The Postmasters Daughter | Page 4

master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on
the strip of gravel so that it lay clear of the water.
"I mum fetch t' polis," he said.
The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into

a species of comprehension.
"Yes," he agreed, speaking slowly, as though striving to measure the
effect of each word. "Yes, go for the police, Bates. This foul crime
must be inquired into, no matter who suffers. Go now. But first bring a
rug from the stable. You understand? Your wife, or Minnie, must not
be told till later. They must not see. Mrs. Bates is not so well to-day."
"Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick 'un!"
Bates was recovering from the shock, and prepared once more to take
an interest in the minor features of existence. Among these he counted
ability to eat as a sure sign of continued well-being in man or beast.
Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise.
"I hardly know what I am saying," he muttered. "At any rate, bring a
rug. I'll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There can be
no doubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead."
"Dead as a stone," said Bates with conviction. "Why, her's bin in there
hours," and he nodded toward the water. "Besides, if I knows anythink
of a crack on t'head, her wur outed before she went into t'river.... But
who i' t'world can she be?"
"If you don't fetch that rug I'll go for it myself," said Grant, whereupon
Bates made off.
He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him to
spread over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking a
path that avoided the house.
The lawn and river bank of The Hollies could only be overlooked from
the steep wooded cliff opposite, and none but an adventurous boy
would ever think of climbing down that almost impassable rampart of
rock, brushwood, and tree-roots. At any rate, when left alone with the
ghastly evidence of a tragedy, Grant troubled only to satisfy himself
that no one was watching from the house. Assured on that point, he

lifted a corner of the rug, and, apparently, forced himself to scrutinize
the dead woman's face. He seemed to search therein for some
reassuring token, but found none, because he shook his head, dropped
the rug, and walked a few paces dejectedly.
Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but had
hardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco.
Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and
the outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and
undecided aspect.
More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which
had drawn his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet.
But, if he hoped to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the
event, it proved that his real fear was lest the person he half expected to
see should look out.
He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river; birds
sang in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to rock in
the shallows; honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in the
postmaster's garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a June
morning--that which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror
lay hidden beneath the carriage rug.
To and fro he walked in that trying vigil, carrying the empty pipe in
one hand while, with the other, he dabbed the handkerchief at the cut
on his face. He was aware of some singular change in the quality of the
sunlight pouring down on lawn and river and trees. Five minutes earlier
it had spread over the landscape a golden bloom of the tint of
champagne; now it was sharp and cold, a clear, penetrating radiance in
which colors were vivid and shadows black. He was in no mood to
analyze emotions, or he might have understood that the fierce
throbbing of his heart had literally thinned the blood in his veins and
thus affected even his sight. He only knew that in this crystal
atmosphere the major issues of life presented themselves with a new
and crude force. At any rate, he made up his mind that the course
suggested by truth and honor was the only one to follow, and that, in

itself, was something gained.
By the time Bates returned, accompanied by the village policeman, and
two other men carrying a stretcher, Grant was calmer, more
self-contained, than he had been since that hapless body was dragged
from the depths. He was not irresponsive, therefore, to the aura of
official