The Revellers Part 35

"Capital!" agreed the vicar. "Out of evil comes good. It required an earthquake to move a man like Bolland!"

CHAPTER XIV

THE STORM

On the morrow rain fell. At first the village regarded the break in the weather as a thunderstorm, and harvesters looked to an early resumption of work. "A sup o' wet'll do nowt any harm," they said. But a steadily declining "gla.s.s" and a continuous downpour that lost nothing in volume as the day wore caused increasing headshakes, anxious frowns, revilings not a few of the fickle elements.

The moorland becks became raging torrents. The gorged river rose until all the low-lying land was flooded, hundreds of pounds' worth of corn in stook swept away, and all standing crops were damaged to an enormous extent. Cattle, sheep, poultry, even a horse or two, were caught by the rus.h.i.+ng waters and drowned. A bridge became blocked by floating debris and crumbled before the flood. Three men were standing on the structure, idly watching the articles whirling past in the eddies; one, given a second's firm footing, jumped for dear life and saved himself; the bodies of the others were found, many days afterwards, jammed against stakes placed in the stream a mile lower down to prevent fish poachers from netting an open reach.

This deluge, if indeed aught else were needed, wrecked the Feast. Every booth was dismantled, each wagon and caravan packed. The van dwellers only ceased their labors when all was in readiness for a move to the next fair ground; the Elmsdale week, usually a bright spot in their migratory calendar, was marked this year with absolute loss. At the best, and in few instances, it yielded a bare payment of expenses.

Farmers, of course, toiled early and late to avert further disaster.

Stock were driven from pastures where danger threatened; cut corn was rescued in the hope that the next day's sun might dry it; choked ditches were raked with long hoes to permit the water to flow off.

At last, when night fell, and the rain diminished to a thin drizzle, though the barometer gave no promise of improvement, men gathered in the village street and began comparing notes. Everyone had suffered in some degree; even the shopkeepers and private residents complained of ruined goods, gardens rooted up, houses invaded by the all-pervading floods.

But the farmers endured the greatest damage. Some had lost their half-year's rent, many would be faced with privation and bankruptcy.

Thrice fortunate now were the men with capital--those who could look forward with equanimity to another season when the wanton havoc inflicted by this wild raging of the waters should be recouped.

John Bolland, protected by an oilskin coat, crossed the road between the stockyard and the White House about eight o'clock.

"Eh, Mr. Bollan', but this is a sad day's wark," said a friend who encountered him.

"Ah, it's bad, very bad, an' likely te be worse," replied John, lifting his bent head and casting a weather-wise glance over the northerly moor.

"I've lost t' best part o' six acres o' wuts," (oats) growled his neighbor. "It's hard to know what spite there was in t' clouds te burst i' that way."

"Times an' seasons aren't i' man's hands," was the quiet answer.

"There'd be ill deed if suns.h.i.+ne an' storm were settled by voates, like a county-council election."

"Mebbe, and mebbe nut," cried the other testily. "'Tis easy to leave ivvrything te Providence when yer money's mostly i' stock. Mine happens te be i' crops."

"An' if mine were i' crops, Mr. Pattison, I sud still thry te desarve well o' Providence."

This shrewd thrust evoked no wrath from Pattison, who was not a chapel-goer.

"Gos.h.!.+" he laughed, "some folks are lucky. They pile up riches both i'

this wulld an' t' wulld te come. Hooivver, we won't argy. Hev ye heerd t' news fra' te t' 'Black Lion'?"

"Aboot poor George Pickerin'? Noa. I've bin ower thrang i' t' cow-byre."

"He's married, an' med his will. Betsy is Mrs. Pickerin' noo. But she'll be a widdy afore t' mornin'."

"Is he as bad as all that?"

"Sinkin' fast, they tell me. He kep' up, like the game 'un he allus was, until Mr. Croft left him alone wi' his wife. Then he fell away te nowt.

He's ravin', I hear."

"Croft! I thowt Stockwell looked efther his affairs."

"Right enough! But Stockwell's ya (one) trustee, Mr. Herbert's t' other.

So Croft had te act."

"Well, I'm rale sorry for t' poor chap. He's coom tiv a bad end."

"Ye'll be t' foreman o' t' jury, most like?"

"Noa. I'll be spared that job. Martin is a witness, more's t' pity.

Good-night, Mr. Pattison. It'll hu't none if y' are minded te offer up a prayer for betther weather."

But the prayers of many just men did not avail to save Elmsdale that night. After a brief respite, the storm came on again with gusty malevolence. Black despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place was its grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where George Pickering died.

Dr. MacGregor watched the fitful flickering of the strong man's life, until, at last, he led the afflicted wife from the room and consigned her to the care of her weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowful landlady.

At the foot of the stairs were waiting P. C. Benson and the reporter of the _Messenger_.

"It is all over," said the doctor. "He died at a quarter past ten."

"The same hour that he was--wounded," commented the reporter. "What was the precise cause of death?"

"Failure of the heart's action. It was a merciful release. Otherwise, he might have survived for days and suffered greatly."

The policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his chin-strap.

"I mun start for Nottonby," he said. "T' inquest'll likely be oppenned o' Satherday at two o'clock, doctor."

"Yes. By the way, Benson, you can tell Mr. Jonas that the county a.n.a.lyst and I are ready with our evidence. There is no need for an adjournment, unless the police require it."

The constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp through the rain. He crossed the footbridge over the beck--the water was nearly level with the stout planks.

"I haven't seen a wilder night for monny a year," he muttered. "There'll be a nice how-d'ye-do if t' brig is gone afore daylight."

He trudged the four miles to Nottonby. Nearing the outskirts of the small market town, he was startled by finding the body of a man lying face down in the roadway. The pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. He managed to turn the prostrate form and raise the man's head. Then, after several failures, he induced a match to flare for a second. One glance sufficed.

"Rabbit Jack!" he growled. "And blind as a bat! Get up, ye drunken swine. 'Twould be sarvin' ye right te lave ye i' the road until ye were runned over or caught yer death o' cold."

From the manner of P. C. Benson's language it may be inferred that his actions were not characterized by extreme gentleness. He managed to shake the poacher into semi-consciousness. Rabbit Jack, wobbling on his feet, lurched against the policeman.

"h.e.l.lo, ole fell', coom along wi' me," he mumbled amiably. "Nivver mind t' bra.s.s. I've got plenty. Good soart, George Pickerin'. Gimme me a sov', 'e did. Fo-or, 'e's a jolly good feller----"

A further shaking was disastrous. He collapsed again. The perplexed policeman noted a haymew behind a neighboring gate. He dragged the nondescript thither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the lee side of the shelter.

"He'll be sober by mornin'," he thought. "I hev overmuch thrubble aboot te tew mysen wi' this varmint."