King of the Castle

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

The Dead tell no Tales.

“What’s the matter with him?” said one of the men who had come off from the shore to Glyddyr’s yacht, after performing the duty he had in hand.

“Well,” said the steward, laughing, “he’s my boss, so it ain’t for me to say; but if it had been you, I should have said you had been looking into a brandy glass till you were too giddy to stand.”

“Well; that’s what I thought,” said the coroner’s officer, “but being a gentleman, I held my tongue. Thought gents never did take too much.”

“Oh, no; never,” said the steward, sarcastically. “But don’t talk about it; the guvnor’s a good deal upset about the affair at Mr Gartram’s.”

“’Nough to upset any one. Who’d have thought it. Well, good morning.”

“Don’t want me as a witness, do you?”

The officer laughed, and was rowed back to the shore, while Glyddyr sat in his cabin watching the progress of the boat, and asking himself, as he glanced from time to time at the summons to the inquest which he held in his hand, whether he had committed himself in any way by word or look in the presence of the coroner’s officer.

Twice over he turned to the brandy decanter in search of courage, but he shrank from it with a fresh chill of dread.

“It may make me talk too much,” he said; “I might say something I couldn’t take back.”

Hurriedly thrusting the temptation from him, he well bathed his burning temples, and felt refreshed by the cold water.

“Now,” he said, setting his teeth and trying to be firm; “there’s only one man who knows the rights of this case, and I am that man. If I go straight no one can find it out, and there’s a rich wife for me at the end of a few months, and freedom from this cursed load of debt. Well, I’ll go through it in spite of everything. I will face it out.”

But even as he tried to screw himself up his own words struck him with terrible force—

“A rich wife!”

How would he dare to continue his advances towards the child of the man he had murdered?

“I can’t do it. I dare not do it,” he said in a despairing way. “She will be looking me through and through, and some day she might find out. No; Gellow must do his worst, I can’t go on.”

But as he thought all this his eyes were directed towards the Fort, with its blank-looking casements, and though he shuddered as he thought of the dead man lying there behind one of those blank windows—his work—the man whose hand he had grasped only the night before in friendship, and whom he had cut off by that one act—though he thought of all this with shudders, and vainly tried to screen himself from the darts of conscience by holding up as shield the word accident—the place had a terrible fascination, and he felt that he must go on now, for there was the sweet young girl heiress to so great a property, there was the ideal seaside home for a man who had yachting proclivities. The place was pretentious, and the mockery of an old Norman castle jarred upon his tastes; but there was the place waiting for him, ready to be his if he only had patience and manly force enough to keep his own counsel.

“And I will,” he said, as he clenched his fists. “It isn’t cowardice; it’s overstrung sensibility. I have the strength, and I will face it all out, come what may.”

He felt cooler now, and began to hesitate as to what he should do. The coroners inquest was to him the enemy, and he would have to view the body.

“No, no,” he muttered, “how confused I am—that is, for the jury. I am only a witness called because—Yes, I remember, what the man said now, because I saw the deceased last night.”

“Yes, I saw him last night,” groaned Glyddyr; “and I feel as if I shall always be seeing him now.”

Once more he made an effort to collect himself, and took the situation in the full. He had nearly been committing the grave error of running away, but he had fortunately paused.

“It would have been madness,” he thought, “and only inviting pursuit by attracting attention to my actions.”

He walked on deck, his nervous excitement having completely counteracted the effect produced by the spirits and wine, and ordered his men into the boat to row him ashore.

He had made up his mind what to do, and as soon as they reached the landing steps he walked straight up to the Fort for the second time that morning.

He was cool now, for he was fully awake to the fact that his life depended upon his calmly facing facts.

Half-way up, towards the bridge, he met Doctor Asher and his colleague, the latter bowing and passing on, but Asher stopped short, and took Glyddyr’s extended hand.

“Going in?” he said.

“Yes; how is she—Miss Gartram?”

“Terrible state, poor girl; broken-hearted; I only saw her for a few moments. Dreadful accident, is it not?”

Glyddyr felt his blood run cold, and his eyes seemed to him to be vacant, as he gazed straight at the doctor. “Accident?” he said, huskily.

“Oh, yes; no doubt about that. But you understand, do you not?”

“No—yes—I think I do,” said Glyddyr, whose throat felt dry.

“Of course. Poor fellow, I warned him against it over and over again, but it is of no use with a man who once becomes a slave to a drug.”

“Yes, I see,” said Glyddyr, staring hard at the doctor, but not seeing him.

“I feel as if I were to blame, but, on dispassionate consideration, what could I do?”

“Of course,” answered Glyddyr, “what could you do?”

“It was better that he should take the drug under my supervision than recklessly alone.”

“Yes; much,” said Glyddyr, vacantly.

“And yet on the face of it one can’t say that it seems so. But what could a medical man do in such a case? ‘I am suffering for want of sleep,’ he used to say, ‘and I must have this stuff.’ ‘It is madness to take it,’ I said. ‘If you don’t give it me, I shall get it myself at the druggists.’ So, of course, I had to give way and exhibit safe doses, but no foresight can prevent a man taking double or triple the quantities prescribed.”

“No; I see,” said Glyddyr, in the same vacant way. “But do you think he did get more at the druggist’s?”

“That was my first thought, and I telegraphed to the two nearest and most likely men, but they say in each case, ‘no.’ Most awful accident, Mr Glyddyr. It ought to be a warning to people not to tamper with drugs which they do not understand, eh?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How can anyone know how much to prescribe or take? A medical man of long experience has to go very cautiously, for what is a safe dose for one constitution is certain death to another. But, there: I must go. My colleague, to whom I have every reason to be grateful for his loyal aid, is waiting for me. I wanted help, for I cannot recall when I have been so overcome as by this case. The shock was terrible. Dining with him—called away—returning to find that he was asleep. Let me see you were with him, were you not?”

“Yes, part of the time,” faltered Glyddyr, as he felt a thrill of dread run through him under the doctor’s searching eyes, which seemed to be reading his inmost thoughts; and he found himself wondering whether this man had really been called away upon two occasions, or had made excuses, so as to watch his every act.

“And did you notice anything particular?”

“N-no,” faltered Glyddyr; and then, in response to the sharply applied goad of dread, “no, nothing; only that he breathed rather heavily.”

“To be sure; yes. But, there: good-bye. We shall meet again at the inquest, I suppose I I am not surprised at you looking so pale and overcome.”

“Do I look pale and overcome?” said Glyddyr hastily, the words slipping from his lips.

“Terribly, my dear sir, terribly. Good morning.”

Glyddyr stood looking after him as the doctor walked away, and a fit of trembling came on.

“He was pumping me, and he is suspicious,” thought Glyddyr. “Curse him! These doctors have a way of reading a man, and seeing through you. But he could only suspect; and what is suspicion where they want certainty?”

“What could he say,” he thought; “and how does it stand? He gave him chloral; Gartram took it himself, and if a little more was given, well, what could they prove unless they saw?”

“No; unless I betray myself, I am safe,” he muttered, as he walked up to the principal entrance and rang; but as the loud clangour of the bell ran through the place, the shiver of dread returned, and he was conscious from his sensations that he must be looking ghastly, and that his lips be white and cracked.

The door was opened by one of the maids.

“Ask Miss Gartram if she can see me for a few minutes,” he said, in a voice he hardly knew as his own.

The maid drew back for him to enter, and showed him into the drawing-room, where the yellow gloom of the light passing through the drawn-down blinds seemed to add to the oppression from which he suffered. Then, as he stood there, his hot eyes fixed themselves upon the chair which had been occupied by Claude when he was there the previous night; and he found himself wondering what he should say to her; and then a singular feeling of confusion came over him as he asked himself why he had come.

A footstep in the hall made him tremble, and he felt as if he could have given anything to be away from the place, for now, in its full force, he felt the terror of the interview he had to go through with the child of the man he had murdered, and who must now be lying still and stark not many yards away, while in the spirit, where was he?—perhaps about to be present to guard his child.

“If I only had more strength of mind!” groaned Glyddyr, as he vainly tried to string himself up. Then the door was opened, and he was face to face with Mary Dillon.

He drew a breath of relief, and his brain began to grow clearer, as if a mist had been wafted away, and, recovering himself, he advanced with extended hand.

“Will you be seated, Mr Glyddyr?” said Mary, ignoring the extended hand, and sinking wearily on the couch to half close her eyes and wrinkle up her brow.

“Thank you,” he said in a whisper; “I ought to apologise for coming, but—at such a time—dear Claude must—”

His words began to trail off slowly into silence, and he sat gazing at Mary helplessly, as if he could not command the flow of that which he wished to say.

“It is very good of you to come,” said Mary slowly, as if she were repeating a lesson when her thoughts were far away. “But poor Claude is completely prostrate. She cannot see you. It is cruel of you to ask for such a thing.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said meekly. “But, occupying the position as I do—she in such distress—I felt it a duty, let alone my own warm feelings. Miss Dillon, is there nothing I can do?”

He stopped short now, wondering at his own words, for they had come quickly, and sounded thoroughly natural in their ring.

“No,” said Mary, looking at him piercingly now; but he seemed nerved by the instinct of self-preservation, and the knowledge that everything depended upon him being calm.

Mary paused, and appeared to be struggling with her emotion for a few moments. Then, in a cold, hard way, she faced Glyddyr, as if she were defending her cousin from attack.

“No,” she said, in clear firm tones. “My cousin is seriously ill, Mr Glyddyr. Broken-hearted at our terrible loss, and anyone who feels respect for her, and wishes to be helpful at such an hour as this will leave her in peace till time has done something toward blunting the agony she is in.”

“Yes,” said Glyddyr, “you are quite right.”

He stood for a moment undecided, and as if he were about to go; but as he looked straight before him at the door, he saw mentally Gartram’s study; and a vision of wealth greater than any of which he had ever dreamed, appeared to be lying there waiting for him to call it mine; and the dazzling prospect began to drive away his terrors, and strengthen him in his belief that he was safe. No, he could not go back now, he felt, even if the figure of the dead were to rise up before him in defence of his hoards.

The dead tell no tales, he fancied he heard something within him say; and then—can the dead know?

Mary was looking at him inquiringly, and as he became conscious of this, he turned to her sadly and gravely.

“Yes; you are right,” he said, “it must be the kindest treatment to leave her to herself. It was my love for her that brought me here. Tell her, please, from me that my heart bleeds for her, and that I will wait until she can see me. I can say no more now. I trust you to be my faithful messenger. Good-bye.”

He held out his hand, and for a few moments she ignored his action, but as he stood there with his fingers outstretched, she felt unable to resist, and at last she placed her own within his, and he raised them to his lips.

The next minute she listened to his retiring steps as he went along the granite terrace, talking to himself.

“I did not think I could have done it,” he said; “but I have only to keep on, and the rest will come easy. I am too much a man of the world to be frightened at shadows after all.”

“It was perfect,” thought Mary Dillon, as she stood alone in the darkened drawing-room, “nothing could have been better, but I hate him and distrust him. Somehow he makes me shrink away with horror. But its only prejudice for poor Claude’s sake. I’d kill him first. He’d break her heart, and spend her money, and—yes, I’d kill him before he should do all that.”

She went slowly out into the hall, and stood hesitating for a few minutes. She appeared to be listening, and there was a curious weird look in her fine eyes as she glanced quickly here and there before drawing a long breath, and going across to the study door.

Here she paused on the thick wool mat, and tapped softly, but only to utter a faint hysterical cry, and press her hands to her lips, as if to keep back more, for the act had been one to which she was accustomed, and a thrill ran through her as she realised what she had done, and that the familiar, harsh voice could never again call to her “Come in.”

She turned the handle, and entered the darkened room to walk firmly across to where Gartram lay, and she stood for some minutes gazing at the dimly-seen figure covered by a white sheet, through which the prominent features of his face stood out.

For a moment she looked as if she were about to raise the white linen cover to gaze upon the face of the dead, but she did not stir, only remained there as if turned to stone, as, from out of the gloom, a low groan arose, and for the moment it seemed to her that the sheet moved and the body heaved.

Mary Dillon felt her heart throb as if it had burst the bond which regulated its slow action; a terrible feeling of fear paralysed her, and for a time her sufferings were acute.

Then reason came to her aid.

“He is not dead,” she said; and trembling violently, she ran to the window to draw aside the curtain, looking over her shoulder in a frightened way; but before light could shine in upon the solemn chamber she stopped short.

“Woodham!” she exclaimed, “you here!”

There was a quick rustling sound, and the startled occupant of the room rose from her knees by the dead man’s side, and stood shrinking from her questioner, and looking as if she was about to flee from the room.

For a few moments the only sounds heard were those of quick breathing and the low hissing wash of the sea among the rocks, for the tide was well in now beneath the walls of the Fort. Then Mary Dillon recovered from her surprise, and went to the woman’s side, and laid her hand upon her arm.

“Come away,” she whispered.

Sarah Woodham jerked herself free, and stood as if at bay, her eyes in the gloom flashing with anger; but with quiet firmness Mary Dillon followed her, took hold of her wrist, and led her from the chamber of death, and out across the hall to the drawing-room.

“Why, Woodham!” said Mary, gently, “what does this mean?”

The woman looked at her fiercely, as if resenting the question, and half turned away.

“Don’t be angry with me for asking,” said Mary gently. “It was so strange.”

“Is it strange for a woman to pray, Miss?” was asked in solemn tones.

“No, no, of course not; but I could not help feeling surprised to see you kneeling there.”

“We all need forgiveness, Miss, for the sins we commit.”

Mary Dillon winced and looked angrily at the woman, for it sounded to her like an insult to the dead for this woman, their servant, to take upon herself so sacred a duty.

“Yes, Miss, we all need forgiveness for what we have done. Don’t keep me, please, I cannot hear to talk now.”

“I am sorry if I have said anything to wound you,” continued Mary. “I ought to have been pleased; I am sure my poor cousin will for your sympathy and thoughtful ways.”

“You think I was praying for him, Miss Mary?”

The girl nodded her head quickly, and remained silent, for she could not trust herself to speak.

Sarah stood gazing before her in a strangely absent way, and went on muttering softly—

“Isaac, poor husband, you can rest now. If you can see all from where you are, look down upon me. You must feel content—you must be content, and forgive me for keeping you waiting so long.”

“Woodham,” said Mary gently, after standing watching the strange, weird face before her, and catching a word here and there, “you are ill; the shock of poor uncle’s death has been too much for you. There, try and be calm.”

“Miss Mary,” said the woman hoarsely, and her eyes glowed with her great excitement, “what do you mean? Have I been talking, like, in my sleep?”

“Yes,” said Mary, smiling in her troubled face, and trying to soothe her.

“Yes! What did I say? Quick; tell me. I didn’t say anything aloud?”

“Yes, you did. I heard parts of what you spoke.”

“Tell me!” cried the woman, excitedly. “Quick! What did I say?”

“You talked about prayer and forgiveness, and spoke about your poor husband. There, there; try and be calm. This has been too much for you, and has brought up all your old sorrows. You want rest and a good long sleep.”

“What else did I say?”

“Oh, I don’t remember much more.”

“You must,” cried the woman angrily; “I will know.”

“Very little else. I think you said that you hoped your husband was looking down upon you, or words to that effect. There, don’t let us talk about it any more. Go and lie down, and when you are well rested come and help me again. We have so much to do. My poor cousin is completely prostrate.”

“Yes,” said the woman, looking at her searchingly. “Poor Miss Claude! Broken-hearted. He worshipped her, in his way—in his way.”

“Come,” said Mary, gently, as she tried to lead her from the room, for the woman seemed to her as one distraught.

“Tell me again; try to recollect. What did I say?”

“Surely I have told you enough,” said Mary. “There, you are ill.”

“Yes, ill—sick at heart—sick with horror,” whispered the woman, clinging to her with convulsive strength. “I came in and looked at his poor appealing face, and it was like seeing Isaac—my husband, again—snatched away so suddenly, just when he was so strong and full of what he meant to do; and it was as if master’s eyes were staring at me and read my heart, and knew everything—everything, and it was too horrible to bear.”

The woman burst into a passionate fit of hysterical weeping, and sank upon her knees, covering her face with her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and bending lower and lower, till her arms were upon her knees.

Mary spoke to her, knelt beside her, and tried to whisper words of comfort, about resignation and patience, but without avail. Nothing she said appeared to be heard; and at last—weary, hopeless, and suffering, too, from the terrible trouble which had fallen upon the house—she knelt there in silence beside the moaning and sobbing woman, her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed upon vacancy, as she thought of how happy they had all been by comparison a few hours before.

Mary Dillon was startled from her fit of sad musing by the opening of the drawing-room door.

“Claude!” she exclaimed, “I thought you were asleep.”

Her cousin gave a look that was almost reproachful, and came slowly to where Sarah Woodham crouched.

As Claude laid her hand upon the sobbing woman’s shoulder, it was as if the latter had received a shock. She looked up wildly, and hurriedly rose to her feet, pressed her hair back from her eyes, and made a tremendous effort to master the emotion to which she had given way. Then, with a heavy sigh she grew calm, her distorted features resumed their old saddened dreamy expression, and she moved towards the door.

Claude tried to speak to her, and her lips moved, but no words came, for her face began to work, and she was turning away when the woman seized her hand, kissed it passionately, and hurried from the room.

“We are not alone in our suffering, Mary,” said Claude at last; and she drew her cousin to her breast and wept silently upon her shoulder, while Mary gave her the most loving form of consolation that woman can give to woman, the silent pressure that tells of heart beating for heart in sympathetic unison, as they stood together in the darkened room.