Volume Three—Chapter Four.
Wimble Seizes the Clue.
“Love is blind,” said Michael Wimble, with a piteous sigh. “Yes, love is blind.”
He had been a great many times past Mrs Sarson’s cottage, always with a stern determination in his breast to treat her with distance and resentment, as one who shunned him for the sake of her lodger; but so surely as he caught a glimpse of the pleasant lady at door or window, his heart softened, and he knew that if she would only turn to him, there was forgiveness for her and more.
Upon the morning in question he had had his constitutional, and found a splendid specimen of an auk washed up, quite fresh, which he meant to stuff and add to his museum.
An hour later a neat little servant-maid came to the door with a parcel and a letter.
“With missus’s compliments.”
Wimble took the letter and parcel, his hands trembling and a mist coming before his eyes, for it was Mrs Sarson’s little maid.
“We are all wrong,” he said, as he hurried in, his heart beating complete forgiveness, happiness in store, and everything exactly as he wished.
He turned back to the door, slipped the bolt, and then seated himself at the table with his back to the window, and cut the string of the parcel with a razor.
“She has relented, and it is a present,” he said to himself, as he tingled with pleasure; “a present and a letter.”
He stopped, with his fingers twitching nervously and his eyes going from parcel to note and back again.
Which should he open first—note or parcel?
He took the parcel, unfastened the paper, and found a neat cardboard box; and he had only to take off the lid to see its contents, but he held himself back from the fulfilment of his delight by taking up the note, opening it, and reading—
“Mrs Sarson would be greatly obliged by Mr Wimble’s attention to the enclosed at once. To be returned within a week.”
“Attention—returned—a week!” faltered Wimble; and with a sudden snatch he raised the lid, and sat staring dismally at its contents.
“And me to have seen her all these times and not to know that,” he groaned, as he rested his elbows on the table and his brow upon his hands, gazing the while dismally into the box. “Ah! false one—false as false can be. Why, I’ve gazed at her fondly hundreds o’ times, but love is blind, and—yes,” he muttered, as he took the object from the box and rested it upon his closed fist in the position it would have occupied when in use, “there is some excuse. As good a skin parting as I ever saw. One of Ribton’s, I suppose.”
There was a long and dismal silence as Michael Wimble, feeling that he was thoroughly disillusioned, slowly replaced the object in its box.
“How can a woman be so deceitful, and all for the sake of show? And me never to know that she wore a front!”
“All, well!” he sighed, “I can’t touch it to-day,” and rising slowly he replaced it in the box, dropped the note within, roughly secured the packet, and opened a drawer at the side.
As he pulled the drawer sharply out, something rolled from front to back, and then, as the drawer was out to its full extent, rolled down to the front.
He picked it out, dropped the cardboard box within, and shut it up, ignoring the bottle he held in his hand as he walked away to slip the bolt back and throw open the door.
He was just in time to receive a customer in the shape of Doctor Asher, who entered and nodded.
“I want you, Wimble,” he said. “When can you come up? Beginning to show a little grey about the roots, am I not?”
“Yes, sir, decidedly,” said Wimble, as the doctor took off his hat, and displayed his well-kept dark hair.
“When will you come, then?”
“When you like, sir,” said Wimble, unconsciously rubbing the tip of his nose with the cork of the little bottle he held in his hand.
“To-morrow afternoon, then,” said the doctor sharply; “and you needn’t shake the hair dye in my face.”
“Beg pardon, sir? Oh, I see! That’s not hair dye, sir.”
“What is it, then? New dodge for bringing hair on bald places?”
He held out his hand for the bottle, and the barber passed it at once.
“Oh, no, sir,” he said, “nothing of that kind.”
With the action born of long habit, the doctor took out the cork, sniffed, held the bottle up to the light, shook it, applied a finger to the neck, shook the bottle again, tasted the drug at the end of his finger, and quickly spat it out.
“Why, Wimble, what the dickens are you doing with chloral?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing; only an old bottle.”
“Throw it away, then,” said the doctor hastily. “Don’t take it. Very bad habit. Recollect that’s how poor Mr Gartram came to his end. Good-day. Come round, then, at three.”
“Yes, sir, certainly, sir; but you forgot to—”
“Oh, I beg pardon. Yes, of course,” said the doctor, handing back the bottle, and then, beating himself with his right-hand glove, he walked hastily out of the place.
Wimble stood looking after his visitor till he was out of sight, and then walked slowly back into his museum to operate upon the dead bird, which lay where he had placed it upon a shelf ready for skinning.
“Ah,” he said mournfully, as he rubbed his nose slowly with the cork of the little bottle, “what a world of deception it is. There is nothing honest. Were all more or less like specimens. A front, and me not to have known it all this time. If she had taken me sooner into her confidence, I wouldn’t have cared. The doctor did. Hah! I wonder who ever suspected him, with his clear dark locks, as I keep so right. Yes, he’s a deceiver, and without me what would he look like in a couple of months?—Deceit, deceit, deceit.—And I trusted her so. It’s taking a mean advantage of a man.
“Well, it was a mark of confidence, and perhaps I have been all wrong. It shows she is waiting to trust me, and ought I to? Well, we shall see.”
Michael Wimble looked a little brighter, and then his eyes fell upon the bottle, which he shook as the doctor had shaken it, took out the cork, applied a finger to it, and tasted in the same way, quickly spitting it out as he became aware of the sharp taste.
“What did he say: chloral? Don’t take any of it. No, I sha’n’t do that.”
Wimble suddenly became thoughtful and dreamy as he replaced the cork, and he seemed to see the bright ray of light once more on the dry patch of sand beyond where the tide had reached.
Then he thought about Gartram’s death by chloral.
“Might have been the same bottle,” he said thoughtfully; “took what he wanted, and then threw it out of the window.”
He looked at the tiny drop in the bottom, turned it over and over, and his thoughts seemed to run riot in his brain, till he grew confused at their number. But after a time he followed the one theme again.
“What a piece of evidence to have brought up at the inquest. How important a witness I should have been. But why should he have thrown the bottle out of the window? He didn’t poison himself. He wasn’t the man to do that. Thousands upon thousands of money. Everything he could wish for. Regular king of the place. He wouldn’t do that—he couldn’t.”
Wimble stood with his brow wrinkled up, and then all at once, as if startled by the suddenness of a thought, he dropped the bottle on the oilcloth and drew back, gazing at it in a horrified way, his eyes dilating, and the white showing all round.
“Somebody must have given it to him.”
“No, no. They wouldn’t do that; it would be murder. No one would try to murder him.”
He passed his hand over his forehead, and drew it away quite wet.
“His money!” he half whispered, as the thought seemed to grow and grow. “They say he kept thousands up there. Or some one who hated him, as lots of people did.”
Wimble dropped into his shaving chair, and sat thinking of the numbers of workpeople who had quarrelled with Gartram and spoken threateningly; but he did not feel that it was possible for any one of these to have done such a deed.
“Some one who hated him—some one who wanted to get rid of him—some one who, who—no, no, no, it’s too horrible to think about. I wouldn’t know if I could.”
He lifted the little bottle between his finger and thumb, and drew back with his arm extended to the utmost to hurl the little vessel across the road, and right out toward the sea.
But he checked himself thoughtfully, drew back, and went across his shop to the side. Here he stood, bottle in hand, thinking deeply, before slowly opening the drawer and placing it in a corner.
“It would be very valuable,” he said softly, “if that was the bottle some one used to poison the old man; and if it was, why, I haven’t got a specimen in my museum that would attract people half so much. ‘The Danmouth murder; the bottle that held the poison,’ Why, they’d come in hundreds to see it.”
He took the phial out again, for it seemed to have a strange fascination for him, and after staring at it till his hands grew moist, he took out a piece of white paper, carefully rolled it therein, and placed it in another drawer, which he had to unlock, and fastened afterwards with the greatest care.
“That bottle’s worth at least a hundred pound,” he said huskily, as he put the key in his pocket. “It will be quite a little fortune to me.
“Somebody who hated him—somebody who wanted him out of the way,” he said, as he tapped his teeth with the key. “No, I can’t think, and won’t try any more. I’m not a detective, and I don’t want to know.
“Some one who hated him and had quarrelled with him, and who wanted him out of the way.”
In spite of his determination not to think any more of the subject, it came back persistently, and at last, to clear his brain and drive away the thoughts, he took down his hat, and determined to let the museum take care of itself for an hour, while he walked down along the beach.
He knew, as he came to this determination, that he would go straight down beneath the Fort, and look at the spot where he found the bottle; but, all the same, he felt that he must go, and, putting on his hat, he took the key out from inside of the door, and standing just inside the shop, began to put the key into the outer portion of the lock, as the thought came again more strongly than ever—
“Some one who hated him and had quarrelled with him, and wanted him out of the way.”
He was in the act of closing his door as a quick step came along the path, and as the door closed, a voice said to some one—
“How do, Edward?” and the speaker passed on with creel on back and salmon rod over his shoulder.
Wimble darted back into the museum, shut the door, and stood trembling in the middle of the place.
“Oh!” he said, in a hoarse whisper, as the great drops stood out upon his brow. “What did Brime say?”
He shivered, and his voice dropped into a whisper.
“Mr Chris Lisle! He was there that night!”
Volume Three—Chapter Five.
Mr Wimble is in Doubt.
“Want lodgings, sir?” said Reuben Brime taking his short black pipe from his lips, and gazing straight out to sea, as if he thought there was plenty of room for a good long rest out there. Then straightening himself from having a good, thoughtful lean on the cliff rail, where he had been having his evening’s idle after the day’s work done, he turned, and, looking thoughtfully at a youngish man in tweeds, as if he were a plant not growing quite so satisfactorily as could be wished, he said again, in a tone of mild inquiry,—“Lodgings?”
“Yes, lodgings,” said the new-comer shortly.
“Well, I was trying to think of some, sir; and I could have told you of the very thing if something as I had in hand had come up—I mean off.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir,” said the gardener thoughtfully. “I don’t mind who knows it. I’d got as nice a little cottage in my eye as any man would wish to have there, the money to buy all the furniture, as much more as was wanted, theirs being very old; and I could have said to you, ‘There’s a bedroom and a setten’-room, and the best of attendance.’”
“But it is not in hand, eh?”
“In hand, sir? No, sir; nothing like in hand.”
“How’s that?”
“Ah, well, I don’t care who knows it now, sir. Mebbe if she heard how it’s talked about, and the man’s disappointment, she may get better, and alter her mind.”
“She? The lady?”
“Yes, sir; the lady, as I may say I’d engaged myself to; but she’s took bad and strange, and I suppose it’s all off.”
“Ah, well, I’m sorry to hear that,” said the stranger, looking amused, and as if he thought the man he addressed was a little wanting in brains.
“Thank you, sir, kindly. Lodgings?—no. You see this isn’t a seaside place.”
“Then what do you call it?” said the stranger.
“Call it, sir? Well, we calls it Danmouth, or, mostly, Dan’orth, because you see it’s shorter, and more like one word.”
“Oh, yes, I know the name; but what do you call it if it isn’t a seaside place?”
“I calls it a port, sir, and as good a little port as there is anywheres about this coast. Dinton and Bartoe and Minxton’s seaside places, with lots of visitors and bathing machines, and bands and Punch and Judies. Lodgings, eh? Let me see. Lodgings for a gentleman? What do you say to the Harbour Inn? They’ve got as good a drop of beer there as a man could wish to drink.”
“No, no, I don’t want to be at a public house. I’m here for a fortnight’s fishing, and I want nice, comfortable apartments.”
“And you want comfortable apartments?” said Brime respectfully, as he rubbed his sunburned face with the stem of his pipe. “Fishing, eh? You mean pottering about with a rod and line; not going with a boat and nets?”
“Quite right.”
“I’ve got it,” said the gardener. “Mrs Sarson; she lets lodgings. Stop a moment. I’ll take you on to the museum.”
“Museum! Hang it all, man, I’m not a specimen.”
Brime laughed for the first time for a month.
“No, sir, you don’t look as if you was stuffed. I was going to take you to our barber’s. He knows everything; and he’ll tell us whether Mrs Sarson can take you in.”
“Is it far—the museum?”
“Only yonder. Just where you see that man looking out of the door.”
“Ah, yes,” said the stranger sharply. “Yours seems a busy place.”
“Tidy, sir, tidy.”
“Whose castle’s that?”
“Mr Gartram’s, sir. Leastwise it was. He’s gone.”
“Oh! Dead?”
“Yes, sir. The hardest and the best master as ever was. Some on us’ll miss him, I expect.”
“Curious kind of master, my lad, and likely to be missed. Gartram? Oh, yes, I know; the stone quarry man. Mr Trevithick, in our town, has to do with his affairs.”
“If you talked all night, sir, you couldn’t say a truer word than that. Mr Trevithick, sir, very big man, lawyer.”
“Yes; they call him Jumbo our way.”
Kck!
Brime burst out into a monosyllabic half laugh, and then stopped short as Wimble was drawing back into his den to let them pass.
“Here, Mr Wimble, sir, this gent wants to ask something about Mrs Sarson.”
“Eh! Yes!” said the barber sharply; and the suspicious look which had been gathering of late in his face grew more intense. “Step in, sir, pray,” he added eagerly.
“Oh, that’s not worth while now,” said the stranger, passing his hand over his chin. “Give you a look in to-morrow. My friend here thought you could tell me about Mrs Sarson’s lodgings.”
“Yes,” said Brime; “and—of course, this gent wants to go fishing, and Mr Lisle’s always fishing.”
“Mr Lisle?” said the stranger. “Christopher Lisle?”
“That’s the man, sir,” said the barber sharply. “You know anything about him, sir?”
“Only that he has a good heavy account with our bank.”
Wimble looked sharply at the stranger, with his head on one side, and more than one eager question upon his lips. But the new-comer felt that he had made a slip by talking too freely, and prevented him by asking a question himself.
“Do you think Mrs Sarson could accommodate me?”
“No, sir,” said Wimble, looking at him searchingly. “No: she has no room, I am sure. Take the gentleman up to Mrs Lampton’s at the top of the cliff road. I daresay she could accommodate him.”
“Why, of course,” said Brime; “the very place. I never thought of that.”
“No, Mr Brime,” said Wimble patronisingly, as he looked longingly at the visitor with cross-examination in his breast. “Say I recommended the gentleman.”
“All right. Come along, sir, I’ll show you; and if you want a few worms for fishing, I’m your man.”
“Worms?” said the visitor, laughing. “I always use flies.”
“Most gents do, sir. Mr Chris Lisle does. But the way to get hold of a good fish in a river is with a whacking great worm.”
“Do you know Mr Lisle?”
“Know him? Poor young man, yes.”
“Poor? I don’t call a gentleman who lately came in for a big fortune poor.”
“Big fortune, sir? Mr Chris Lisle come in for a big fortune, sir? Hurrah! Our young lady will be glad.”
The visitor was ready to pull himself up again sharp, for this was another mistake.
Brime stopped, smiling, at a pretty cottage, where fuchsias and hydrangeas were blooming side by side with myrtles, and was going off, when the visitor offered him a shilling for his trouble.
“Thankye, sir, and I hope you’ll be comfortable,” said the gardener, descending the chief path.—“Well, I am glad. Come in for a large fortune. Now, if I were him, I’d just send Mr Glyddyr to the right about, and get the business settled as soon as it seemed decent after master’s death. He is a good sort, is Mr Lisle, and he’s fond enough of her. Why, they’ll be married now, and keep up the old place just as it is; and if I speak when we want more help, he isn’t the gent to tell a hard-working man to get up a bit earlier and work a bit later. Not he. He made a friend of me when he gave me that half-sov’rin, and I made a friend of him when I caught him. My, what a lark it was when I dropped on to him, and he thought it was the governor! I know he did.”
Reuben Brime smiled as he had not smiled for days, and a minute or two later he grinned outright. From his point of vantage, high up the cliff side, he could see to the mouth of the glen, and there, to his intense delight, he could just make out two figures in deep mourning, one tall and graceful, and the other short, and her head low down between her shoulders, walking away from him in the distance, and, not far behind, a sturdy-looking man in light brown tweeds, with a fishing creel slung at his back, and a rod over his shoulder, trying hard to overtake the pair in front.
“Wouldn’t give much for Mr Glyddyr’s chance,” thought Brime, as he watched the trio out of sight. “Been an awfully cloudy time, but the sun’s coming strong now, and things’ll grow. What a fellow I am to give up because she was a bit off. Friends with the new guv’nor means friends with the new missus, and as Sarah about worships her, and’ll do what she tells her, why, it’ll come right in the end.”
He walked on, building castles as he went, and in the height of his elation he said, half aloud—
“It’s only six pounds a year, and I could let it till she said yes. Hang me if I don’t take the cottage after all.”
“Well, Mr Brime,” said a voice at his elbow, “did Mrs Lampton take the gentleman in?”
“Eh? Oh, I don’t know, as I didn’t stop. But she’d be sure to.”
“Oh, yes, it will be all right,” said Wimble. “But you’ll come in, Mr Brime?”
“No. I think I’ll get back now, and finish my pipe by the cliff.”
“With a beard like that, sir? Better have it off.”
“Eh? No, it isn’t shaving day.”
“Your beard grows wonderfully fast, Mr Brime, believe me, sir. I wonder at a young man like you being so careless of his personal appearance. You’ll be wanting to marry some day, sir, and there’s nothing goes further with the ladies than seeing a man clean-shaved.”
It was not quite a random shot, for Wimble had wheedled out a little respecting the gardener’s future, and he had only to draw back with a smile for the man to follow him in, passing his hand thoughtfully over his chin, wondering whether it had anything to do with the very severe rebuff he had more than once received.
Once more in the chair, tied up in the cloth, and with his face lathered, he was at Wimble’s mercy; and as the razor played about his nose and chin, giving a scrape here and a scrape there, the barber cross-examined the gardener in a quiet, unconcerned way, that would have been the envy of an Old Bailey counsel. In very few minutes he had drawn out everything that the gardener had learned, and so insidiously soft were the operator’s words, that Brime found himself unconsciously inventing and supplying particulars that the barber stowed up in his brain cell, ready for future use.
“There, Mr Brime,” he said, after delivering the final upper strokes with a dexterity that was perfect, though thrilling, from the danger they suggested, “I think you will say, sir, that a good shave is not dear at the price.”
These last words were accompanied by little dabs with a wet sponge, to remove soapy patches among the thick whiskers, and then the towel was handed, and the victim walked to the glass.
“Yes, it does make a difference in a man,” he said, as he dabbed and dried.
“Difference, sir? It’s a duty to be clean-shaved. To a man, sir, speaking from years of experience, a beard is hair, natural hair. To a woman, sir, it is nothing of the kind. A woman cannot help it, sir; it is born in her, but to her, sir, a beard is simply dirt.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the gardener, and he thought deeply.
“Yes, sir; I’ve often heard them call it so. Even on the properest man, it is, in their eyes—dirt.”
Brime paid and took his departure, while Wimble plunged at once among his own dark thoughts.
“That man is blind as a mole,” he said, “and can see nothing which is not just before his eyes. He can dig a garden, but he cannot dig down into his own brain. How horrible! how strange! And how the slackest deeds will come out in a way nobody who is guilty suspects. Yesterday, quite a poor man—to-day, very rich—a heavy banking account—come in for a fortune. Yes, it’s all plain enough now. Now, ought I to do anything—and if so, what?”
Volume Three—Chapter Six.
Two Meetings.
After a long stay within the walls of the Fort, Claude had yielded to her cousin’s importunity, and gone out.
She felt the truth of the French saying before she had gone a hundred yards from her gates. It was only the first step that cost, for, as she passed along the little row of houses facing the harbour, there was a smile from one, a look of glad recognition from another, and several of the rough fishermen who were hanging about waiting for signs of fish doffed their hats with a hearty “How do, miss?”
A thrill of pleasure ran through her, and a feeling of awakening as from a time of sloth, as she realised that life could not be passed as a time for mourning.
She turned to speak to Mary, after another or two of these friendly salutations to the lady of the Fort, and was met by a smile and a nod.
“There, I told you so, Claudie. It was quite time you came out. It was a duty.”
Claude felt her cheeks burn slightly as she noted the direction in which they were going, but she kept on, feeling truly that she would have felt the same whichever direction they had taken.
It was a glorious evening, with the sun turning the whole of the western sky to orange and gold; and, as she breathed in the soft elastic air, watched the brilliant shimmer of colour as of liquid flames at sea, she listened to the murmurs of the ripple among the boulders, where the little river ran swiftly down from the glen, and the twitter of the birds in birch and fir. The joyous sensation that filled her breast was painful, even to drawing tears.
It was to her like the first walk after a long illness, when there is a feeling akin to ecstasy, and life seems never to have been so beautiful before. She could not speak, but wandered on beside her cousin—over the bridge, where they paused to gaze down at the golden-amber water, sparkling and foaming on its way to the sea. Ever onward and up the glen, but not far before the sound of a large pebble, kicked by a heavy boot out into the rippling water, where it fell with a splash, told them that they were not alone, and the next minute Chris had overtaken them and held out his hand.
There was a look almost of reproach in Claude’s eyes, as, with quivering lip, she laid her hand in his, and yielded it, as he gently and reverently carried it to his lips.
“I have not been to you; I have not written,” he said, in a deep voice. “I felt that it was a duty to respect your sorrow. I have felt for you none the less deeply.”
She stood looking gravely in his eyes, and he went on—
“Under the painful circumstances, I could not come to you; I was driven from your side. But Claude, dearest,” he continued, with the passion within him making his words vibrate, as it were, in her breast, and her heart flutter as it had never beaten before. “I love you more clearly than ever; and listen, darling—I would not say it, but cruel words have been spoken about my mercenary thoughts.”
“Don’t, don’t,” she murmured.
“But one word—for your sake.”
“No, no,” she cried piteously.
“Then for mine,” he pleaded.
“What do you wish to say?”
“Then I am no longer the poor beggar I was called.”
“Chris!”
“But comparatively rich, love. I only said that so that those who would see evil in my acts may meet something to act as a shield to cast off these malicious darts. No, no, don’t withdraw your hand, dearest. I know how you have suffered. I have suffered too—sorrow for you—bitter jealousy of that man.”
“Chris,” she whispered, with a look of appeal, “for pity’s sake! I am weak and ill—I cannot bear it.”
“Forgive me,” he cried; “what a selfish brute I am! There, I hold your dear hand once more, and I am satisfied. I will not say another word, only go and wait patiently. My Claude cannot be anything but all that is kind and just to me. I’ll go and wait.”
She stood looking in his eyes, and he clasped her hand, while the soft, ruddy glow which struck right up the glen seemed to bathe them both in its warm light. Her lips moved to speak, but no sound came, though her eyes were full of joy and pride in the brave, manly young fellow whose words had thrilled her to the core.
“If it could have been,” she felt. And then a pang of agony shot through her, and she shuddered.
“How worn and thin you look, darling,” he said tenderly. “My poor, poor girl.”
This seemed to unloose the frozen words within her; the tears gushed from her eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but it was too tightly held.
“Chris,” she said at last, and she clung to his hand as she spoke, “I do not doubt you. I know all you say is the simple truth, but it seems cruel to me now.”
“Cruel! My darling!”
“Hush, pray hush. It would be cruel, too, in me to let you speak like this about what can never, never be.”
“Claude! What are you saying?”
“That I have my poor father’s words still ringing in my ears. He forbade it, and I cannot go in opposition to his washes.”
“Claude!”
“I cannot help it. It is better that the words should be spoken now, and the pain be over. Chris, when we meet again it must be as friends.”
“No,” he cried passionately; “you must meet me as my promised wife.”
“It is impossible,” she said faintly, after a painful pause. “No, Chris, as my friend—brother, if you wish, but that is at an end.”
“But why—no, no; don’t answer me. You are ill and hysterical, dear. You think seriously of words that will grow fainter and of less import as the time goes on. There, come. Let us put all this aside now. I am content that we have met, and you know the truth—that I have spoken, and so plainly, once again.”
“No; you must hear me now,” she said with a sigh, that seemed to be torn from her breast.
“Well, then, speak,” he said, with a smile full of pity.
“Once more,” she said, after a pause; “you must never speak to me again as you have to-night.”
“Why?”
“You know, Chris, my father’s wish.”
“The result of a mistake. Claude, you love me.”
She made an effort once more to free herself, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
“Claude,” he cried passionately, “you will tell me that.”
“I cannot,” she said firmly.
He let her hand fall from between his, and a curiously heavy look came slowly into his face as the jealous anger within him began to seethe.
“You cast at me your father’s words,” he said hurriedly.
“I am obliged to remind you of his wish.”
“That you should marry this man, this Glyddyr. Claude, you cannot, you dare not tell me this.”
“I do not tell you this,” she said, quickly and excitedly. “No, that is impossible. I could not be his wife: I must not be yours.”
“You are speaking in riddles.”
“Riddles that you can easily read,” she said sadly. “Chris, my life is marked out for me. I have my duties waiting. I cannot, I will not marry a man I do not love, but I will not disobey my poor dead father and listen to you. Good-bye now—I can bear no more. Some day we can meet again patiently and calmly as in the happy old times.”
“Yes,” he said, with the angry feeling passing away, “I shall wait contented, for you will not marry this man—you promise me that?”
“Claude, dear; Claude.”
They had neither of them given Mary a thought, and she had discreetly walked away but to return now quickly, and as they raised their eyes it was to see her close at hand, and some fifty yards away Parry Glyddyr advancing fast.
Claude saw that Glyddyr looked white and strange, but it was the rage in Chris Lisle’s eyes which startled her, as Glyddyr strode up, with extended hand, ignoring the presence of her companion.
“Claude, don’t leave them alone, as there’ll be trouble,” whispered Mary, and her cousin’s words seemed to cast a lurid light upon the situation.
She did not give Glyddyr her hand, but turned to Chris and said gently—
“Good-bye. It will be better that we should not meet again—not yet.”
He took the hand gravely, let his own close over it in a firm, warm clasp, and released it silently.
“Mary.”
Claude turned to go, and her cousin went to her side white as ashes. Glyddyr stood looking from one to the other, as if hesitating what to do.
“Claude, do you hear me,” whispered Mary.
“Mr Glyddyr, are you going this way?” said Claude in a low deep voice.
“Yes, of course,” he cried, with his face lighting up, and darting a look of triumph at his rival, who stood motionless, with one hand resting upon his rod as though it were a spear, he went on down the glen by Claude’s side.
“Mr Lisle—Chris—do you not hear? Good-bye.”
Chris started back as it were into life, and saw that Mary had run back and laid her hand in his.
“Ah, little woman,” he said, with a gentle, pitying tone in his voice, “I was thinking, I suppose. Good-bye, Mary, and don’t fall in love, dear; it’s a mistake.”
“Chris,” she cried, with the tears in her beautiful eyes, as she gazed at the broad-shouldered sturdy fellow, “why do you talk like that?”
“Why do I talk like that?” he said bitterly. “Because I am a weak fool, I suppose. Look there.”
He pointed down the glen.
“Chris!”
“There, run after them, and play propriety, little lady,” he said bitterly. “Or no—they do not miss you; better stop behind, or shall I see you home?”
“Chris, dear Chris,” she whispered.
“Don’t talk to me,” he cried. “I’m half mad. Good-bye, Mary, good-bye.”
He turned sharply and hurried away up the glen, and as Mary watched, she heard his reel begin to sing as he walked on down by the stream, making casts blindly among the boulders.
“Poor fellow,” she said, as she turned and walked swiftly away. “I wish I had not said a word.”
She gave one more glance back and hurried after the retreating pair. Had she looked long enough she would have seen Chris Lisle stride into the first clump of trees and throw himself down with his face buried in his arms, and there he was lying still long after darkness had come on, and the stars were peering down and glistening in the rushing stream.
Volume Three—Chapter Seven.
Glyddyr Endorses a Note.
“There, I’m off back to London town to keep a certain party quiet. You are going on all right here. You are bound to win, but don’t be rash—play her very carefully.”
Glyddyr nodded.
“And now take my advice; go and see a doctor—that man—what’s his name? Get him to set you up, dear boy. There: good-bye. Bless you, my son. It’s perhaps a million. Don’t play with it.”
“Haven’t got it to play with.”
“No; but you will have it by-and-by. There: once more, good-bye. Be gentle with her. Go early in the day, and promise me you’ll call at the doctor’s.”
“Yes, I promise,” said Glyddyr; and he stood watching Gellow, as he was rowed ashore, cursing him bitterly the while, but confessing in his own mind that he was right.
“Yes, I’ll go and see Asher,” he muttered. “He’ll set me up. I must go on with it. I’ll be a good husband to her. It’ll be like doing penance for the past—ugh!”
He shuddered and looked ghastly.
“It’s being low makes me think of it so much,” he continued. “Yes; as soon as the boat gets back I’ll go and see Asher.”
Vacillating to a degree, he was firm in this, and stepped into the boat as soon as it reached the yacht, ordering the men to put him ashore, and this done, the men watching him as he walked sharply away, clinging to the hope that a strong tonic would calm his feelings and give him strength to go on with his plans, and trusting to time to dull the agony of his thoughts.
“Seems horrible to go on,” he said. “But it will be like penance; and, poor old boy, he did wish it.” Then aloud—“Doctor Asher at home?”
He was shown into the doctor’s consulting-room to be warmly received.
“Yes, of course,” said the doctor. “I don’t wonder you are a bit run down. I’ll soon set you right.”
Then after a short examination, and a little professional business.
“Wonder whether he knows what’s really the matter with me;” thought Glyddyr.
“Wonder whether he thinks me such a fool as not to know that he is saturated with brandy?” said the doctor to himself, as he composed a draught, while Glyddyr took up a card box from the chimney-piece, opened it mechanically, and then, as the doctor raised his hand to the shelf where the chloral bottle stood, the box slipped through Glyddyr’s fingers, fell on the edge of the fender, burst open, and the cards were scattered over the rug, and beneath the fireplace.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Oh, never mind! Don’t stop to pick them up.”
Glyddyr paid no heed, but nervously collected the pack together, rose with them in his hands, and then, watching the doctor as he wrote out the directions on a label, involuntarily, and as if naturally from feeling the cards in his hands, began to shuffle them slowly.
The doctor smiled.
“You play a bit, I see.”
“Oh! yes, of course,” said Glyddyr, hastily setting down the pack. “Confoundedly stupid of me to drop them.”
“Nonsense! Very unprofessional to have them here, eh?”
“You play, then?” said Glyddyr, repeating the doctor’s query.
“Not often. No one to play with. A game now and then would do you good.”
“Yes, yes,” said Glyddyr, eagerly. “Come on board. I’m very dull there.”
“Most happy if you’ll have a game here sometimes.”
Glyddyr accepted the proposal so readily that in a few minutes they were seated together at piquet, and when the patient rose he was ten pounds in the doctor’s debt.
“I shall have to give you my IOU, doctor,” said Glyddyr, “I have no cash down here.”
“All right, my dear sir,” said the doctor, smilingly; and Glyddyr wrote the indebtedness upon half a sheet of notepaper, to go away feeling better for his visit, and after the doctor had promised to go on board the yacht that night and give him his revenge.
This was given, Glyddyr managing to win twenty pounds, and receiving back his IOU and a ten-pound note.
“You London gentlemen are too clever for me,” said the doctor, laughingly. “But never mind; I shall have to win that back.”
“Mustn’t win much off him if I’m to take his medicine,” said Glyddyr to himself. “Might give me too strong a dose. Ugh! What a fool I am to think such things as that.”
“I believe he’s half a sharper,” said the doctor to himself as he was rowed ashore. “But never mind; let him marry her. He will be another patient to the good, and I dare say I can manage him, clever as he is.”
The next day Glyddyr called at the Fort, and found Claude at home. She received him with Mary by her side, and the triumphant feelings that filled his breast after the last encounter with Chris slowly filtered away.
He was not himself he knew, feeling nothing like so strong and well, through having gone to bed the previous night perfectly sober, and refraining that morning from taking what he called a peg to string himself up, for fear that the odour should accompany him on his visit.
He told himself that he never showed to worse advantage, for he was troubled all through the visit by a horrible sensation of nervous dread, starting at every sound, and hurriedly bringing his visit to a close.
On the other hand, Claude thought she had never liked her visitor so well.
“He seemed so full of respectful deference,” she said.
“Yes,” said downright Mary, “but I wish he would take a dislike to the place. I’m sick of seeing his yacht moored in the harbour. It’s beginning to blow. I wish the wind would blow it right away.”
But Glyddyr had not the least intention of going. In spite of his hurried ending to his visit, he came away feeling better.
“It’s natural that I should feel uncomfortable there, but it will soon wear off, and it’s plain enough to see that I am gradually becoming welcome. Gellow’s right,” he said, recalling one of their conversations. “Patience is the thing.
“I’m all right. Wish I could feel like this when I am there.”
“Good-morning.”
“Ah, doctor.”
“Why it’s ‘ah, patient.’ You’re better, Glyddyr, decidedly. You must keep on with that tonic.”
“Yes, ever so much better,” said Glyddyr, who was flushed with hope. “Come on board and dine with me.”
“Thanks, no. I’m not such a very bad sailor, but not good enough to enjoy my dinner with the table dancing up and down. Going to be a gale.”
“Humph! Yes, I suppose it will be a bit rough, even if we shift the moorings. Never mind, come and dine with me at the hotel and we can have a private room, and a hand at cards with our coffee.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the doctor, hesitating.
“Yes, come,” said Glyddyr eagerly. “I’m dull and hipped. Want a companion. Do me more good than your tonics. At seven.”
“Very well,” said the doctor, “seven be it. Do me good, too, perhaps,” he muttered, as he went away. “Better for him to marry her. Yes, I can turn him round my finger.”
He went home musing deeply, and, punctual to time, joined Glyddyr at the hotel, to find him looking flushed and excited.
“Hallo! That’s not the tonic,” he said.
“Eh! Tonic? No, it’s the weather. Storm always affects me a little. I was obliged to have a pint of champagne to pull me up.”
The doctor laughed as he shook his head, for he saw in the half-wrecked man before him, a life annuity, if the cards were rightly played, and during the dinner he once or twice told himself that his game was to hurry on the engagement between Claude and Glyddyr.
“If he is wise,” the doctor said to himself, “Glyddyr will play the trump card. It would take the trick. Your father’s wish, my dear. Poor old gentleman.”
They parted almost sworn friends, for the real cards had been kindly to both, and neither had lost or won.
“It’s rather rough for going on board to-night,” said the doctor.
“Pish! Not a bit I’m not afraid of a few waves.”
“Well, don’t get drowned.”
“Those who are bound to be hanged will never be drowned,” came into Glyddyr’s head as the doctor departed, and the old saw sent quite a chill through him.
“Confound it. What a coward I am,” he muttered angrily. “I felt so much better all the evening. Here,” he said roughly to the waiter, who had come in accidentally, as waiters do when the guests begin to stir. “My bill.”
That document was quite ready; and after glancing at it, Glyddyr took a bank-note from his pocket-book, and laid it upon the tray.
The waiter bowed, went out, and returned with the note, crossed to a side table where there was a blotting case and inkstand, both of which he brought to where Glyddyr was smoking.
“What’s the matter? Not a bad one, is it?”
“Oh dear no, sir,” said the waiter, with a deprecatory cough, “only master said would you mind putting your name on the back?”
“Damn your master,” cried Glyddyr, snatching the pen and scribbling down his name. “There: you ought to know me by this time.”
“Yes, sir; of course, sir; but we always do that with notes, sir.”
“Get out, and bring me my change.”
“Yes, sir; directly sir.”
“It was your father’s wish, Claude—your father’s latest wish. You will not refuse me. I can wait.”
Glyddyr was muttering this as the waiter brought his change, and the words kept on running in his head as he walked down to the pier, to find his men waiting for him. The words haunted him, too, as he rode over the rough waves in the little harbour.
“Bah!” he thought, as he reached his cabin and threw himself down, flushed and in high spirits now, “it was an accident, and I am a fool to shrink with a prize like that waiting for me. I will go on, and she can’t refuse me if I only have plenty of pluck. I’ve been a bit out of order, and weak. It’s all right now. That cad hasn’t a chance. My wife before six months are gone, and then, Master Gellow, if I don’t send you to the right about I’ll—”
He stopped, for he remembered Denise.
“No,” he muttered uneasily, “one’s obliged to keep a cad to do one’s dirty work, and Gellow can be useful when he likes.”
Volume Three—Chapter Eight.
Mrs Sarson’s Appeal.
“Sit down, Mr Wimble, and how’s all Danmouth? I was coming over in a day or two perhaps, to stay at the Fort, and if I do, I dare say I shall have to make a call on you.”
“Glad to see you at any time, sir,” said Wimble, looking uneasily at the portly figure of the lawyer as he sat back in his chair, after a long study over Gartram’s papers.
For, in spite of Claude’s decision, that missing sum of money troubled Trevithick.
“It’s a reflection on me, as his business-man,” he said to himself. “Forty thousand in notes gone and nobody knows where. I’ll trace that money. I shall not rest till I do.”
He had some thought, too, that if he did triumphantly trace that missing sum, Claude would be pleased, and Mary Dillon more than satisfied. So he worked on in secret, and he was busy when his clerk announced the Danmouth barber.
“And now, what can I do for you?” said Trevithick.
The barber hesitated, looked round, and then back at the calm, thoughtful man before him.
“You need not be afraid to speak, Mr Wimble,” said Trevithick looking very serious but feeling amused, “no one can hear.”
“Sure, sir?”
“Quite.”
“Because it’s horribly private, sir.”
“Indeed! What is it? Want to borrow a little cash?”
“Me, sir?” cried the barber jumping up indignantly. “No, sir; I’ve got my little bit saved up and safely invested at five per cent.”
“I beg your pardon, and congratulate you. Then what is it?”
Wimble went on tiptoe to the entrance, opened the door, peeped out, and, after closing it, came stealthily back close to the table, upon which he rested his hand, bent forward till his face came within a foot of the lawyer’s, and gazed at him wildly.
“Well, Mr Wimble, what is it?” said Trevithick at last, for his visitor was silent.
“It’s murder, sir,” whispered the barber.
“What?”
“Murder, sir.”
“Well, then, you had better go to the police, man, for that’s not in my way.”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, it is. You are Mr Gartram’s lawyer, and have to do with his affairs.”
“Good heavens, man, what do you mean?”
“That Mr Gartram was murdered, sir—poisoned, and I’ve got the clue.”
“What?”
“I thought I wouldn’t say a word, sir. That it was too horrible, and that no matter what one did, it wouldn’t bring the poor man back to life; but when I see the murderer going on in his wickedness, spending the money he must have stolen, and pretending he has come in for a fortune, and on the strength of it trying to delude weak widows he lodges with, and carrying on with other ladies too, it is time to speak. The human heart won’t hold such secrets without a busting out.”
The lawyer started at the sound of the word money, for it seemed to strike a chord within his own breast.
“Look here, Mr Wimble,” he said; “do I gather aright that you think that Mr Gartram was murdered?”
“Poisoned, sir.”
“Good heavens! But by whom?”
“One who had sworn to have revenge upon him—one who wanted his money; and who was seen and caught lurking about the Fort, sir, one dark night, waiting for his opportunity, for he knew the place well from a boy.”
“Great heavens, man, whom do you mean?”
“The man who has blighted my life, sir, Mr Christopher Lisle.”
“Rubbish!”
“What, sir?”
“You’re mad.”
“I wish I was, sir, and that I could say to myself you’re fancying all this; I should be a happier man, sir. But I can’t. I’ve fought with it and smothered it down, but it’s one living fire, sir, and it’s kept burning the day through.”
“Mr Christopher Lisle?”
“Yes, sir. Him as was turned away, and heard to say threatening things against poor Mr Gartram.”
“But found on the premises?”
“Yes, sir; the night Mr Gartram died of poison, no matter what the doctors said; and that night the deed was done this bottle of stuff was thrown out of the window down among the rocks and sand.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I found it early next morning,” said Wimble, holding up the bottle; “and I can swear it was not there the day before.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, man! It’s impossible.”
“That’s what I said to myself, sir, but nature argued it out inside me. ‘Here’s Mr Chris Lisle,’ it said, ‘wanted Miss Claude, and her father refused him, and was going to give her to Mr Glyddyr, of the yacht.’ There’s one reason. Mr Chris was thrown over, because he was poor. That’s another reason. Mr Chris is rich now. How did he become rich? Nobody knows. Mr Chris was found in the garden, hiding, on the night Mr Gartram died, and the window was open.—What do you say to that? This bottle, with some poison in it, was found under the window by me.”
“Let me look.”
“No, sir. That bottle’s mine now. I wouldn’t part with it for a hundred pounds.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a curiosity, sir, as thousands would come to see. That bottle killed a man.”
“Let me look. I’ll give it you back.”
“Honour bright, sir?”
“Yes.”
Wimble unrolled the bottle from its cover and handed it to the lawyer, who took and examined it.
“Pish!” he said, looking at the limpid fluid within. “Water.”
“I was told it was chloral, sir.”
“Chloral?” cried Trevithick; “he died of an overdose of chloral.”
“Of course he did, sir,” said the barber triumphantly. “Now, sir, am I mad?”
Trevithick rose, and walked heavily up and down the room, like a small elephant seeking to quit its enclosure, but professional training came to his aid directly, and he reseated himself, looking quite calm.
“This is a terribly serious thing, Mr Wimble,” he said sternly. “You are charging Mr Lisle with murder.”
“Terribly serious thing to take Mr Gartram’s life, sir.”
“If he did, my man—if he did. But it must be all a mistake.”
“I hope it is, sir, indeed.”
“If the police knew of this, it would be awkward for Mr Lisle.”
“Of course it would, sir.”
“But, my good man, you are taking the view that he is guilty. I tell you that it is impossible.”
“I hope it is, sir; but I’ve gone over it in my bed till I’m obliged to believe Mr Lisle did it; and I feel I couldn’t keep the secret any longer.”
“And so you came to me?”
“Yes, sir, as Mr Gartram’s business-man.”
“Dear, dear—dear, dear!” ejaculated Trevithick excitedly, as the man began to overcome the lawyer. “There are the ladies, Wimble. We must be very careful. If this reached their ears it would be horrible.”
“Yes, sir, of course; but the wicked ought to be punished.”
“You don’t like Mr Lisle?” said the lawyer, looking at him searchingly.
“Well, sir, if I must speak out, no: I don’t like Mr Lisle.”
“And so you magnify this suspicion, and seek to do him harm by setting about the story.”
“Steady there, sir, please. I don’t set about a story without good proof. Now, let me ask you, sir, was Mr Gartram the sort of man to go and kill himself with an overdose of that stuff?”
“By accident, man; yes.”
“Not a bit of it, sir. He was too clever. I don’t want to prove Mr Lisle guilty, but there’s the case. He was hanging about the grounds that night.”
“Who saw him?”
“The gardener, sir, Brime. Caught him there after he had been forbidden the place, and he persuaded the man to hold his tongue.”
“Look here, Wimble,” said Trevithick, sternly, “there may be a slight substratum of probability in what you say, but it is most unlikely that this young man can have committed such a crime. Now, then, I’ll tell you what it is your duty to do.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wimble eagerly.
“Go back to Danmouth, and keep your own counsel for the present. You can do that?”
“Hold my tongue, sir? Of course.”
“Don’t mention this to a soul.”
“And hush it up, sir—a murder?”
“Pish! It is no murder. Let the matter rest while I try to make out whether there is anything in what you say.”
“Ah, you’ll find it right, sir. Young men like Mr Chris don’t get rich in a day.”
“Never mind about that. I’ll go into the matter quietly. Recollect that it would be your ruin if it was known that you had, without foundation, made this horrible charge against Mr Lisle.”
“My ruin, sir?”
“Of course. You could not stay in the town afterwards. There, go back and hold your tongue. I’m coming over to Danmouth to-morrow, and after I have carefully weighed all you have said, I will see you again.”
“Come in and see me to-morrow, sir. You can easily do that, sir. Nobody would think it meant anything more than coming in to be shaved.”
“Well, I’ll call; and now, mind this: not a soul in the place must hear a word. It is our secret, Wimble.”
“Yes, sir, I see,” said the barber. “You may trust me. I came straight to you, sir. Oh, I can be as close and secret as grim death, sir, you’ll see.”
“That’s right, my man. And take my advice, don’t think any more of it. I confess that it looks bad, but we shall find out that it is all imagination, and I hope it is, for every one’s sake. Close, Mr Wimble, perfectly close, mind, at all events for the present.”
“Trust me, sir. I’m glad I came to you, and you shall find me close as a box.”
Wimble spoke in all sincerity, and he returned to Danmouth, feeling glad that he had seen the lawyer; but when he spoke he did not realise that there was a key that would open that box.
He had no necessity for going round by Mrs Sarson’s cottage, it was quite out of his way, but it was in the dusk of evening, when love will assert itself even in middle-aged minds.
“All alone there at the mercy of a murderer,” thought Wimble. “I’ll just walk by and see if she is quite safe.”
It was rather a hopeless thing to do, he owned, for there was not likely to be anything in the outside walls to indicate whether the widow was safe or no. All the same, he went round that way to find that all looked right; but as he passed very slowly by, he found that the window of Chris’s room was open, and he stopped short as if spellbound, for a familiar voice said, in tones which indicated that the speaker was shedding tears—
“No, no, my dear; you can’t think how much I think about you.”
The voice ceased as Wimble gave a very decided knock at the door.
Mrs Sarson came to answer it slowly, for she was wiping her eyes after a long, long talk with Chris, whom in a motherly way she had been trying to rouse from the reckless, despondent state into which he had fallen, and tried in vain.
Consequently there was a wet gleam on her cheeks, as, candle in hand, she answered the door.
“You, Mr Wimble!” she said, starting, and feeling a little confused. “So bold of him to come and call,” she thought.
“Yes, Mrs Sarson, I want to speak to you particularly.”
“Not to-night, Mr Wimble. I—I am not quite well.”
“Yes; to-night.”
“But Mr Lisle is at home.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, with a dark look in his eyes; and—fluttered and trembling before the strange, stern manner of her visitor—she drew back, allowed him to enter, closed the door, and led the way to the snug back room—half kitchen, half parlour—and then looked at him wonderingly, her heart fluttering more and more as she saw his wild look, and that he carefully closed the door.
“Goodness me, Mr Wimble, what is the matter?” she said faintly.
“Everything,” he cried, making a snatch at her wrist, and holding it tightly. “Woman, you know how for years I have had hopes.”
“Well, Mr Wimble, you made me think so; but it’s quite impossible, I assure you. Neighbours, but nothing more.”
“Why, woman, why?” he said, in a whisper.
“Because—because I am quite happy and contented as I am, Mr Wimble, with my little bit of an income and my lodger.”
“Yes,” cried Wimble, with a laugh, “that’s it. Ah, woman, woman, that you could throw yourself away upon a creature like that?”
“Mr Wimble, what do you mean?”
“Knowing how I worshipped you, for you to consort with a vile creature, who cheats and abuses your confidence—a villain too bad to be allowed to live—a man whom the law will seize before long.”
“Mr Wimble, are you mad?”
“Yes, madam, with shame and horror, to think what must come when you find out that this serpent who has wound himself about you is a convict, a murderer, who stops at nothing.”
“Mr Wimble, whom do you mean?”
“Mean? who should I mean,” he cried tragically, “but that wretch in yonder room?”
“A murderer!”
“Yes, of the man who drove him from his home. I denounce him as the murderer of poor old Gartram, and—”
There was a wild shriek, and as Chris Lisle rushed into the room to see what was wrong, Wimble remembered his promise to the lawyer; but too late: the box was wide open now.
“Mrs Sarson—Wimble! what is the matter?”
“Oh, Mr Lisle,” cried the widow, sobbing wildly. “Oh, my poor darling, he says you murdered Mr Gartram. Tell him he is mad.”
Sarah Woodham was seated an hour later that night sewing, when she was startled by the sudden entrance of Reuben, the gardener, looking wild-eyed and strange, and she involuntarily rose from her chair, and stood upon the defensive, the other servants being down the town, and her heart telling her that “this foolish man,” as she termed him, was about to renew advances which he had been making before.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, quickly grasping the meaning of her action; “I wasn’t going to say anything about that now. Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“I’ve just come from the harbour, and they’re all talking about it.”
“Yes? What—some wreck?”
“No; about Mr Chris Lisle.”
“What about him—dead?” said Sarah Woodham, in a hoarse whisper, as she laid her hand upon her side and thought of Claude.
“Better if he was, my dear,” said the gardener hoarsely, and in her excitement the woman did not think to resent his familiarity. “They are saying that he murdered master with poison.”
Sarah reeled, and would have fallen, so great was the shock the words gave her, but Brime caught her in his arms.
She recovered herself, and thrust him away.
“Mr Chris Lisle? Impossible.”
“So I thought, but he was skulking about our grounds that night, for I caught him hiding.”
“Oh, it can’t be true. You people are always inventing foolish scandals. What nonsense! Let him rest in his grave in peace.”
She looked so ghastly that even the unobservant gardener noticed it, and made a remark.
“Look white? of course,” she said, with a curious laugh. “Any woman would turn pale on hearing such talk as that. There, go away.”
“You needn’t be cross with me, Sarah Woodham,” said Brime, paying no heed to her last words, and only too glad of an excuse to hold her in conversation. “I knew how you liked Miss Claude, and the news was about her young man, and I thought it better to tell you than go and tell her.”
“What! you would not dare to tell her such a thing.”
“Well, somebody will if I don’t. She’s sure to know.”
“Hush, man! Don’t dare to speak of it again. It is a miserable scandal of some of the tattling gossips, and it will be forgotten, perhaps, to-morrow. There, not another word.”
“But, Sarah, let me talk of something else.”
She went to the door and opened it, pointing out.
“Go,” she said.
Brime sighed deeply, and went away slowly without another word.
“Poor fellow,” said the woman softly, “better for him to jump into the sea than to go on thinking about that.”
She stood for a few moments with her hands to her forehead, as if to dull the excitement from which she was suffering, uttering a low moan from time to time.
“How horrible!” she gasped. “It seems more than I can bear. Poor child, if she was to hear!”
She stood staring before her at last, with her lips moving, and her eyes fixed upon the darkness in the farther corner of the room, as if she saw something there.
“I cannot bear it,” she muttered at last; and hurriedly passing out, she hurried up to her room, and threw herself upon her knees by the bedside.
How long she remained there she did not know. Suddenly she started up, believing that she heard voices below.
“They will have heard it, perhaps,” she said excitedly; and, hurrying out, she found that the two servants who had been out had returned, and were talking quickly.
Sarah Woodham turned cold with apprehension, under the impression that the women were retailing the scandal they had heard to their mistress, and she uttered a sigh of relief as she heard Mary Dillon say quickly—
“And they are talking about it everywhere you say?”
“Yes, miss; and we thought you ought to hear.”
“Hush!—Oh, Woodham, these two have come back with a silly tale that—”
Sarah Woodham laid a thin hand upon her arm.
“That—have you heard? Oh, how horrible! But what absurd nonsense. There, go away, all of you. It is too dreadful to talk about, and you must let it die a natural death.”
“But they say, miss, that the police will take Mr Christopher Lisle, and that he will be hung for murder,” whispered the cook in awe-stricken tones; “and if Miss Claude should hear that—Oh!”
Claude had quietly opened the drawing-room door and stepped out into the hall, coming in search of her cousin, the low whispering without having attracted her attention.
“You heard what I said,” cried Mary, quickly. “Why don’t you go?”
“Stop!” said Claude, in a strangely altered voice.
“No, no, Claude, dear,” said Mary, crossing to her. “It is nothing you need listen to. Only a wretched tattling from down on the beach.”
“I know what they said,” replied Claude, hoarsely. “Sarah Woodham, have you heard this—this dreadful charge?”
The woman did not answer with her lips, but her dark eyes were fixed wildly on those of her mistress.
“Then it is true!”
“Claude, dear; pray come,” whispered Mary, clinging to her; but she was thrust away.
“I will know everything,” she cried, excitedly. “You, Sarah Woodham, speak out, and tell me all the truth.”
“No—no,” whispered the woman, and she stood trembling as if with ague.
“I will know,” said Claude, catching her up by the arm. “I heard what was said—that Mr Lisle was charged with murder. It could not be.”
“No, no, Claude, of course not.”
“Silence, Mary! Speak, woman, or must I go down to the beach and ask there. Tell me. It was a quarrel; they met and fought. Is Mr Glyddyr dead?”
They gazed at her wonderingly—stricken for the moment—the silence being broken by the two servants exclaiming in a breath—
“No, no, miss. It was master they said he killed.”
“What?”
“Come away, Claude,” whispered Mary, who was white and trembling. “It is a horrible invention. There is no truth in it. Come back into the drawing-room, and I’ll tell you quietly, dear, what I have heard.”
“Go on,” said Claude, fixing the two women with her eyes as she held her cousin’s arm and half forced her back. “Tell me everything you have heard.”
Between them, trembling the while before the wild eyes which seemed to force them to speak, the women related confusedly the report they had heard, one which had grown rapidly as is the custom with such news; and out of the tangle, as Sarah Woodham and Mary both strangely moved, stood speechless and silent, Claude learned the charge which had arisen against the man she loved, to the bitter end, struggling the while to make indignant denial of that at which her soul felt to revolt. But no words would come. Her reason, her soul, both cried out aloud within her that this was an utter impossibility, but the rumours mastered them with a terrible array of facts, till she was forced to believe that, stung to madness by the treatment he had received, and hurried on by a lust for gold, Chris, her old playmate and brother as a child, the man at last she had grown to love, had been tempted to commit this deed.
“It is not true—it is not true,” something within her kept on saying as she gazed wildly from one to the other, seeing the gap—the black gap—already existing between her and her lover, widening into an awful, impassable chasm, in which were buried her life’s hopes and happiness for ever.