The accident of illness prevented Henry Vivian from visiting Minnie in her home, as he intended. A bad chill struck him down soon after returning home, and for some days there was a fear that the evil would touch his lungs and become serious. Dan nursed him. He ran no small risk of detection, but escaped for three days. Then his master gained strength, and, since he could not visit Mrs Sweetland, his first act was to write to her and entrust the letter to her husband.

Daniel duly posted it and the man whose duty it was to deliver the note at Hangman’s Hut left it with Mr Beer at the Warren Inn.

Johnny put it aside until his wife should presently visit Minnie; but it happened that the note was overlooked until evening. Then, after nine o’clock, Titus Sim called upon his way to Mrs Sweetland, and he, after all, was the bearer of the great communication which told Dan’s wife that she was not a widow.

Events now rushed upon each other with such speed that to tell the story of them in exact sequence becomes difficult. For the present we are concerned with the meeting between Sim and the woman he desired to marry.

At another time Sim would have inspected the letter that he carried and, perhaps, noting that it came from Henry Vivian, whose hand he well knew, the footman, in obedience to his instincts, might have mastered the contents before delivering it. But Sim was full of his own affairs to-night. They had reached a climax. Much hung upon the next few hours, and his own devious career was destined to culminate before another sun rose. A great enterprise awaited him, and upon it he now prepared to embark.

Minnie sat alone beside her lamp, and the man approached her with his face full of news. Something in the way that he touched her hand told her of what was coming.

“Rix Parkinson is dead!” she cried.

“He is, Minnie; but how did you know that?”

She marked his use of her Christian name. It savoured of a sort of insolent right, and she resented it with a look, but not in words. Then she replied to his question.

“I knew it the moment that you came in, Mr Sim. Your face told me. He has not left us long to wait, poor fellow.”

“He went easily.”

“We must wait until the earth closes over him, then my Dan—”

“There is one thing first.”

He put his hand into his pocket and felt the letter.

“I had forgotten. Beer gave me this for you. But first listen to me. You can read when I have gone.”

“Speak,” she said, and put the letter on the mantel-shelf.

“I’ve said it once before, but you had no ears then, for your eyes were full of that terrible news from the West Indies. By some sad trick Providence willed that I should actually be asking you to marry me at the moment when you saw the fact of your husband’s death staring at you in print. Of course I said no more then. But now ’tis different. Now you know that poor Dan is at rest and is happy. Now you know he was innocent of that awful charge. Your soul is at peace too. You and I have the power to clear his name in the sight of the world. That is as good as done. Only days remain. And afterwards, Minnie? I have a right to ask that question now. Have I not earned my reward? God knows I’ve waited patiently enough. I’ve been loyal to you and to him. I’ve proved my friendship; and if I’d had to put down my life to clear Dan’s name I’d have done it. What follows? You know what I mean. I’ve waited long enough. I’ve been patient.”

“You want me to marry you?”

“You must; you shall. I’m only flesh and blood—not stone. I’ve waited at a cost to myself none knows. I’ve endured untold torments. My passion for you has shortened my days. To hide those burning fires was a task crueller than woman has a right to ask from man. You’re a human creature. You must love me—if ’tis only for my love of your dead husband you must love me. Say you’ll marry me—say it quick. Let my sleep be sweet this night; let care and fear and dread share my pillow no more.”

“Who was it planned this evil against Daniel Sweetland? We know who killed poor Adam Thorpe; but who killed my husband? Find that out, Titus Sim.”

“If man can, I will; but leave that for the present. I’m as set on it as you. ’Tis the task first to my hand after we are man and wife.”

“Man and wife we never shall be. I’d sooner far, and prouder far, be my Daniel’s widow than wife of any man. No call to stare. Stare into your own heart, not into my face. I’ll never marry anybody. Let that content you. You’ve done your work; now go your way.”

“You’d drop me so? By God! you make my fingers itch! D’you know what lies between love and hate? A razor-edge. Don’t scorn me so cold and cruel. Don’t turn away from the worship of a man whose very life be built upon your nod. I can’t stand that. ’Tis fatal. My days are nought to me without you. They are narrowed to a word; you, you, you! Think what I can give you if you’ve no liking for myself. I’ve got heaps of money—a small fortune. Hundreds of pounds—all for you. Never another stroke of work. Your own servant you shall have; and your own slave, too. I’ll be that. Let me show you what love for a woman is—what love for a woman can do. Be content to share life with me. Don’t drive me mad by saying ‘no’ again. Don’t turn my love into gall. For ’twill be poison, and that poison will mean death.”

“I must face all that you can threaten,” she said. “I’ve spoken. I’ll marry no man. ’Tis enough to live alone with the blessing of my Dan’s good name.”

“That rests with me!” he answered. “Don’t fool yourself to think everything’s going as you please. If you will make me show my teeth, ’tis your fault, not mine. I’m human. I’ve fought and toiled and sweated for you, and only you. I’ve done deeper things than ever a man did for love of you. Grey’s come into my hair for love of you. And now—? No, by God! the time’s ripe for payment. There’s only two living souls on earth know that Daniel Sweetland’s innocent of murder, and them two must be man and wife, or that man’s memory shall stink of blood for evermore! That’s love! You stare, but I’ve spoken. You refuse me, but in so doing you leave your husband’s memory foul. Your testimony is nothing without mine. ’Tis an easy invention for a pious wife; but when they come to me, I shake my head and say ‘I fear the wish was father to the thought, for Parkinson said no such thing.’ Tell them! I’d rather die than tell them. I’ll cut my own throat rather than clear him. That’s love on the razor-edge. And a mind on a razor-edge too! I’m at a pass now when life or death be bubbles. You’ve made me desperate. You don’t know—you can’t guess—a girl like you with ice for a heart—what a man’s raging fires may be. Speak—don’t look at me with them steady, watch-fire eyes, or I’ll strangle you!”

She had never seen any man driven into a desperation that came so near actual madness. She was alive to her own danger, and yet, knowing a thing hidden from him, could spare a moment of thankfulness at her own prescience in the past. For Minnie had never trusted Titus Sim. Even before the prospect of going with him into the presence of death, she had feared his honesty. Because she knew him to be a liar, and believed him capable of any crime.

“Leave me now,” she said steadily, with her eyes upon his face. “This be no time for more speech between us. You have declared that my dead husband’s innocence hangs upon your speech. To prove him honest is all the world’s got left for me to do. And I will do it. At any cost—even to marriage with you I’ll do it. If ’tis only by marrying you that Daniel’s name can be cleared, then I’ll marry you, Titus Sim.”

He fell on his knees and made wild, incoherent sounds. He seized her hands and covered them with kisses. He uttered inarticulate cries and praised God. She endured it with difficulty, and continually implored him to depart from her. At last he rose, restrained himself, and spoke more calmly.

“Why did you make me say those cruel things? Why did you rouse the devil in me like that? Right well you know I never meant them. ’Twas only the very madness of disappointed love made me think of such vile things. Forget them, Minnie! Forget them and forgive them. I only want your happiness. Marry me and leave the rest to me. You’ll never be sorry. I’ve got love enough for both of us. Wait and see. You’ll turn to me yet, and trust me, and be sorry for me. Then, please God, you’ll come to love me a little.”

“Go, now,” she said. “You’ve got my answer.”

“And sweeter words never fell on a sad man’s ear, my blessed wife to be! We’ll wait till the dead is buried. We promised him to say nothing until then. And afterwards all people shall know that your Daniel was innocent.”

He left her and she locked the cottage door behind him. After that Minnie fell shivering upon a seat beside the fire, and buried her face in her hands. She did not fear for herself; she was only frightened at the strange power within her that had from the first taught her to read this man aright. A secret voice had always spoken the truth to her heart concerning him, and now in her sight he stood very knave from head to heel. Even his faithful love was to her a loathsome circumstance.

She saw in Titus Sim the unknown accomplice of the dead drunkard. Their united cunning had planned the subtle and skilful raids at Middlecott; again and again they had robbed the plantations: again and again Sim, unsuspected, had slipped from the Court by night and joined Parkinson at his work. But to Sim alone, his evil genius quickened by love, had belonged the sequel to the tragedy in Middlecott Lower Hundred. After Thorpe fell, he had hastened to the empty house on the Moor, well knowing that it would be empty. The gun he had taken and the gun he had hidden where he might find it on the first light of day. And now he had left her to choose between Daniel’s honour and himself, or neither. One depended upon the other. Her momentary refusal had lifted the curtain from him, and showed her in a lightning flash the real man. Life was nothing to him. He had already driven her husband to death, and if she refused him, she guessed that another swift tragedy would follow upon the refusal. She thought long and deeply how best to plan the future. But Titus Sim entered very little into her calculations.

While still she sat in thought, there came a knock at the door, and Jane Beer asked to be admitted. Her husband followed her, and while Mrs Beer kissed Minnie, the publican shook her hand with all his might.

“’Tis closing time,” he said. “But, though we could close the bar, me an’ Jane couldn’t close our own eyes till we’d comed over and wished you joy—first a girl and then a boy—according to the old saying. Sim tells us you’ve consented at last, so soon all sorrow will be past, an’ if I don’t tip you a fine rhyme ’pon your wedding day, ’tis pity.”

The woman smiled and thanked them.

“And Johnny have brought over a drink,” said Jane Beer. “’Tis some sparkling wine—one bottle of twelve as we’ve had ever since we opened house. An’ only one bottle sold all these years. Champagne, according to the label.”

Mr Beer drew forth the liquor.

“Now you shall taste stuff as’ll make you feel as though you’d got wings,” he told her, “and if you haven’t got no wine-glasses, cups will do just as well.”

But Minnie put her hand on his and prevented him from cutting the wires.

“Stop; this is all wrong; you are mistaken, you kind hearts,” she said. “Mr Sim didn’t tell you all—or nearly all. I cannot marry him; and if there was but one man left on earth and ’twas he, I’d not marry him. ’Twas this I said to him; that if the only way to clear my Daniel’s name was by taking him for a husband, then I’d do it.”

“He says that you promised?”

“Only that, Mr Beer. And how if my Daniel’s name don’t lie at the mercy of Titus Sim? I can’t tell you about it yet. Presently I will.”

Johnny Beer patted the bottle.

“Then we’ll keep this high-spirited liquor till we all know where we are,” he said. “Never shout when you’re in doubt. But we’ll shout an’ see the stuff foam another day. Come on home, Jane. And I do hope still, my dear, you’ll let that poor, white-faced wretch find his way into your heart. For it all points to him; and you can’t bide here wasting your womanhood in the midst of the desert for ever. You might so well go in a convent of holy women—a very frosty picture, I’m sure.”

“My!” said Mrs Beer. “If she haven’t stuck her letter ’pon the mantel-shelf an’ never read a line of it! Now, to me, a letter’s like a thorn in my finger till ’tis open and mastered.”

Minnie handed the note to her friend. She had felt a faint flutter on seeing it, and thought that by blessed chance Dan might have written to her again before the end of his life. But the postmark was ‘Moretonhampstead’; the writing she did not know.

“I’ve no secrets,” said Minnie. “Read it out, Jane. If there’s anything good in it for me, ’twill be as much a joy to you as to me.”

“Give it here,” commanded Johnny. “In the matter of reading a letter, I may be said to know what’s what. I’ll read it aloud, since you’ve got no secrets, my dear, and if there’s a pennyworth of good in it—enough for the excuse, I’ll open the champagne after all. We’m on the loose to-night seemingly.”

A moment later and the letter was perused. Whereupon Mr Beer found himself faced with material for a whole volume of new poems. He was also called upon to open his bottle of champagne in a hurry; for there was no other stimulant in the house, and very soon necessity for such a thing arose.

Henry Vivian wrote carefully and came to the tremendous truth as gently as possible; but it had to be told, and when she heard it—when the mighty fact fell upon her ear that Daniel was not dead, but alive and well and close at hand, ready to visit her on the dawn of the morrow—Minnie fainted; and Jane Beer very nearly did the same. Happily, the poet and publican kept his head. His own lady he summoned to resolution by the force of his uplifted voice. Then he loosed the champagne cork, which happily flew without hesitation, and soon had wine at the girl’s white lips.

It was long before she could listen to the end of the letter. Then the writer warned her that Daniel found it beyond human power to keep longer from her side, and that on the following morning, if a black man came thundering at the door of Hangman’s Hut, she must on no account refuse him admission.

“God’s light!” cried Mr Beer. “’Tis after midnight now. I lay the man will be dressing hisself to come to his wife within an hour or two! To think—to think that underneath that skin so black Dan Sweetland to his home came back! But ’tis a dead secret. Me an’ my missus didn’t ought to know it.”

“Tis safe enough with us, I’m sure,” said Mrs Beer, rather indignantly.

“Trust us for that. And now we’ll drain the flowing bowl to that brave hero. ‘Black but comely.’ And I wonder if he’s black all over? Ban’t likely, I should think. I hope not, for your sake, my dear. Drink again—drink to the bottom! ’Tis for him. And don’t you go for to meet him in that dress. There’s enough black ’pon Dan without you being black too.”

“That’s good advice—just like Johnny’s sense. Don’t you appear afore him like a widow woman,” said Mrs Beer. “’Twould be awful bad luck. You just put on your pretty print wi’ the lilac pattern. And, after breakfast, I’ll step over in my dandy-go-risset gown—out of respect. I must see the young youth afore he washes. ’Twill be a great adventure, I’m sure.”

She prattled on to distract Minnie’s mind from the force of this shock. The girl hardly spoke, but sat with her hand in Mrs Beer’s. Sometimes she sighed, and at last merciful tears came to her eyes and she wept.

“Now you come along of us,” said Johnny. “I ban’t going to let you bide here by yourself. You come back an’ have a good sleep with Jane, and I’ll call you at peep o’ day. Then you can rise up and step home, an’ light the fire an’ make all ready for his breakfast. ‘Obi’ be his name now, remember! And, if you’ll believe it, when first he stalked amongst us to the White Hart, as black an’ silent as a shadow in a coat, if his father didn’t half see through him! Yes, he did. He up an’ stared an’ said, ‘Why, that niggar do travel exactly like my son Dan!’ Well—the bottle’s empty. It did its duty better than many a living man have done. I feel it within me like a cheerful companion, and I hope ’tis the same with you, ladies. Now, let’s be going.”

But Minnie would not accompany them. She was firm, and presently regained her self-possession.

“I’ve bided here ever since the day I married him,” she said. “I won’t go now. God sent you both to me this night, for it might have gone hard with me if I’d took this wonnerful shower of blessings all alone; but your gentle hands was ready, Jane; an’ you, Mr Beer—”

“An’ the bottle, my dear.”

“Yes, yes. Come back to me to-morrow.”

“So us will then—to think of you having your breakfast with a black man! Poor Titus! He’ll be so white as t’other be dark. God’s a marvel! Come on, Jane. Leave her alone. She’d rather. But I lay my wife will be peeping through the blind to see him come to-morrow! Trust a woman to do that. Good night, bless your brave heart! ’Tis a glorious reward for all the grief you’ve suffered.”

Mrs Beer kissed Minnie and hugged her, and Mr Beer so far forgot himself as to do the same.

“’Twas the champagne,” he confessed afterwards. “I got above myself with the news. My poetic disposition, Jane. If it had been the Queen of England I should have done the like. To think of the verses to be made out of such a come-along-o’t!”

“I know,” answered Mrs Beer. “But what about Adam Thorpe? Of course he didn’t do it, but the world still thinks he did; and for my part I don’t see anything to make verses about while the rope be still waiting for the poor fellow. Black or white, ’tis all one.”

“But he’s safe, you see! Nobody but us and Mr Vivian and Minnie will know the secret. And you may bet your life Providence didn’t save him to hang him. The Lord’s on his side, whatever betide.”

“That’s comforting, if true,” answered Mrs Beer. “An’ no doubt it is true,” she added. “When did man or woman find you wrong?”

They retired and talked on, full of this great matter, until dawn touched their white window-blind, and Johnny slept.

A moment later sounds of a galloping horse broke the tremendous silence of the Moor, and Jane Beer leapt from her bed and ran to the window.

A rider passed swiftly in the dull beginning of light. Beyond the inn he turned from the highway and proceeded in the direction of Hangman’s Hut.

“He wasn’t the black man—that I’m sure!” she exclaimed; but her husband did not hear, and his only answer was a snore.

Mrs Beer crept back to his side.

“White as a dog’s tooth his face was!” she said to herself. “Even in the cock-light I could see that.”

She reflected uneasily. Then an explanation came.

“Why, the chap washed hisself, to be sure! No doubt the black comes off, like the Christy’s Minstrels us seed to Exeter. He wouldn’t go to see his wife like a black gorilla.”

This solution of the difficulty seemed satisfactory to Mrs Beer. “The good Lord bless ’em!” she said.

Then she also prepared to sleep; but a hideous din in her ear awoke her. A bellowing as of a thousand bulls came up from the road. It woke Mr Beer, as it was meant to do, and with his wife he hastened to peep into the dawn. Jane then told her husband what she had already seen, and this, combined with the spectacle now before them, roused both effectually. In another moment the publican was pulling on his clothes.