side door."Talk of beggars on horseback," thought Stoner to himself, as he trotted rapidlyalong the muddy lanes where he had tramped yesterday as a down-at-heel outcast;and then he flung reflection indolently aside and gave himself up to thepleasure of a smart canter along the turf-grown side of a level stretch of road.At an open gateway he checked his pace to allow two carts to turn into a field.The lads driving the carts found time to give him a prolonged stare, and as hepassed on he heard an excited voice call out, "'Tis Tom Prike! I knowed him atonce; showing himself here agen, is he?"Evidently the likeness which had imposed at close quarters on a doddering oldman was good enough to mislead younger eyes at a short distance.In the course of his ride he met with ample evidence to confirm the statementthat local folk had neither forgotten nor forgiven the bygone crime which hadcome to him as a legacy from the absent Tom. Scowling looks, mutterings, andnudgings greeted him whenever he chanced upon human beings; "Bowker's pup,"trotting placidly by his side, seemed the one element of friendliness in ahostile world.As he dismounted at the side door he caught a fleeting glimpse of a gaunt,elderly woman peering at him from behind the curtain of an upper window.Evidently this was his aunt by adoption.Over the ample midday meal that stood in readiness for him Stoner was able toreview the possibilities of his extraordinary situation. The real Tom, afterfour years of absence, might suddenly turn up at the farm, or a letter mightcome from him at any moment. Again, in the character of heir to the farm, thefalse Tom might be called on to sign documents, which would be an embarrassingpredicament. Or a relative might arrive who would not imitate the aunt'sattitude of aloofness. All these things would mean ignominious exposure. On theother hand, the alternatives was the open sky and the muddy lanes that led downto the sea. The farm offered him, at any rate, a temporary refuge fromdestitution; farming was one of the many things he had "tried," and he would beable to do a certain amount of work in return for the hospitality to which hewas so little entitled."Will you have cold pork for your supper," asked the hard-faced maid, as shecleared the table, "or will you have it hotted up?""Hot, with onions," said Stoner. It was the only time in his life that he hadmade a rapid decision. And as he gave the order he knew that he meant to stay.Stoner kept rigidly to those portions of the house which seemed to have beenallotted to him by a tacit treaty of delimitation. When he took part in thefarm-work it was as one who worked under orders and never initiated them. OldGeorge, the roan cob, and Bowker's pup were his sole companions in a world thatwas otherwise frostily silent and hostile. Of the mistress of the farm he sawnothing. Once, when he knew she had gone forth to church, he made a furtivevisit to the farm parlour in an endeavour to glean some fragmentary knowledge ofthe young man whose place he had usurped, and whose ill-repute he had fastenedon himself. There were many photographs hung on the walls, or stuck in primframes, but the likeness he sought for was not among them. At last, in an albumthrust out of sight, he came across what he wanted. There was a whole series,labelled "Tom," a podgy child of three, in a fantastic frock, an awkward boy ofabout twelve, holding a cricket bat as though be loathed it, a rather good-looking youth of eighteen with very smooth, evenly parted hair, and, finally, ayoung man with a somewhat surly dare-devil expression. At this last portraitStoner looked with particular interest; the likeness to himself wasunmistakable.From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on most subjects, he triedagain and again to learn something of the nature of the offence which shut himoff as a creature to be shunned and hated by hiss fellow-men."What do the folk around here say about me?" he asked one day as they werewalking home from an outlying field.The old man shook his head."They be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Ay, 'tis a sad business, a sadbusiness."And never could he be got to say anything more enlightening.On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival of Christmas, Stonerstood in a corner of the orchard which commanded a wide view of the countryside.Here and there he could see the twinkling dots of lamp or candle glow which toldof human homes where the goodwill and jollity of the season held their sway.Behind him lay the grim, silent farm-house, where no one ever laughed, whereeven a quarrel would have seemed cheerful. As he turned to look at the long greyfront of the gloom-shadowed building, a door opened and old George camehurriedly forth. Stoner heard his adopted name called in a tone of strainedanxiety. Instantly be knew that something untoward had happened, and with aquick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in his eyes a place of peace andcontentment, from which he dreaded to be driven."Master Tom," said the old man in a hoarse whisper, "you must slip away quietfrom here for a few days. Michael Ley is back in the village, an' he swears toshoot you if he can come across you. He'll do it, too, there's murder in thelook of him. Get away under cover of night, 'tis only for a week or so, he won'tbe here longer.""But where am I to go?" stammered Stoner, who had caught the infection of theold man's obvious terror."Go right away along the coast to Punchford and keep hid there. When Michael'ssafe gone I'll ride the roan over to the Green Dragon at Punchford; when you seethe cob stabled at the Green Dragon 'tis a sign you may come back agen.""But--" began Stoner hesitatingly."'Tis all right for money," said the other; "the old Missus agrees you'd best doas 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 night from the backgate of the farm with the old woman's money in his pocket. Old George andBowker's pup stood watching him a silent farewell from the yard. He couldscarcely fancy that he would ever come back, and he felt a throb of compunctionfor those two humble friends who would wait wistfully for his return. Some dayperhaps the real Tom would come back, and there would be wild wonderment amongthose simple farm folks as to the identity of the shadowy guest they hadharboured under their roof. For his own fate he felt no immediate anxiety; threepounds goes but little way in the world when there is nothing behind it, but toa man who has counted his exchequer in pennies it seems a good starting-point.Fortune had done him a whimsically kind turn when last he trod these lanes as ahopeless adventurer, and there might yet be a chance of his finding some workand making a fresh start; as he got further from the farm his spirits rosehigher. There was a sense of relief in regaining once more his lost identity andceasing to be the uneasy ghost of another. He scarcely bothered to speculateabout the implacable enemy who had dropped from nowhere into his life; sincethat life was now behind him one unreal item the more made little difference.For the first time for many months he began to hum a careless light-heartedrefrain. Then there stepped out from the shadow of an overhanging oak tree a manwith a gun. There was no need to wonder who he might be; the moonlight fallingon his white set face revealed a glare of human hate such as Stoner in the upsand downs of his wanderings had never seen before. He sprang aside in a wildeffort to break through the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough branchesheld him fast. The hounds of Fate had waited for him in those narrow lanes, andthis time they were not to be denied.
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