"You need not be afraid, Fred. Come along. I"ll do anything I can for you. Don"t you know me?--Johnny Ludlow."
"For the love of Heaven, put that light out, Johnny!" he said, feeling it perhaps useless to hold out, or else deciding to trust me, as he came down the aisle in a stooping position, so that the pews might screen him from the windows. And I put it out.
"I thought you had gone out of the church with old b.u.mford," said he. "I heard you both come away from the organ, and then the door was slammed, leaving the church to silence."
"I was searching after the candle and matches. When did you come here, Fred? How did you get in?"
"I got in last night. Is there much of a row, Johnny?"
"Pretty well. How came you to do it?"
"To do what?"
"Shoot Gisby."
"It was not I that shot him."
"Not you!"
"Certainly not."
"But--people are saying it was you. You were with the poachers."
"I was with the poachers; and one of them, like the confounded idiot that he was, pointed his gun and fired it. I recognized the cry for Gisby"s, and knew that the charge must have struck him. I never had a gun in my hand at all, Johnny."
Well, I felt thankful for that. We sat down on the bench, and Fred told his tale.
After supper the previous night, he strolled out and met some fellow he knew, who lived two or three miles away. (A black sheep in public estimation, like himself.) It was a beautiful night. Fred chose to see him home, and stayed there, drinking a gla.s.s or two, till he knew not what hour. Coming back across the fields, he fell in with the poachers.
Instead of denouncing them, he told them half in joke, half in earnest, that he might be joining their band himself before the winter was over.
Close upon that, they fell in with the watchers, Gisby and the rest.
Fred knew he was recognized, for Gisby called out his name; and that, Fred did not like: it made things look black against him. Gisby attacked them; a scuffle ensued, and one of the poachers used his gun. Then the poachers turned to run, Fred with them; a shot was fired after them and hit one of their body--but not Fred, as Rimmer had supposed. The man tripped as the shot struck him, and caused Fred to trip and fall; but both were up, and off, the next moment. Where the rest escaped to, Fred did not know; chance led him past the church: on the spur of the moment he entered it for refuge, and had been there ever since.
"And it is a great and good thing you did enter it, Fred," I said eagerly. "Gisby swears it was you who shot him, and he is dying; and Shepherd swears it too."
"Gisby dying?"
"He is. I met Duffham as I came here; he told me there was little, if any, chance of his life; he had been expecting news of his death all the afternoon. They have posted handbills up, offering a reward of twenty pounds for your apprehension, Fred; and--and I am afraid, and so is Duffham, that they will try you for wilful murder. The whole neighbourhood is being searched for you for miles round."
"Pleasant!" said Fred, after a brief silence. "I had meant to go out to-night and endeavour to ascertain how the land lay. Of course I knew that what could be put upon my back would be put; and there"s no denying that I was with the poachers. But I did not think matters would be as bad as this. Hang it all!"
"But, Fred, how did you get in here?"
"Well," said he, "we hear talk of providential occurrences: there"s nothing Mr. Holland is fonder of telling us about in his sermons than the guiding finger of G.o.d. If the means that enabled me to take refuge here were not providential, Johnny, I must say they looked like it. When I met you yesterday afternoon, you must remember my chancing to say that the little Hollands were playing at "Salt Fish" in the study, while I sat there, talking to Edna?"
Of course I remembered it.
"Directly after I left you, Johnny," resumed Fred Westerbrook, "I put my hand in my coat-tail pocket for my handkerchief, and found a large key there. It was the key of the church, that the children had been hiding at their play; and I understood in a moment that Charley, whose turn it was to hide last, had made a hiding-place of my pocket. The parson keeps one key, you know, and b.u.mford the other----"
"But, Fred," I interrupted, the question striking me, "how came the young ones to let you come away with it?"
"Because, lad, their attention got diverted to something else. Ann brought in the tea-things, with a huge plate of bread-and-treacle: they screamed out in delight, and scuffled to get seats round the table.
Well, I let the key lie in my pocket," went on Fred, "intending to take it back to-day. In the night, when flying from pursuit, not knowing who or how many might be after me, I felt this heavy key strike against me continually; and, in nearing the church, the thought flashed over me like an inspiration: What if I open it and hide there? Just as young Charley had hidden the key in my pocket, so I hid myself, by its means, in the church."
Taking a minute to think over what he said, it did seem strange. One of those curious things one can hardly account for; the means for his preservation were so simply natural and yet almost marvellous. Perhaps the church was the only building where he could have found secure refuge. Private dwellings would refuse to shelter him, and other places were sure to be searched.
"You are safe here, Fred. No one would ever think of seeking you here."
"Safe, yes; but for how long? I can"t live without food for ever, Johnny. As it is, I have eaten none since last night."
My goodness! A shock of remorse came over me. When I was at old b.u.mford"s knife-box, a loaf of bread stood on the dresser. If I had only secured it!
"We must manage to bring you something, Fred. You cannot stir from here."
Fred had taken the key out, having returned it to his pocket in the night when he locked himself in. He sat looking at it as he balanced it on his finger.
"Yes, you have served me in good need," he said to the key. "I shall turn out for a stroll during some quiet hour of the night, Johnny. To keep my restless legs curbed indoors for a whole day and night would be quite beyond their philosophy."
"Well, take care of yourself, if you do. There"s not a soul in the place but is wild for the reward; and I dare say they will look for you by night more than by day. How about getting you in something to eat?"
"_I_ don"t know," he answered. "It would never do for you to be seen coming in here at night."
I knew that. Old b.u.mford would be down on me if no one else was. I sat turning over possibilities in my mind.
"I will come in betimes to-morrow morning under the plea of practising, Fred, and bring what I can. You must do battle with your hunger until then."
"I suppose I must, Johnny. Mind you lock the door when you come in, or old b.u.mford might pounce upon us. When I heard you unlock it on coming in this evening, I can tell you I shivered in my shoes. Fate is very hard," he added, after a pause.
"Fate is?"
"Why, yes. I have been a bit wild lately, perhaps, savage too, but I declare before Heaven that I have committed no crime, and did not mean to commit any. And now, to have this serious thing fastened upon my back! The world will say I have gone straight over to Satan."
I did not see how he would get it off his back either. Wishing him good-night and a good heart, I turned to go.
"Wait a moment, Johnny. Let me go back to my hiding-place first."
He went swiftly up the aisle, lighter now than it had been, for the moonlight was streaming in at the windows. Locking the church safely, I crossed the graveyard to old b.u.mford"s. He was seated at his round table at supper: bread-and-cheese, and beer.
"Oh, Mr. b.u.mford, as I have to come into the church very early in the morning, or I shall never get my music up for Sunday, I will take the key home with me. Good-night."
He shouted out fifteen denials: How dared I think of taking the key out of his custody! But I was conveniently deaf, rushed off, and left him shouting.
"What a long practice you have been taking, Johnny!" cried Mrs.
Todhetley. "And how hot you look. You must have run very fast."
The Squire turned round from his arm-chair. "You"ve been joining in the hunt after that scamp, Mr. Johnny;--you"ve not been in the church, sir, all this time. I hear there"s a fine pack out, scouring the hedges and ditches."
"I got a candle from old b.u.mford"s den," said I, evasively. And presently I contrived to whisper unseen to Tod--who sat reading--to come outside. Standing against the wall of the pigeon-house, I told him all.
For once in his life Tod was astonished.