After this direct statement, Chaskin and Mexton felt there was no more to be said.
CHAPTER VIII.
[IN THE WINDING LANE.]
Between the common and the village there extended a fairly broad belt of trees which sprang from a deep-red soil, apparently volcanic in its origin. Through this wood there ran a narrow road in many a curve, purposely made tortuous so as to prolong the pleasure of walking under the shade of leafy boughs in the hot days of summer. From its formation this pathway--for it was little else--was called the Winding Lane, and at either end there was a stile shutting it in, so that no vehicles or horses could pass, but had to gain the common or village by the broad high road which skirted the town. Along the lane seats were placed for the convenience of passers-by, and in the long summer twilights the youths and maidens of Barnstead were accustomed to rest thereon and exchange love talk. Most of the marriages among the peasantry rose from meetings and promises in the Winding Lane.
But as yet there had been no tragedy in this pleasant pathway, and it was with feelings of consternation that the villagers heard of the Lester murder. Henceforth tradition and imagination and winter tales would invest the spot with ghostly interest. Already the lovers of the village declared that nothing would induce them to seek the lane after twilight, lest they should meet the spectre of the murdered girl. And this when the tragedy had been enacted only a few hours! Think, then, how such a statement would grow into an established belief when the circumstances of the death became sanctified by time!
Chaskin led his two companions through the wood, until he paused close beside the stile which barred the lane at that end from the common. Several rustics were examining the spot with eager interest; but on seeing squire and vicar they made speed to leave the lane before their arrival, lest they should be reproved for morbid curiosity. One heavy ploughman, however, was slow in going, and before he could hasten out of earshot, Herne called on him to wait. This the yokel did unwillingly enough, and looked rather afraid when the squire addressed him directly.
"Brent," said Herne, while his companions waited in wonder to know why he had stopped the man, "were you in the lane last night?"
"Ees, squire, I be," replied Brent, sheepishly.
"About what time?"
"Arter church, Squoire; between eight and nine."