A SHORT STORY.

Colonist, Volume LIV, Issue 13440, 11 June 1912, Page 3

A SHORT STORY.

(All Rights Reserved.)

THE PURSUER.

By DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY

Author of "A Life's1 Atonement," "Coals of Fire," "Bit of Human

NaLurV' "Weaker Vessol,,

" "A

Rogue's Conscience," &c.

PART 111

"They ask for John" Westwood still, my poor friend," said Forranti. "They ask for John Westwood everywhere! I have not told you, but for a day or two I have shake in my shoes five times to hear your nama; I have shake in my shoes and my blood have run cold! They are here and they are there, ;.ud they ay& all ways! But wo r'lall. take to the fields and the v/oods, and I shall beat, thorn yet, be(..iuce, as I tell you, I know the coimvry liko my hand."

The weather was pleasant, and the young English farmer fell into a dull, s'lrang© contentment with the gipsy life, and foi- yet another week or two nothing occurred to shako him out of it. Now that their community of interests was so firmly established Ferranti was much less watchful of his charge than he had originally been. He knew, indeed, that John was so impressed with tlio sense of his own peril that he scarce dared to move- a yard without him. And thus it < happened that the young fellow, couched in somo hollow of tho woods, would sometimes be left alono for hours whilst his comrade went out to purchase provendor, and, if it might bo to secure intelligence of tho pursuit. Ho came back one night with a grave face.

"There is now with the law an Englishman," ho said. "I have seen the carriage in which ho travels. He has with him an officer who asks sharp questions, and it is everywhere of an Englishman, young and tall, and who looks strong; and I have heard something. This, John Westwood, the man they fellow, it is with him a charge that he has killed somebody."

"Now, look here, Forranti," said Westwood, with a trembling voice, "you haven't known me for long, tmfc do you, now —do you —in your heart of hearts, believe that I could hurt a worm? You know you don't."

"Bah!" said the Italian, "I mock myself of the law always. I have never killed anybody, but- that is what you say, of course, by accident. I have never wished; I have never wanted; I have never had no need, and what you have no need you do Dot do."

"No, no!" cried Westwood. fairly horrified by this cynical philosophy. "I am innocent! I threatened the man, and lie got shot somehow, and the blame got fixed on me. But 1 am as innocent as you are. I couldn't take a fellow-creature's life. It isn't in me."

"Ah, well," returned Ferranti, "I drink your vvino; I eat your loaf: I share your lodging. It is to me nothing what you have done, or what you have not done. It is something to you that you arc not caught, eh?" "Yes," said Westwood,. drearily, "it's my life if they catch, me. They'll stretch my neck for me. and make short work of it, too, innocent as I am."

They stuck close to their hidingplace all that day, and passed the night in a dry ditch; and when John woke in the morning ho seemed conscious of a curious stillness in the air. He listened to catch his comrade's breathing, but ho hoard no sound. With a dreadful, half-roused suspicion in his mind, ho stood up and looked about him. He ventured on a cautious whisper of Ferranti's kj.-jc, but no answer \vr»s returned. He half reproached himself fur the fancy which sent hi:i hands t) tlio ' .customary 'hidingplace of tho bag of- geld, an.d y'ct he was not in the least surprised when he-missed it. He know in a second that ho had been robbed and deserted, and the sense of his own helplessness flowed over his spirit like an overwhelming tide. He searched the pockets of the disguise he woro and found that he had still a liberal handful of silver left between him and actual starvation ; but ho could see only too clearly that tho end of the chase ho had evaded until now was drawing; near. There were some scraps left from last night's meal, and a bottle of country wine was not altogether empty. Starvation would begin to set in after a very littlo while, for he could not even ask for food without his tongue betraying him. It did not occur to him to curse Ferranti'a faithlessness; and when he had sat awhile ■surveying the certainty of fate which lay before him, he took a sudden courage in has hands, and asked himself: "Why should I lie here and die like a dog, who am certain to die, any way? I'll go out and meet my foe like a man —like an Englishman, and like an old Kent yeaman!"

So he broke out of the wood and marched sturdily down to the village, where he made signs for food and had his wants supplied. • He was a good deal stared at; and he was aware of many whispers, but ho had made up a desperate mind to all this, as it seemed, quite long ago,. and was not much disturbed by it. He was quite assured' that it

could not be more than a day or two before his seizure, and wiili the. certainty of. fate a great calm s.cemed to fall on him, the calm of'an absolute and resolved despair. Ho took the open road, and felt as if ho had set fear behind him', and had dono wibhi it in this life for over. He did not know whither his footsteps led, but, as a matter of fact, ho was on the old road between Dijon and Paris. The way on; either side was lined .with tall pqplars, and the country for. miles ahsad was. level as a billiard board. Far and far away the lipei of poplars dwarfed themselves, and seemed to meet, and .the landscape was eternally the same.

No# and again a carriage, passed himj and he never hieard the swii't rumble of wheels and the crack of l-he driver's whip without feeling tho arresting hand upon his shoulder, and hearing in .advance tho cry to halt. He never turned his head, and he felt no qualm of fear. Butwhen * half-a-dozen vehicles had passed him thus, a seventh came, and it seemed to have an actual voice for him which was different from that of all the rest. He turned and looked at it whilst it was yet far off, and Fqrranti's minute description of the carriage he. had seen was fulfilled in every line and tone of it. If ho should hide and allow 'tlio vehicle'to pass him by there" might be a way of momentary escape, but it seemed scarcely worth whflo to take it.

Ho planted himrelf squarely against one of the wayside poplars, foldod hi:; arms, and awaited the oncoming vehicle. It was speeding past'him, when ho heard a sudden suppressed scream from within it, and/ a roquo French voice barked out the words,■" Halle la!" Tho driver pulled his horses to their .haunches, tho wheels grated harshly on the dusty road, and out. sprang a French official with fierce n oustachius and eyebrows heavy enough to have. furnished another pair. Well, it was here at last— here and welcomed—;and t'be fugitive braced himself to meet his doom.

But could he trust his ears to tho belief that a Kentish voice familiar t;o him from childhood was calling to him by name in choking and j'.haking accents? A.m.! could he believe his eyes v/Lon he saw Farmer1 Eddy straggling out of the voilv.re bearing the fainting form of hiu daughter Edith in his arms as though she were a clumsy bundle \ Ho stood amazed and wonderstricken, and the whole thing was liko a dream.

"We've got un at last!" tho farmer was shouting, between tears ;\ml laughter. "And a rare old chaso you've led us, to bo sure. Now, if I was in your shoes, John, I'd never forgive old Eddy as long as 1 could shako a stick at un, for he believed you guilty, John, and all tho while you was an innocent as a babe

an born, and I stand here to prove it. But, now, hero's his M'vgr.iiicence, who was lent to me by the British. Ambassador at Paris, and I can't say a word '.o un in his own lingo, and here's Edith in a dead faint, though she knows it's her duty to do all the blessed chatter as i& done in this country. Wake-up, n.y dear, now, do'ce!! Ilcrfj John —John Westwood, deario— just as halo and hearty to look r.' as when ho started. Why, liavon'; yo got even a good-mornin' for ■•him, darling ?"

The girl began to moan ever &a little, md opened her eyes, and 1 ;i while, to tho French o"

cev'a en;-

barrassment, she and her lover we > close locked in one another's arms. Tho ofh'cial discreetly looted th'j other way, and took snuff with an air as if he saluted the universe at large. He had grown familiar with Wcsbwood's story in the course o" a month's travel with his awcothcart, and from that day onward. Ho w^s able lo pronounce anibngit Ids countrymen that "La phlegme Anglai:;e" was a fable. For there was dnuna enough enacted on that dusty highway within tho next five mir.utes to satisfy tho most ardent lover of the emotions." Edith, flung herself, a

■ lovely-avalanche, on' John's broad breast/ She kissed her father, and the old yeoman blubbered openly, and Edith and the farmer talked together in such bewildering fashion that John could make neither head nor tail of the whole1 business for a while, OKcept.that lie was free of suspicion, and might safely return homo at any moment.'

And then it came' out- little by l"'ttle that'after the inquest, had been held, and a verdict of wilfui mufder solemnly returned agains' John Westwood. Mr. Ronald had come back home to discover the wild letter addressed to him by the suicide, and to remove all suspicion of the young yeoman's guilt for ever.

"An' what's.more, my lad," cried F.ddy, "the young dog's as different from the old un as ever was chalk from cheese He's pot a heart in-

side of him,-and he's known a bit o' trouble himself inhis own day. He's going to have patience with *is on account of the late bad years; and my cousin Bob, as I have so unworthily despised, have turned up trumps, John. He's lent me a thousand pound, and set me on my legs again. An' I tell- 'e^e; John, if ever there was a father; as was proud and pleased at the prospect of dancing ab his daughter's wedding I'm the man!"

The End