Little remained to be done. That day she had paid her eighteenth visit to the spot where Thorpe fell; and, for the first time since the beginning of the search, the girl believed herself rewarded. Most laborious and faithful had been her scrutiny. She told herself that to leave a twig unturned might be to lose the chance of re-establishing her husband’s good repute. She toiled with a patience only possible to a woman; and now, while but three or four more yards remained to be searched, a significant fragment came to the light. Yet it was not near the spot where Daniel’s gun had been discovered. That tract, despite a survey microscopical in its minuteness, yielded her nothing but a flake of flint. The arrow-head, for such it was, had told an antiquary of some Danmonian warrior from neolithic days; but to Minnie Sweetland it meant nothing, and she threw it aside without interest. Then, where Matthew Sweetland had suffered his cruel beating, the searcher came upon a yellow horn button. It reminded her instantly of Sim’s leathern gaiters, and she stood silent in the peace of the woods and stared before her. Thus it seemed that her husband’s closest, dearest friend was identified with the spot of the murder. But even in the flush of discovery the young woman perceived how slight and vain was such a clue unsupported. If the button was Titus Sim’s, it proved nothing against him, since all men knew that he had been early on the scene of the fray. But her heart leapt, though her head warned it, and she left the forest full of hope renewed.
Returning from this discovery, Minnie met Sim. Then they pulled up their horses and spoke together.
“I do wish you’d come down off the Moor to live, Mrs Sweetland. ’Tis much too cold and lonely for a female upalong these winter days.”
“I like it. ’Tis a stern life an’ keeps a body patient. You’ve got to fight a bit wi’ nature. It makes a woman brave to have to do that. Last night the foxes got to my fowels an’ killed three of ’em.”
“I’m sorry, indeed!”
“’Twill larn me to be wiser.”
“To think what it is to be a few miles nearer the sun! At least, I suppose ’tis that. They’ve heard from Mr Henry. Sir Reginald was reading out a lot of his letter at luncheon to-day. Such a place as that Tobago be! All palm-trees, and lofty mountains, and flowers, and birds and butterflies, and sweltering sunshine, and niggers, and cocoanuts and sugar-cane. A different world, if words mean anything. Mr Henry has a pretty pen seemingly. I wish to God I’d been educated and could write so easy and flowing. As to the overseer of the estates, I didn’t hear about that. ’Twas only a bit here and there Sir Reginald read out to her ladyship.”
“Have they heard anything ’bout the pheasant thieves?”
“Not a syllable. Drunkard Parkinson swears on his oath he had no hand in it, though for my part I suspect him. And what d’you think? Matthew Sweetland was at me only yesterday to throw up my indoor work and turn keeper again! He knows I understand the work almost so well as Dan himself did. But I’ve got my ideas. It all depends on—on other parties what I do. I’ve told the old man that he must wait for my answer till next Midsummer-day.”
“He’s always praising you an’ wishing how my Daniel had been more like you.”