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Updated: May 25, 2025
Observing this, Warburton said to himself that not improbably the artist had been trying to drown his misery, which might account for his strange delusion. Yet this explanation did not put Will's mind at ease. Gloomily he made his way homeward through the roaring night. Ten o'clock next morning saw him alighting from the train at St. Neots. "Well, Sam, how goes it? Everybody flourishing?
But after that he also walked about, until God had made a sufficient spectacle of his judgment of his sin, and then on a sudden he was stricken, and died miserably; and so there was an end of him and his doings. I will tell you of another. About four miles from St. Neots, there was a gentleman had a man, and he would needs be an informer, and a lusty young man he was.
Neots, and there parted, and we straight to Stevenage, through Bald Lanes, which are already very bad; and at Stevenage we come well before night, and all sat, and there with great care I got the gold up to the chamber, my wife carrying one bag, and the girl another, and W. Hewer the rest in the basket, and set it all under a bed in our chamber; and then sat down to talk, and were very pleasant, satisfying myself, among other things, from John Bowles, in some terms of hunting, and about deere, bucks, and does.
On the return journey from St. Neots he had caught a cold, and a week of sore throat behind the counter a week too, of quarrel with a wholesale house which had been cheating him left his nerves in a bad state. For reply to the artist's cordial greeting he could only growl inarticulately. "Out of sorts?" asked the other, as they entered the large well-warmed studio "You look rather bad."
And I'm convinced it was merely the burden of lies weighing upon me. Yes, yes, you're quite right; of course, mother must be told. Shall I leave it to you, Jane? I think you could break it better." After breakfast, Will walked into St. Neots, to have a private conversation with Dr. Edge, and whilst he was away Jane told her mother the story of the lost money.
Of course we will hope. Hope springs eternal " Days went by, and at length the desired letter came back from St. Jean de Luz. Seeing at a glance that it was from his sister, Will reproached himself for having let more than a month elapse without writing to St. Neots. Of his recent "holiday" he had no intention of saying a word. Jane wrote a longer letter than usual, and its tenor was disquieting.
All the points of strangeness which had struck him in Sherwood's behaviour came back now with such glaring significance that he accused himself of inconceivable limpness in having allowed things to go their way above all in trusting Godfrey with the St. Neots cheque. On this moment of painful lucidity followed blind rage. Why, what a grovelling imbecile was this fellow!
To live on what he had, one day longer than could be helped, would be sheer dishonesty. Sherwood might succeed in bringing him a few hundreds of the ten thousand Will thought not at all, so fantastic did the whole story sound but that would be merely another small instalment of the sum due to the unsuspecting victims at St. Neots.
The informers were the natural but most accursed products of the Conventicle Acts. Popular abhorrence relieved itself by legends of the dreadful judgments which had overtaken these wretches. In St. Neots an informer was bitten by a dog. The wound gangrened and the flesh rotted off his bones. Well, so he did, and was as diligent in his business as most of them could be.
Slow, silent, the river lapses between its daisied banks, its grey-green osier beds. Yonder is the little town of St. Neots. In all England no simpler bit of rural scenery; in all the world nothing of its kind more beautiful. Cattle are lowing amid the rich meadows.
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