ONWARD he fled, he knew not whither; he only knew that he was flying for the safety of his soul.
He passed far beyond the limits of the Priory grounds, but he did not reach the high road. He crossed a meadow and came upon a trout stream. He walked beside it for an hour. At the end of that time there was no moonlight to glitter upon its surface. Clouds had come over the sky and drops of rain were beginning to fall.
He crossed the stream by a little bridge, and reached the border of a wood. It was now long past midnight. He had been walking for two hours, but he had no consciousness of weariness. It was not until the rain was streaming off his hair that he recollected that he had no hat. But on still he went through the darkness and the rain, as though he were being pursued, and that every step he took was a step toward safety.
He came upon a track that seemed to lead through the wood, and upon this track he went for several miles. The ground was soft, and at some places the rain had turned it into a morass. The autumn leaves lay in drifts, sodden and rotting. Into more than one of these he stumbled, and when he got upon his feet again, the damp leaves and the mire were clinging to him.
For three more hours he went on by the winding track through the wood. In the darkness he strayed from it frequently, but invariably found it again and struggled on, until he had passed right through the wood and reached a high road that ran beside it.
As though he had been all the night wandering in search for this road, so soon as he saw it he cried, “Thank God, thank God!”
But something else may have been in his mind beyond the satisfaction of coming upon the road.
At the border of the wood where the track broadened out, there was a woodcutter’s rough shed. It was piled up with logs of various sizes, and with trimmed boughs awaiting the carts to come along the road to carry them away. He entered the shed, and, overpowered with weariness, sank down upon a heap of boughs; his head found a resting place in a forked branch and in a moment he was sound asleep.
His head was resting upon the damp bark of the trimmed branch, when it might have been close to that whiteness which he had seen through the window.
True; but his soul was saved.
He awoke, hearing the sound of voices around him.
The cold light of a gray, damp day was struggling with the light that came from a fire of faggots just outside, and the shed was filled with the smoke of the burning wood. The sound of the crackling of the small branches came to his ears with the sound of the voices.
He raised his head, and looked around him in a dazed way. He did not realize for some time the strange position in which he found himself. Suddenly he seemed to recall all that had occurred, and once more he said, “Thank God, thank God!”
Three men were standing in the shed before him. Two of them held bill-hooks in a responsible way; the third had the truncheon of a constable. He also wore the helmet of a constable.
The men with the bill-hooks seemed preparing to repel a charge. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their implements breast high.
The man with the truncheon seemed willing to trust a great deal to them, whether in regard to attack or defence.
“Well, you’re awake, my gentleman,” said the man with the truncheon.
The speech seemed a poor enough accompaniment to such a show of strength, aggressive or defensive, as was the result of the muster in the shed.
“Yes, I believe I’m awake,” said Harold. “Is the morning far advanced?”
“That’s as may be,” said the truncheon-holder, shrewdly, and after a pause of considerable duration.
“You’re not the man to compromise yourself by a hasty statement,” said Harold.
“No,” said the man, after another pause.
“May I ask what is the meaning of this rather imposing demonstration?” said Harold.
“Ay, you may, maybe,” replied the man. “But it’s my business to tell you that—” here he paused and inflated his lungs and person generally— “that all you say now will be used as evidence against you.”
“That’s very official,” said Harold. “Does it mean that you’re a constable?”
“That it do; and that you’re in my charge now. Close up, bill-hooks, and stand firm,” the man added to his companions.
“Don’t trumle for we,” said one of the billhook-holders.
“You see there’s no use broadening vi’lent-like,” said the truncheon-holder.
“That’s clear enough,” said Harold. “Would it be imprudent for me to inquire what’s the charge against me?”
“You know,” said the policeman.
“Come, my man,” said Harold; “I’m not disposed to stand this farce any longer. Can’t you see that I’m no vagrant—that I haven’t any of your logs concealed about me. What part of the country is this? Where’s the nearest telegraph office?”
“No matter what’s the part,” said the constable; “I’ve arrested you before witnesses of full age, and I’ve cautioned you according to the Ack o’ Parliament.”
“And the charge?”
“The charge is the murder.”
“Murder—what murder?”
“You know—the murder of the Right Honourable Lord Fotheringay.”
“What!” shouted Harold. “Lord—oh, you’re mad! Lord Fotheringay is my father, and he’s staying at Abbeylands. What do you mean, you idiot, by coming to me with such a story?” The policeman winked in by no means a subtle way at the two men with the bill-hooks; he then looked at Harold from head to foot, and gave a guffaw.
“The son of his lordship—the murdered man—you heard that, friends, after I gave the caution according to the Ack o’ Parliament?” he said.
“Ay, ay, we heard—leastways to that effeck,” replied one of the men.
“Then down it goes again him,” said the constable. “He’s a gentleman-Jack tramp—and that’s the worst sort—without hat or head gear, and down it goes that he said he was his lordship’s son.”
“For God’s sake tell me what you mean by talking of the murder of Lord Fotheringay,” said Harold. “There can be no truth in what you said. Oh, why do I wait here talking to this idiot?” He took a few steps toward one end of the shed. The men raised their bill-hooks, and the constable made an aggressive demonstration with his truncheon.
Against Stupidity the gods fight in vain, but now and again a man with good muscles can prevail against it. Harold simply dealt a kick upon the heavy handle of the bill-hook nearest to him, and it swung round and caught in the stomach the second man, who immediately dropped his implement. He needed both hands to press against his injured person.
The constable ran to the other end of the shed and blew his whistle.
Harold went out in the opposite direction and got upon the high road; but before he had quite made up his mind which way to go, he heard the clatter of a horse galloping. He saw that a mounted constable was coming up, and he also noticed with a certain amount of interest, that he was drawing a revolver.
Harold stood in the centre of the road and held up his hand.
One of the few occasions when a man of well developed muscles, if he is wise, thinks himself no better than the gods, is when Stupidity is in the act of drawing a revolver.
“Are you the sergeant of constabulary?” Harold inquired, when the man had reined in. He still kept his revolver handy.
“Yes, I’m the sergeant of constabulary. Who are you, and what are you doing here?” said the man.
“He’s the gentleman-Jack tramp that the lads found asleep in the shed, sergeant,” said the constable, who had hurried forward with the naked truncheon. “The lads came on him hiding here, when they were setting about their day’s work. They ran for me, and that’s why I sent for you. I’ve arrested him and cautioned him. He was nigh clearing off just now, but I never took an eye off him. Is there a reward yet, sergeant?”
“Officer,” said Harold. “I am Lord Fotheringay’s son. For God’s sake tell me if what this man says is true—is Lord Fotheringay dead—murdered?”
“He’s dead. You seem to know a lot about it, my gentleman,” said the sergeant. “You’re charged with his murder. If you make any attempt at resistance, I’ll shoot you down like a dog.”
The man had now his revolver is his right hand. Harold looked first at him, and then at the foolish man with the truncheon. He was amazed. What could the men mean? How was it that they did not touch their helmets to him? He had never yet been addressed by a policeman or a railway porter without such a token of respect. What was the meaning of the change?
This was really his first thought.
His mind was not in a condition to do more than speculate upon this point. It was not capable of grasping the horrible thing suggested by the men.
He stood there in the middle of the road, dazed and speechless. It was not until he had casually looked down and had seen the condition of his feet and legs and clothes that, passing from the amazed thought of the insolence of the constables, into the amazement produced by his raggedness—he was apparently covered with mire from head to foot—the reason of his treatment flashed upon him; and in another instant every thought had left him except the thought that his father was dead. His head fell forward on his chest. He felt his limbs give way under him. He staggered to the low hank at the side of the road and managed to seat himself. He supported his head on his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.
There he remained, the four men watching him; for the interest which attaches to a distinguished criminal in the eyes of ignorant rustics, is almost as great as that which he excites among the leaders of society, who scrutinize him in the dock through opera glasses, and eat pâté de foie gras sandwiches beside the judge.
SOME minutes had passed before Harold had sufficiently recovered to be able to get upon his feet. He could now account for everything that had happened. His father must have been found dead under suspicious circumstances the previous day, and information had been conveyed to the county constabulary. The instinct of the constabulary being to connect all crime with tramps, and his own appearance, after his night of wandering, as well as the conditions under which he had been found, suggesting the tramp, he had naturally been arrested.
He knew that he could only suffer some inconvenience for an hour or so. But what would be the sufferings of Beatrice?
“The circumstances under which I am found are suspicious enough to justify my arrest,” he said to the mounted man. “I am Lord Fotheringay’s son.”
“Gammon! but it’ll be took down,” said the constable with the truncheon.
“Hold your tongue, you fool!” cried the sergeant to his subordinate.
“I can, of course, account for every movement of mine, yesterday and the day before,” said Harold. “What hour is the crime supposed to have taken place? It must have been after four o’clock, or I should have received a telegram from my sister, Mrs. Lampson. I left London shortly before five last evening.”
“If you can prove that, you’re all right,” said the sergeant. “But you’ll have to give us your right name.”
“You’ll find it on the inside of my watch,” said Harold.
He slipped the watch from the swivel clasp and handed it to the sergeant.
“You’re a fool!” said the sergeant, looking at the hack of the watch. “This is a watch that belonged to the murdered man. It has a crown over a crest, and arms with supporters.”
“Of course,” said Harold. “I forgot that it was my father’s watch before he gave it to me.” The sergeant smiled. The constable and the two bill-hook men guffawed.
“Give me the watch,” said Harold.
The sergeant slipped it into his own pocket.
“You’ve put a rope round your neck this minute,” said he. “Handcuffs, Jonas.”
The constable opened the small leathern pouch on his belt. Harold’s hands instinctively clenched. The sergeant once more whipped his revolver out of its case.
“It has never occurred before this minute,” said the constable.
“What do you mean? Where’s the handcuffs?” cried the sergeant.
“Never before,” said the constable, “I took them out to clean them with sandpaper, sergeant—emery and oil’s recommended, but give me sandpaper—not too fine but just fine enough. Is there any man in the county that can show as bright a pair of handcuffs as myself, sergeant? You know.”
“Show them now,” said the sergeant.
“You’ll have to come to the house with me, for there they be to be,” replied the constable. “Ay, but I’ve my truncheon.”
“Which way am I to go with you?” said Harold. “You don’t think that I’m such a fool as to make the attempt to resist you? I can’t remain here all day. Every moment is precious.”
“You’ll be off soon enough, my good man,” said the sergeant. “Keep alongside my horse, and if you try any game on with me, I’ll be equal to you.” He wheeled his horse and walked it in the direction whence he had come. Harold kept up with it, thinking his thoughts. The man with the truncheon and the two men who had wielded the billhooks marched in file beside him. Marching in file had something official about it.
It was a strange procession that appeared on the shining wet road, with the dripping autumn trees on each side, and the gray sodden clouds crawling up in the distance.
How was he to communicate with her? How was he to let Beatrice know that she was to return to London immediately?
That was the question which occupied all his thoughts as he walked with bowed head along the road. The thought of the position which he occupied—the thought of the tragic incident which had aroused the vigilance of the constable—the desire to learn the details of the terrible thing that had occurred—every thought was lost in that question:
“How am I to prevent her from going on to Abbeylands?”
Was it possible that she might learn at the hotel early in the morning, that Lord Fotheringay had been murdered? When the news of the murder had spread round the country—and it seemed to have done so from the course that the woodcutters had adopted on coming upon him asleep—it would certainly be known at the hotel. If so, what would Beatrice do?
Surely she would take the earliest train back to London.
But if she did not hear anything of the matter, would she then remain at the hotel awaiting his return?
What would she think of him? What would she think of his desertion of her at that supreme moment?
Can a woman ever forgive such an act of desertion? Could Beatrice ever forgive his turning away from her love?
Was he beginning to regret that he had fled away from the loveliest vision that had ever come before his eyes?
Did Saint Anthony ever wish that he had had another chance?
If for a single moment Harold Wynne had an unworthy thought, assuredly it did not last longer than a single moment.
“Whatever may happen now—whether she forgives me or forsakes me—thank God—thank God!”
This was what his heart was crying out all the time that he walked along the road with bowed head. He felt that he had been strong enough to save her—to save himself.
The procession had scarcely passed over more than a quarter of a mile of the road, when a vehicle appeared some distance ahead.
“Steady,” said the sergeant. “It’s the Major in his trap. I sent a mounted man for him. You’ll be in trouble about the handcuffs, Jonas, my man.”
“Maybe the murderer would keep his hands together to oblige us,” suggested the constable.
“I’ll not be a party to deception,” said his superior. “Halt!”
Harold looked up and saw a dog-cart just at hand. It was driven by a middle-aged gentleman, and a groom was seated behind. Harold had an impression that he had seen the driver previously, though he could not remember when or where he had done so. He rather thought he was an officer whom he had met at some place abroad.
The dog-cart was pulled up, and the officials saluted in their own way, as the gentleman gave the reins to his groom and dismounted.
“An arrest, sir,” said the sergeant. “The two woodcutters came upon him hiding in their shed at dawn, and sent for the constable. Jonas, very properly, sent for me, and I despatched a man for you, sir. When arrested, he made up a cock-and-bull story, and a watch, supposed to be his murdered lordship’s, was found concealed about his person. It’s now in my possession.”
“Good,” said the stranger. Then he subjected Harold to a close scrutiny.
“I know now where I met you,” said Harold. “You are Major Wilson, the Chief Constable of the County, and you lunched with us at Abbeylands two years ago.”
“What! Mr. Wynne!” cried the man. “What on earth can be the meaning of this? Your poor father—”
“That is what I want to learn,” said Harold eagerly. “Is it more than a report—that terrible thing?”
“A report? He was found at six o’clock last evening by a keeper on the outskirts of one of the preserves.”
“A bullet—an accident? he may have been out shooting,” said Harold.
“A knife—a dagger.”
Harold turned away.
“Remain where you are, sergeant,” said Major Wilson. “Let me have a word with you, Mr. Wynne,” he added to Harold.
“Certainly,” said Harold. His voice was shaky. “I wonder if you chance to have a flask of brandy in your cart. You can understand that I’m not quite—”
“I’m sorry that I have no brandy,” said Major Wilson. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sitting on the bank with me while you explain—if you wish—I do not suggest that you should—I suppose the constables cautioned you.”
“Amply,” said Harold. “I find that I can stand. I don’t suppose that any blame attaches to them for arresting me. I am, I fear, very disreputable looking. The fact is that I was stupid enough to miss the train from Mowern junction last night, and I went to the Priory Hotel. I came out when the night was fine, without my hat, and I—— had reasons of my own for not wishing to return to the hotel. I got into the wood and wandered for several hours along a track I found. I got drenched, and taking shelter in the woodcutters’ shed, I fell asleep. That is all I have to say. I have not the least idea what part of the country this is: I must have walked at least twenty miles through the night.”
“You are not a mile from the Priory Hotel,” said Major Wilson.
“That is impossible,” cried Harold. “I walked pretty hard for five hours.”
“Through the wood?”
“I practically never left the track.”
“You walked close upon twenty miles, but you walked round the wood instead of through it. That track goes pretty nearly round Garstone Woods. Mr. Wynne, this is the most unfortunate occurrence I ever heard of or saw in my life.”
“Pray do not fancy for a moment that, so far as I am concerned, I shall be inconvenienced for long,” said Harold. “It is a shocking thing for a son to be suspected even for a moment of the murder of his own father; but sometimes a curious combination of circumstances——”
“Of course—of course, that is just it. Do not blame me, I beg of you. Did you leave London yesterday?”
“Yes, by the four-fifty-five train.”
“Have you a portion of your ticket to Abbeylands?”
“I took a return ticket to Mowern. I gave one portion of it to the collector, the return portion is in my pocket.”
He produced the half of his ticket. Major Wilson examined the date, and took a memorandum of the number stamped upon it.
“Did you speak to anyone at the junction on your arrival?” he then inquired.
“I’m afraid that I abused the station-master for allowing the train to go to Abbeylands without me,” said Harold. “That was at ten minutes past seven o’clock. Oh, you need not fear for me. I made elaborate inquiries from the railway officials in London between half past four and the hour of the train’s starting. I also spoke to the station-master at Mindon, asking him if he was certain that the train would arrive at the junction in time.” Major Wilson’s face brightened. Before it had been somewhat overcast.
“A telegram, as a matter of form, will be sufficient to clear up everything,” said Major Wilson. “Yes, everything except—wasn’t that midnight walk of yours a very odd thing, Mr. Wynne?”
“Yes,” said Harold, after a pause. “It was extremely odd. So odd that I know that you will pardon my attempting to explain it—at least just now. You will, I think, be satisfied if you have evidence that I was in London yesterday afternoon. I am anxious to go to my sister without delay. Surely some clue must be forthcoming as to the ruffian who did the deed.”
“The only clue—if it could be termed a clue—is the sheath of the dagger,” replied Major Wilson. “It is the sheath of an ordinary belt dagger, such as is commonly worn by the peasantry in Southern Italy and Sicily. Lord Fotheringay lived a good deal abroad. Do you happen to know if he became involved in any quarrel in Italy—if there was any reason to think that his life had been threatened?”
Harold shook his head.
“My poor father returned from abroad a couple of months ago, and joined Lady Innisfail’s party in Ireland. I have only seen him once in London since then. He must have been followed by some one who fancied that—that—”
“That he had been injured by your father?”
“That is what I fear. But my father never confided his suspicions—if he had any on this matter—to me.”
They had walked some little way up the road. They now returned slowly and silently.
A one-horse-fly appeared in the distance. When it came near, Harold recognized it as the one in which he had driven with Beatrice from the station to the hotel.
“If you will allow me,” said Harold to Major Wilson, “I will send to the hotel for my overcoat and hat.”
“Do so by all means,” said Major Wilson. “There is a decent little inn some distance on the road, where you will be able to get a brush down—you certainly need one. I’ll give my sergeant instructions to send some telegrams at the junction.”
“Perhaps you will kindly ask him to return to me my watch,” said Harold. “I don’t suppose that he will need it now.”
Harold stopped the fly, and wrote upon a card of his own the following words, “A shocking thing has happened that keeps me from you. My poor father is dead. Return to town by first train.”
He instructed the driver to go to the Priory Hotel and deliver the card into the hand of the lady whom he had driven there the previous evening, and then to pay Harold’s bill, drive the lady to the junction, and return with the overcoat and hat to the inn on the road.
Harold gave the man a couple of sovereigns, and the driver said that he would be able easily to convey the lady to the junction in time for the first train.
While the sergeant went away to send the Chief Constable’s telegrams, Major Wilson and Harold drove off together in the dog-cart—the man with the truncheon and the men who had carried the bill-hooks respectfully saluted as the vehicle passed.
In the course of another half hour, Harold was in the centre of a cloud of dust, produced by the vigorous action of an athlete at the little inn, who had been engaged to brush him down. When he caught sight of himself in a looking-glass on entering the inn, Harold was as much amazed as he had been when he heard from the Chief Constable that he had been wandering round the wood all night. He felt that he could not blame the woodcutters for taking him for a tramp.
He managed to eat some breakfast, and then he fly came up with his overcoat and hat. He spoke only one sentence to the driver.
“You brought her to the train?”
“Yes, sir. She only waited to write a line. Here it is, sir.”
He handed Harold an envelope.
Inside was a sheet of paper.
“Dearest—dearest—You have all my sympathy—all my love. Come to me soon.”
These were the words that he read in the handwriting of Beatrice.
He was in a bedroom when he read them. He sat down on the side of the bed and burst into tears.
It was ten years since he had wept.
Then he buried his face in his hands and said a prayer.
It was ten years since he had prayed.
THIS is not the story of a murder. However profitable as well as entertaining it would be to trace through various mysteries, false alarms, and intricacies the following up of a clue by the subtle intelligence of a detective, until the rope is around the neck of the criminal, such profit and entertainment must be absent from this story of a man’s conquest of the Devil within himself. Regarding the incident of the murder of Lord Fotheringay much need not be said.
The sergeant appeared at the inn with replies to the telegrams that he had been instructed to send to the railway officials, and they were found to corroborate all the statements made by Harold. A ticket of the number of that upon the one which Harold still retained, had been issued previous to the departure of the four-fifty-five train from London.
“Of course, I knew what the replies would be,” said Major Wilson. “But you can understand my position.”
“Certainly I can,” said Harold. “It needs no apology.”
They drove to the junction together to catch the train to Abbeylands station. An astute officer from Scotland Yard had been telegraphed for, to augment the intelligence of the County Constabulary Force in the endeavour to follow up the only clue that was available, and Major Wilson was to travel with the London officer to the scene of the crime.
In a few minutes the London train came up, and the passengers for the Abbeylands line crossed to the side platform. Among them Harold perceived his own servant. The man was dressed in black, and carried a portmanteau and hat-box. He did not see his master until he had reached the platform. Then he walked up to Harold, laid down the portmanteau and endeavoured—by no means unsuccessfully—to impart some emotion—respectful emotion, and very respectful sympathy, into the act of touching his hat.
“I heard the sad news, my lord,” said the man, “and I took the liberty of packing your lordship’s portmanteau and taking the first train to Abbeylands. I took it for granted that you would be there, my lord.”
“You acted wisely, Martin,” said Harold. “I will ask you not to make any change in addressing me for some days, at least.”
“Very good, my lord—I mean, sir,” said the man.
He had not acquired for more than a minute the new mode of address, and yet he had difficulty in relinquishing it.
Abbeylands was empty of the guests who, up to the previous evening, had been within its walls. From the mouth of the gamekeeper, who had found the body of Lord Fotheringay, Harold learned a few more particulars regarding his ghastly discovery, but they were of no importance, though the astute Scotland Yard officer considered them—or pretended to consider them—to be extremely valuable.
For a week the detectives were very active, and the newspapers announced daily that they had discovered a clue, and that an arrest might be looked for almost immediately.
No arrest took place, however; the detectives returned to their head-quarters, and the mild sensation produced by the heading of a newspaper column, “The Murder of Lord Fotheringay” was completely obliterated by the toothsome scandal produced by the appearance of a music-hall artist as the co-respondent in a Duchess’s divorce case. It was eminently a case for sandwiches and plovers’ eggs; and the costumes which the eaters of these portable comestibles wore, were described in detail by those newspapers which everyone abuses and—reads. The middle-aged rheumatic butterfly was dead and buried; and though many theories were started—not by Scotland Yard, however—to account for his death, no arrests were made. Whoever the murderer was, he remained undetected. (A couple of years had passed before Harold heard a highly circumstantial story about the appearance of a foreign gentleman with extremely dark eyes and hair, in the neighbourhood of Castle Innisfail, inquiring for Lord Fotheringay a few days after Lord Fotheringay had left the Castle).
Mrs. Lampson, the only daughter of the deceased peer, had received so severe a shock through the tragic circumstances of her father’s death, that she found it necessary to take a long voyage. She started for Samoa with her husband in his steam yacht. It may be mentioned incidentally, however, that, as the surface of the Bay of Biscay was somewhat ruffled when the yacht was going southward, it was thought advisable to change the cruise to one in the Mediterranean. Mrs. Lampson turned up on the Riviera in the spring, and, after entertaining freely there for some time, an article appeared above her signature in a leading magazine deploring the low tone of society at Monte Carlo and on the Riviera generally.
It was in the railway carriage on their way to London from Abbeylands—the exact time was when Harold was in the act of repeating the stanzas from Shelley—that Helen Craven and Edmund Airey conversed together, sitting side by side for the purpose.
“He is Lord Fotheringay now,” remarked Miss Craven, thoughtfully.
Edmund looked at her with something of admiration in his eyes. The young woman who, an hour or two after being shocked at the news of a tragedy enacted at the very door of the house where she had been a guest, could begin to discuss its social bearing, was certainly a young woman to be wondered at—that is, to be admired.
“Yes,” said Edmund, “he is now Lord Fotheringay, whatever that means.”
“It means a title and an income, does it not?” said she.
“Yes, a sort of title and, yes, a sort of income,” said he.
“Either would be quite enough to marry and live on,” said Helen.
“He contrived to live without either up to the present.”
“Yes, poorly.”
“Not palatially, certainly, but still pleasantly.”
“Will he ask her to marry him now, do you think?”
“Her?”
“Yes, you know—Beatrice Avon.”
“Oh—I think that—that I should like to know what you think about it.”
“I think he will ask her.”
“And that she will accept him?”
She did not know how much thought he had been giving to this question during some hours—how eagerly he was waiting her reply.
“No.” she said; “I believe that she will not accept him, because she means to accept you—if you give her a chance.”
The start that he gave was very well simulated. Scarcely so admirable from a standpoint of art was the opening of his eyes accompanied by a little exclamation of astonishment.
“Why are you surprised?” she said, as if she was surprised at his surprise—so subtly can a clever young woman flatter the cleverest of men.
He shook his head.
“I am surprised because I have just heard the most surprising sentence that ever came upon my ears. That is saying a good deal—yes, considering how much we have talked together.”
“Why should it be surprising?” she said. “Did you not call upon her in town?”
“Yes, I called upon her,” he replied, wondering how she had come to know it. (She had merely guessed it.)
“That would give her hope.”
“Hope?”
“Hope. And it was this hope that induced her to accept Mrs. Lampson’s invitation, although she must have known that Mrs. Lampson’s brother was not to be of the party. I have often wondered if it was you or Lord Fotheringay who asked Mrs. Lampson to invite her?”
“It was I,” said Edmund.
Her eyes brightened—so far as it was possible for them to brighten.
“I wonder if she came to know that,” said Helen musingly. “It would be something of a pity if she did not know it.”
“For that matter, nearly everything that happens is a pity,” said he.
“Not everything,” said she. “But it is certainly a pity that the person who had the bad taste to stab poor Lord Fotheringay did not postpone his crime for at least one day. You would in that case have had a chance of returning by the side of Beatrice Avon instead of by the side of some one else.”
“Who is infinitely cleverer,” said Edmund.
At this point their conversation ended—at least so far as Harold and Beatrice were concerned.
Helen felt, however, that even that brief exchange of opinions had been profitable. Her first thought on hearing of the ghastly discovery of the gamekeeper, was that all her striving to win Harold had been in vain—that all her contriving, by the help of Edmund Airey, had been to no purpose. Harold would now be free to marry Beatrice Avon—or to ask her to marry him; which she believed was much the same thing.
But in the course of a short time she did not feel so hopeless. She believed that Edmund Airey only needed a little further flattery to induce him to resume his old attitude in regard to Beatrice; and the result of her little chat with him in the train showed her not merely that, in regard to flattery, he was pretty much as other men, only, of course, he required it to be subtly administered—but also that he had no intention of allowing his compact in regard to Beatrice to expire with their departure from Castle Innisfail. He admitted having called upon her in London, and this showed Helen very plainly that his attitude in respect of Beatrice was the result of a rather stronger impulse than the desire to be of service to her, Helen, in accordance with the suggestions which she had ventured to make during her first frank interview with him.
She made up her mind that he would not require in future to be frequently reminded of that frank interview. She knew that there exists a more powerful motive for some men’s actions than a desire to forward the happiness of their fellow-men.
This was her reflection at the precise moment that Harold’s face was bent down to the face of Beatrice, while he whispered the words that thrilled her.
As for Edmund Airey, he, too, had his thoughts, and, like Helen, he considered himself quite capable of estimating the amount of importance to be attached to such an incident as the murder of Lord Fotheringay, as a factor in the solution of any problem that might suggest itself. A murder is, of course, susceptible of being regarded from a social standpoint. The murder of Lord Fotheringay, for instance, had broken up what promised to be an exceedingly interesting party at Abbeylands. A murder is very provoking sometimes; and when Edmund Airey heard Lady Innisfail complain to Archie Brown—Archie had become a great friend of hers—of the irritating features of that incident—when he heard an uncharitable man declare that it was most thoughtless of Lord Fotheringay to get a knife stuck into his ribs just when the pheasants were at their best, he could not but feel that his own reflections were very plainly expressed.
He had not been certain of himself during the previous two months. For the first time in his life he did not see his way clearly. It was in order to improve his vision that he had begged Mrs. Lampson—with infinite tact, she admitted to her brother—to invite Beatrice to Abbeylands. He rather thought that, before the visit of Beatrice should terminate, he would be able to see his way clearly in certain directions.
But now, owing to the annoying incident that had occurred, the opportunity was denied him of improving his vision in accordance with the prescription which he had prepared to effect this purpose; therefore——
He had reached this point in his reflections when the special train, which Mr. Lampson had chartered to take his guests back to town, ran alongside the platform at the London terminus.
This was just the moment when Harold looked up to the window from the Priory grounds and saw that vision of white glowing beauty.