The Trespasser | Page 4

a knife. She
blinked at her husband, and then at the strangers.
"What be askin' o' the Court?!" she said. Her husband repeated the
question.
She gathered her apron to her eyes with an unctuous sob:
"Doan't a' know when Maister Robert went! He comes, i' the house 'ere
and says, 'Becky, gie us a taste o' the red-top-and where's Jock?' He was
always thinkin' a deal o' my son Jock. 'Jock be gone,' I says, 'and I
knows nowt o' his comin' back'--meanin', I was, that day. 'Good for
Jock!' says he, 'and I'm goin' too, Becky, and I knows nowt o' my
comin' back.' 'Where be goin', Maister Robert?' I says. 'To hell, Becky,'
says he, and he laughs. 'From hell to hell. I'm sick to my teeth o' one,
I'll try t'other'--a way like that speaks he."
Belward was impatient, and to hurry the story he made as if to start on.
Becky, seeing, hastened. "Dear a' dear! The red-top were afore him,

and I tryin' to make what become to him. He throws arm 'round me,
smacks me on the cheek, and says he: 'Tell Jock to keep the mare,
Becky.' Then he flings away, and never more comes back to the Court.
And that day one year my Jock smacks me on the cheek, and gets on
the mare; and when I ask: 'Where be goin'?' he says: 'For a hunt i' hell
wi' Maister Robert, mother.' And from that day come back he never did,
nor any word. There was trouble wi' the lad-wi' him and Maister Robert
at the Court; but I never knowed nowt o' the truth. And it's
seven-and-twenty years since Maister Robert went."
Gaston leaned over his horse's neck, and thrust a piece of silver into the
woman's hands.
"Take that, Becky Lawson, and mop your eyes no more."
She gaped.
"How dost know my name is Becky Lawson? I havena been ca'd so
these three-and-twenty years--not since a' married good man here, and
put Jock's faither in 's grave yander."
"The devil told me," he answered, with a strange laugh, and, spurring,
they were quickly out of sight. They rode for a couple of miles without
speaking. Jacques knew his master, and did not break the silence.
Presently they came over a hill, and down upon a little bridge. Belward
drew rein, and looked up the valley. About two miles beyond the roofs
and turrets of the Court showed above the trees. A whimsical smile
came to his lips.
"Brillon," he said, "I'm in sight of home."
The half-breed cocked his head. It was the first time that Belward had
called him "Brillon"--he had ever been "Jacques." This was to be a part
of the new life. They were not now hunting elk, riding to "wipe out" a
camp of Indians or navvies, dining the owner of a rancho or a
deputation from a prairie constituency in search of a member, nor yet
with a senator at Washington, who served tea with canvas-back duck
and tooth-picks with dessert. Once before had Jacques seen this new

manner--when Belward visited Parliament House at Ottawa, and was
presented to some notable English people, visitors to Canada. It had
come to these notable folk that Mr. Gaston Belward had relations at
Ridley Court, and that of itself was enough to command courtesy. But
presently, they who would be gracious for the family's sake, were
gracious for the man's. He had that which compelled interest--a
suggestive, personal, distinguished air. Jacques knew his master better
than any one else knew him; and yet he knew little, for Belward was of
those who seem to give much confidence, and yet give little--never
more than he wished.
"Yes, monsieur, in sight of home," Jacques replied, with a dry cadence.
"Say 'sir,' not 'monsieur,' Brillon; and from the time we enter the Court
yonder, look every day and every hour as you did when the judge asked
you who killed Tom Daly."
Jacques winced, but nodded his head. Belward continued:
"What you hear me tell is what you can speak of; otherwise you are
blind and dumb. You understand?" Jacques's face was sombre, but he
said quickly: "Yes--sir."
He straightened himself on his horse, as if to put himself into discipline
at once--as lead to the back of a racer.
Belward read the look. He drew his horse close up. Then he ran an arm
over the other's shoulder.
"See here, Jacques. This is a game that's got to be played up to the hilt.
A cat has nine lives, and most men have two. We have. Now listen.
You never knew me mess things, did you? Well, I play for keeps in this;
no monkeying. I've had the life of Ur of the Chaldees; now for Babylon.
I've lodged