Lady Good-for-Nothing: A Man's Portrait of a Woman

  Chapter IX.

  THE SCOURGE.

  Next morning, at ten o'clock, the Collector's coach-and-six stood at theInn gate, harnessed up and ready for the return journey. In theroad-way beyond one of the grooms waited with a hand on Bayard's bridle.

  The Collector, booted and spurred, with riding-whip tucked under hisarm, came up the pebbled pathway, drawing on his gauntleted gloves.Dicky trotted beside him. Manasseh followed in attendance. Behind themin the porchway the landlady bobbed unregarded, like a piece ofclockwork gradually running down.

  "Hey!" The Collector, as he reached the gate, lifted his chin sharply--threw up his head as a finely bred animal scents battle or danger."What's this? A riot, up the street?"

  The grooms could not tell him, for the sound had reached their ears buta second or two before the question; a dull confused murmur out ofwhich, as it increased to a clamour and drew nearer, sharper outcriesdetached themselves, and the shrill voices of women. A procession hadturned the corner of the head of the avenue--a booing, howling rabble.

  The Collector stepped to his horse's rein, flung himself into saddle,and rode forward at a foot's pace to meet the tumult.

  Suddenly his hand tightened on the rein, and Bayard came to a halt; buthis master did not perceive this. The hand's movement had been nervous,involuntary. He sat erect--stood, rather, from the stirrup--his nostrildilated, his brain scarcely believing what his eyes saw.

  "The swine!" he said slowly, to himself. His teeth were shut and thewords inaudible. "The swine!" he repeated.

  Men have done, in the name of religion and not so long ago--indeed areperhaps doing now and daily--deeds so vile that mere decency cannot facedescribing them. It is a question if mere decency (by which I mean thegood instinct of civilised man) will not in the end purge faith clean ofreligion; if, while men dispute and hate and inflict cruelty forreligion, they are not all the while outgrowing it. Libraries, forexample, are written to prove that unbaptized infants come out ofdarkness to draw a fleeting breath or two and pass to hell-fire; thedispute occupies men for generations--and lo! one day the world finds ithas no use for any such question. Time--no thanks to the theologians--has educated it, and this thing at any rate it would no longer believeif it could, as it certainly cannot. Faith never yet has burnt man orwoman at the stake. Religion has burnt its tens of thousands.

  Behind the first two or three ranks of the mob--an exultant mob of grownmen, grown women, and (worst of all) little children--plodded a greyhorse, drawing a cart. Behind the cart, bound to it, with a thong tightabout her fire-scorched wrists--But no; it is not to be written.

  They had stripped her to the waist, and then for decency--_their_decency!--had thrown a jacket of coarse sacking over her, lacing itloosely in front with pack-thread. But, because their work required it,this garment had been gathered up into a rope at the neck, whence itdangled in folds over her young breast.

  She walked with wide eyes, uttering no sound. She alone of that crowduttered no sound. A brute with a bandaged jaw walked close behind her.Oliver Vyell saw his forearm swing up--saw the scourge whirl in hisfist--met the girl's eyes. . . . She, meeting his, let escape thefirst and last cry she uttered that day. He could have sworn thather face was scarlet; but no, he was wrong; while he looked he sawhis mistake-she was white as death. Then with that one pitiful cryshe sank among the close-pressing crowd; but her hands, by the cord'sconstraint, still lifted themselves as might a drowning swimmer's;and the grey horse--the one other innocent creature in thatprocession--plodded forward, dragging her now senseless body at thecart's tail.

  "You swine!"

  It does a man good sometimes to get in his blow. It did Oliver Vyellgood, riding in, to slash twice crosswise on the brute's bandaged face;to feel the whalebone bite and then, as he swung out of saddle, to ramfist and whip-butt together on the ugly mouth, driving in itsfore-teeth.

  "Stop the horse, some one!" he commanded, as the Beadle reeled back."She has fainted." He added, "The first man that interferes, I shoot."

  The crowd growled. He turned on the nearest mutterer--"Your knife!"The fellow handed it; so promptly, he might have been holding it readyto proffer. The Collector stooped and cut the thongs. This done, hestood up and saw the Beadle advancing again, snarling through thebloody gap in his mouth.

  "You had best take that man away," said the Collector quietly, pullingout his small pistol. "If you don't, I am going to kill him."They heard and saw that he meant it. He added in the same tone,"I am going to take all responsibility for this. Will you make way,please?"

  His first intention was to lift the body lying unconscious in theroadway, carry it to the coach and drive out of Port Nassau with it,defying the law to interfere. For the moment he "saw red," as we saynowadays, and was quite capable of shooting down, or bidding hisservants shoot down, any man who offered to hinder. It is even possiblethat had he acted straightway upon the impulse, he might, with hismomentary mastery of the mob, have won clean away; possible, but by nomeans likely, for already a couple of constables were pushing forward tosupport the Beadle, and half a dozen broad-shouldered fellows--haters of"prerogative"--had recovered themselves and were ranging up to supportthe law. Had he noted this, it would not have daunted him. What henoted, and what gave him pause, was the girl's white back at his feet,upturning its hideous weals. He stooped to lift her, and drew back,shivering delicately at the thought of hurting the torn flesh in hisarms--a vain scruple, since she had passed for the moment beyond pain.He picked up the scourge, and stood erect again, crushing it into hispocket.

  "Will you make way, please," he ordered, "while I fetch a cover to hideyour blasted handiwork?"

  He strode through them, and they fell back to give him passage.He walked straight to the coach, pulled the door open, and, in the actof dragging forth a rug, caught sight of Dicky's small, scared face.

  "Oh papa, what has happened?"

  "An accident, child. Jump inside; I will explain by-and-by."

  "Begging your Honour's pardon"--a heavy-featured fellow, who hadfollowed the Collector to the coach, put out a hand and touched thechild's shoulder--"I don't hold in whipping maidens, and if it's a fightI'm with you. But you can't carry her out of it, the way you'remeaning. They've seen blood, same as yourself. This child of yours--hestands as much chance to be hurt as any, if you push it. Your Honour'llhave to find some other way."

  The Collector glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the man spoketruth.

  "Dicky," he said easily, but in a voice the child durst not disobey,"there has been an accident. Go you down and amuse yourself on thesands till Manasseh calls you."

  He walked back coolly, carrying the rug on his arm.

  "Where was she to be taken?" he asked.

  "To the stocks!" answered a voice or two. "To the Court-house!" saidothers.

  "It's the same thing," said the heavy-browed man, at the Collector'selbow. "The stocks are just across the square from the Court-house.You'll find the magistrates there; they're the ones to face. They tookher case first this morning, and this is the first part of hersentence."

  Oliver Vyell walked back to the crowd. It was--a glance assured him--more hostile than before; had recovered from its surprise, and wasmenacing. But it gave way again before him.

  He called on them to give more room. He stooped and, spreading the rugover the girl's body, lifted and laid her in the straw of the cart.A constable would have interfered. The Collector swung round on him.

  "You are taking her back to the Court-house? Well, I have businessthere too. Where is your Court-house?"

  The constable pointed.

  "Up the road? I am obliged to you. Drive on, if you please."