Stories of Bleakirk

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　From Noughts and Crosses: Stories, Studies and Sketches.

　　I.THE AFFAIR OF BLEAKIRK-ON-SANDS.

　　[The events, which took place on November 23, 186-, are narrated byReuben Cartwright, Esq., of Bleakirk Hall, Bleakirk-on-Sands, in theNorth Riding of Yorkshire.]

　　A rough, unfrequented bridle-road rising and dipping towards thecoast, with here and there a glimpse of sea beyond the sad-colouredmoors: straight overhead, a red and wintry sun just struggling toassert itself: to right and left, a stretch of barren down stillcoated white with hoar-frost.I had flung the reins upon my horse's neck, and was amblinghomewards. Between me and Bleakirk lay seven good miles, and we hadcome far enough already on the chance of the sun's breaking through;but as the morning wore on, so our prospect of hunting that day fadedfurther from us. It was now high noon, and I had left the hunt halfan hour ago, turned my face towards the coast, and lit a cigar tobeguile the way. When a man is twenty-seven he begins to miss thefun of shivering beside a frozen cover.The road took a sudden plunge among the spurs of two converginghills. As I began to descend, the first gleam of sunshine burst fromthe dull heaven and played over the hoar-frost. I looked up, andsaw, on the slope of the hill to the right, a horseman alsodescending.At first glance I took him for a brother sportsman who, too, hadabandoned hope of a fox. But the second assured me of my mistake.The stranger wore a black suit of antique, clerical cut, a shovelhat, and gaiters; his nag was the sorriest of ponies, with a shaggycoat of flaring yellow, and so low in the legs that the broad flapsof its rider's coat all but trailed on the ground. A queerer turnoutI shall never see again, though I live to be a hundred.He appeared not to notice me, but pricked leisurably down the slope,and I soon saw that, as our paths ran and at the pace we were going,we should meet at the foot of the descent: which we presently did."Ah, indeed!" said the stranger, reining in his pony as though nowfor the first time aware of me: "I wish you a very good day, sir.We are well met."He pulled off his hat with a fantastic politeness. For me, myastonishment grew as I regarded him more closely. A mass of lanky,white hair drooped on either side of a face pale, pinched, andextraordinarily wrinkled; the clothes that wrapped his diminutivebody were threadbare, greasy, and patched in all directions.Fifty years' wear could not have worsened them; and, indeed, from thewhole aspect of the man, you might guess him a century old, were itnot for the nimbleness of his gestures and his eyes, which were grey,alert, and keen as needles.I acknowledged his salutation as he ranged up beside me."Will my company, sir, offend you? By your coat I suspect yourtrade: venatorem sapit--hey?"His voice exactly fitted his eyes. Both were sharp and charged withexpression; yet both carried also a hint that their owner had livedlong in privacy. Somehow they lacked touch."I am riding homewards," I answered."Hey? Where is that?"The familiarity lay rather in the words than the manner; and I didnot resent it."At Bleakirk."His eyes had wandered for a moment to the road ahead; but now heturned abruptly, and looked at me, as I thought, with some suspicion.He seemed about to speak, but restrained himself, fumbled in hiswaistcoat pocket, and producing a massive snuff-box, offered me apinch. On my declining, he helped himself copiously; and then,letting the reins hang loose upon his arm, fell to tapping the box."To me this form of the herb nicotiana commends itself by itscheapness: the sense is tickled, the purse consenting--like thecomplaisant husband in Juvenal: you take me? I am well acquaintedwith Bleakirk-super-sabulum. By the way, how is Squire Cartwrightof the Hall?""If," said I, "you mean my father, Angus Cartwright, he is dead thesetwelve years.""Hey?" cried the old gentleman, and added after a moment, "Ah, to besure, time flies--quo dives Tullus et--Angus, eh? And yet a heartyman, to all seeming. So you are his son." He took another pinch."It is very sustaining," he said."The snuff?""You have construed me, sir. Since I set out, just thirteen hourssince, it has been my sole viaticum." As he spoke he put his handnervously to his forehead, and withdrew it."Then," thought I, "you must have started in the middle of thenight," for it was now little past noon. But looking at his face, Isaw clearly that it was drawn and pinched with fasting. Whereupon Iremembered my flask and sandwich-box, and pulling them out, assuredhim, with some apology for the offer, that they were at his service.His joy was childish. Again he whipped off his hat, and clapping itto his heart, swore my conduct did honour to my dead father; "andwith Angus Cartwright," said he, "kindness was intuitive. Being ahabit, it outran reflection; and his whisky, sir, was undeniable.Come, I have a fancy. Let us dismount, and, in heroic fashion,spread our feast upon the turf; or, if the hoar-frost deter you, see,here are boulders, and a running brook to dilute our cups; and, by mylife, a foot-bridge, to the rail of which we may tether our steeds."Indeed, we had come to a hollow in the road, across which a tinybeck, now swollen with the rains, was chattering bravely. Falling inwith my companion's humour, I dismounted, and, after his example,hitched my mare's rein over the rail. There was a raciness about theadventure that took my fancy. We chose two boulders from a heap oflesser stones close beside the beck, and divided the sandwiches, forthough I protested I was not hungry, the old gentleman insisted onour sharing alike. And now, as the liquor warmed his heart and thesunshine smote upon his back, his eyes sparkled, and he launched on aflood of the gayest talk--yet always of a world that I felt wasbefore my time. Indeed, as he rattled on, the feeling that this mustbe some Rip Van Winkle restored from a thirty years' sleep grewstronger and stronger upon me. He spoke of Bleakirk, and displayed aknowledge of it sufficiently thorough--intimate even--yet of the oldfriends for whom he inquired many names were unknown to me, manyfamiliar only through their epitaphs in the windy cemetery above thecliff. Of the rest, the pretty girls he named were now grandmothers,the young men long since bent and rheumatic; the youngest well overfifty. This, however, seemed to depress him little. His eyes wouldsadden for a moment, then laugh again. "Well, well," he said,"wrinkles, bald heads, and the deafness of the tomb--we have our daynotwithstanding. Pluck the bloom of it--hey? a commonplace of thepoets.""But, sir," I put in as politely as I might, "you have not yet toldme with whom I have the pleasure of lunching.""Gently, young sir." He waved his hand towards the encircling moors."We have feasted more Homerico, and in Homer, you remember the hostallowed his guest fourteen days before asking that question.Permit me to delay the answer only till I have poured libation on theturf here. Ah! I perceive the whisky is exhausted: but water shallsuffice. May I trouble you--my joints are stiff--to fill yourdrinking-cup from the brook at your feet?"I took the cup from his hands and stooped over the water. As I didso, he leapt on me like a cat from behind. I felt a hideous blow onthe nape of the neck: a jagged flame leapt up: the sunshine turned toblood--then to darkness. With hands spread out, I stumbled blindlyforward and fell at full length into the beck.

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　　When my senses returned, I became aware, first that I was lying,bound hand and foot and securely gagged, upon the turf; secondly,that the horses were still tethered, and standing quietly at thefoot-bridge; and, thirdly, that my companion had resumed his positionon the boulder, and there sat watching my recovery.Seeing my eyes open, he raised his hat and addressed me in tones ofgrave punctilio."Believe me, sir, I am earnest in my regret for this state of things.Nothing but the severest necessity could have persuaded me to knockthe son of my late esteemed friend over the skull and gag hisutterance with a stone--to pass over the fact that it fairly lays mysense of your hospitality under suspicion. Upon my word, sir, itplaces me in a cursedly equivocal position!"He took a pinch of snuff, absorbed it slowly, and pursued."It was necessary, however. You will partly grasp the situation whenI tell you that my name is Teague--the Reverend William Teague,Doctor of Divinity, and formerly incumbent of Bleakirk-on-Sands."His words explained much, though not everything. The circumstanceswhich led to the Reverend William's departure from Bleakirk hadhappened some two years before my birth: but they were startlingenough to supply talk in that dull fishing village for many a longday. In my nursery I had heard the tale that my companion's namerecalled: and if till now I had felt humiliation, henceforth I feltabsolute fear, for I knew that I had to deal with a madman."I perceive by your eyes, sir," he went on, "that with a part of mystory you are already familiar: the rest I am about to tell you.It will be within your knowledge that late on a Sunday night, justtwenty-nine years ago, my wife left the Vicarage-house, Bleakirk, andnever returned; that subsequent inquiry yielded no trace of herflight, beyond the fact that she went provided with a small hand-bagcontaining a change of clothing; that, as we had lived together fortwenty years in the entirest harmony, no reason could then, orafterwards, be given for her astonishing conduct. Moreover, you willbe aware that its effect upon me was tragical; that my livelyemotions underneath the shock deepened into a settled gloom; that myfaculties (notoriously eminent) in a short time became clouded, nay,eclipsed--necessitating my removal (I will not refine) to a madhouse.Hey, is it not so?"I nodded assent as well as I could. He paused, with a pinch betweenfinger and thumb, to nod back to me. Though his eyes were nowblazing with madness, his demeanour was formally, even affectedly,polite."My wife never came back: naturally, sir--for she was dead."He shifted a little on the boulders, slipped the snuff-box back intohis waistcoat pocket, then crossing his legs and clasping his handsover one knee, bent forward and regarded me fixedly."I murdered her," he said slowly, and nodded.A pause followed that seemed to last an hour. The stone which he hadstrapped in my mouth with his bandanna was giving me acute pain; itobstructed, too, what little breathing my emotion left me; and Idared not take my eyes off his. The strain on my nerves grew sotense that I felt myself fainting when his voice recalled me."I wonder now," he asked, as if it were a riddle--"I wonder if youcan guess why the body was never found?"Again there was an intolerable silence before he went on."Lydia was a dear creature: in many respects she made me an admirablewife. Her affection for me was canine--positively. But she was fat,sir; her face a jelly, her shoulders mountainous. Moreover, hervoicemonotonously, regularly, desperatelyvoluble. If she talked of archangels, they became insignificant--andher themes, in ordinary, were of the pettiest. Her waist, sir, andmy arm had once been commensurate: now not three of Homer's heroescould embrace her. Her voice could once touch my heart-strings intomusic; it brayed them now, between the millstones of the commonplace.Figure to yourself a man of my sensibility condemned to live on theseterms!"He paused, tightened his grasp on his knee, and pursued."You remember, sir, the story of the baker in Langius? He narratesthat a certain woman conceived a violent desire to bite the nakedshoulders of a baker who used to pass underneath her window with hiswares. So imperative did this longing become, that at length thewoman appealed to her husband, who (being a good-natured man, andunwilling to disoblige her) hired the baker, for a certain price, tocome and be bitten. The man allowed her two bites, but denied athird, being unable to contain himself for pain. The author goes onto relate that, for want of this third bite, she bore one dead child,and two living. My own case," continued the Reverend William, "wassomewhat similar. Lydia's unrelieved babble reacted upon her bulk,and awoke in me an absorbing, fascinating desire to strike her.I longed to see her quiver. I fought against the feeling, stifledit, trod it down: it awoke again. It filled my thoughts, my dreams;it gnawed me like a vulture. A hundred times while she satcomplacently turning her inane periods, I had to hug my fist to mybreast, lest it should leap out and strike her senseless. Do I wearyyou? Let me proceed:--"That Sunday evening we sat, one on each side of the hearth, in theVicarage drawing-room. She was talking--talking; and I sat tappingmy foot and whispering to myself, 'You are too fat, Lydia, you aretoo fat.' Her talk ran on the two sermons I had preached that day,the dresses of the congregation, the expense of living, the parishailments--inexhaustible, trivial, relentless. Suddenly she looked upand our eyes met. Her voice trailed off and dropped like a birdwounded in full flight. She stood up and took a step towards me.'Is anything the matter, William?' she asked solicitously. 'You aretoo fat, my dear,' I answered, laughing, and struck her full in theface with my fist."She did not quiver much--not half enough--but dropped like ahalf-full sack on to the carpet. I caught up a candle and examinedher. Her neck was dislocated. She was quite dead."The madman skipped up from his boulder, and looked at me withindescribable cunning."I am so glad, sir," he said, "that you did not bleed when I struckyou; it was a great mercy. The sight of blood affects me--ah!" hebroke off with a subtle quiver and drew a long breath. "Do you knowthe sands by Woeful Ness--the Twin Brothers?" he asked.I knew that dreary headland well. For half a mile beyond the greyChurch and Vicarage of Bleakirk it extends, forming the northern armof the small fishing-bay, and protecting it from the full set of thetides. Towards its end it breaks away sharply, and terminates in adorsal ridge of slate-coloured rock that runs out for some twohundred feet between the sands we call the Twin Brothers. Of these,that to the south, and inside the bay, is motionless, and bears thename of the 'Dead-Boy;' but the 'Quick-Boy,' to the north, shiftscontinually. It is a quicksand, in short; and will swallow a man inthree minutes."My mind," resumed my companion, "was soon made up. There is nomurder, thought I, where there is no corpse. So I propped Lydia inthe armchair, where she seemed as if napping, and went quietlyupstairs. I packed a small hand-bag carefully with such clothes asshe would need for a journey, descended with it, opened the frontdoor, went out to be sure the servants had blown out their lights,returned, and hoisting my wife on my shoulder, with the bag in myleft hand, softly closed the door and stepped out into the night.In the shed beside the garden-gate the gardener had left hiswheelbarrow. I fetched it out, set Lydia on the top of it, andwheeled her off towards Woeful Ness. There was just the rim of awaning moon to light me, but I knew every inch of the way."For the greater part of it I had turf underfoot; but where thisended and the rock began, I had to leave the barrow behind. It wasticklish work, climbing down; for footing had to be found, and Lydiawas a monstrous weight. Pah! how fat she was and clumsy--lollingthis way and that! Besides, the bag hampered me. But I reached thefoot at last, and after a short rest clambered out along the ridge asfast as I could. I was sick and tired of the business."Well, the rest was easy. Arrived at the furthest spit of rock, Itossed the bag from me far into the northern sand. Then I turned toLydia, whom I had set down for the moment. In the moonlight her lipswere parted as though she were still chattering; so I kissed heronce, because I had loved her, and dropped her body over into theQuick-Boy Sand. In three minutes or so I had seen the last of her."I trundled home the barrow, mixed myself a glass of whisky, satbeside it for half an hour, and then aroused the servants. I wascunning, sir; and no one could trace my footprints on the turf androck of Woeful Ness. The missing hand-bag, and the disarray I hadbeen careful to make in the bed-room, provided them at once with aclue--but it did not lead them to the Quick-Boy. For two days theysearched; at the end of that time it grew clear to them that griefwas turning my brain. Your father, sir, was instant with hissympathy--at least ten times a day I had much ado to keep fromlaughing in his face. Finally two doctors visited me, and I wastaken to a madhouse."I have remained within its walls twenty-nine years; but no--I havenever been thoroughly at home there. Two days ago I discovered thatthe place was boring me. So I determined to escape; and this to aman of my resources presented few difficulties. I borrowed this ponyfrom a stable not many yards from the madhouse wall; he belongs, Ithink, to a chimney-sweep, and I trust that, after serving mypurpose, he may find a way back to his master."I suppose at this point he must have detected the question in myeyes, for he cried sharply."You wish to know my purpose? It is simple." He passed a thin handover his forehead. "I have been shut up, as I say, for twenty-nineyears, and I now discover that the madhouse bores me. If theyre-take me--and the hue and cry must be out long before this--I shallbe dragged back. What, then, is my proposal? I ride to Bleakirk andout along the summit of Woeful Ness. There I dismount, turn my ponyloose, and, descending along the ridge, step into the sand thatswallowed Lydia. Simple, is it not? Excessi, evasi, evanui.I shall be there before sunset--which reminds me," he added, pullingout his watch, "that my time is nearly up. I regret to leave you inthis plight, but you see how I am placed. I felt, when I saw you, asudden desire to unbosom myself of a secret which, until the pasthalf-hour, I have shared with no man. I see by your eyes again thatif set at liberty you would interfere with my purpose. It isunfortunate that scarcely a soul ever rides this way--I know the roadof old. But to-morrow is Sunday: I will scribble a line and fix iton the church-door at Bleakirk, so that the parish may at least knowyour predicament before twenty-four hours are out. I must now begoing. The bandanna about your mouth I entreat you to accept as amemento. With renewed apologies, sir, I wish you good-day; and countit extremely fortunate that you did not bleed."He nodded in the friendliest manner, turned on his heel, and walkedquietly towards the bridge. As he untethered his pony, mounted, andambled quietly off in the direction of the coast, I lay stupidlywatching him. His black coat for some time lay, a diminishing blot,on the brown of the moors, stood for a brief moment on the sky-line,and vanished.

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　　I must have lain above an hour in this absurd and painful position,wrestling with my bonds, and speculating on my chances of passing thenight by the beck-side. My ankles were tied with my ownhandkerchief, my wrists with the thong of my own whip, and thisespecially cut me. It was knotted immovably; but by rolling over andrubbing my face into the turf, I contrived at length to slip the gagdown below my chin. This done, I sat up and shouted lustily.For a long time there was no reply but the whinnying of my mare, whoseemed to guess something was wrong, and pulled at her tether until Ithought she would break away. I think I called a score of timesbefore I heard an answering "Whoo-oop!" far back on the road, and ascarlet coat, then another, and finally a dozen or more appeared onthe crest of the hill. It was the hunt returning.They saw me at once, and galloped up, speechless from sheeramazement. I believe my hands were loosened before a word wasspoken. The situation was painfully ridiculous; but my story waspartly out before they had time to laugh, and the rest of it wasgasped to the accompaniment of pounding hoofs and cracking whips.Never did the Netherkirk Hunt ride after fox as it rode after theRev. William Teague that afternoon. We streamed over the moor, athin red wave, like a rank of charging cavalry, the whip evenforgetting his tired hounds that straggled aimlessly in our wake.On the hill above Bleakirk we saw that the tide was out, and ourcompany divided without drawing rein, some four horsemen descendingto the beach, to ride along the sands out under Woeful Ness, andacross the Dead-Boy, hoping to gain the ridge before the madman andcut him off. The rest, whom I led by a few yards, breasted theheight above and thundered past the grey churchyard wall. Inside itI caught a flying glimpse of the yellow pony quietly cropping amongthe tombs. We had our prey, then, enclosed in that peninsula as ina trap; but there was one outlet.I remember looking down towards the village as we tore along, andseeing the fisher-folk run out at their doors and stand staring atthe two bodies of horsemen thus rushing to the sea. The riders onthe beach had a slight lead of us at first; but this they quicklylost as their horses began to be distressed in the heavy sand.I looked back for an instant. The others were close at my heels;and, behind again, the bewildered hounds followed, yelpingmournfully. But neither man nor hound could see him whom theyhunted, for the cliff's edge hid the quicksand in front.Presently the turf ceased. Dismounting, I ran to the edge andplunged down the rocky face. I had descended about twenty feet, whenI came to the spot where, by craning forward, I could catch sight ofthe spit of rock, and the Quick-Boy Sand to the right of it.The sun--a blazing ball of red--was just now setting behind us, andits level rays fell full upon the man we were chasing. He stood onthe very edge of the rocks, a black spot against the luminous yellowof sea and sand. He seemed to be meditating. His back was towardsus, and he perceived neither his pursuers above nor the heads that atthis moment appeared over the ridge behind him, and not fifteen yardsaway. The party on the beach had dismounted and were clambering upstealthily. Five seconds more and they could spring upon him.But they under-estimated a madman's instinct. As if for no reason,he gave a quick start, turned, and at the same instant was aware ofboth attacking parties. A last gleam of sunlight fell on thesnuff-box in his left hand; his right thumb and fore-finger hungarrested, grasping the pinch. For fully half a minute nothinghappened; hunters and hunted eyed each other and waited.Then carrying the snuff to his nose, and doffing his hat, with asatirical sweep of the hand and a low bow, he turned again andtripped off the ledge into the jaws of the Quick-Boy.There was no help now. At his third step the sand had him by theankles. For a moment he fought it, then, throwing up his arms, sankforward, slowly and as if bowing yet, upon his face. Second bysecond we stood and watched him disappear. Within five minutes theripples of the Quick-Boy Sand met once more above him.

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　　In the course of the next afternoon the Vicar of Bleakirk called atthe Hall with a paper which he had found pinned to the church door.It was evidently a scrap torn from an old letter, and bore, scribbledin pencil by a clerkly hand, these words: "The young SquireCartwright in straits by the foot-bridge, six miles towardNetherkirk. Orate pro anima Guliemli Teague."

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *

　　II.THE CONSTANT POST-BOY.

　　It was a stifling August afternoon. Not a breath of wind came overthe downs, and the sky was just a great flaming oven inverted overthem. I sat down under a dusty gorse-bush (no tree could be seen)beside the high-road, and tugging off a boot, searched for a pricklethat somehow had got into it. Then, finding myself too hot to pullthe boot on again, I turned out some crumbs of tobacco from awaistcoat pocket, lit my pipe, and unbuckled my pack.I "travel" in Tracts, edifying magazines, and books on the Holy Land;but in Tracts especially. As Watteau painted the ladies andcavaliers of Versailles so admirably, because he despised them, so Iwill sell a Tract against any man alive. Also, if there be one kindof Tract that I loathe more than another, it is the Pink Tract.Paper of that colour is sacred to the Loves--to stolen kisses andassignations--and to see it with a comminatory text tacked on at thefoot of the page turns my stomach. I have served in my time manydifferent masters, and mistresses; and it still pleases me, afterquitting their service, to recognise the distinction between theirdues. So it must have been the heat that made me select a PinkTract. I leant back with my head in the shadow to digest its crudeabsurdity.It was entitled, "How infernally Hot!" I doubt not the words wereput in the mouth of some sinner, and the moral dwelt on their literalsignificance. But half-way down the first page sleep must havedescended on me: and I woke up to the sound of light footsteps.Pit-a-pat--pit-a-pat-a-pit-pat. I lifted my head.Two small children were coming along the road towards me,hand-in-hand, through the heat--a boy and a girl; who, drawing nearand spying my long legs sprawling out into the dust, came to a stand,finger in mouth."Hullo, my dears!" I called out, "what are you doing out in thisweather?"The children stared at one another, and were silent. The girl wasabout eight years old, wore a smart pink frock and sash, a big pinksun-bonnet, and carried an apple with a piece bitten out. She seemeda little lady; whereas the boy wore corduroys and a battered strawhat, and was a clod. Both children were exceedingly dusty and hot inthe cheeks.Finally, the girl disengaged her hand and stepped forward--"If you please, sir, are you a clergyman?"Now this confused me a good deal; for, to tell the truth, I had worna white tie in my younger days, before. . . So I sat up and asked whyshe wished to know."Because we want to be married."I drew a long breath, looked from her to the boy, and asked--"Is that so?""She's wishful," answered he, nodding sulkily."Oho!" I thought; "Adam and Eve and the apple, complete. Do you loveeach other?" I asked."I adore Billy," cried the little maid "he's the stable-boy at the'Woolpack' in Blea-kirk--""So I am beginning to smell," I put in.--"and we put up there last night--father and I. We travel in achaise. And this morning in the stable I saw Billy for the firsttime, and to see him is to love. He is far below me in station,--ain't you, Billy dear? But he rides beautifully, and is ever sostrong, and not so badly ed--educated as you would fancy: he can sayall his 'five-times.' And he worships me,--don't you, Billy?""Washups," said Billy, stolidly."Do you mean to tell me you have trotted in this sun all the way fromBleakirk?" I inquired.The girl nodded. She was a splendid child--dark-haired, proud ofchin, and thoroughbred down to her very toes. And the looks offondness she threw at that stable-urchin were as good as a play."And what will you do," I asked, "when you are married?""Go home and ask my father's forgiveness. He is proud; but very,very kind."I told them I was a clergyman, and began to cast round in my mindwhat to do next; for the marriage service of the Church isn't exactlythe thing to repeat to two babes, and the girl was quick enough todetect and resent any attempt at fooling. So at last I persuadedthem to sit together under the gorse-bush, and told them thatmatrimony was a serious matter, and that a long exhortation wasnecessary. They settled themselves to listen.

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　　Having been twice married, I did not lack materials for a discourse.Indeed, when I talk of married life, it is a familiar experience withme to be carried away by my subject. Nor was I altogether surprised,on looking up after half an hour's oratory, to find the little onescurled in each other's arms, fast asleep.So I spread my coat over them, and next (because the fancy took me,and not a breath of air was stirring) I treated them much as therobins treated the Babes in the Wood, strewing all my Tracts, pinkand white, over them, till all but their faces was covered. And thenI set off for the "Woolpack."

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　　One spring morning, ten years later, I was standing outside the"Woolpack," drinking my mug of beer with a tall recruiting sergeant,and discussing the similarity of our professions, when a post-chaiseappeared at the head of the street, and a bobbing red postillion'sjacket, and a pair of greys that came down the hill with a rattle,and drew up at the inn-door.A young lady and a young gentleman sat in the chaise, and the firstglance told they were newly married. They sat in the chaise, andheld each other by the hand, while the horses were changing.And because I had a bundle of tracts that fitted their condition, andbecause the newly married often pay for a thing beyond its worth, Iapproached the chaise-door.The fresh horses were in as I began my apologies; and the post-boywas settling himself in the saddle. Judge of my astonishment when heleant back, cut me sharply across the calves with his long whip, andbefore I could yell had started his horses up the opposite hill at agallop. The hind wheel missed my toes by an inch. In three minutesthe carriage and red coat were but a speck on the road that led up tothe downs.I returned to my mug, emptied it moodily, broke a fine repartee onthe sergeant's dull head (he was consumed with mirth), and followedthe same road at a slow pace; for my business took me along it.

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　　I was on the downs, and had walked, perhaps, six miles, when again Isaw the red speck ahead of me. It was the post-boy--a post-boyreturning on foot, of all miracles. He came straight up to meet me,and then stood in the road, barring my path, and tapping hisriding-boot with the butt of his whip--a handsome young fellow, wellproportioned and well set up."I want you," he said, "to walk back with me to Bleakirk.""Upon my word!" I cried out. "Considering that Bleakirk is six milesaway, that I am walking in the other direction, and that, two hoursback, you gave me a cursed cut over the legs with that whip, I fancyI see myself obliging you!"He regarded me moodily for about a minute, but did not shift hisposition."Why are you on foot?" I asked."Oh, my God!" he cried out quickly, as a man might that was stabbed;"I couldn't trust myself to ride; I couldn't." He shuddered, andput a hand over his eyes. "Look here," he said, "you must walkhome with me, or at least see me past the Chalk-pit."Now the Chalk-pit, when spelt with a capital letter, is an especiallydeep and ugly one on the very edge of the Bleakirk road, about twomiles out of the village. A weak fence only separates its lip fromthe macadam. It is a nasty place to pass by night with a carriage;but here it was broad day, and the fellow was walking. So I didn'ttake him at all."Listen to me," he went on in a dull voice; "do you remember sittingbeside this road, close on ten years back? And a boy and girl whocame along this road together and asked you to marry them?""Bless my soul! Were you that boy?"He nodded. "Yes: and the young lady in the chaise to-day was thatgirl. Old man, I know you reckon yourself clever,--I've heard youtalk: but that when I met her to-day, three hours married, and shedidn't know me, I had a hell in my heart as I drove past theChalk-pit, is a thing that passes your understanding, perhaps.They were laughing together, mark you, and yet they weren't a hair'sbreadth from death. And, by the Lord, you must help me past thatpit!""Young man," I said, musing, "when first I met you, you were tenyears old, and I thought you a fool. To-day you have grown into anunmitigated ass. But you are dangerous; and therefore I respect you,and will see you home."I turned back with him. When we came to the Chalk-pit, I kept him onthe farther side of the road, though it cost me some terror to walkbetween him and the edge; for I have too much imagination to be athoroughly brave man.The sun was sinking as we walked down to Bleakirk; and the recruitingsergeant sat asleep outside the "Woolpack," with his head on thewindow-sill. I woke him up; and within half an hour my post-boy worea bunch of ribbons on his cap--red, white, and blue.I believe he has seen some fighting since then; and has risen in theranks.

　　THE END.