ANOTHER LOAD.

The sad procession moved to Morwell out of the wood, preceded by the man Westlake, mounted on Jasper’s horse, riding hard for the doctor. Then came a stable-boy with the lantern, and after the light two gates—first, that on which was laid the dead body of Mr. Jordan; then another, followed closely by Barbara, on which lay Eve breathing, but now not even moaning. As the procession was half through the first field the bell of the house tolled. Westlake had communicated the news to the servant-maids, and one of them at once went to the bell.

Lagging behind all came Joseph Woodman, the policeman. The King of France in the ballad marched up a hill, and then marched down again, having accomplished nothing. Joseph had reversed the process: he had leisurely marched down the hill, and then more leisurely marched up it again; but the result was the same as that attained by the King of France.

On reaching Morwell Jasper said in a low voice to the men, ‘You must return with me: there is another to be sought for. Who saw the boy with the lantern last? He may have found him by this time.’

Then Joseph said slowly, ‘As I was down by the boathouse I saw something.’

‘What did you see?’

‘I saw up on the hill-side a lantern travelling this way, then that way, so’—he made a zigzag indication in the air with his finger. ‘It went very slow. It went, so to speak, like a drop o’ rain on a window-pane, that goes this way, then it goes a little more that way, then it goes quite contrary, to the other side. Then it changes its direction once again and it goes a little faster.’

‘I wish you would go faster,’ said Jasper impatiently. ‘What did you see at last?’

‘I’m getting into it, but I must go my own pace,’ said Joseph with unruffled composure. ‘You understand me, brothers—I’m not speaking of a drop o’ rain on a window-glass, but of a lantern-light on the hill-side—and bless you, that hill-side was like a black wall rising up on my right hand into the very sky. Well then, the light it travelled like a drop o’ rain on a glass—first to this side, then to that. You’ve seen drops o’ rain how they travel’—he appealed to all who listened. ‘And I reckon you know how that all to once like the drop, after having travelled first this road, then that road, in a queer contrary fashion, and very slow, all to once like, as I said, down it runs like a winking of the eye and is gone. So exactly was it with thicky (that) there light. It rambled about on the face of the blackness: first it crawled this way, then it crept that; always, brothers, going a little lower and then—to once—whish!—I saw it shoot like a falling star—I mean a raindrop—and I saw it no more.’

‘And then?’

‘Why—and then I came back the same road I went down.’

‘You did not go into the bushes in search?’

‘How should I?’ answered Joseph, ‘I’d my best uniform on. I’d come out courting, not thief-catching.’

‘And you know nothing further?’

‘How should I? Didn’t I say I went back up the road same way as I’d come down? I warn’t bound to get my new cloth coat and trousers tore all abroad by brimbles, not for nobody. I know my duty better than that. The county pays for ‘em.’

Directed by this poor indication, Jasper led the men back into the wood and down the woodman’s truck road, that led by a long sweep to the bottom of the cliffs.

The search was for a long time ineffectual; but at length, at the foot of a rock, they came on the object of their quest—the body of Martin—among fragments of fallen crag, and over it, clinging to his brother with one arm, the hand passed through the ring of a battered lantern, was Walter. The light was extinguished in the lantern and the light was beaten out of the brothers. Jasper looked into the poor boy’s face—a scornful smile still lingered on the lips.

Apparently he had discovered his brother’s body and then had tried to drag it away down the steep slope towards the old mine, in the hopes of hiding there and finding that Martin was stunned, not dead; but in the darkness he had stumbled over another precipice or slidden down a run of shale and been shot with his burden over a rock. Again the sad procession was formed. The two gates that had been already used were put in requisition a second time, and the bodies of Martin and Watt were carried to Morwell and laid in the hall, side by side, and he who carried a light placed it at their head.

Mr. Coyshe had arrived. For three of those brought in no medical aid was of avail.

Barbara, always practical and self-possessed, had ordered the cook to prepare supper for the men. Then the two dead brothers were left where they had been laid, with the dull lantern burning at their head, and the hungry searchers went to the kitchen to refresh.

Joseph ensconced himself by the fire, and Jane drew close to him.

‘I reckon,’ said the policeman, ‘I’ll have some hot grog.’ Then he slid his arm round Jane’s waist and said, ‘In the midst of death we are in life. Is that really, now, giblet pie? The cold joint I don’t fancy’—he gave Jane a smack on the cheek. ‘Jane, I’ll have a good help of the giblet pie, please, and the workmen can finish the cold veal. I like my grog hot and strong and with three lumps of double-refined sugar. You’ll take a sip first, Jane, and I’ll drink where your honeyed lips have a-sipped. When you come to consider it in a proper spirit’—he drew Jane closer to his side—’there’s a deal of truth in Scriptur’. In the midst of death we are in life. Why, Jane, we shall enjoy ourselves this evening as much as if we were at a love-feast. I’ve a sweet tooth, Jane—a very sweet tooth.’