“Shame on ye, woman,” he cried, as the last of the guests filed out of the room, “shame on ye to belie me thus afore the face of your own daughter, and her my wedded wife. I’d a’ saved the copper for ye willingly—rot the stuff—and I’ll save it now if I can. An’ I’ve kept silence afore all your company rather than let ’em know you was lying. But I’ll not begin wedded life wi’ disgrace ’twixt me an’ my wife. So I tell ye, Arabella, where ye stand, and glad I am of the chance, that I never fingered aught of the copper—only to help ’em in hidin’ it—and ’twas your own father and mother what stript it and stored it, and you needn’t be afeared but what you’ve wedded an honest man. And now,” turning to his mother-in-law, “I’m ready to go along wi’ ye. May be I’ll save your honour; we can’t make worse o’ mine.”
In ten minute’s time the house that had been ablaze with lights was shrouded in darkness, and resumed its ordinary well-conditioned aspect. The blinds were drawn, articles of furniture that had been ousted and piled to meet the requirements of the dancing had been re-placed in position. The guests had slunk away, more or less disquieted according to the state of each man’s inner consciousness, and, to the onlooker from without, it was as reposeful and undisturbed as any of its neighbours in the quiet well-ordered street.
Scarcely had this transformation scene been effected when the expected summons came. “Sorry to disturb ye, Mrs. Bond, when ye be all arranged so quiet for the night. But ’tis our bounden duty, ma’am, and we’ve a very particular reason here (exhibiting the warrant) for wishin’ to look through your premises, if so be as you has no objection.”
“Aye, ye can come in, Bob Davis. An’ if I can’t gi’ ye a hearty welcome, ’tis only yerself you has to thank for it. ’Twould ha’ been more neighbour-like, I’m thinkin’, if ye’d come in open daylight, ’stead o’ disturbin’ a peaceful family at this hour o’ the night. An’ we wi’ sickness in the house that’s like to be death afore the mornin’. For sure as ever Ned sees yer face an’ that great lout you’ve brought in wi’ ye, ’twill scare the life breath out on ’m. An’ ’tis more nor that scrap o’ paper you’ll be needin’ then to make yer peace, wi’ murder on yer soul.”
“Come, old lady, none of that gammon; it’s too good for us. Don’t we know that your daughter has been married this very day, and that you was a-keepin’ the weddin’ wi’ a fiddle and dancin’ till half-an-hour ago? Besides, there’s a strong suspicion that some of the copper we’re a-lookin’ for is to be found in this here house—and perhaps that’s why you shut up so sharp, hearin’ that we were comin’ along to have a look at ye.”
But when the search elsewhere was ended, and the door of Arabella’s room had been opened to admit them, Mrs. Bond enjoyed a short-lived triumph. Not the most strenuous of officials, urged by the strongest sense of duty, but would have paused in the presence of what looked like death.
“No, ma’am—though thank you kindly—we’ll not intrude. We’ve done our duty, an’ the law itself can’t call on us for more. An’ you’ll look after that lad of yourn, Mrs. Bond; you’ll excuse me for sayin’ it. ’Tis close on death he looks, though glad I’d be to be mistaken. An’ if so be ’twill ease your mind, I’ll make time to go an’ fetch the doctor for ye afore as ever I goes home to-night.”
But in the bedroom upstairs, as the steps of the officers were heard retreating down the street, the bride was saying: “Up wi’ you, Ned! You’ll be glad, I allow, that I be come to release you. ’Tain’t becomin’ no wise that a bridegroom on the night of his weddin’ should be lyin’ all stark an’ streaked like a corpse. Not but what you look finer and grander-like than ever you’ll do in life agin. Up wi’ you, man, though I be most sorry, that I be, to untie ye.”
But no voice or sound made answer from the bed. Only the jaw had fallen, and the eyes stared full on the speaker, and the silence of death—death itself—was in the room. Fear and excitement had done their work on an enfeebled heart, and Ned had crossed the narrow borderland—the “space between the spears” the ancients called it—which separates God’s great twin armies, the living and the dead.
The villagers will tell you that Death came to him in anger, because of the jest that travestied his grim prerogative. Rather, I think, it was in pity for the lad, and to save him from disillusions sadder still, that