He took her in his arms and was gathering her to him when suddenly he stopped. He pushed her aside and strode quickly forward. Ellah was looking, stupid and fascinated, at his bleeding hands, holding them away from him, and Monjoy took him by one leg and shoulder. He threw him as he would have thrown a sack, and the deaf man pitched shoulder first into the teazels and his legs came up and over in a curve. It was near the edge of the patch, and at the next turn his body took the slippery grass. He disappeared over the rounded edge. It seemed minutes before he reappeared, and then he was so far below that he seemed no more than a stone bounding down the hillside. Again he disappeared, and Monjoy sought Cicely. He found her huddled under an ash.
“Rest awhile, love,” he muttered, “and then come with me. I’ll get a bite and sup—I’ll not sit down—and then I’ll take you to Horwick. Let me do up your hair.... You haven’t kissed your husband yet.... Yes, yes, hush! I’ll get you to Horwick now. You should have told me....”
He talked gently, without intermission, not questioning her; then he took her basket and put his arm about her. They kept the upper edge of the teazels, and he supported her down a sheep-track. Her father’s house was empty. He took a gulp of water and ate a crust of bread while she tremblingly made herself ready; and then, his arm again about her, they descended the street.
CHAPTER VIII.
CRUDELITAS.
EVEN the occasional airs that strayed on the hills did not touch Horwick Town, which lay sweltering. Orders had gone forth from the constables that water was to be used with economy, and garbage cooked in the unswilled kennels. Dogs were kept on the chain for fear of rabies; roof-chambers became stoves, bull’s-eye windows burning-glasses; dust rose heavily when it was stirred, and fell again in the same place; duckponds were basins of cracked earth; the very blue of the sky had paled before the devouring sun.
The blinds of John Emmason’s dining-room were drawn, and the magistrate had knotted the four corners of a handkerchief over his head; it gave a tipsy appearance to his solemn horse-face. Again Moon and Eastwood had called on him, and Eastwood had removed his neckband, while from the merchant’s nose the skin had peeled like a flowering grass. The magistrate’s hand held an official document, and his manner was unusually humble.
“And you don’t know what it consists of?” Moon said, breaking a long and brooding silence.
“No,” the magistrate replied; “he only says, ‘New evidence, calling for a fresh trial.’ Here’s his letter: ‘William Chamberlayne, Solicitor to His Majesty’s Mint, and also the Solicitor for the Crown’—hum, hum—‘make oath and declare that a fresh discovery is likely soon to be made which will furnish the Crown with sure and certain evidence’—hum, hum, and so forth. No, I don’t know what it is.”
“What d’ye think it is?” Moon demanded.
“Ah, Matthew, it is not always expedient to tell all you think——”