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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
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RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
AT sunset a fine drizzle had begun to fall, and it was getting very dark as old Seth Caunter walked slowly up the hill beyond the Wallbrook.
He was on his way up to Moorlands, where he was to take the chair at a meeting of the parish council.
Half-way up the steep rise he stooped suddenly. He had caught a sound of voices which came from under the high wall to his left, and these were the words which reached his ears.
"It's all right Bessie. You trust to me. I'll tackle the old man. I don't mind telling you that he won't refuse anything I ask him."
Seth stiffened. He hardly breathed as he waited intently for the reply.
"I don't know about that, Oliver," came a girl's voice, soft and distinct. "But I don't like going on like this. Father would be terribly upset if he knew that you and I were keeping company. And I've just about made up my mind that I'll tell him myself, if you don't."
"Thank God," muttered the old man softly. "Bessie's staunch."
"No, don't you go for to tell him," replied the man. "I'll speak to him. I want to have your word first before I go and tell him. Say you'll have me, Bessie, and I'll warrant he won't refuse."
"No; I won't promise before he knows," returned the girl with spirit. "I won't do anything behind his back. He's been a good father to me, and I know that he doesn't like you."
"That's because of my job," said the man irritably. "He hates all of us warders. But I'll give you my word, Bessie, he won't refuse me."
"How do you know? What makes you talk like that?"
"Never mind that. I know."
"Very well, then. Ask him, then I'll give you my answer."
"Give it me now, my girl. I don't want to wait longer."
"No. I've told you, and I'll stick to what I've said. Now I must be going back. I've plenty to do before father comes home.
The warder stifled an impatient exclamation.
"Give us a kiss, then, Bessie," he begged.
There was a slight pause. Old Seth, listening, ground his teeth as he heard the sound of kisses. He took a step forward, then checked himself and drew softly back to the far side of the road.
Next moment his daughter turned back and passed quickly down the hill, while in front of him he heard the footsteps of the man walking in the direction of Moorlands.
He waited a few moments until his daughter was out of sight, then walked quickly in pursuit of the man.
Hearing footsteps, Oliver Gedge turned with a slight start.
"Hulloa, is that you, Mr. Caunter?" he said with an air of assumed unconcern.
"Aye, it's me, Warder Gedge," answered the old farmer.
He paused a moment, then added:
"I seed you by the wall a minute ago—you and my darter."
"Saw us, did you, Mr. Caunter," said Gedge easily. "Well, then I reckon you got some notion of what there is between Bessie and me?"
"I got a pretty plain notion," replied the elder man calmly. "And I tell you now, Warder Gedge, that you're not the man I'd choose for Bessie's husband."
"Come now, Mr. Counter, that's not fair. You mustn't let your dislike for prison officers put you against me. I'm fond of Bessie, and she's fond of me."
"I haven't got nothing against prison officers, Mr. Gedge. Don't you run away with any such idea. I tell you straight that it's you yourself I object to."
"And what for?" demanded Gedge, with a show of indignation. "What have you got against me, I'd like to know?"
"You ought to know as well as me. A man as wastes his money on drink like you! A man, too, as keeps long dogs, and hasn't no respect for other folks' game—he's no fit husband for my girl."
"Come to that, I don't drink more than plenty of others," retorted Gedge. "And if I like my bit o' sport there's no harm in that."
"I don't agree with you," replied Counter. "And I won't have it. You'll have to turn over a new leaf afore you can have my Bessie."
"So that's the way you take it?" said Gedge angrily. "A funny way, too, for a man like you. There's some would say I was doing your daughter an honour by asking her to marry me."
Caunter stopped short.
"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"What do I mean? Do you want me to tell you?" said Gedge with a sneer.
The other was shivering. He tried, to speak, but for a moment no sound passed his dry lips.
"I want to know what you mean," he managed to say at last, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
"Then I'll tell you. It isn't every chap with a job like mine as would want to marry the sister of a lag—the sister of a man as is doing a five-year stretch in there." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the prison as he spoke.
Caunter gave a groan. Unseen in the darkness, a flush of bitter shame dyed his withered cheeks.
It was true, what this man said. Godfrey Caunter, his only son, was indeed a prisoner inside the grim granite walls of the great ugly building which towered on the hillside above Moorlands village. It was the tragedy of his life that he, the best respected man on all the moor, should have a son who was a convicted felon.
A tragedy, but so far a secret tragedy, for young Caunter had stood his trial and been convicted under another name, and his father believed that no one but himself and the lawyer whom he had engaged to defend his boy knew the truth. He had kept it even from Bessie, who believed that her brother was on a long whaling voyage. As for the neighbours, none of them had even an inkling of the terrible truth.
How this man Gedge had discovered it he had not the faintest idea, and poor old Caunter stood dumbfounded, unable to find a word.
"Ah," said Gedge. "You see I know more than you thought I did. Now, if you know what's good for you and your family, you won't make no more objections to my courting Bessie."
But Gedge did not know his man. The threat braced the stout old farmer as nothing else would have done.
"You're wrong there," he said sharply. "You shan't frighten me into letting you have my daughter. A man like you would make her miserable for all her life, and 'tis better she should know the bitter truth than that."
Gedge was startled. He had not expected this. He was also very angry.
"You mean you'd rather have all the folks here know as your son's in prison?" he exclaimed incredulously.
"Aye, rather than that you should marry my Bessie. For I know you, Gedge. I know as it's not the girl you love; it's what's coming to her."
Gedge gave an angry laugh.
"You're upset," he said, scornfully. "You'll think better of this in a day or two."
"Never—so long as you are the man you be."
Gedge lost his temper.
"Is that your last word?"
"Aye—my last if I was a-dying."
"All right. I'll give you till Saturday to think of it. If I don't hear from you before then I'll blow the gaff. So help me, I will."
And with an oath he turned away, climbed a gate, and disappeared into the darkness, in the direction of the prison.
FOLKS wondered that evening what had become to Mr. Caunter. He had always been a quiet man, but at the meeting that night he never said a word beyond what he had to.
And he looked ten years older.
The shadow of coming disgrace was falling heavy on him. It is a terrible thing for a man who has lived in one place all his life and held the respect of all his neighbours to feel what Farmer Caunter felt that night.
But his resolution never wavered, and that night when he went home the first thing he did was to tell Bessie the whole truth.
The way in which she took it was some comfort to his wounded soul. First, she vowed that never again would she speak to the blackmailer; then she burst into tears and vowed she would marry him in order to keep his mouth shut.
But her father kissed her, and told her he would much sooner see her dead than married to a man such as Gedge.
THE week passed. It was on the following Sunday that Caunter realised that Gedge had carried out his threat. As he walked up the aisle of the church he could feel the flutter among the congregation, and hear their whispers.
The service was one prolonged misery, and he did not go to church again. Gradually he gave up going anywhere outside his own land. Many people were still kind, and tried to show it, but he shrank from them all. Bessie saw with dismay that his hair was growing whiter every day.
There are some duties which a moorland farmer cannot neglect. Rent audit came round, and much against his will Seth Caunter saddled his stout hay mare and rode up to "The Feathers" at Moorlands.
Many of his fellow tenants greeted him, but the old man passed by with a bare word of acknowledgment, paid his money, and got away as soon as possible.
IT was about four o'clock on a cold spring afternoon as he rode down the long empty street of the village. A strong wind was blowing, and the sky was dull and lowering.
His way took him past the prison, and a shiver seized him as he passed a gang of drab-clad men man marching in step, two by two, headed by warders armed with rifles.
He passed the great granite archway with its graven inscription, "Spare the Fallen," and was breasting the steep slope beyond when a loud shout made him pull up his horse and turn his head
Through the thick firs which formed a tall hedge between the road and the prison buildings shone an ominous red glare.
"Fire!" came a shout. "Fire!"
For a moment Caunter paused uncertainly. Even a fire had small attraction for his saddened soul, and he shrank from a contact with the crowd. But the thought came to him that every pair of hands are useful in case of fire, and slipping out of his saddle, he led the horse into a gateway and tied it, then hurried back towards the gate.
A man came running past him. It was Rundle, one of the principal warders, whom he knew well.
"It's the officers' quarters," said Rundle, breathlessly. "Come on in, Mr. Caunter."
The farmer went with him through the the gate. Inside, the wide stretch of gravel was reddened with the flames. A range of buildings just within the gate, which were used as barracks for the unmarried warders, were all ablaze. They were old, and the timber was dry. They burnt like tinder, and great tongues of flame were already shooting out from all the lower windows. The wind, now blowing half a gale, roared through the broken glass. Never had Caunter seen a fire take hold more fiercely or burn more furiously.
Already Colonel Peyton, the governor of the prison, was on the spot. The fine old officer's voice rang loud above the roar and crackle as he shouted his orders.
Half a dozen warders were coupling up hose which they had carried across the road from a pond on the far side. In a very few moments a heavy stream of water went hissing into the heart of the fire.
"It's not a bit of use," said Rundle. "The fire's got too much hold. All we can do is to stop it spreading." He ran off as he spoke to lend a hand.
There seemed nothing for Caunter to do. He stood staring, fascinated by the fury of the flames.
A big gang of convicts were now on the scene, and a bucket chain formed. Ladders were raised against the adjoining roofs, and tarpaulins spread which were soaked with water.
As for the barracks themselves, it was quite clear that they were doomed. All the fire engines in London could not have saved them.
"One good thing, there's no one inside," said Rundle, who had come back to Caunter's side.
The words were hardly out of his mouth before there came a piercing scream.
"Help. Help!"
Rundle gave a sharp cry.
"Look at that!" he said hoarsely, pointing to a dormer window in the roof. A man was leaning out, with half his body outside the casement. His face distorted with terror, showed clear in the ruddy glare of the flames which were leaping from the first floor windows just below.
"It's Gedge!" gasped old Caunter. "Oliver Gedge!"
He ran forward, but Rundle seized his arm.
"It's no use. You can't do anything. I doubt if anyone can."
Indeed, it looked a hopeless case. The two floors below were a mass of flames. It could be only a question of a few minutes at most before the floor fell in.
"Turn the hose on the window below. Bring a ladder!"
Colonel Peyton's orders rang out crisp and clear, and men hurried to obey. For a moment the blaze at the lower window was checked, but columns of thick smoke poured out, and Gedge was dimly seen to stagger back and disappear.
"Sharp with that ladder!" cried the governor.
It was reared against the wall, but was not long enough to reach the top of the wall.
"Get it down again! Lash another to it!" ordered Colonel Peyton.
"It'll be too late by then," muttered Rundle, shaking his head. And just then the fire burst out more fiercely than before.
The crowd watched in horrified silence. It seemed likely that it was too late already to do anything to save the unhappy Gedge.
Suddenly a shout arose. Counter looked up. Along the ridge of the roof a figure came crawling. He looked very small at that great height, but he came along with wonderful steadiness and quickness.
"That's a plucky chap!" exclaimed Rundle. "A lag, too. Gad. I didn't think any of 'em had the heart for a job like that."
A huge cloud of smoke gushed upwards hiding the brave convict completely. The watchers held their breath. Then it passed, and the glare showed up his face, blackened, indeed, but with his lips firmly set and eyes fixed on the dormer window whence Gedge's head had been pushed out.
Seth Caunter staggered back, and would have fallen if Rundle had not caught him by the arm.
"It's Godfrey!" the old man gasped. "My son!"
What Rundle said in answer Caunter did not hear. He was watching his boy with straining eyes. He saw him gain a point on the ridge immediately above the window, then let himself go, and deliberately slide down the steep slope until he got his legs astride the angle above the window.
Then getting what hold he could, he let himself down until his feet were in the gutter. It was a position of desperate peril. The slightest slip, and he must drop fifty feet on to the hard gravel below.
Again, a great volume of smoke rose and hid him from those below. When it passed he was no longer visible.
"He's fallen. He's killed," muttered Seth Caunter hoarsely.
"Not he. He's inside," returned Rundle. "Don't you worry Mr. Caunter. The lad's a good, cool head. He'll win through."
Two sets of hose were now at work flinging heavy jets against the window below that which young Caunter had just entered. Even so, the fire had got such a terrible hold that the water had little effect. The seconds passed with agonising suspense.
Suddenly came a shout.
"He's got him. See, Mr. Caunter," said Rundle. "Gad, he's a plucky chap!"
Silence fell again as the young convict reappeared on the ledge of the window, dragging Gedge with him. The warder's clothes were scorched and blackened, and he himself was evident insensible.
Now came the toughest part of young Counter's job. He had to get the warder round the frame of the window and out on to the roof. And he had nothing but the iron gutter to depend on.
"How's he going to do it!" whispered his poor old father in agony.
"I see. He's got a bit of rope with him," answered Rundle eagerly. "Watch now. He's tying it round Gedge. He's going to get round the corner himself first, and then pull the other chap up."
He was right. This was young Caunter's plan. Climbing like a monkey, and carrying the loose end of the rope in his teeth, he was back on the ledge above the window in a surprisingly short time. Then bracing himself he set to pulling Gedge up by main force.
The convict was not a big man, and it looked at first as though the task were an impossible one. But his muscles were like steel, and inch by inch he lifted Gedge clear till he had him on the slope of the roof.
He was barely clear when there came a loud roar from inside the building, and a great spout of fire and sparks shot through the dormer window.
The floor had fallen in.
By this time the two ladders had been lashed together and reared against the still unburnt end of the building. Men appeared on the ridge above Caunter and Gedge and let down a stout rope.
Amid the roar of cheering rescued and rescuer were hauled up to comparative safety.
As the shouts died down there was a rush to the foot of the ladder, and willing hands reached up to catch Gedge as he was lowered down.
Next came young Caunter, black as a sweep, his clothes and hair singed, great white blisters on his bare arms.
Stern old Colonel Peyton stepped forward.
"You're a very plucky fellow," he said. "I am proud of you. You may take it from me that your conduct will be reported in the proper quarter—and that without delay. I trust it may mean a pardon for you."
"A pardon—will it really, sir?" The anxious voice at his elbow made the governor start.
"You, Mr. Caunter? What has it to do with you?"
"This is my son, sir," said the old man simply, as he laid his hand on the convict's shoulder.
"Your son?" exclaimed the colonel. "Ah, I remember now, there was some talk of it."
He turned and faced the crowd.
"My friends," he said. "Some of you, I believe, have taunted your neighbour with the fact that his son was a prisoner. I think now you will have good reason to revise your opinion."
The answer was a burst of cheers.
It was a very proud and happy old man who rode home that night to his moorland farm, a prouder and happier man still who, about a month later, met his pardoned son at the prison gates.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.