The Queens Cup | Page 7

I ever saw a more likely lot."
It was dark when George returned. On his way home he took a path that
passed near the house whence he had turned away so angrily a few
hours before. It was not the nearest way, but somehow he always took
it, even at hours when there was no chance of his getting the most
distant sight of Martha.
Presently he stopped suddenly, for from behind the wall that bounded
the kitchen garden of the farm he heard voices. A man was speaking.
"You must make your choice at once, darling, for as I have told you I
am off tomorrow. We will be married as soon as we get there, and you
know you cannot stop here."
"I know I can't," Martha's voice replied, "but how can I leave?"
"They will forgive you when you come back a lady," he said. "It will be
a year at least before I return, and--"
George could restrain himself no longer. A furious exclamation broke
from his lips, and he made a desperate attempt to climb the wall, which
was, however, too high. When, after two or three unsuccessful attempts,
he paused for a moment, all was silent in the garden.
"I will tackle her tomorrow," he said grimly, "and him, too. But I dare
not go in now. Bennett has always been a good friend to me, and so has
his wife, and it would half kill them were they to know what I have
heard; but as for her and that villain--"
George's mouth closed in grim determination, and he strolled on home

through the darkness. Whatever his resolutions may have been, he
found no opportunity of carrying them out, for the next morning he
heard that Martha Bennett had disappeared. How or why, no one knew.
She had been missing since tea time on the previous afternoon. She had
taken nothing with her, and the farmer and his two sons were searching
all the neighbourhood for some sign of her.
The police of Stroud came over in the afternoon, and took up the
investigation. The general opinion was that she must have been
murdered, and every pond was dragged, every ditch examined, for a
distance round the farm. In the meantime George Lechmere held his
tongue.
"It is better," he said to himself, "that her parents and friends should
think her dead than know the truth."
He seldom spoke to anyone, but went doggedly about his work. His
father and mother, knowing how passionately he had been attached to
Martha, were not surprised at his strange demeanour, though they
wondered that he took no part in the search for her.
They had their trouble, too, for although they never breathed a word of
their thoughts even to each other, there was, deep down in their hearts,
a fear that George knew something of the girl's disappearance. His
intense jealousy had been a source of grief and trouble to them.
Previous to his engagement to Martha he had been everything they
could have wished him. He had been the best of sons, the steadiest of
workers, and a general favourite from his willingness to oblige, his
cheerfulness and good temper.
His jealousy, as a child, had been a source of trouble. Any gift, any
little treat, for his younger brothers, in which he had not fully shared,
had been the occasion for a violent outburst of temper, never exhibited
by him at any other time, and this feeling had again shown itself as
soon as he had singled out Martha as the object of his attentions.
They had remarked a strangeness in his manner when he had returned
home that night, and, remembering the past, each entertained a secret

dread that there had been some more violent quarrel than usual between
him and Martha, and that in his mad passion he had killed her.
It was, then, with a feeling almost of relief that a month after her
disappearance he briefly announced his intention of leaving the farm
and enlisting in the army. His mother looked in dumb misery at her
husband, who only said gravely:
"Well, lad, you are old enough to make your own choice. Things have
changed for you of late, and maybe it is as well that you should make a
change, too. You have been a good son, and I shall miss you sorely; but
John is taking after you, and presently he will make up for your loss."
"I am sorry to go, father, but I feel that I cannot stay here."
"If you feel that it is best that you should go, George, I shall say no
word to hinder you," and then his wife was sure that the fear she felt
was shared by her husband.
The