In the brisk run of a mile with six easy jumps, I held El Stedoro more than a shade under his top speed, his performance being impressive nonetheless. I was quite sure that Lord Tarlton's hands had been light on the whip, heavy on the rein, despite his manner of surprise and chagrin when the gray won by a length. Eliza appeared relieved, as though this little victory had closed my account with him. Harvey raised his eyebrows to Dick, a piece of stupidity that Dick rebuffed by looking away. For reasons I could not calculate, Sophia looked ill.
The flames in the big fireplace of the drawing room crackled and cavorted, charming the eyes with sunset colors alive and leaping, and the cozy warmth of the body lulled the mind; but the windows darkened before their time and sometimes rattled in the wind, and now and then the sitters heard the elm trees cough.
I did not sit with them, having left them to their silences, their sporadic talk, and their secret speculations. Only when the gloom of early night had infiltrated unseen the heavy shadows of late afternoon, and they were dreading going to their chill rooms to dress by a hasty fire, did I come with a welcome proposal. It was to have the evening meal served on small tables set about the hearth, and we to partake in our warm field clothes. Except in battle and during storms at sea. Lord Tarlton had changed for dinner as regularly as a chicken molts, but he was the first to agree.
The many dishes lost no savor, glasses brimmed with cheer. Only Sophia and Eliza remained sharply on guard, ever the woman's part; warmth and insinuant wine lulled the three men. But when brandy glowed in the crystal decanter, a footman brought me a message.
"There's a fellow witin' in the kitchen entry what gives 'is name as Peebles, a woodcutter from Ashdown Wood. 'E says you sent for 'im."
"See that his hands are clean and his clothes brushed and show him in." Then to the others, "This is quite a remarkable man—one of the last of the witch masters, if I can believe my tenants."
An instant later the great ventriloquist, Walt Chalker, entered the room.
I could hardly believe this was the same man. I could not have possibly recognized him if he had taken me by surprise, and I lost all fear of Eliza associating him with the amazing showman she had watched at Tavistock. His clothes were a hard weave of undyed wool with boots of undressed hide, three days' growth of black stubble covered his lips and jowls, and without the dark rings under his eyes that I thought were walnut stain, he could be taken for either a forest hermit or a gypsy. He came shyly toward me, his cap in his hands, without the slightest trace of showmanship.
"Thank 'ee honor, for ye've a'n't forgot ye bade me coom along," he said in perfect and uninscribable imitation of the country speech.
"I'm glad you've come. Matt Peebles. And what can you do to entertain my guests?"
"I can tell fortunes with cards. The ladies like that. I can read palms, too."
"They've seen that before."
"Sometimes, I can prophesy. The spirit won't come on me every time and sometimes an evil spirit speaks through my Ups, and I prophesy false. But it takes a deal out o' me, your honor, and shakes me to the marrow of my bones."
Lord Tarlton, playing with his stick, spoke in mock sympathy.
"No doubt you're not up to the morrow's labor, and deserve an extra fee,"
"Nay, your lordship. I charge naught for what comes to me from I know not where. But if the yarbs I dig in the wood helps a sick body, or drives off pain from a liddle child, I'll take red money for 'em if the folk be poor, or white if they're well off." And it came to me that Walt Chalker was living his part.
"Is it second sight, that you knew I was a lord?"
"Nay sir, I've seen you pass, in your coach, on the road to Tun-bridge Wells. The country folk know well your face, and that of your son."
"Do you think the spirit would come to you tonight?" I asked.
" "Tis a good night for't, your honor, bitter and dark, with the east wind raving. Horses stamp in their stalls on such nights, and the wild things cannot rest, and it must be them we can't see, go abroad. But your honor, these be great folk here tonight. And if ye want me to prophesy, some of 'em will have to clasp hands with me."
"I'll be one, Matt," Sophia said quickly.
"I'll be the other," I told him. "Do we sit in a ring?"
"Aye, with the lamps out, but the fire will give light enough. And ye must sit still a liddle while, and be patient."
When we began to form the ring, Lord Tarlton took Sophia's other hand, with Dick on his other side. Harvey sat next, which left Eliza between him and me. She seemed loath to give me her hand. When she did, it felt chill. But it was a lovely, silken, shapely hand, stronger than I had thought, and reminding me of Isabel's.
I had told the footman not to enter the room, so the fire went unmended. But the light receded so imperceptibly that no one noticed the growing shadow on the performer's face. Reclining his head, he seemed to go straight to sleep; in about five minutes he stirred and moaned as though in a bad dream.
Then he spoke in a strained and halting tone.
"Harvey! Harvey!"
"Yes?"
"There's a soldier here—an officer—he's been wounded in the breast. His name is Edgar—Edmund—Edward. He bids you mind the Indian bow and quiver you found in the old trunk."
"I had an uncle of that name," Harvey said in a trembling voice. "I found the bow and arrows he'd sent from America when I was a babe."
"He wants you to know he wasn't murdered by his captors after the battle at Freedom—Freeman's farm. He was brought in sorely wounded, and cared for kindly, until he died."
This last was the fruit of an easy investigation I had had made in America. Sophia had told me of the bow and quiver a little boy had prized.
"Great God!" Harvey breathed.
"Dicky! Dicky!" the supposed witch master moaned. "There's an old woman—her name is Bertha—she was your nurse."
"I never had a nurse named Bertha," Dick snarled.
"Yes, you did, Dick," Sophia breathed.
Then what seemed a woman's voice rose from the dimness across the room.
"Don't deny me, Dicky."
"There's someone—this fellow's confederate—in this room."
"Look and see, Dick," I said.
"What is it? What does she want?"
"She begs you to have no more dealings with Jules—Julian—Julius. It will cause your death."
"Who's Julius? I never heard of Julius.'
"She says you met him—was it last night?—at a wine shop in— Notabile." The performer pronounced this name clearly. "It's on an island. The women wear black drapes on their head. The name of the shop is—Don John of Austria. She says that your brother—your sister's suitor—waited outside. And because you dealt with him, many died."
"Of all the lying—"
"Nay, nay, 'twas not last night. She don't know when it was. And now one who died from that dealing has come here. He wants to speak to Sophia."
"To me?"
"He asks, Have you forgotten the witch's cave?"
"What is his name?"
"Homer—Whitman."
"I've had enough of this trumpery," Lord Tarlton burst out, breaking the circle.
Then a deep voice, with the twang of a New England skipper's, rose just at hand—as though the speaker were standing by the hearth.
"Wait a minute. Captain Sir Godwine Tarlton!"
"That's trumpery, too!"
"Trumpery, is it? I'm Captain Phillips of the Vindictive, that you betrayed to Murad Reis. For that you'll die on a gibbet, and go to hell."
It was a remarkable but patent feat of ventriloquism. Godwine, Lord Tarlton, sprang to his feet and seized an iron poker. As he turned on the limp figure in the chair, I caught his little wrist in a grip like iron. All the rest were on their feet, and now every movement was arrested by a sudden writhing of the man's body and his deep, harrowing groan. A fallen ember blazing up showed his eyes wide open in a stare like death's and his face pale and flaccid as in death.