In the fading light of a close dull autumn afternoon Martin Stoner
plodded his way along muddy lanes and rut-seamed cart tracks that
led he knew not exactly whither. Somewhere in front of him, he
fancied, lay the sea, and towards the sea his footsteps seemed
persistently turning; why he was struggling wearily forward to
that goal he could scarcely have explained, unless he was
possessed by the same instinct that turns a hard-pressed stag
cliffward in its last extremity. In his case the hounds of Fate
were certainly pressing him with unrelenting insistence; hunger,
fatigue, and despairing hopelessness had numbed his brain, and he
could scarcely summon sufficient energy to wonder what underlying
impulse was driving him onward. Stoner was one of those
unfortunate individuals who seem to have tried everything; a
natural slothfulness and improvidence had always intervened to
blight any chance of even moderate success, and now he was at the
end of his tether, and there was nothing more to try. Desperation
had not awakened in him any dormant reserve of energy; on the
contrary, a mental torpor grew up round the crisis of his
fortunes. With the clothes he stood up in, a halfpenny in his
pocket, and no single friend or acquaintance to turn to, with no
prospect either of a bed for the night or a meal for the morrow,
Martin Stoner trudged stolidly forward, between moist hedgerows
and beneath dripping trees, his mind almost a blank, except that
he was subconsciously aware that somewhere in front of him lay the
sea. Another consciousness obtruded itself now and then--the
knowledge that he was miserably hungry. Presently he came to a
halt by an open gateway that led into a spacious and rather
neglected farm-garden; there was little sign of life about, and
the farm-house at the further end of the garden looked chill and
inhospitable. A drizzling rain, however, was setting in, and
Stoner thought that here perhaps he might obtain a few minutes'
shelter and buy a glass of milk with his last remaining coin. He
turned slowly and wearily into the garden and followed a narrow,
flagged path up to a side door. Before he had time to knock the
door opened and a bent, withered-looking old man stood aside in
the doorway as though to let him pass in.
"Could I come in out of the rain?" Stoner began, but the old man
interrupted him.
"Come in, Master Tom. I knew you would come back one of these
days."
Stoner lurched across the threshold and stood staring
uncomprehendingly at the other.
"Sit down while I put you out a bit of supper," said the old man
with quavering eagerness. Stoner's legs gave way from very
weariness, and he sank inertly into the arm-chair that had been
pushed up to him. In another minute he was devouring the cold
meat, cheese, and bread, that had been placed on the table at his
side.
"You'm little changed these four years," went on the old man, in a
voice that sounded to Stoner as something in a dream, far away and
inconsequent; "but you'll find us a deal changed, you will.
There's no one about the place same as when you left; nought but
me and your old Aunt. I'll go and tell her that you'm come; she
won't be seeing you, but she'll let you stay right enough. She
always did say if you was to come back you should stay, but she'd
never set eyes on you or speak to you again."
The old man placed a mug of beer on the table in front of Stoner
and then hobbled away down a long passage. The drizzle of rain
had changed to a furious lashing downpour, which beat violently
against door and windows. The wanderer thought with a shudder of
what the sea-shore must look like under this drenching rainfall,
with night beating down on all sides. He finished the food and
beer and sat numbly waiting for the return of his strange host.
As the minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock in the corner a
new hope began to flicker and grow in the young man's mind; it was
merely the expansion of his former craving for food and a few
minutes' rest into a longing to find a night's shelter under this
seemingly hospitable roof. A clattering of footsteps down the
passage heralded the old farm servant's return.
"The old missus won't see you, Master Tom, but she says you are to
stay. 'Tis right enough, seeing the farm will be yours when she
be put under earth. I've had a fire lit in your room, Master Tom,
and the maids has put fresh sheets on to the bed. You'll find
nought changed up there. Maybe you'm tired and would like to go
there now."
Without a word Martin Stoner rose heavily to his feet and followed
his ministering angel along a passage, up a short creaking stair,
along another passage, and into a large room lit with a cheerfully
blazing fire. There was but little furniture, plain, old-
fashioned, and good of its kind; a stuffed squirrel in a case and
a wall-calendar of four years ago were about the only symptoms of
decoration. But Stoner had eyes for little else than the bed, and
could scarce wait to tear his clothes off him before rolling in a
luxury of weariness into its comfortable depths. The hounds of
Fate seemed to have checked for a brief moment.
In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as he
slowly realized the position in which he found himself. Perhaps
he might snatch a bit of breakfast on the strength of his likeness
to this other missing ne'er-do-well, and get safely away before
anyone discovered the fraud that had been thrust on him. In the
room downstairs he found the bent old man ready with a dish of
bacon and fried eggs for "Master Tom's" breakfast, while a hard-
faced elderly maid brought in a teapot and poured him out a cup of
tea. As he sat at the table a small spaniel came up and made
friendly advances.
"'Tis old Bowker's pup," explained the old man, whom the hard-
faced maid had addressed as George. "She was main fond of you;
never seemed the same after you went away to Australee. She died
'bout a year agone. 'Tis her pup."
Stoner found it difficult to regret her decease; as a witness for
identification she would have left something to be desired.
"You'll go for a ride, Master Tom?" was the next startling
proposition that came from the old man. "We've a nice little roan
cob that goes well in saddle. Old Biddy is getting a bit up in
years, though 'er goes well still, but I'll have the little roan
saddled and brought round to door."
"I've got no riding things," stammered the castaway, almost
laughing as he looked down at his one suit of well-worn clothes.
"Master Tom," said the old man earnestly, almost with an offended
air, "all your things is just as you left them. A bit of airing
before the fire an' they'll be all right. 'Twill be a bit of a
distraction like, a little riding and wild-fowling now and agen.
You'll find the folk around here has hard and bitter minds towards
you. They hasn't forgotten nor forgiven. No one'll come nigh
you, so you'd best get what distraction you can with horse and
dog. They'm good company, too."
Old George hobbled away to give his orders, and Stoner, feeling
more than ever like one in a dream, went upstairs to inspect
"Master Tom's" wardrobe. A ride was one of the pleasures dearest
to his heart, and there was some protection against immediate
discovery of his imposture in the thought that none of Tom's
aforetime companions were likely to favour him with a close
inspection. As the interloper thrust himself into some tolerably
well-fitting riding cords he wondered vaguely what manner of
misdeed the genuine Tom had committed to set the whole countryside
against him. The thud of quick, eager hoofs on damp earth cut
short his speculations. The roan cob had been brought up to the
side door.
"Talk of beggars on horseback," thought Stoner to himself, as he
trotted rapidly along the muddy lanes where he had tramped
yesterday as a down-at-heel outcast; and then he flung reflection
indolently aside and gave himself up to the pleasure of a smart
canter along the turf-grown side of a level stretch of road. At
an open gateway he checked his pace to allow two carts to turn
into a field. The lads driving the carts found time to give him a
prolonged stare, and as he passed on he heard an excited voice
call out, "'Tis Tom Prike! I knowed him at once; showing hisself
here agen, is he?"
Evidently the likeness which had imposed at close quarters on a
doddering old man was good enough to mislead younger eyes at a
short distance.
In the course of his ride he met with ample evidence to confirm
the statement that local folk had neither forgotten nor forgiven
the bygone crime which had come to him as a legacy from the absent
Tom. Scowling looks, mutterings, and nudgings greeted him
whenever he chanced upon human beings; "Bowker's pup," trotting
placidly by his side, seemed the one element of friendliness in a
hostile world.
As he dismounted at the side door he caught a fleeting glimpse of
a gaunt, elderly woman peering at him from behind the curtain of
an upper window. Evidently this was his aunt by adoption.
Over the ample midday meal that stood in readiness for him Stoner
was able to review the possibilities of his extraordinary
situation. The real Tom, after four years of absence, might
suddenly turn up at the farm, or a letter might come from him at
any moment. Again, in the character of heir to the farm, the
false Tom might be called on to sign documents, which would be an
embarrassing predicament. Or a relative might arrive who would
not imitate the aunt's attitude of aloofness. All these things
would mean ignominious exposure. On the other hand, the
alternative was the open sky and the muddy lanes that led down to
the sea. The farm offered him, at any rate, a temporary refuge
from destitution; farming was one of the many things he had
"tried," and he would be able to do a certain amount of work in
return for the hospitality to which he was so little entitled.
"Will you have cold pork for your supper," asked the hard-faded
maid, as she cleared the table, "or will you have it hotted up?"
"Hot, with onions," said Stoner. It was the only time in his life
that he had made a rapid decision. And as he gave the order he
knew that he meant to stay.
Stoner kept rigidly to those portions of the house which seemed to
have been allotted to him by a tacit treaty of delimitation. When
he took part in the farm-work it was as one who worked under
orders and never initiated them. Old George, the roan cob, and
Bowker's pup were his sole companions in a world that was
otherwise frostily silent and hostile. Of the mistress of the
farm he saw nothing. Once, when he knew she had gone forth to
church, he made a furtive visit to the farm parlour in an
endeavour to glean some fragmentary knowledge of the young man
whose place he had usurped, and whose ill-repute he had fastened
on himself. There were many photographs hung on the walls, or
stuck in prim frames, but the likeness he sought for was not among
them. At last, in an album thrust out of sight, he came across
what he wanted. There was a whole series, labelled "Tom," a podgy
child of three, in a fantastic frock, an awkward boy of about
twelve, holding a cricket bat as though he loathed it, a rather
good-looking youth of eighteen with very smooth, evenly parted
hair, and, finally, a young man with a somewhat surly dare-devil
expression. At this last portrait Stoner looked with particular
interest; the likeness to himself was unmistakable.
From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on most
subjects, he tried again and again to learn something of the
nature of the offence which shut him off as a creature to be
shunned and hated by his fellow-men.
"What do the folk around here say about me?" he asked one day as
they were walking home from an outlying field.
The old man shook his head.
"They be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Aye, 'tis a sad
business, a sad business."
And never could he be got to say anything more enlightening.
On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival of
Christmas, Stoner stood in a corner of the orchard which commanded
a wide view of the countryside. Here and there he could see the
twinkling dots of lamp or candle glow which told of human homes
where the goodwill and jollity of the season held their sway.
Behind him lay the grim, silent farm-house, where no one ever
laughed, where even a quarrel would have seemed cheerful. As he
turned to look at the long grey front of the gloom-shadowed
building, a door opened and old George came hurriedly forth.
Stoner heard his adopted name called in a tone of strained
anxiety. Instantly he knew that something untoward had happened,
and with a quick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in his
eyes a place of peace and contentment, from which he dreaded to be
driven.
"Master Tom," said the old man in a hoarse whisper, "you must slip
away quiet from here for a few days. Michael Ley is back in the
village, an' he swears to shoot you if he can come across you.
He'll do it, too, there's murder in the look of him. Get away
under cover of night, 'tis only for a week or so, he won't be here
longer."
"But where am I to go?" stammered Stoner, who had caught the
infection of the old man's obvious terror.
"Go right away along the coast to Punchford and keep hid there.
When Michael's safe gone I'll ride the roan over to the Green
Dragon at Punchford; when you see the cob stabled at the Green
Dragon 'tis a sign you may come back agen."
"But--" began Stoner hesitatingly.
"'Tis all right for money," said the other; "the old Missus agrees
you'd best do as I say, and she's given me this."
The old man produced three sovereigns and some odd silver.
Stoner felt more of a cheat than ever as he stole away that night
from the back gate of the farm with the old woman's money in his
pocket. Old George and Bowker's pup stood watching him a silent
farewell from the yard. He could scarcely fancy that he would
ever come back, and he felt a throb of compunction for those two
humble friends who would wait wistfully for his return. Some day
perhaps the real Tom would come back, and there would be wild
wonderment among those simple farm folks as to the identity of the
shadowy guest they had harboured under their roof. For his own
fate he felt no immediate anxiety; three pounds goes but little
way in the world when there is nothing behind it, but to a man who
has counted his exchequer in pennies it seems a good starting-
point. Fortune had done him a whimsically kind turn when last he
trod these lanes as a hopeless adventurer, and there might yet be
a chance of his finding some work and making a fresh start; as he
got further from the farm his spirits rose higher. There was a
sense of relief in regaining once more his lost identity and
ceasing to be the uneasy ghost of another. He scarcely bothered
to speculate about the implacable enemy who had dropped from
nowhere into his life; since that life was now behind him one
unreal item the more made little difference. For the first time
for many months he began to hum a careless lighthearted refrain.
Then there stepped out from the shadow of an overhanging oak tree
a man with a gun. There was no need to wonder who he might be;
the moonlight falling on his white set face revealed a glare of
human hate such as Stoner in the ups and downs of his wanderings
had never seen before. He sprang aside in a wild effort to break
through the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough branches
held him fast. The hounds of Fate had waited for him in those
narrow lanes, and this time they were not to be denied.
_________
-THE END-
[Hector Munro] Saki's short story: The Hounds Of Fate
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