The Adventures of Tom Leigh (15 page)

“He looks to have a fever,” observed Mr. Gledhill. “His cheeks are scarlet.”

“That may come from guilt and shame,” said Mr. Swain.

“No!” I cried.

But Sir Henry nodded sternly to me to go.

I stumbled out. Harry and Robert were waiting for me beyond the door, indeed I think they had been listening to what went on before Sir Henry. They helped me upstairs and put me to bed in a pleasant small chamber next to Harry's, and Robert lighted a fire and fetched a hot warmingpan for the bed, while Harry helped me out of my clothes, gently and carefully.

But I could hardly mumble a word of thanks; I hung my head and my voice choked in my throat; my heart was almost broken to know that a Justice of the Peace, a Constable and an Overseer, all men of high repute, doubted my word.

Mr. Swain was wrong in thinking that I coloured with shame, but Mr. Gledhill was right in guessing that my flushed face might spring from fever. Whether it was from my broken arm, or the beating from Jeremy, or my headlong rush down the hill, or the drink of wine, to which I myself ascribed it, or whether it sprang from my mind's torment, I do not know; but that very night I fell into a high fever, and dreamed and raved till, Robert said, it was pitiful to hear me.

I saw Jeremy's face black with fury, coming closer and closer, till I screamed that he should not touch me, and then the pedlar laughing and twitching his eyebrows sardonically, and then cloth rippling off the tenters to the ground. This last seemed to distress me most, said Robert who had the task of watching beside me; I continually cried out about cloth and tenters and Mr. Firth, and then sat up in bed and said very seriously: “I must stop the thieves,” and made to throw aside the bedclothes and struggled vehemently when Robert pressed me back into the pillows. Sir Henry, I am told, came often to look at me and perhaps my ravings helped to support my innocence in his mind, I do not know. Of all this time I am ignorant, save that this confused medley of tenters and faces seemed to roll around in my aching head for a long, long time, and then it seemed to fade a little and move less rapidly, and then it ceased and everything was blank, and then I heard a heavy sigh, and I opened my eyes, and there sitting at my bedside was Mr. Firth. His round pleasant face was quite long and heavy.

“Oh, Mr. Firth,” I said at once: “How glad I am to see you!”

His face brightened.

“Why, Tom!” he said. “Hast come to thy senses, lad? Art not about to die, after all?”

“I don't want to die, Mr. Firth,” I said weakly, for indeed I did not know whether I had the strength to stay alive.

“That's a good lad, Tom!” said Mr. Firth heartily.

“When can I come back to Upper High Royd, master?”

“When you are well enough.”

“Can I come back today?”

“You are not fit, Tom.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Tom,” said Mr. Firth uneasily, “Sir Henry, I fear—that is, I fear—I fear he will not let you go.”

“Not let me go!”

“You see, Tom, there has been such a to-do about this affair. All Barseland is in a lather about it—nay, the whole parish of Halifax! They talk about it day and night!
You
accuse Jeremy and the pedlar, and
they
accuse
you
, and folk are taking sides. Some blame Sir Henry for putting Jeremy and the pedlar into gaol, you know, and say it is a good thing you are here under lock and key; if he were to let you go, there would be a great outcry. My stolen cloth cannot be found, you see, though it's been looked for high and low; and yet, Jeremy and the pedlar did not leave Barseland that night after the robbery.”

“But was not the pedlar's message to Mrs. Firth, from her father, false?” I asked, astounded.

“Aye, it was—in a way. When we reached Clough End Mr. Sykes had gone to Huddersfield that morning and had not yet returned. We came straight home.”

“The pedlar's message was false, then—a decoy. To get you and Mrs. Firth out of the house. Surely that proves they meant to rob you!”

“Why, you see,” said Mr. Firth uncomfortably, “Mr. Sykes is a man who often has a touch of discomfort in his
digestion, and being the most important man in the place, he is much talked about, and the pedlar says he heard of Mr. Sykes' illness only in an inn, it was not a message, he says; my wife just chose to take it so.”

I groaned.

“And then, you see, Tom,” continued Mr. Firth, “you remember you said Mr. Defoe had seen the pedlar and Jeremy together one night shortly before the robbery, in the Rose and Crown in Halifax? Well, Sir Henry wrote to Mr. Defoe in London.”

“But what difference would that make?” I asked.

“It would be conspiracy, you see, if they planned it beforehand. Besides, they'd denied knowing each other until that day. Well, for long enough Sir Henry had no answer, and Barseland folk began to wonder—”

“Whether I had lied,” I said bitterly.

“Well, they began to wonder. But now, Tom, you may take heart. Today a letter has come from Mr. Defoe, and it's a proper deposition, like, a statement made on oath before magistrates. Three men he saw together, he says; Jeremy who he saw with you next day, a pedlar in red stockings, and a man lightly scarred by smallpox.”

“Who would that be, I wonder?”

“Aye, who? That's what we'd all like to know. Especially me, for he's the one, mark my words, that's got my cloth. But some folk, you see, Tom, think he doesn't exist at all, just something Mr. Defoe made up out of whole cloth, as we say. Mr. Defoe has been in prison, you know, Tom, and even in the pillory, for writing pamphlets against the government. Of course that's a long time past now, but you can understand how folk feel. But see, Tom, there's a letter come for you from Mr. Defoe. I've brought it down for you, that's why I've come; here it is, come all the way from London. It's an honour for you, lad—happen,” he added doubtfully.

It was indeed an honour, I thought, taking the double-folded paper in my hand, for a poorhouse boy accused of theft to receive a letter from the great Mr. Defoe. I own I
found difficulty in reading it, for though the hand was clear and bold, I had never read writing sloping in that way before—indeed I had never seen a handwritten letter before at all. However, I went at it slowly and carefully, and by degrees made it out. It was addressed to Master Thomas Leigh, at the house of Mr. Stephen Firth, Upper High Royd, Barseland, Halifax, Yorkshire. I broke the seal, my fingers trembling with excitement. When I had gone through it twice, I offered it to Mr. Firth.

“Read it to me, Tom,” said he.

I read it aloud, thus:

Master Thomas Leigh
.

Dear Tom
,

I have received from Sir Henry Norton, an estimable magistrate of the Halifax neighbourhood, an account of your statement of the stealing of the cloth from your master's tenters, witnessed by you, and your courageous attempt to halt the thieves in their nefarious purpose. I have sent to Sir Henry a sworn deposition, to wit that I saw a pedlar with scarlet stockings in close conversation with the man whom you next day introduced to me as Jeremy Oldfield and another man whose face appeared to be pocked as with smallpox, on a certain night in the Rose and Crown Inn, Halifax. Their discourse together appeared to me not altogether friendly, but presently they seemed to reach an agreement and money passed between them, the pock-marked man being the donor and the other the recipients
.

As I remember with gratitude your excellent description of the conduct of the textile trade, which is of assistance to me in preparing my forthcoming TOUR THROUGH ENGLAND AND WALES, and as I have had much experience of Courts and Trials, I take it upon me to offer some advice. First, urge your master and the Constable of Barseland to make every effort to discover the stolen cloth, for if this can be found and traced to the thieves, their guilt will be established beyond all doubt. Secondly, write down carefully in advance of the trial the statement
which you wish to make to the Court, and arrange all its particulars in good order, so that one leads on rationally to the next. To give evidence in a Court of Assize before a Judge is an experience which may try the boldest spirit, and though I have every confidence in your courage, my dear Tom, you are young in years and may be caused much uneasiness by the examining Counsel
.

Your true friend
,

Daniel Defoe
.

I felt cheered and heartened as I read. But Mr. Firth seemed not so deeply impressed.

“Where does it get us after all, Tom?” said he.

“You do not believe me, Mr. Firth,” said I with great bitterness.

“Why, I
want
to believe you, Tom,” said he, hesitating. “As for that accursed Jeremy, I wish he had never crossed my doorstep. Though he's a good weaver. But Mrs. Firth, you see—”He broke off, then gave a smile. “There is one at Upper High Royd who believes in you, choose how. Gracie has been baking for you, though I told her you would not be able to eat her wares.”

He gestured with his hand to the table at my bedside, where a small round golden cake, with plums in, stood on a plate. Something in its size and colour reminded me of little Gracie, and being weak as I was, I found tears in my eyes.

“Thank her from me with all my heart,” I said, speaking as strongly as I could. “I shall try to deserve her trust. I shall eat the cake tomorrow. Was Sandy hurt? I fear Jeremy threw him very roughly aside.”

“Not a whit,” said Mr. Firth in a more cheerful tone. “He was fretful about a hind paw for a day or two, but has forgotten it now. Cats, Tom, have very supple bodies.” He rose and made to leave me. “As for believing in you, Tom,” he said, hesitating at the door. “I should not bring a cake from Gracie to you, lad, if I—on the other hand—”

“Mrs. Firth was vexed,” said I.

He gave a kind of snort and went out.

I lay for a long time in misery, for I saw well enough how I was distrusted—Jeremy was a West Riding man, and though the pedlar was a Londoner, they were used to his bland way of speech; I was a stranger and a poorhouse brat. I had thought I had acted well at the tenters and might even be commended, so to find myself a suspected thief was almost more than I could bear. As the dusk descended my spirit grew dark too.

Then suddenly Harry came bouncing in, with Robert carrying lights.

“Helloa, Tom! I hear you have come to your senses,” he cried cheerfully. “I am heartily glad of it. Why, here is a cake asking to be eaten,” he cried, stretching out his hand towards the dish.

“It is a gift to me from Mr. Firth's little girl,” said I in a hurry.

Harry, hearing the feeling in my tone, at once with true courtesy drew back his hand from the cake and changed the subject.

“You are quite yourself, Tom. Hear me my lessons,” he urged—knowing, I expect, that he complimented me by this. “Robert, fetch the pile of books from my chamber.” He threw himself down at the foot of my bed, and when the man had gone out said quickly: “You are sad, Tom. I hear Mr. Firth has been to see you. Courage, man! You have done no wrong. Right will triumph. The cloth will be found and traced to that pair of scoundrels.”

“I wish I knew where to look,” said I.

“You must think. It's useless for me to think on the matter for I know nothing of cloth. Thanks, Robert; put them on the bed.”

“I cannot hear your Latin, Harry, for I know none.”

“Let it be geography, then,” said Harry. “Take this atlas, see, and hear me the rivers, capes and principal towns of Yorkshire.”

I had never held an atlas, or seen maps close at hand before this, so I was somewhat perplexed. Harry leaned over to show me the big map of Yorkshire—each county spreading over two pages—and he pointed out to me Halifax, and the tiny circle of Barseland, and several other towns, with rivers winding, and little rows of peaked mountains. He was thus asprawl when Sir Henry came in upon us, and Sir Henry was not pleased. He told Harry rather sharply that it was dinner time and he must come downstairs; Harry perforce began to collect his books.

“Sir Henry,” I said, sitting up and speaking respectfully: “I wish I could go to see Mr. Gledhill tomorrow morning.”

“Why?” said Sir Henry in his sharp tone.

“I have something to tell him.”

“Why not tell it to me?”

“Mr. Gledhill knows all about cloth, father,” said Harry.

Sir Henry frowned. “Well, that is true,” he said. “Robert shall take you. If you have anything to say which may clear up this matter of the stolen cloth, you may tell it to Mr. Gledhill, seeing he is the Constable of Barseland.”

“I saw Jeremy and the pedlar tearing off the cloth,” said I firmly.

Sir Henry compressed his lips and went away, his hand on Harry's shoulder. I heard Robert lock the door behind them, and first I grieved and then I raged, and then I grew coldly calm and planned what I should say to Mr. Gledhill. For a thought had come to me from Harry's maps, and if it should prove correct, then the whole mystery was solved.

I was still very weak next day, and had to cling to Robert's arm, but we reached Mr. Gledhill's house at last after resting by the roadside. The house, High Royd by name, was larger than Mr. Firth's, with three gables and rounded stones topping the gate-posts and a very big barn. And when the door was opened to us we found it very busy: three looms going upstairs, Mrs. Gledhill (I suppose) and a Couple of maids baking, Mr. Gledhill sitting at his accounts, and several men and lads moving about on textile errands.
Mr. Gledhill came to us somewhat flushed; his usual quiet serious look was in abeyance.

“Well, Tom Leigh?” he said. “Sir Henry's set you loose, has he? Not before time.”

“No, sir. I wish to speak to you in private.”

Mr. Gledhill looked around; every corner seemed filled.