Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.
Mr Wimble Rakes for Information.
An enormous increase has taken place during the past five-and-twenty years in local journalism. England seems to have been almost Americanised in respect of news, for every centre worthy of the enterprise has been furnished with its newspaper, in which everything is told that is worthy of chronicling, and very often, from want of news, something unworthy of the paper upon which it appears. Notably that celebrated paragraph about So-and-So’s horse and cart, which, left untended, moves on; the horse is startled by shouts, begins to trot, then gallops, and is finally stopped. “It was fortunate that the accident occurred before noon, for at that hour the children would have been leaving school, and,” etc, etc—suggestion of the horror of what might have been.
But Danmouth was not a centre worthy of the enterprise, and, with the exception of a few copies of the county paper which came in weekly to partly satisfy the thirst for news, the inhabitants had no fount to depend upon save Michael Wimble, and to him they gravitated for information respecting the proceedings all around, from a failure, scandal, or accident on shore up to a shipwreck.
Consequently, Wimble’s business on the morning of Gartram’s death was so great that he began to think that he must hire a boy to lather, and the leather slipper nailed up against the wall to serve as a quaintly original till had to be emptied twice.
As a rule, the “salt” personages who hung about the cliff, staring into the sea, came to be shaved on Saturdays, but the news on the wing prompted every man to have a clean shave that morning, and many a stalwart fisher lady regretted that she had not a hirsute excuse for visiting the shop.
Wimble made the most of such information as he was able to glean, and as the morning advanced, he was able to keep on making additions, till the one little seed he received first thing came up, grew and blossomed into a news plant that would have been worth a good deal in town.
Towards evening, though, the excitement at Wimbles museum had fallen off, and gathered about the Harbour Inn, where the gossips of the place, clean shaven, and looking unusually like being in holiday trim, were able to quench their double thirst.
Michael Wimble sighed as he stood at his door looking towards that inn.
“Ah,” he said to himself, “now, if I had a licence to sell beer by retail to be drunk on the premises,”—he was quoting from a board with whose lettering he was familiar—“they would have stopped; and my place being nearest to the Fort, the coroner would have held the inquest there.”
“Hah!” he said aloud, after a pause, “how it would have read in the paper: ‘An inquest was held at Wimble’s Museum, Danmouth’—eh? I beg your pardon, Mr Brime, sir; I didn’t hear you come up. Shave, sir? Certainly, sir. Come in.”
Wimble’s heart beat high as he thought of the chance. His customers had pumped him dry, and gone away; and here, by a tremendous stroke of luck, was the commencement of a perfect spring of information to refill his well right to the brim.
Reuben Brime, who looked worried and haggard, entered the museum, took his place in the Windsor arm-chair, was duly covered with the print cloth, after removing collar and tie, and laid his head back in the rest.
“Why, you look fagged out, Mr Brime, sir,” said Wimble, quietly walking to the door, closing it, and slipping the bolt.
The gardener from the Fort was nervous and agitated. Death in the house—sudden death—had unhinged him. His master might have been poisoned, either by his own hand or by that of an enemy. That would be murder. He was bound, as it were, for the sacrifice; there were a dozen razors at hand; the barber’s aspect was suspicious, and he had closed the door. What did it mean?
“I say,” cried the gardener, sitting bolt upright, “what did you do that for?”
“Do what, Mr Brime? Fasten the door? I’ll tell you. I’ve been that worked this day that I haven’t had time for a decent meal, and I won’t shave another chin. That’s what I mean.”
“Oh!” said Brime, calming down a little.
“I don’t hold with working oneself to death, sir. Do you?”
“No; certainly not,” said the gardener, with divers memories of idle pipes in the tool-house when “Master” had gone in the quarry.
“And so say I, sir,” said Wimble. “Nobody thinks a bit the better of you if you do.”
“That’s true,” said the gardener, letting his head sink back with a sigh, as Wimble stood before him working up the lather in his pot to a splendid consistency.
“Anxious time for you people at the Fort, sir,” said Wimble, beginning to lather gently, and taking care to leave his customer’s lips quite free.
“Yes,” said the gardener shortly.
“Poor man! Ah, I wonder how many times I have shaved him, sir.”
The gardener stared straight before him in silence, frowning heavily.
“In the midst of life we are in death, Mr Brime, sir, parson says o’ Sundays,” continued Wimble, pausing to tuck the cloth a little more in round his customer’s neck.
No acquiescent reply.
“Just like things in your profession, Mr Brime, or, as I might say, in mine. Flowers and grass comes up, and the frost takes one, and the scythe the other; or beards comes up and the hair grows, and it’s the razor for one, and the shears for the other, eh?”
“Humph!”
“Yes, sir; you are quite right,” said Wimble, replacing the brush in the pot, and proceeding to rub the soap into his customer’s cheeks, throat and chin with a long, lissome finger.
Silence.
“Wonderful stiff, wiry beard yours, Mr Brime, sir. Pleasure to shave it, though. I hate your fluffy beards that lie down before the razor. Yours is a downright upright one, which meets the razor like crisp grass. What a difference in beards. Not in a hurry, sir, I hope?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll do it well, sir, so as to make it last. Ah, many’s the time I’ve shaved poor Mr Gartram, sir! Hard man to please over pimples, while a nick used to make him swear terrible, and there are times when you can’t help just a touch, sir.”
“No,” said Brime, thinking of slips with the scythe.
“Good customer gone,” said the barber, resuming the brush once more, but still keeping clear of the lips. “Always a shilling for going up and shaving him, Mr Brime. Yes, a capital customer gone.”
Here the shaving pot was set down, and a razor taken out of a loop to re-strop.
“Bad job for me, Mr Brime. Won’t affect you, I suppose, sir?” continued Wimble, finishing off the keen-edged razor on his palm with a loud pat, pat, pat.
“Not affect me?” said the gardener, sitting up sharply; for the barber had touched the right key at last, and the instrument began to sound. “But it will affect me. How do I know what’ll take place now, sir? Saved up my little bit o’ money, and made the cottage comfortable and fit for a wife.”
“Indeed, Mr Brime, and you’d been thinking of that sort o’ thing, sir?”
“P’raps I had and p’r’aps I hadn’t,” snarled the gardener, savagely. “Not the first man, I suppose, as thought of it.”
“No, sir, indeed. I’ve been thinking of it for years, and making my bits o’ preparation; but,”—he said with a sigh—“it hasn’t come off yet.”
A brother in disappointment. The gardener felt satisfied and disposed to be confidential, although the lather was beginning to feel cold and clammy, and the tiny vesicles were bursting and dying away.
“Yes, I were thinking about it, Mr Wimble,” he said bitterly; “and I were going to speak, and I dessay afore long you’d ha’ heared us asked in church, and now this comes and upsets it all.”
“Don’t say that, sir,” said the barber, still stropping his razor gently. “Like everything else, it passes away and is forgotten. You’ve only got to wait.”
“Got to wait!” cried the gardener; “why, the trouble has ’most killed her, sir, and how do I know what’s going to happen next?”
“Ah, bad indeed, sir.”
“Our young Miss’ll never stop in that great place now; and, of course, it’s a month’s warning, and not a chance of another place nigh here.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Mr Brime, sir. That’s the worst way of looking at it.”
“Ay, but it’s the true way.”
“You’re a bit upset with trouble now, sir. You wait. Why, there’s a fine chance here for a clever man like yourself to set up for himself in the fruit and greengrocery. See what a job it is to get a bit of decent green stuff. I never know what it is. Leastways, I shouldn’t if it weren’t for a friend bringing me in a morsel o’ fruit now and then.”
“Ah, it’s all over with that now, Mr Wimble. Poor master; and we may as well give up all thoughts o’ wedding. Strange set-out it’s been.”
“Ah!” said Wimble; and pat, pat, pat, went the razor over his hand as the lather dried.
“I can’t see much chance for Mr Glyddyr now.”
“Ah! he was going to marry Miss Gartram, wasn’t he?”
“He’d ha’ liked to, and the poor guvnor was on for it; but I know a little more about that than he did.”
“Ah, yes, Mr Brime, lookers-on sees more of the game. I always used to think—but of course it was no business of mine—that it was to be Mr Christopher Lisle, till he seemed to be chucked over like—and for looking elsewhere,” he added between his teeth.
“Looking elsewhere? Gammon!”
“Oh, but he does, sir.”
“Yah! Not he, Wimble. He’s dead on to the young missus.”
“No, no, Mr Brime, sir,” said Wimble, waving his razor; “you’ll excuse me. You’re wrong there.”
“Wrong?” cried the gardener, excitedly. “Bet you a shilling on it. No, I don’t want to rob you, because I know.”
“Well, you may know a deal about gardening, Mr Brime,” said Wimble deprecatingly, as he shook his head shrewdly; “but fax is fax.”
“Not always, Wimble. You won’t let it go no further, because he’s a good sort.”
“If you feel as you can’t trust me, Mr Brime, sir,” said the barber, laying down the razor and taking up the brush and shaving pot once more to dip the former very slowly in the hot water.
“Oh, you won’t tell,” said Brime, who had calmed his excitement with a great many glasses of the household ale at the Fort. “You’re all wrong. Mr Lisle’s after our young Miss still; and—you mark my words—as soon as they decently can, they’ll marry.”
“No, sir, no,” said Wimble, shaking his head, with his eyes fixed upon his best razor, and his mind upon Mrs Sarson; “you’re wrong.”
“Why, he was up at our place to see her only last night.”
“No!”
“He was, and I ketched him on the hop.”
“You don’t say so.”
“But I do. He owned what he was up there for, poor chap, for the guv’nor was very rough on him at last. I took him for a boy after our fruit.”
“Are you talking about last night, when your Master died?” said Wimble, breathlessly.
“Yes, of course.”
“Where was he then?”
“Down our garden, on the sly.”
Wimble’s face was a study.
“It was like this. He didn’t know there was company, and he was trying to get a word with Miss Claude; but, of course, she couldn’t get to him, because there was Mr Glider and the doctor there.”
“Well, you do surprise me, Mr Brime.”
“Yes: where would your shilling be now, eh?”
“Well, young folks will be young folks; but I was deceived.”
“Yes, you were. Poor chap. He little thought when he left me in low spirits, because he couldn’t get to see his lass, how soon his chances were going to mend. Bah! Miss Claude didn’t care that for the other one—a mean, sneaking sort of fellow. How the poor guv’nor could have taken to him as he did, I don’t know.”
“Well, you do surprise me,” said Wimble, re-tucking in the cloth which had been disarranged by Brime’s “don’t care that” and snap of the fingers.
“Yes, I thought I could; but keep it quiet.”
“By all means, Mr Brime. Your girl’s in sad trouble, I suppose?”
“Crying her eyes out, poor lass. Master was as hard as his own stone; but they had been very fond of each other.”
“Yes; and I s’pose he was a good-hearted, generous man underneath. Give away a great deal to the poor.”
“Not he, Wimble. There was a deal given away, but it was Miss Claude did all that, bless her. Master—there; I’m not going to say a word again’ the dead.”
“No, no, of course not, sir; but what trouble you must be in!”
“Trouble, sir! When I heard of it this morning, you might have knocked me down with a feather.”
“Hah! very awful really, sir,” said Wimble, beginning to lather again, and this time in so thoughtful a manner that the gardener’s mouth disappeared in the soapy foam, and the desire for more information seemed to have gone.
“Was Chris Lisle up at the Fort last night? Was our suspicions unjust, then?”
“Then, it must be all on her side,” thought Wimble, beginning to strop his razor again fiercely, and he operated directly after with so much savage energy, that the gardener’s hands clutched the sides of the chair, and he held on, with the perspiration oozing out upon his forehead, and causing a tickling sensation around the roots of his hair.
“Find it hot, Mr Brime, sir?” said the barber, as he gave a few finishing touches to his patient’s chin.
“Very,” said the gardener, with a sigh of relief, as the razor was wiped and thrown down, and a cool, wet sponge removed the last traces of the soap; “you went over me so quick, I was afraid of an accident.”
“No fear, sir. When a man’s shaved a hundred thousand people, he isn’t likely to make a mistake. Thank you, sir; and I hope you will get everything settled all right up yonder. When’s the funeral?”
“Don’t know yet, sir. When the doctors and coroners have done, I suppose.”
“Hum!” said Wimble to himself, as he ran over the gardener’s words. “Then, perhaps I have been wrong about him, but I can’t be about her. She wouldn’t have held me off all this time if she hadn’t had thoughts elsewhere.”
He was standing at the door as he spoke, probably meaning to receive more customers after all, for he did not slip the bolt.
“Up there in the garden, last night, to see the young lady, and the next morning Mr Gartram found dead. Well, it’s a terrible affair.”
Michael Wimble had obtained more information than he had anticipated, and of a very different class.
End of Volume Two.
Volume Three—Chapter One.
An Angry Encounter.
Night, and the tramping of many feet on the granite-paved path and terrace.
The wind from off the sea rushing and sighing round the house, making, as the great hall door was opened, the lightly-hung pictures on the walls swing gently to and fro, as if ghostly hands touched them from time to time.
Claude and Mary were waiting, dressed, in the drawing-room, ready to go to the inquest, and the latter held her cousin’s hand tightly as they listened, and in imagination painted, by the help of the sounds, all that was going on.
There were whispers in men’s voices, muffled footsteps on the thick rugs in the paved hall, with the sharp sound from time to time as a foot fell on the bare granite.
Then came the opening of the study door, and a piteous sigh escaped from Claude’s breast as in imagination she saw the darkened room into which the jurymen passed one by one, to stay a few moments, and then pass out.
Then more whispers, more trampling, muffled and loud; the closing of the study door; and then the sighing and moaning of the wind ceased suddenly, as the great hall door was shut; voices came more loudly as steps passed along the terrace, and grew fainter and fainter as they filed out, and once more the house was still.
Down by the inn, affected most by the fishermen from its proximity to the harbour, the principal part of the inhabitants of the place were gathered, waiting in knots and discussing Gartram’s death, till such time as the jury returned. Then a lane was opened for them to pass through into the great room of the inn, the fishermen crowding in afterwards, while two men drawn, one by summons, the other for reasons of his own, to the inquest, found themselves, by the irony of fate, side by side, and compelled to walk in this way down the long passage packed in by the crowd, and upstairs to the room where the inquest was to be held.
Parry Glyddyr had grown more calm and firm as the day had worn on, while Chris had, on the other hand, become more excited; and, finding himself thus thrown close beside his rival, he could not help turning a sharp inquiring look upon him, as if asking what he had to say.
But no word was spoken, and, forced on by the crowd behind, they at last found themselves close up to the head of the table, listening to the coroners words as the various witnesses were examined, a low murmur arising when Claude’s name was called, and a way clear made for her to pass through, and give the little evidence she could as to her father’s habits, and then she was led, silently weeping, away.
Sarah Woodham—cold, dark and stern now—was called to speak of her duty in taking to her master his tonic draught, and she could tell of his habit in using a narcotic to produce sleep.
Other witnesses were examined, including both the doctors. As her gravely and deprecatingly stating how he had prescribed for his patient. The new doctor gave his opinion upon what he had seen; the coroner summed up; and the jury, sworn to do their duty in the inquiry, had no difficulty in unanimously agreeing that it was a case of accidental death, and gradually melting away with the crowd. Glyddyr, one of the last to leave the room, breathing more freely since he had given his evidence relative to seeing Gartram lying asleep, but feeling that he was ghastly pale, and afraid to meet Chris Lisle’s eye, as he passed out of the inquiry room, and out on to the cliff to let the soft, cool night air fan his cheeks.
His knees seemed to give way beneath him, and he was glad to move a little to one side, and rest against the iron rail that guarded the edge of the cliff, for he was giddy with emotion as he felt how narrow an escape he had had from destruction.
“But they could not tell,” he said to himself. “It was his heart; and no doctor could have analysed the case sufficiently to have said who gave him a larger quantity than he usually took.
“Yes, safe,” he muttered, with a feeling of relief and elation. But the giddy sensation returned, and he could gladly have gone into the inn and call for brandy, had he dared, the thought that such an action on his part might cause suspicion keeping him back.
He could hear the people, grouped about, discussing the event, and though it horrified him, and moment by moment as he stood leaning over the rail and gazing out to sea, he anticipated hearing something said which would fix suspicion upon him, he could not tear himself away.
His men were waiting for him at the harbour steps, but he shrank from moving, though he suffered agony in staying there, for out before him, on the dark sea with the stars reflected, and looking up at him like eyes, he felt that there was danger, and that he would not dare to go out to his yacht.
And yet he kept asking himself what there was to fear.
“Dead men tell no tales,” he kept saying to himself; but nothing seemed to check his nervous dread.
“Suppose all should be discovered?”
At last he tore himself away, determined to get on board the yacht, have a good stiff glass of brandy and water, and go to bed early; but, instead of turning off to the left and down to the end of the pier, he found himself led as it were up the cliff-path towards the Fort; and with the full intention of going right to the door to inquire how the ladies were, so as to force down and master the cowardly dread, he passed on, and when close to the drawbridge, stopped short.
A firm, elastic step was coming in the other direction, and a new dread assailed him.
Thought flies quickly, and in a few moments he had analysed his position.
He had, in his endeavour to obtain money, destroyed Gartram’s life. He had tried to make himself believe that he was only going to borrow part of what would be his anon; but, in his hurry and fear, he had failed to obtain the money, and he had removed Gartram.
What would be the result? Claude would doubtless have become his wife when urged by her father, but that father was dead, and he was face to face with the fact that he had destroyed his chances. For Claude had evidently a strong leaning towards Chris Lisle; and while he had been shiveringly and nervously leaning against the cliff rail, Chris had quickly made his way to the ladies’ side, had walked home with them, and now was returning master of the situation, and in another few moments would be standing face to face with him.
A fierce feeling of resentment sprang up in his breast, and, as his hands clenched, he could feel the veins in his forehead tingle and start.
Chris was coming slowly down the path, with his head bent, thinking deeply of Claude’s sorrow, and in spite of the angry words which had passed during their last interview, full of sorrow for the hard, passionate man cut off so suddenly; but as he suddenly found himself confronted by Glyddyr, he felt the blood flush up into his temples, and his hands shook,
It was momentary. His hands dropped easily to his sides, and he told himself that he need not fear Glyddyr now. He had only to wait patiently till the time of mourning and sorrow had passed away, and then Claude would naturally turn to him; and for the first time he felt glad that he had made that coup.
“I am not going to make an enemy of this man,” he said to himself. “I can afford to be generous;” and, breaking the silence, he said quietly, “Going up to the house, Mr Glyddyr?”
“Sir?”
“I said, are you going up to the house?”
“The man’s angry and disappointed,” thought Chris, and he spoke in the same quiet, inquiring tone.
“And, pray, by what right do you question me?” said Glyddyr angrily, and glad of something which roused him from the trembling, morbid state in which he was grovelling.
“I can hardly call it a right,” replied Chris, “and only speak as a very old friend of the family.”
“Friend? Why, confound you, sir; Mr Gartram ordered you never to enter his house again.”
“Let Mr Gartram rest,” replied Chris, gravely, and his tones were so impressive and seemed so full of suggestion that Glyddyr shrank again, and was silent. “I only wished to say that Miss Gartram is ill—utterly prostrate—and that an intrusion—”
“Intrusion!” cried Glyddyr, recovering himself, and beginning to quiver with jealous rage.
“Yes, sir; intrusion upon Miss Gartram at such a time would be as cruel as uncalled for.”
“Intrusion! Such insolence! Are you aware, sir—”
“I am aware of everything, sir, everything,” said Chris firmly; and once more Glyddyr, ridden by coward conscience, shivered, that word “everything” conveyed so much. “This is neither time nor place to discuss such matters. That poor gentleman is lying dead yonder; his child is broken-hearted, and I ask you, as a gentleman, to refrain from going up there now.”
There was silence for a few moments, during which Glyddyr battled hard with his feelings, and Chris felt that, had it been any one else, he would not have spoken in this way.
“And suppose, sir, I refuse?” cried Glyddyr at last.
There was another pause, for the smouldering hatred against this man deep down in Chris Lisle’s breast began to glow, and there was a curious twitching about his fingers; but the thoughts of what had taken place, and Claude’s pale, sorrowful countenance, rose before him, and he said quietly,—
“You cannot refuse, sir.”
“But I do,” raged Glyddyr. “Do you hear? I do refuse, and tell you it is a piece of insolent assumption on your part to dictate to me what I shall do.”
Chris was silent, and Glyddyr misinterpreted that silence in his excitement, or he would not have gone on with a passionate rage that was almost childish.
“Confound you for daring to come here at all. What do you mean, fellow? And now, understand this: if you intrude your presence upon that lady or her cousin again, I’ll have you horse-whipped and turned off the place. Do you hear me—go!”
“Parry Glyddyr,” said Chris gently, “at a time like this, every instinct within me prompts me to try and behave like a gentleman—”
“You—a gentleman!” sneered Glyddyr.
“To one who was that poor man’s friend, and whom I should fain have believed—”
“Curse your insolence!” sneered Glyddyr. “Leave this place. Go back to your kennel, dog. Don’t preach to me.”
“You have totally forgotten yourself, sir, and I can only attribute it to your having been drinking. I will not quarrel with you now, I once more appeal to you to go.”
“And I once more order you to go!” cried Glyddyr, whose mad rage for the moment rode over his natural cowardice. “What! You will not go? It is an insult to every one here. Be off!”
“Have you forgotten trying to turn me away from here once before?”
“When you took a cowardly advantage of me, sir. I have not forgotten it, but—bah! I have no time to quarrel with such a cad. Be off, and if you come here again, take the consequences.”
He turned on his heel to go up to the house.
“Stop,” said Chris, in a low deep trembling voice. “Mr Glyddyr, I appeal to you once more. Don’t go up there to that place now,” and he laid his hand upon his shoulder.
Glyddyr turned upon him, and made a backhanded blow at his face.
The flame flashed out for an instant, and then it was smothered down.
Quick as lightning Chris Lisle’s firm, strong hand gripped his rival by the wrist; there was a savage wrench given to the arm, and, after a miserable attempt at resistance, Glyddyr leant over to ease the agony he felt.
“If I did what nature seems to prompt me to do,” whispered Chris, “I should throw you into that moat; but, I will try and keep my temper. You are half-drunk. You are not fit to go up to that house. I am not afraid of your going there, but I will not have her insulted by your presence to-night. Come down here.”
His grip was like that of some machine as he gave Glyddyr’s arm another wrench, and then marched him right away down the path to the harbour, and then along the pier to the end.
Before they reached this point, Glyddyr had made another feeble attempt to free himself, and there was a momentary struggle, which brought both to the edge of the south pier, where there was a fall into deep water.
“Come quietly, or, by all that’s holy, I’ll throw you in,” said Chris hoarsely; and Glyddyr ceased struggling, and suffered himself to be led to the end, where the crew of the yacht’s gig were waiting, smoking, till their master came.
“Now,” whispered Chris, “go and sleep off your drunken fit. Another time, when you can act and think like a man, we may both have something more to say.”
He loosened his grip of Glyddyr’s arm.
“Here, my lads,” he said, “get your master aboard; he is not fit to be alone.”
“Drunk or mad,” said Chris to himself, as he strode quickly along the pier to get back to his own room, and try to grow calm.
“I suppose a man must feel like I did to-night,” he thought, after a time, “when the devil comes into him, and he kills his enemy. If he had known what was in me then, he wouldn’t have dared to say all that. But I’m better now.”
Volume Three—Chapter Two.
At the Grave.
All Danmouth gathered to see the funeral procession wind down the granite-paved path to the cliff, and then along by the harbour to the little church on the rock shelf at the entrance of the glen.
Gartram had been hated, but death had destroyed all petty dislikes, and the people only remembered now the many acts of charity he had performed.
It was unwittingly, and by proxy, for he never knew one half of the kindly actions done in his name, and as the procession wound through the place, there was many a wet eye among the lookers-on, and the saying that ran among the simple folks, quarrymen’s and fishers’ wives, was: “A hard man;” and then, “but oh, so generous and good.”
It was against the etiquette of the sad ceremony, but Claude had said that she should follow her father to the grave, and the cousins walked behind the plain massive coffin, swung at arm’s-length by the handles, and carried by three relays of Gartram’s stout quarrymen, all ready to say: “Yes, a good master after all.”
Every blind was down, every one was in the street or along the cliff, for “The King of the Castle” was dead, and, for the most part, Danmouth seemed to have been made by him. So its people felt real sorrow for themselves as they said: “What is to be done now?”
On and on, with the slow tolling of the bell echoing right up the glen, and startling the white-breasted gulls which floated here and there, uttering their querulous cries as the procession wound its slow way on to the granite-built lych-gate—Gartram’s gift; and as they passed on to the church, Claude was conscious more than ever that Chris Lisle was standing bareheaded by the church door till they passed, and then, through her tear-blinded eyes, she saw that Glyddyr was within, pale and ashen, as he rested one hand upon a pew door.
Then out to the wind-swept churchyard, and there, after a few minutes, it seemed to Claude that she was standing alone, to place a few flowers which she carried upon the hollow-sounding oaken case.
“Come,” whispered a voice at her side, and she took the hand held out to her by her cousin, and was led away, feeling that she was alone now in the world. Wealth, position, such as few women at her age could claim, all seemed as nothing. She was alone.
As the mourners went sadly away, Chris Lisle walked slowly up to the entrance of the vault, and stood gazing down at the shining breastplate.
“Good-bye,” he said softly. “I will not say I forgive you, only that you did not know me. It was a mistake.”
As he moved away, he was aware of a ghastly countenance at a little distance, as Glyddyr stood watching him; but his attention was taken off directly by a tall, dark figure going slowly to the door of the vault, to stand there with hands clasped, and looking down.
He could not have told afterwards what it was that checked him from following the returning procession, but he stayed to watch that one figure, as, regardless of those around, it drooped for a moment, and then sank slowly upon its knees, and cover its face with its hands, and remain there as if weeping bitterly.
There was a group of rough quarrymen close at hand, all waiting to go up and have a last look at “the master,” before discussing among themselves, once more, their project to cut and erect a granite pillar over Gartram’s tomb.
They were so near Chris that he could hear the words, as one of the party said,—
“Poor Ike Woodham’s widow. Ay, lads, she’s lost the pride of her life once more. He was downright good to her when Woodham went.”
Chris took a step or two forward, for the solitary figure attracted him, and then another and another, quietly, as he heard a low, piteous wail, and saw the woman rise tottering to her feet, swaying to and fro.
“Forgive me! oh, forgive me!” she sobbed; and then she threw up her hands to clutch at vacancy.
Another moment, and she would have fallen heavily into the great granite vault, but Chris was in time: he flung an arm round her, and snatched her back insensible. She had swooned away, and had to be carried into the church till a vehicle had been procured; and Glyddyr had the satisfaction of seeing Chris enter the rough carriage and support the suffering woman till they reached the Fort.
“Thank you, Mr Chris,” she said hurriedly; “I’m better now,” and as he left her immediately, she hurried up to her room, opened her box, and poured out a portion of the contents of a phial into a glass.
Half an hour later, Claude was roused from her sad musings by one of the servants, who announced that Mrs Woodham was “took bad.”
It was something to divert Claude’s thoughts, and she hurried up to the bedroom to lay her hand upon the woman’s burning brow.
“Are you in pain, Sarah?”
“Hah!”
A long sigh, as if the cool, soft hand had acted like a professors rod in an electrical experiment, and the pain had been discharged.
“No, no—no pain.”
The woman’s eyes were closed, now that she had taken hold of the hand that had seemed to give her rest, and clung to it, keeping it by her cheek as she half-turned over in her bed; while Claude sent word that she was going to stay there and watch. And there, in spite of Mary Dillon’s prayers to let her stay, she did watch, and listen to Sarah Woodham’s muttered words.
“At rest now,” she cried twice. “Now he will sleep; or will he meet him face to face?”
Toward morning she slept calmly, and when, at daybreak, Mary stole into the room, exhaustion had done its work, and Claude was sleeping too.
Volume Three—Chapter Three.
Glyddyr Requires a Pick-me-up.
“Guv’nor aboard?”
Glyddyr was seated in the cabin, restlessly smoking a cigar, and gazing through the open window at the Fort, where it stood up grey and glittering in the sunshine, and holding within it, protected by the memory of its builder, the two objects for which Parry Glyddyr longed.
He had made up his mind a dozen times over to go straight to the place and see Claude, but the recollection of that horrible night kept him back, and he gave up, to go on pacing the little saloon, talking to himself wildly.
For how, he said, could he approach Claude now—he, the destroyer of her father’s life—go and ask her to listen to him, talk to her and try to lead her into thinking that, before long, she must become his wife—tell her that it was her duty, that it was her father’s wish, when all the time it would seem to him that the mocking, angry spirit of the dead would be pervading his old home, looking at him furtively from his easy-chair, from his window and door, as he had seen him look a score of times before.
No: it was too horrible; he dared not.
Three times since Gartram’s death he had, with great effort, written kindly letters—he could not go to the Fort and speak—telling Claude that she was not to think him unfeeling for not calling upon her, but to attribute it to a delicacy upon his part—a desire not to intrude upon her at such a time; and that he was going away for a cruise, but would shortly be back, then he would call.
Three times he did set sail, and as many times did he come back into the harbour after being out for a few hours, to the disgust of the crew.
“The skipper’s mad,” they said; “drinks a deal too much, and he’ll have the ‘horrors’ if he don’t mind. He used to be able to cruise a bit, and now, if there’s a screw loose in the engine, she careens over, or there’s a cloud to wind’ard, he’s back into port, and here we are getting rusty for want of a run.”
It was always so. So soon as they were a few miles away, Glyddyr saw his rival taking advantage of his absence, and winning Claude over to his side, and with her the wealth that was to have been his.
“If I hadn’t been such a fool,” he would mutter, “I might have had it easy enough.” And he would sit day after day watching the Fort with his double glass, thinking of the wealth lying there—how easily it could be snatched by foul means, seeing how well he knew the place.
But common sense would step in then, and remind him that everything would be locked up now, perhaps sealed, and that Gartram’s arrangements were secure enough to set even burglars at defiance. No; it must be by fair play. He must lose no more time, but go to the Fort, and quietly show Claude that he was waiting, and contrive to make her confide in him—let him help her, so that he might gradually strengthen his position.
“And it wants no strengthening,” he said angrily; “it was her father’s wish, and we are betrothed.”
Then a fit of trembling assailed him, and he shrank from going up to the place, where it would seem as if Gartram were standing at the entrance, stern and forbidding, to keep him back.
He flew to brandy again, to steady his shaking nerves.
“No,” he gasped, as he drained his glass; “I can’t do it. I’m bad enough, but I can’t go and court the daughter after—”
“Curse you, be quiet!” he cried, smiting himself across the mouth. “Do you want to blab to everybody the story of the accident?”
He seized the binocular again to watch the way up to the Fort, in jealous dread lest Chris Lisle should go up there; but, though he was constantly watching, and often saw Chris go out from his lodgings, it was mostly with his rod upon his shoulder, and in the other direction—toward the bridge and the glen.
And so the days glided by, till one morning, as he sat watching, longing to go up to the Fort, but putting off his visit till time had made him more confident and firm, he suddenly caught sight of a figure—the tall, sturdy figure of a man—going up to the entrance-gate.
Glyddyr was all excitement on the instant. A stranger—a well-dressed man—going up there! What could it mean?
He hardly left the little porthole through which he watched that day, but was constantly directing his glasses at the grey building.
Towards afternoon he saw the tall man come out from the study window, and begin walking up and down with his hands behind his back; then he stopped in a corner sheltered from the wind, and directly after there came a faint film of blue smoke rising, and Glyddyr looked on as the stranger walked to and fro.
“One of the old man’s best cigars, I’ll be bound,” muttered Glyddyr, laying down the glass, and biting his nails. “Who can he be?”
Ten minutes after, as Glyddyr sat there, glass in hand, he saw two figures in black come out of the front entrance, and go along the terrace a little way, to stand watching the sea.
He had it all there in miniature within the double circle of those glasses: Claude and Mary Dillon; and he could almost make out the expression upon the two pale countenances, till they moved slowly away and joined the tall gentleman who was walking up and down, and for the next hour they were in his company, ending by going in together, and the terrace was blank.
“A visitor—seems to be young—on familiar terms. There is no brother; I never heard of a cousin. Who can it be?”
Glyddyr gnawed his moustache, for here was a fresh complication. He could see no other reason for a visitor to be at Gartram’s house than as a fortune-hunter in search of Claude’s hand. This, then, was a new danger—from a man who was openly received there, and seemed quite at home. So that, while he was watching for the dangers of an assault upon the Fort by Chris Lisle, another had entered and taken possession.
“While I, like a cursed coward, have hung about, not daring to renew my suit.”
“Guv’nor aboard?”
Glyddyr had heard no splash of oars, nor the light jar of a boat touching his yacht side, but that voice made him start to his feet, and stand grinding his teeth.
“All right, I’ll go down.”
The next minute he was face to face with Gellow, dressed in a jaunty-looking yachting suit, and smoking a very strong cigar.
“Well, Guvnor,” he said, with an unpleasant grin, as he looked Glyddyr in the face, “there’s my hand if you like to take it; if you don’t, you can leave it alone, for it’s all the same to me. We parted huffy and short, and I’ll own up I was going to be very nasty. You kicked out, and it made me feel it. I was going to bite, Glyddyr, but I said to myself: ‘No; we’ve been good friends, and I won’t round upon him now.’”
“Why have you come down?”
“Now, come, don’t talk like that to a man who wants to help you. Come down to see you, of course.”
“For money—to badger me for payment of some of your cursed bills.”
“Oh, Glyddyr, my dear boy, what a fellow you are! No; I forgive you your nastiness, and I haven’t come down for money—there.”
“Then why have you come?”
“Two reasons.”
“Well?”
“To see how you were getting on.”
“That’s only one.”
“To have a chat with you about a certain lady.”
Glyddyr winced, and Gellow noticed it, but made no sign.
“We’ll talk that over after a bit. But how are you getting on over yonder?”
Glyddyr made an impatient gesture.
“Your digestion’s wrong, dear boy—that’s what’s the matter with you. But I congratulate you.”
“Con—what?”
“Gratulate you, dear boy. Of course, I saw all about that poor old chap dying of a drop too much.”
Glyddyr shivered.
“But it’s a grand thing for you. Easy for you to go and hang up your hat behind the door of as nice a bit of property as I ever saw. Pretty young wife, and your yacht, and a racehorse or two: you’ll be able to do that. By George, you’re a lucky man.”
Glyddyr drew a long breath, and Gellow threw himself on the padded seat.
“Might as well have shaken hands,” he said; “but, bah! it’s only form. Very sad about the old chap, but a grand stroke of fate for you. I’m glad you’ve stopped on here. Very wise: because, of course, there’s sure to be a shoal of poor relatives wanting to nibble the cake—your cake—our cake, eh?”
“So that’s why you’ve come down?”
“Yes. Been sooner, but a certain lady has taken up a lot of my time. You didn’t want her here now. I’ve plenty of time, though. I knew you were on the spot, and that nothing would be done till the old gentleman had been put away quietly, and the lady had time to order the mourning. Oh, I say, Glyddyr! you’ll excuse me, but—”
“But what, man?”
“Don’t be so snaggy to a man who is helping you. But what bad form.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Look at yourself in the glass. Promised wife in deep mourning, and you in blue serge and a red tie. Why, you ought to be as solemn looking as an undertaker.”
Glyddyr involuntarily glanced at himself in a mirrored panel at the side of the saloon.
“Change all that, dear boy. That’s where I come in so useful, you see.”
Glyddyr moved impatiently.
“You see, I’m not a lawyer, but I’m quite as good, or better. There are not many legal dodges I’m not up to, and you can take me with you to the house, introduce me to the young lady, and I can put her up to saving hundreds in rental on the estates. When are you going next?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll want a bit of money, too. Don’t stint yourself—I’m at your back all ready, so that you may cut it fat right through. By George, Glyddyr, you are lucky. The estate is about as good as a million of money.”
“How do you know?” said Glyddyr savagely.
“How do I know, man?” said Gellow, laughing. “Used my wits. Fine thing wits. You began life with a pot of money. I began life with tuppence. But it’s you fellows who get the luck, and turn out millionaires.”
“Look here, Mr Gellow—”
“Nonsense, nonsense, man. How huffy you will be to your best friend! Come, you must want my help, so let’s talk business over quietly. When are you going over yonder?”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“Gammon! Don’t be absurd, man, and talk rough just because we were a little out last time I was down. That’s all over. You talk as if you wanted to throw me over, and get your millions without my help; but you can’t do it, my dear boy. Let alone what you owe me, you know, I must stand in here.”
“Stand in! What do you mean?”
“You know.”
“Why, you scoundrel—”
“Now, there you go again. You force me to take up the cudgels in my defence.”
“Leave this room.”
“Cabin, dear boy, cabin. But what for? To go ashore, walk up to Gartram’s Fort—I mean Glyddyr’s Fort, if I like it to be—ask to see the young lady, and tell her exactly what you are, and how you stand with a certain person.”
Glyddyr stared at him helplessly.
“No: you wouldn’t drive me to do such a thing—such a cowardly thing as it really would be—in self-defence. No, no, my dear boy; you are really too hard on an old friend—far too hard.”
Glyddyr’s teeth grated together in his impotent rage.
“Come, come, come, shake hands, and let me help you to pay your debts like a gentleman, and to drop into this good thing easily and nicely as can be.”
There was no response.
“Tell me how matters stand. I know pretty well, but I should like to hear from you.”
“You’ll hear nothing from me.”
“Very well. I’ll tell you what I know. You can correct me where I am wrong, eh? Now, then, to begin with. Papa told the young lady she was to marry you. That ought to be good enough to carry the day, but—there’s your little but again—there’s a gentleman, a Mr Christopher Lisle—old friend, playmate, and the rest of it—whom the lady likes, eh?”
Glyddyr uttered an ejaculation.
“And then there’s something else on. Tall, big gent stopping at the house. Young lady and he are shut up together a deal.”
“How do you know all this?” cried Glyddyr, thrown off his guard by a dread lest, after all, Claude should escape him.
“How do I know? Now, come; isn’t there a tall, biggish gent staying at the house?”
Glyddyr nodded.
“Of course there is. I don’t say things unless they are right. Now, what does he want?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know! Well, how long has he been there?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Gellow sat up suddenly, and glared at Glyddyr.
“Look here; you are not playing with a good thing, are you?”
Glyddyr shook his head.
“When were you there last?”
“Mr Gellow, I object to the line of cross-examination that you are taking.”
“Do you? Then look here, Mr Parry Glyddyr, you’ll have to object. If you don’t know what’s good for you, I must. Now, then: when were you there last?”
“I have not been there since Mr Gartram died.”
“Well, I am!” cried Gellow. “You’re engaged to the young lady, and haven’t been since the father’s death. Why?”
Glyddyr was silent.
“Good heavens, man, don’t turn stunt like that. There isn’t a tiff on, is there?”
“I felt it better not to go near the house while the poor girl is in so much trouble.”
“Hark at him!” cried Gellow excitedly, “when every day he stops away may mean ten thousand pounds.”
“She may have been ill, and I have been unwell,” said Glyddyr sullenly.
“And all the time the old man’s money might be running down the sink hole, or into the poor relatives’ pockets. What are you at?”
“I tell you I couldn’t go to the house with that old man lying there dead,” cried Glyddyr, with a half-suppressed shudder.
“Look at him!” cried Gellow angrily, “shivering and shaking as if he had been on the drink for six months. Not afraid of a dead man, are you?”
“Your language is revolting,” cried Glyddyr passionately.
“Well, ain’t it enough to make any man revolt? Why, you ought to have hold there; you ought to have taken possession and looked after everything. It’s as good as your own. Oh, where would you be if I didn’t look after you. Now, then: you’d better get over there at once.”
“No,” said Glyddyr, “not yet;” and, in spite of himself, he shuddered, and then glanced at his visitor to see if it had been noticed.
“Look at him! Why, the old man isn’t there now. There, I won’t bully you, dear boy. I see how it is. Ring the bell; have in the steward, and let me mix you a pick-me-up. You’re down, regularly down. I’ll soon wind you up, and set you going again. I’m like a father to you.”
Glyddyr obeyed in a weak, helpless way, ringing for the steward, and then ordering in the spirits.
“Bring in the liqueurs too, my lad—Curaçoa, Chartreuse, anything.—You want me now, old fellow, but you must take care. You’re as white as wax, and your hand’s all of a tremble. It won’t do. You don’t drink fair. Now, as soon as your man brings in the tackle, I’ll give you a dose, and then you’ve got to go over yonder.”
“No,” said Glyddyr hoarsely, “no: not to-day.”
“Yes, to-day. You don’t want two chaps cutting the ground from under your feet.—Hah, that’s your sort, steward. Better than being aboard ship, and having to put your hand in your pocket every time you want a drink. Needn’t wait.”
The man left the little saloon, and Gellow deftly concocted a draught with seltzer and liqueurs, which Glyddyr took with trembling hand, and tossed off.
“Talk about making a new man!” cried Gellow. “You feel better already, don’t you?”
Glyddyr nodded.
“Of course you do. Now, then, let’s take the boat and go over yonder. I’m curious to see the place.”
“No: impossible,” said Glyddyr, flushing.
“Not a bit impossible. Come on, and I’ll back you up.”
“No: I will not take you there.”
“Coming round more and more,” said Gellow, laughing. “Well, will you go alone?”
“Not to-day.”
“You’ll leave those two chaps to oust you out of what is your own?”
“No. I’ll go and call.”
“When?”
“Now: at once.”
“That’s your sort,” cried Gellow. “Never you say I’m not your friend.”
Ten minutes later the boat was manned, and Glyddyr was ready to step in, but Gellow laid his hand upon his arm, and drew him back.
“Don’t,” he said, almost with tears in his eyes; “don’t go like that, dear boy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go and change that tie. If you haven’t got a black one, put on a white.”
Glyddyr obeyed him sullenly, and changed his tie before starting, while his visitor went down into the saloon, helped himself to a cigar, and took up a glass and the brandy decanter.
“A nip wouldn’t do me any harm,” he said with a laugh, and, removing the stopper, poured out a goodly dram.
It was half-way to his lips when he stopped, and poured it back.
“No,” he said quickly, “I want a clear head now; I can enjoy myself when I’ve got Master Glyddyr quite in trim.”
He went on deck, to begin smoking and asking questions of the two men left on board; but all the time he had an eye on Glyddyr’s boat, watching it till it reached the pier-steps, and then he was able to see its owner at intervals, till he disappeared among the houses.
After this, Gellow went below and used the binocular, fixing it upon the Fort till he made out Glyddyr approaching the house, where he stood in the entry for a few moments talking to a servant, and then turned away.
Gellow set down the glass, thrust his hands in his pockets, and stood with the cigar in the exact centre of his lips, puffing away rapidly—“For all the world like a steam launch,” said one of the men left on board when talking about it afterwards—till Glyddyr came on board.
“Out,” said the latter laconically.
“Fashionable slang for engaged with another chap,” said Gellow, with a sneer.
Glyddyr turned upon him fiercely.
“Don’t be waxey, dear boy,” said Gellow; “but it was quite time I came down.”
The progress of affairs at the Fort had been business-like meanwhile.
“I beg your pardon, miss.”
“It is nothing, Woodham; come in,” said Claude quietly, as the woman was withdrawing after giving an unheeded tap, and entering the room.
“Mr Trevithick’s compliments, ma’am, and would you see him in the study?”
“Yes, at once,” said Claude; and both thought how she had seemed to change during the past few weeks, from the slight girl into the dignified woman. “Come, Mary.”
“Isn’t it private business?” said Mary, shrinking back strangely.
“Yes, dear; our private business,” said Claude, and they passed out, Sarah Woodham holding open the door.
Claude gave her an affectionate smile, and crossed to the study; and, as the door closed after them, Sarah Woodham stood alone in the doorway, with her hands clasped and eyes closed as she muttered softly—
“And let me live for her—die for her, grateful for her undeserved love, in expiation—oh, my God, in expiation!”
“Ah!” said Trevithick, rising from a chair at the table covered with papers, and looking like the great, heavy, bashful Englishman he was, as he placed chairs opposite to where he had been seated, “I am sorry to trouble you, Miss Gartram, Miss Dillon too,” he said with a smile, as he beamed upon her.
Mary gave him an angry, resentful look, and he turned chapfallen on the instant, and became the man of business again, then cold, and seeming to perspire figures.
“Miss Dillon takes part in our little conference, Miss Gartram?” he said, rather stiffly.
“Of course. My cousin is, as it were, my sister, Mr Trevithick.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, as he slowly resumed his seat, pursed up his lips a little, and then he took up a pen, with the holder of which he scratched his head as he studied a paper before him on the table. “Are you ready, Miss Gartram?”
“Quite.”
“Well, then, I have very bad news for you, I am sorry to say.”
“I am used to bad news, Mr Trevithick.”
“My dear madam, I spoke too bluntly. I meant bad news as to money matters. Forgive me my rough way. I am a man of business—a mere machine.”
Claude smiled her thanks, for the words were uttered with a manly sympathy that was pleasant to her ears, and Mr Trevithick felt better, and beamed again at Mary.
Mary once more resented that beam, and Trevithick passed his hand through his hair, which more than ever resembled a brush, and sighed, and said—
“I have gone over all papers and accounts, Miss Gartram, over and over again, and an auditor may perhaps find an error, but for the life of me I can’t tell where, for I have studied the figures night and day ever since I came here last, and I cannot bring them right. I was wrong to the extent of one, seven, eight; but I found a receipt afterwards, evidently carelessly thrown into the drawer before entering, and I wish I could find the other.”
“What other?” said Mary sharply.
“That other,” said Mr Trevithick, beaming at her again, being silently snubbed, and collapsing once more. “As I make it, Miss Gartram,” he continued, in the most stern and business way, “you inherit from my late respected client, your father, the freehold quarry, this residence, also freehold and of great value, while the quarry is almost inexhaustible; the furniture and plate, good debts, etcetera, and five hundred and twenty-seven thousand eight hundred and forty-nine pounds, seven shillings and four-pence, including half-a-sheet of stamps.”
“Indeed?” said Claude, with a sigh.
“What bad news!” said Mary, with preternatural solemnity.
“That is to come, Miss Dillon,” said Trevithick, with a look of triumph which met so sharp a glance that it was turned aside on the instant, and he took refuge in his papers.
“Yes, madam,” he repeated, “that is to come. There is a very serious deficit, Miss Gartram. I find that there should have been five hundred and sixty-eight thousand, eight hundred and forty-nine, seven and four-pence—a deficit, you see, of forty-one thousand pounds—I need not add, a very large sum.”
“Yes,” said Claude quietly.
“Yes,” said Trevithick. “Well, madam, what have you to say?”
“Nothing, Mr Trevithick.”
“But really, my dear madam, I think you ought to say something about this sum, and give me some instructions what to do to recover it.”
Claude shook her head gravely.
“No,” she said, “I cannot regard this as a loss in the presence of one so much greater. Thank you very much, Mr Trevithick, for all that you have done; and now, pray, give me some advice as to what to do with this money.”
“Good, my dear madam, and that I am sure you will do.”
“I mean as to its investment.”
“To be sure. I was coming to that, for the sooner this heavy amount is out of your hands the more comfortable you will be.”
“I said something like this to my cousin a little while back, Mr Trevithick,” said Mary sharply. “Pray give her some better advice than that.”
The solicitor looked disconcerted, but he recovered himself.
“Well, Miss Gartram, I have plenty of clients who want money, and would agree to pay five per centum; but, excuse me, you don’t want to make money, and, as your father’s trusted legal adviser, I shall give his daughter the most valuable advice I can.”
“And what is that, Mr Trevithick?”
“Let me at once invest all this money for you in Consols. Only two and a half now, but there will be no fluctuations, no heavy dividend one year, nothing at all the next, and some day perhaps failure. It is very poor advice, perhaps, but safe as the Bank of England.”
“Take the necessary steps at once, Mr Trevithick,” said Claude decisively.
“Thank you, madam,” making a note; “it shall be done.”
“And that is all?” said Claude.
“Oh, no, my dear madam. The next question is this residence. If you will part with it, I have a client who will give a very handsome sum—its full value—and take it, furniture and all. Cash.”
“And is that all?” said Claude quietly.
“No, madam, there is the quarry. I should advise you to sell that to a small company. You can get your own price, for it is very valuable, and retain shares in it if you liked; but I should say no—sell; add the purchase money to that for this house, and let me invest it in Consols also.”
“No,” said Claude, rising, and speaking firmly, though with tears in her eyes; “the opening of that quarry was my father’s dearest enterprise, and the building of this house his greatest pleasure. While I live, his quarry and his people shall be my life business, and nothing shall be touched, nothing shall be changed in this his house.”
“My dear Miss Gartram,” said the lawyer, colouring like a girl, as he rose and stretched out his hand to take Claude’s, which he raised reverently to his lips, “I feel proud of the confidence you placed in me. I feel far more proud now, and I honour you for what you have just said. Your wishes shall be carried out. One word more. You will require some assistance over the commercial matters of the quarry—a gentleman learned in stone, and—”
“No, Mr Trevithick, I shall only want help as to the monetary affairs of the business. That I hope you will oblige me by supervising yourself. The workpeople will help me in the rest.”
The lawyer bowed, and once more beamed on Mary, but looked stern again.
“Now, have you done, Mr Trevithick?” said Claude.
“Not quite. The deficit.”
“If, as you say, there is a deficit, it must remain. There is enough.”
“But my late client would not have rested till it was put straight.”
“No,” said Claude dreamily; “but my father may have had some project of which we are ignorant. We had better wait. You will stay with us a few days longer?”
“I should say no,” replied Trevithick; “but I cannot conscientiously leave these premises till this money is safe. Till then, my dear madam, I am your guest.”
Claude would have spoken again, but the look she cast round the study brought up such a flood of painful memories that she could only make a sign to Mary to follow, as she hurried from the room.
“A woman any man might love,” said the lawyer, as soon as he was alone. “I hope no money-hunting scoundrel will catch her up. No; she is too strong-minded and firm. Now, what have I done to offend little Mary?” he added, with a sigh. “Bless her, I don’t get along with her as I could wish.”
He was quiet and thoughtful for a few moments, and then began tapping the table.
“Gartram had that forty—one thousand. His books say so, and he was correct as an actuary. Some one knew the secret of this room, and got at that cash.”
“Yes. I should like to find that out. It would please little Mary, too.”