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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78774-0.txt b/78774-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..955a32b --- /dev/null +++ b/78774-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7646 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78774 *** + + + + +Transcriber’s Note: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: +_italics_. + + + + + DEAD MEN’S SHOES + + A Novel + + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + ‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’ + + ETC. ETC. ETC. + + IN THREE VOLUMES + + VOL. III. + + [Illustration: (Colophon)] + + LONDON + JOHN MAXWELL AND CO. + 4, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET + + 1876 + + [_All rights reserved._] + + + + + CONTENTS TO VOL. III. + + + CHAP. PAGE + + I. TROT’S HISTORY 1 + + II. GAINING TIME 15 + + III. AT BAY 32 + + IV. ON THE THRESHOLD OF A DISCOVERY 43 + + V. A FATHER’S CLAIM 64 + + VI. A WEDDING EVE 78 + + VII. THE PASSING-BELL 97 + + VIII. DARK SURMISES 114 + + IX. IN THE SURGERY 130 + + X. STEPHEN TRENCHARD SURPRISES HIS FRIENDS 142 + + XI. ‘IT IS NOT NOW AT IT HAS BEEN OF YORE’ 164 + + XII. ‘’TIS HELD THAT SORROW MAKES US WISE’ 202 + + XIII. ‘BUT HERE IS ONE WHO LOVES YOU AS OF OLD’ 215 + + XIV. ALEXIS INVESTIGATES 230 + + XV. MR. LEVISON CROSS-EXAMINES 259 + + XVI. THE PODMORES THINK OF EMIGRATION 280 + + XVII. COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 297 + + XVIII. ‘A DARK TALE DARKLY FINISHED’ 323 + + EPILOGUE 336 + + + + + DEAD MEN’S SHOES. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + TROT’S HISTORY. + + +Alexis wakes next morning with a throbbing head and a vague sense of +trouble and regret; but upon the one question of his immediate return +to the Grange his mind is fixed. There shall be no further delay. He +has been long enough at Dorley--perhaps too long for his peace. + +‘If any one had told me last Christmas that my heart could ever +beat one throb in the minute faster for any woman living except +my wife, I should have given him the lie boldly enough. Is it +gratitude--respect--affection--that makes me think so much of my +fair young nurse, and think it so hard a thing to part from her? +Or is it a feeling that I am bound to stifle? I hardly know how to +answer that question even to myself. At worst the sentiment is a mild +one. Passion has no part in my love--if love it be. It is pure and +reverent, and I will say no word that shall sully it. Yet I can but +feel what new brightness might glorify my life if I were free to love +this girl.’ + +He rises later than usual, and not before Trot has come to knock at +his door and announce the hour. + +‘Bekkust is weady for oo,’ says Trot; ‘oo eggs is boiled. Trot found +’em in the henhouse; Cothin Thina ones.’ + +‘Dear little Trot! How I shall miss that baby voice, and those +pretty baby ways!’ thinks Alexis. ‘Coming presently, Trot,’ he cries +cheerily, and Trot makes his way downstairs rather noisily, as he +alights upon every stair with a jump. + +It is noon when Alexis goes down to breakfast, a radiant summer +noon, and the first strawberries from the garden are upon the table, +nestling among their aristocratic leaves. Linda is seated in her +accustomed place by the window, her inexhaustible work-basket by her +side. When she is not working for her grandfather or Trot she is +making clothes for the poorest among her neighbours. + +‘You accused me of looking ill last night, Miss Challice,’ says +Alexis as they shake hands; ‘and this morning I find you as pale as +your lilies out yonder. What has happened to disturb you?’ + +‘I have been told what you did yesterday evening,’ answers Linda, +gravely. + +‘What, my little escapade with one of your amiable neighbours,’ cries +Alexis, lightly. ‘You don’t mean to say people have been talking of +such a trifle as that? I think I taught the gentleman that it’s bad +manners to laugh at a sick man.’ + +‘Was it for laughing at you that you struck him, Mr. Secretan?’ asks +Linda. + +‘Certainly. My cadaverous looks provoked his mirth, and if I do +resemble the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I don’t choose to be +laughed at before my face.’ + +‘Oh, Mr. Secretan, I know all that was said by that man. Elizabeth +has been in the village this morning, and people have told her all +that happened. It was the slander against me which you resented. The +old cruel slander which has pursued me ever since I took pity upon +that desolate child.’ + +The tears roll slowly down her cheeks, but she wipes them hastily +away and regains composure. She is not one of those women who wash +out their grief in tears. + +‘No one shall slander you in my presence, Miss Challice, and go +unpunished. I’m sorry I let that foul-mouthed ruffian off so easily.’ + +‘And you do not believe----you----’ Her voice fails her, and again +the unbidden tears start to her eyes. + +‘I believe anything against you? No, Linda. But if you would trust me +with your secret----’ + +‘I have no secret,’ replies Linda, with a frank, steady look, more +convincing than a world of protestation. ‘I have shrunk from talking +to you of that dear little fellow’s history only because it is a +very sad one, and because the scandal which he has brought upon us +has made the subject particularly painful to me. I should have been +weak and cowardly if I had consented to part with my little darling +just because people are wicked enough to speak evil of me, but I am +not so brave as to endure their slander without pain. I have suffered +deeply.’ + +‘Tell me all, I entreat you. I think I love that child almost as well +as you do. He is about the age my own son would have been had he +lived--the son I never saw. That sounds curious, does it not? but the +history of my marriage is a very painful one, Miss Challice, though I +thank God it has no element of disgrace--and I----’ here he falters +a little, as if the words he has to speak were somewhat difficult to +say--‘I still have the hope of reunion with my wife.’ + +He may have some motive for speaking of Sibyl to-day, though she has +been very little in his thoughts of late. + +‘Tell me all about Trot’s birth.’ + +‘Let me see you begin your breakfast first. It’s rather a long story.’ + +‘I am all attention.’ + +‘It was about the end of March, three years ago, when I first saw +Trot. It was a bleak afternoon, windy and cold. I had gone out into +the front garden to look for the first wall-flowers, when I saw a +woman leaning against the railings for support. I did not see at +first that she had a baby in her arms, it was so hidden by an old +sealskin jacket. I asked her if she was ill, and she said yes, she +was ill and tired. She had walked all the way from Winchester. I +asked her to come into the porch and rest. She came in, and had +hardly seated herself when she fainted, and would have fallen if I +had not managed to support her in my arms. Then the baby began to +cry, and I saw him for the first time--such a tiny thing. Fortunately +I was accustomed to young babies, from having visited a good deal +among our cottagers. + +‘And you took them in, mother and child, and sheltered and nourished +them?’ + +‘What else could I do? Elizabeth and I soon discovered that the poor +creature was starving. She had been living on penny rolls for the +last fortnight--ever since she had left the workhouse, where her baby +was born. Yes, that sounds dreadful, doesn’t it? Our darling Trot +was born in Winchester Union.’ + +‘Dreadful indeed from society’s point of view. What kind of person +was the mother?’ + +‘I can hardly tell you. She was very ill when we took her in--worn +and wasted to a mere shadow. She must have been very pretty when +she was happy and well, but her beauty was all gone. She was very +reserved, and though I tried to win her confidence, she would tell +me nothing about herself--what she had been in the past, or what +she hoped to be in the future. She seemed very unhappy, and though +she was evidently fond of her baby, he seemed rather to add to her +unhappiness. I felt that her story must be a very sorrowful one.’ + +‘And you pitied her?’ + +‘With all my heart. One day when she had been with us about a week, +and was beginning to get a little better and stronger, I asked her if +she had any home to go to. She had been talking about leaving us in a +day or two. Yes, she said, she had a home, and she was going to it, +but she did not know what to do with her baby. There were reasons +why she could not take the baby home. And then she asked me if I knew +any honest woman in the village who would take care of the child for +a year or two, and trust to her sending payment for its maintenance +regularly after her return home. I told her that I was afraid none +of our own villagers would take the responsibility of a stranger’s +child. They would want to know who and what she was before they +trusted her. Of course I said this as kindly as I could.’ + +‘As if you could be anything but kind!’ exclaims Alexis. + +‘After this I could see she was very much disturbed in her mind. +She sat with the baby in her lap, crying over it in a fretful way, +and she was evidently in great trouble, and chiefly about the baby. +I don’t know how it was, but just then there came into my mind the +thought of all I had ever heard about wretched women killing their +children. I thought of this poor creature wandering about the country +penniless, friendless, with a wailing infant in her arms, and how in +some dreadful hour wandering by the side of a river, the temptation +might come to her to drown this sweet, innocent little thing, which, +even in its unconsciousness, seemed to cling to me, and to be happier +in my arms than in its mother’s.’ + +‘Doubtless infants, like the lower animals, have an instinct that +tells them when they are beloved,’ remarks Alexis. + +‘“If my grandfather would only let me keep your child!” I said, at +which she burst into tears again, and threw her arms round my neck, +and entreated me to take care of the little one, and promised me all +kinds of rewards by-and-bye, when fortune smiled upon her. I told her +I wanted no reward except the delight of making the little fellow +happy, and teaching him to love me. I thought very little of the +responsibility I was assuming, I am afraid. It seemed scarcely more +to me than if I was offering to take care of another kitten to add to +our family of pets.’ + +‘What did your grandfather say to the idea?’ + +‘Bless his kind heart, he never refused me anything in his life. He +was rather against the notion at first, and he asked me if I had +considered what a burden we should be taking upon ourselves, and what +we were to do with the baby when it grew up. “A baby’s easy to keep;” +he said; “a quart of new milk more or less won’t hurt us, but what +shall we do when he’s a big fellow and wants schooling?” “He can go +to the mill and work for his living,” I said. “Not if you bring him +up as a pet and plaything,” said grandfather, “he’ll be too good for +the mill.”’ + +‘And you had your way?’ + +‘Yes; I couldn’t get that idea about the river out of my mind, and +I was determined the unhappy mother shouldn’t take the baby away, +so I talked my dear old grandfather into giving his consent, and he +promised to adopt the child. The poor creature went down on her knees +to me when I told her that I would take care of her baby, but she was +not any more inclined to confide in me than she had been at the very +first; and two days afterwards she insisted upon leaving us, though I +begged her to stay till she was stronger and better able to travel. +She was resolute, so I gave her a couple of sovereigns, all the +money I had of my own, and patched up her clothes a little. She was +dreadfully shabby, poor thing, and at daybreak one morning she left +us to walk to Winchester, where she was to take the parliamentary +train to London.’ + +‘You are sure she was going to London?’ + +‘That is what she told me, and she was anxious to get to Winchester +in time for the London train.’ + +‘She did not even tell you her name?’ + +‘No. “I might give you a false name,” she said, “but what would be +the use of that? If I live, and things prosper with me, you shall +know all about me some day.”’ + +‘That was vague,’ says Alexis. ‘Did she wear a wedding ring?’ + +‘Yes, but she told me that it was one she had bought for a penny. “I +sold the real one to buy bread,” she said.’ + +‘And she left her child without showing any grief?’ + +‘No, just at the last she broke down, clasped him to her breast, and +cried over him bitterly.’ + +‘Have you heard nothing of her since that time?’ + +‘I have had no actual communication. But I have received three +ten-pound notes at intervals each in a blank envelope, posted in +London. I have put the money into the savings bank for my darling.’ + +‘And the envelopes, you kept them, I suppose?’ + +‘No, they were directed in a cramped unformed hand, like that of a +very common person. I cannot think that it was the writing of Trot’s +mother, yet I feel sure the money must have come from her.’ + +‘There was nothing written inside the envelope?’ + +‘Not a word. The bank note was wrapped in a blank sheet of paper.’ + +‘Provoking!’ exclaims Alexis. ‘I would give a great deal to know more +about Trot’s origin. His name of Trot, by the way, how did he come by +that?’ + +‘It is only a pet name which my grandfather gave him when he first +began to walk and was always trotting about the house. He was +christened William after my grandfather, who stood for him. We had +him christened the week after his mother left us.’ + +‘Poor little Trot, but for you he might have been left outside the +fold. Poor little Trot, born in a workhouse, abandoned by his mother, +fatherless, nameless! Well, Miss Challice, his schooling shall never +trouble you or your grandfather. We’ll send him to Winchester when +he’s old enough, and to Oxford after, and make a man of him. That +shall be my duty, and it may be some small return for all the care +you and your worthy grandfather have bestowed upon me.’ + +‘You are too good. Believe me, we need no recompense.’ + +‘No more did the good Samaritan. How long is it, by the way, since +you received the last bank note?’ + +‘Not more than two months ago. It came while you were very ill.’ + +‘I thank you most sincerely for having told me this story. I am +deeply interested in Trot, deeply moved by your goodness to him. +It is a hard thing that such an act of divine charity should have +brought sorrow upon you. It makes me detest your innocent rustics.’ + +‘Do not blame them. It arises out of their ignorance----’ + +‘No,’ cries Alexis sternly, ‘it arises out of their knowledge of +evil, and incapacity to believe in good.’ + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + GAINING TIME. + + +Not long does Mr. Pilgrim content himself with undeclared and +silent homage. The day comes, too soon for Sibyl, when he opens the +floodgates of his passion. He is a very different wooer from the +honest-minded English gentleman, Sir Wilford Cardonnel, and Sibyl +finds her position more painful than it has ever been yet. + +He follows her into the garden one June evening after dinner, when +twilight is creeping over Redcastle, purpling the foliage in Sir John +Boldero’s park, and spreading a faint gray shadow over the brilliant +flower-beds on Mr. Trenchard’s lawn. + +‘Why always avoid me?’ asks Joel tenderly, as Sibyl quickens her pace +at his coming. + +‘I think the reason is obvious,’ she says. + +She has constrained herself to be civil to him since that +remonstrance of her uncle’s, but to-night the tenderness of his +tone, its oily smoothness, its hypocritical sweetness, irritates her +beyond all bearing. + +‘You mean that my presence is disagreeable to you.’ + +‘You may construe my remark in that way if you please. I may respect +you as my uncle’s friend, but you really give me a little too much of +your society for me to value you on your own account.’ + +‘But it is on my own account that I seek to be valued, Sibyl. A fig +for the respect you pay your uncle’s friends! Give me love for love, +truth for truth.’ + +‘Love!’ she echoes scornfully. + +‘Yes, love; am I so revolting a person that the word sounds obnoxious +from my lips? Yes, Sibyl, love. You know that I love you devotedly, +passionately, with the kind of love that can conquer obstacles and +win its wish in spite of all opposing influences. There is nothing +to oppose me but your own obdurate heart. Your uncle’s most ardent +desire is that you should be my wife.’ + +‘You have worried him into expressing such a desire,’ replies Sibyl; +‘but I do not believe that it is really his wish. His ardent desire +before you came here was that I should marry Sir Wilford Cardonnel.’ + +‘Sir Wilford Cardonnel has no claim upon your uncle’s affection--can +never be to him what I am.’ + +‘Whatever you may be to my uncle, I only know that the effect of your +presence has been to alter him strangely for the worse. There has +been no happiness in this house since you have lived in it.’ + +Happily for Sibyl, she does not see the vindictive look--a look of +wrath that is almost deadly--which Joel Pilgrim turns upon her after +this speech. Her eyes are fixed on the shadowy line of woodland which +shuts out the world beyond Sir John Boldero’s park. + +Joel takes time before replying to these uncomplimentary remarks, and +his voice when he does reply has all its familiar blandness,--that +oily smoothness which is so hateful to Sibyl. + +‘Why do you say these hard things to me, Sibyl?’ he asks. ‘Is it to +prove my love--to test my forbearance, and gauge the depth of my +devotion by my power to endure your insults?’ + +‘I have no wish to insult you,’ replies Sibyl, feeling that she +has gone a little too far, and that this scene may be used to her +disadvantage with her uncle. ‘We might be good friends if you would +only leave me alone. I do not interfere with you. I am not jealous +of your influence with my uncle. Why do you follow me about and +persecute me with attentions which, as I have candidly told you, are +disagreeable to me?’ + +‘Why does the sunflower turn to the sun? I follow you because I love +you, and because I have sworn to win love for love.’ + +‘That you will never do.’ + +‘Yes, Sibyl, love will come by-and-bye with time and custom, when you +are my wife.’ + +‘That day will never dawn.’ + +‘Yes, it will, Sibyl. You have played your cards too well to throw +up the game just at the last, when you are close upon winning. Come, +we will abandon poetical similes and lovers’ talk, and settle the +subject like a man and woman of the world. With all your sweetness +there is a touch of worldly wisdom about you, Sibyl. We will speak +plainly. You have set your heart upon inheriting your uncle’s +fortune, a prize worth winning, I grant--a diamond not to be found +in every mine. You have wound yourself about the old man’s heart, +and have made yourself dear to him. You stand a good chance of being +heiress to that incalculable wealth. But I come upon the scene, an +adventurer, you think, perhaps, and one who seeks to deprive you of +that vast inheritance. You are wrong, Sibyl. I have never schemed +to inherit Stephen Trenchard’s fortune; but he and I have certain +business relations, and he is necessary to me. He is fond of me too, +after his own fashion--just as he is fond of you--and he has made +up his mind that we two shall be one. If you thwart that desire you +hazard his favour, nay, I will go so far as to say that I know your +refusal to gratify this wish would lead him to alter his will.’ + +‘And you know that he has made a will in my favour?’ cries Sibyl, +betrayed into a question which, after a moment’s reflection, she +feels ashamed at having asked, of this man most of all. + +‘Yes,’ replies Mr. Pilgrim, deliberately. ‘I know that Stephen +Trenchard has bequeathed the bulk of his fortune to you; nay, I +may go so far as to say his entire fortune. Your sisters will be +disappointed, I fear, but you have made yourself the favourite, you +see.’ + +‘And he is soon to die,’ reflects Sibyl. ‘If I offend him now by +absolutely refusing to marry this man I shall lose all. If I can gain +time--a very little time, perhaps--all will be mine.’ + +‘Give me your answer, Sibyl,’ pleads Joel. ‘I am ready to forgive +all the cruel things you have said. A woman’s hard words signify but +little. Tell me that you will be my own sweet wife, that I may go +back to India by-and-bye, with a fair princess from the west--fairer +than a dream to Indian eyes. Give me hope, Sibyl.’ + +‘Give me time,’ replies Sibyl. ‘I have told you that--that I do not +understand you--that the idea of your affection is at present most +painful to me. Give me time to overcome what is perhaps an unworthy +prejudice on my part. I would make any possible sacrifice to please +my uncle, who has been very good to me. With time, perhaps----’ + +‘So be it,’ says Joel, offering her his hand, that small, cold +hand, whose touch she so much dislikes. ‘Shake hands upon that, my +princess. I will wait. You have no idea how patient I can be if I see +my way clear to the end. Let Fortune say to me such or such a prize +is there for you to win, and I will win it. I will win you, my love, +if conquest lies within the limits of the possible.’ + +‘And you will not torment me with attentions which----’ + +‘Which only increase your prejudice against me. No, Sibyl, I will +sink the lover and be only the man of the world. I will say to +myself, “My love knows that it is her interest to overcome her +distaste for me, that to refuse my hand is to throw away fortune. I +have only to be patient. All good things come to him who can wait, +like yonder moon which pierces that summer cloud, and shines upon +some belated traveller, just when the way seemed darkest.” Come, +Sibyl, let us go back to our dear uncle--my uncle as well as yours, +by-and-bye. The dew is falling, and your English compounds--or +gardens, as you call them--are so damp.’ + +They go back to the drawing-room, where Stephen Trenchard sits +reading by a brilliant carcel lamp, and the look which Sibyl turns +upon him is perhaps the most awful look that has ever scrutinized +his face, for it is the gaze of one who watches for the tokens of +death. Is that true which they all say? she wonders despairingly. Is +the forecast shadow of the end dark upon his face already? Does that +grayish tinge which overspreads the sallower tint beneath, mean only +the slow advance of age? or is it the awful hue of swift approaching +death? She cannot tell. He is so fitful in his health and spirits, +feeble to helplessness to-day, full of restless activity to-morrow. + +He looks up from his newspaper as they enter from the garden. + +‘Well, young people, have you been enjoying the moonlight?’ + +‘Yes, we have had a pleasant stroll, the pleasantest I have had since +I came to England. I never saw a moonrise that shone upon such +content as I feel to-night,’ answers Joel. + +Sibyl tries not to shudder too obviously. + +‘Shall I read to you, uncle?’ she asks, feeling that even the money +article will be better than lover-like speeches from the lips of Joel +Pilgrim. + +‘No, my dear, I have finished my _Times_. You and Joel can play +chess.’ + +It is a game of skill in which Joel excels and which Sibyl utterly +detests. He has taught her to play just tolerably, and she would +rather play chess with him--the game engaging all his faculties and +exercising all his cunning--than hear him talk; so she takes her +place at the board submissively, and Joel’s tawny hands arrange the +stately carven images, castles on elephants, Indian potentates for +kings, Indian warriors for pawns, and Brahmins for bishops. + +For a little while after this interview in the garden Sibyl’s life is +more endurable, for Mr. Pilgrim’s attentions are less marked. He does +not follow her from room to room so persistently as he did before +his declaration. He allows her to ride alone, horsemanship being an +exercise which he cordially dislikes. She has leisure in which to +brood upon the difficulties that hem her in, and calculate upon the +hour which will bring her release. + +But this period of repose does not last long. One morning her uncle +sends Podmore to summon her to his study. She finds him seated at +his table, which is littered with papers and letters, and before him +lies that oblong volume which she saw on the night after the races, +through the glass door, and which she supposes to be a ledger. + +Joel Pilgrim stands by the window, very serious of aspect, his tawny +countenance a shade paler than usual. + +‘I have sent for you to discuss a very important subject, Sibyl,’ +begins Mr. Trenchard, ‘one that is vital to you and Joel.’ + +‘Yes, uncle Stephen,’ she answers falteringly, feeling as if she were +expected to reply in some wise. + +‘Sit down, my dear. We may have much to say to each other;’ and Sibyl +sinks into the nearest chair, dreading to hear the rest. ‘The last +mail has brought Joel some unpleasant--I should rather say some +unexpected--news about his business in Calcutta. He will have to +return to India almost immediately.’ + +Joel gnaws his nether lip and turns his face away from the speaker, +perhaps to hide that vindictive look in eye and lip. Sibyl’s heart +beats furiously, but her agitation is full of joy. Heaven has sent +her a reprieve. Her tormentor is obliged to depart. There will be an +end of that hateful question about marriage. + +‘Yes, my dear, our poor Joel has to return to Calcutta by the next +steamer, or the first steamer that he can be ready for, and he does +not want to go back alone. You understand, Sibyl.’ + +Very ghastly is the change in Sibyl’s face as she looks at her uncle, +struck speechless by this sudden revulsion from gladness to despair. + +‘You understand, my dear?’ repeats Stephen Trenchard. + +‘No indeed, uncle.’ + +‘You have promised to be Joel’s wife----’ + +‘No, uncle, I gave no promise,’ she falters with white lips. ‘I only +said that I would try to like him better--that----’ + +‘Bah! that’s a girl’s vague way of putting it. You women always +beat about the bush. Joel looks upon it as a promise, and so do I. +It is a settled thing. You and Joel are to be man and wife, thus +fulfilling the dearest wish of my heart, as Joel’s oldest friend and +your nearest kinsman. By this means you will mutually enjoy all I +have to bequeath. In a word, I have set my heart upon this marriage, +Sibyl, and it cannot take place too soon. Joel’s recall to India is a +reason why it should take place immediately. Joel will lose no time +in obtaining the licence. Let me see--this is Tuesday. When does the +next Peninsular and Oriental leave Southampton, Joel?’ + +‘On Monday.’ + +‘Good; you can be married on Saturday. You can go to York for the +licence this afternoon, Joel.’ + +‘But, uncle Stephen, so soon--in a few days--it is impossible.’ + +‘Nonsense, child! nothing is impossible to men of business, like Joel +and me.--We have managed more difficult things than this in our +time, haven’t we, Joel?’ + +A sardonic laugh is Joel’s only answer. Persistent as he has been +in his wooing, his air this morning is not exactly suggestive of +delight, or of that entrancement which should belong to triumphant +love. + +‘But you are so ill, uncle,--I could not leave you.’ + +‘I am flattered by the affectionate thought, but I am not so ill as +you suppose. And the idea that I have made you and Joel happy will be +better than medicine.’ + +‘My trousseau, uncle,--my outfit? To go to India at a few days’ +notice! I assure you that any one would tell you it is impossible.’ + +‘Any one might tell me any absurdity, but I should not be obliged to +believe them. Do not let us have any more young ladylike objections, +Sibyl. The matter is settled. Joel will go to York by the two o’clock +train, and I will write to Mr. Chasubel to give notice of the wedding +on Saturday. As to trousseau, as you call it, you must have finery +enough to last your lifetime, I should think, judging from the +length of your bill at Carmichael’s; and now go, my dear; Joel and I +have business matters to discuss for the next half-hour. Joel, salute +your bride.’ + +Mr. Pilgrim intercepts Sibyl at the door, and takes her hand. He +draws her towards him, as if about to kiss her on the lips, but there +is something in her look so repellent, nay, so abhorrent, that even +his audacity is checked. He falls back a little, and raises her hand +to his lips, and with this ceremonious salutation lets her go. + +‘You are not a very warm lover, Joel,’ says Stephen Trenchard, with +a sneer, when the door has closed upon his niece. ‘The sun of the +tropics doesn’t seem to have infused much of its fire into your +veins.’ + +‘You see me at a disadvantage,’ replies the other, seating himself at +the table, and examining one of those numerous documents with a moody +attentiveness that suggests trouble. ‘The girl hates me.’ + +‘And you hate the girl. Is that it?’ + +‘No. I think her one of the loveliest women I ever saw; a prize +worth winning at some cost of self-abasement. But her detestation for +me is a little too obvious, and I must confess that I am somewhat +less eager to win her than I was a few weeks ago.’ + +‘Before I made certain confidences, eh, Joel? Never mind. I told +you I would make her marry you, and you see I mean to keep my word. +Loving or loathing will make very little difference to you, I take +it. You will know how to make her obey you. You will have a pretty +wife to uphold your position in Calcutta--a good card to play always +where fools abound, as they do in the City of Palaces. And you will +have the handling of my fortune.’ + +‘I ought to be grateful,’ replies Joel, coldly, with his eyes still +bent upon a column of figures. + +‘And now, Joel, let us be business-like. I think you will confess +that I have gone into your affairs thoroughly this morning. There has +been no impatience. I have not been betrayed into one angry word, but +I have arrived at a conclusion, and I shall abide by it.’ + +‘And that is----’ + +‘I must have ten thousand pounds from you between this and Saturday +at nine in the morning. Just two hours before your wedding. Or +else----’ + +‘Or else what?’ + +‘The house of Pilgrim and Company will go down like a vessel that +breaks her back--straight to the bottom, Joel.’ + +‘It is quite impossible.’ + +‘Not to a man of business, Joel. To great generals and clear-headed +commercial men there is nothing impossible. We only print the word in +our dictionaries for the weak and brainless portion of humanity.’ + +‘It is not to be done.’ + +‘It is to be done, and it must be done,’ retorts Stephen Trenchard, +bringing down his clenched fist upon the open ledger, ‘ten thousand +pounds in hard cash, Joel--a drop out of the ocean, a brand from the +burning. Borrow it, raise it how or where you can, among your English +connections, but understand I must have it on Saturday morning, or +before Saturday afternoon I shall have telegraphed to my solicitors +in Calcutta, and the house of Pilgrim will be doomed.’ + +‘After all the money I have earned for you in the past?’ + +‘That past is long gone by, Joel--it is the pluperfect. You have been +sucking my blood like a vampire for the last three years, and have +left me all but bloodless. I must have that ten thousand pounds.’ + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + AT BAY. + + +It is evening. Stephen Trenchard has retired to his room immediately +after dinner, looking wan and wearied, worn out perhaps by that +interview with Joel Pilgrim in the study. Sibyl has offered to go to +his room and read to him, and has had her offer refused. + +‘I am tired, my dear, and want sleep, if I can get it; but that seems +harder for me to obtain now than for a pauper to get gold. One would +think the voice of doom had cried out to me, as it cried to Macbeth, +“Sleep no more”!’ + +‘Macbeth was a murderer, uncle. You should not compare yourself to +him.’ + +‘No; I have never dipped my hands in blood. I have used the world +pretty much as it has used me, I believe--give and take.’ + +Sibyl is alone in a small sitting-room adjoining her bedroom; a +pretty little room which Mr. Trenchard has allowed her to appropriate +to herself, and which she has adorned with various elegant trifles +from the Redcastle shops--books, engravings, statuettes--the things +that women love. + +Here she sits to-night, a prey to something very near despair. She is +now completely hemmed in. Only two modes of escape lie before her. +The first and more obvious is flight. She can leave Lancaster Lodge. +There is no constraint upon her. She is free to go away, penniless +as when she came, leaving fortune behind her. The second and more +hazardous alternative is to prevail upon Joel Pilgrim to abandon his +design; to induce him, of his own accord, to give up the idea of +marriage until he is able to return from Calcutta. + +Ten o’clock strikes, and soon afterwards she hears the bell at +the lodge entrance, and then wheels grinding over the gravel, and +she knows that Mr. Pilgrim has returned with the licence. She has +breathed more freely during his absence, and his return seems to +bring an atmosphere of trouble and perplexity into the house. Will he +come to her, or send for her to tell her that his hateful errand has +been successfully accomplished? She sits listening for his detested +footstep. The ears of hate are as keen as those of love, and she +knows that footfall only too well. + +Yes, there it comes along the carpeted corridor, slow and stealthy. +‘The jungle tigers walk like that, I dare say,’ thinks Sibyl. + +Joel opens the door softly and comes in. The dull yellow of his +complexion is relieved by a crimson flush on the smooth cheeks. His +black eyes glitter with an unaccustomed light. Mr. Pilgrim has dined +more generously than usual at York, and has refreshed himself with +soda and brandy more than once during the homeward journey. He is +altogether a different man from that Joel Pilgrim who recoiled from +Sibyl this morning, abashed by her coldness. + +‘I saw the light in your window, my pretty one,’ he says, seating +himself at the table where Sibyl is reading, and drawing his chair +close to hers, ‘and I knew where to find you.’ + +‘Hadn’t you better go downstairs and order some supper, Mr. Pilgrim? +It is nearly eleven o’clock, and the house will be going to bed +almost immediately.’ + +‘Let the house go to Gehenna,’ exclaims Joel; ‘I want nothing it can +give me. I only want to see your lovely eyes, Sibyl, to hear your +sweet voice, and to claim the kiss you denied me this morning. Look +here,’ taking a paper from his breast pocket; ‘the Archbishop of York +has given me permission to make you my wife; the knot is to be tied +next Saturday; in four days, Sibyl--only four days, you who have been +so cruel, you who have held me aloof so long, will be all my own. +Yes, Sibyl; you who have pretended to hate me----’ + +‘Pretended!’ cries Sibyl, with an angry flash from her dark eyes. ‘My +hatred has been very real.’ + +‘I am glad of that. They say extremes meet. It will be an easy +transition from hatred to love; both are fiery passions. It is your +lukewarm indifference that can never be kindled into affection.’ + +‘Now is the time,’ thinks Sibyl, ‘if I am to make an appeal to his +forbearance, his pity, his self-interest. I can but try him.’ + +‘Mr. Pilgrim,’ she begins falteringly. + +‘What a formal mode of addressing your affianced lover--the man who +has his marriage licence in his pocket!’ + +‘I can call you by no other name,’ she answers. ‘I am going to +be more candid to-night than I have ever been. You may betray my +confidence, perhaps ruin me with my uncle; I cannot help it. Between +you, you have driven me to bay.’ + +‘Very cruel of us,’ murmurs Joel, leaning back in his chair and +looking at her with an admiring smile. She is very lovely in her +agitation; cheeks faintly flushed, eyes brilliant, parted lips of +carnation. Her suffering moves him not a jot. + +‘You have seen how I have striven to avoid you. You have put my +avoidance down to hatred, and this perhaps has galled your pride--you +have felt a natural anger against me, and you have resolved to win me +in order to revenge yourself upon my insolence.’ + +‘A very subtle way of putting the case. No, Sibyl; I resolved to +win you because you are lovely, and I love you. I need no stronger +reasons than those two.’ + +‘You could not be determined to make me miserable unless I had +provoked your anger. Forgive me for my seeming hatred of you; it was +not really hatred of you, but love for another. My heart has long +been given to another. I have pledged myself to be faithful to him to +the end of my life, no matter what obstacles might intervene to keep +us asunder. There are reasons why I can never tell my uncle of this +engagement, reasons why I must keep it faithfully in spite of the +world.’ + +‘No reason can stand against the archbishop’s licence, and the fact +that you and I are to be married on Saturday,’ replies Joel, with the +same insolent smile--the smile of a schemer who has brought his plot +to a triumphant issue. + +Sibyl has one argument still to offer. The strongest. + +‘You tell me that my uncle has made a will in my favour, that he will +leave me all his fortune,’ she says. + +‘Yes, that is a settled thing. You heard him say that we were to have +his wealth--you and I.’ + +‘I did. And we can share it. Share it honourably and equally, without +the hateful tie which would bring us nothing but misery. Release me +from this entanglement, Mr. Pilgrim. Tell my uncle that you would +rather defer our marriage until you return from Calcutta. He is not +likely to see that day. Do this, and I will pledge myself in any way +that you may consider most binding. I will sign any document you +choose to put before me, engaging myself to deliver over to you half +my uncle’s fortune, whatever it may be, the day I become possessed of +it.’ + +‘A very liberal and business-like offer,’ exclaims Joel, with a +quiet sneer, which freezes all hope. It is so pitiless! ‘But I would +rather have the pretty wife and the whole of the fortune, as by the +existing arrangement I shall. Of course I shall knock off a handsome +sum for pin-money. Your uncle hints that your tastes are somewhat +extravagant, and Calcutta is not a place to teach economy. I shall +not be a severe husband, and I shall like to see my wife the queen +of taste and fashion.’ + +Sibyl sits with her hands clasped on the table before her, unhearing, +unheeding. She has made her last appeal, and she might as usefully +have made it to stone. There is nothing for her now but flight. Yes, +one alternative. She may confess all to Stephen Trenchard--tell him +that she has been an impostor--that she has duped him into giving +her his affection--that the wealth he has bequeathed to her will be +shared by the son of his unforgiven foe. + +No hope lies that way. She has played her desperate game to the last, +and she must throw up the cards. + +Once resolved, courage and calmness return together. She glances at +the Swiss toy clock on the chimney-piece. + +‘Eleven o’clock, Mr. Pilgrim, and I am very tired. I really must wish +you good night.’ + +She rises, gathers together her dainty fancy work, closes her book, +and holds out her hand to Joel Pilgrim. + +But there is more of his native sunshine in Mr. Pilgrim’s veins +to-night than there was at noon to-day, and he is not to be satisfied +with so cold a salutation from his affianced bride. + +‘You refused me my kiss this morning, Sibyl. I must exercise my +privilege to-night.’ + +His arm is round her, he tries to draw her towards him, but that slim +form recoils from him as from something more hateful than death. + +‘Do not touch me,’ exclaims Sibyl, in a voice that is scarcely above +a whisper. ‘You cannot guess how much I would dare to escape such +pollution. Look at this,’ taking a small glass phial from her pocket, +and holding it up before him. ‘Do you know what this is? Sure and +instant death. I would rather this should pass my lips than that your +lips should touch them.’ + +‘I did not know you were a member of the Borgia family, or that such +delightful customs prevailed among young ladies in England,’ says Mr. +Pilgrim, letting her go, and contemplating her excited countenance +with a gloomy look. ‘But perhaps you are only playing with me, and +that bottle of yours contains one of those homœopathic preparations +so fashionable now-a-days, a globule of poison diluted with a gallon +of water.’ + +‘It contains prussic acid, which I took from my uncle’s surgery a few +days ago, so that I might have one resource against all evils, even +the horror of your touch.’ + +‘Not very complimentary to the man who is to be your husband next +Saturday. Don’t be foolish, Sibyl. Give me that bottle, and let me +throw it under the grate.’ + +‘No, you shall not take it from me,’ exclaims Sibyl, clenching her +hand upon the phial, so tightly that it would need some exercise of +Mr. Pilgrim’s brute force to take it from her. + +‘Keep it then,’ he cries savagely. ‘Keep it, and reconcile yourself +to all the evil it may do you. You are a heartless and unreasonable +woman, and deserve to suffer for your folly. Keep your deadly +poison, but remember your English proverb which tells you that it +is dangerous to play with edged tools. And so good night, Miss +Faunthorpe. I’m afraid I shall have a vixen for a wife, and get the +worst of it in our domestic quarrels.’ + +Thus, with a sneer, he leaves her. + +‘No resource,’ murmurs Sibyl, ‘none but flight--or--’ she looks at +the little bottle, full of a colourless liquid--‘or this.’ + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + ON THE THRESHOLD OF A DISCOVERY. + + +Alexis goes back to Cheswold Grange, and resumes the even tenor of +his life, a prosperous country gentleman, with very little to occupy +him, and plenty of leisure in which to muse upon destiny, and dream +of the things that might have been. The hunting season has long been +over. It is the time of roses, and he has no temptation to endanger +his neck upon Bayard again just yet awhile. He rides his steady +little brown mare in the shady roads and lanes round Cheswold, while +Bayard stretches his noble limbs in the home paddock, and gathers +strength for the crisp, clear days of October and the chill mists of +November. + +It is a pleasant life, but an idle one, and a thought too lonely. +True that there is plenty of society in the neighbourhood, and Mr. +Secretan, of Cheswold, is popular; but life cannot be a succession +of dinner parties, and Alexis has little inclination for croquet +and garden parties, archery, fancy fairs, or any of those small +amusements which beguile the long days of a country summer. + +The two young men have scarcely returned to the Grange when Richard +Plowden declares that he must go home. + +‘I’ve been with you nearly a year, Alexis,’ he says. ‘I am sure you +must be sick of my society.’ + +‘When I am, be sure I’ll let you know it, Dick,’ answers the other, +laughing. ‘You’re the best company in the world to me, for you’re a +kind of second self. I can talk to you as I talk to no one else. You +know all my secrets.’ + +‘All of them?’ asks Dick, gravely. + +‘Yes, Dick, all--or if there is a vague, undeveloped thought or dream +I have not shared with you, it has not been for want of confidence in +your fidelity.’ + +‘I believe that,’ replies Dick, deeply moved. ‘But I must go home all +the same. This kind of life is all very well for a short time, but it +can’t go on--it would spoil me for the rough work-a-day world.’ + +‘Let it spoil you, Dick. Why should you ever go back to the +work-a-day world? You are my adopted brother, as dear to me as if we +had slept in the same cradle, or lain in the same mother’s arms. My +home is yours, my income yours, and if Fate cuts me off untimely you +will not find yourself unprovided for. Your mother is happy with her +lodgers and her housekeeping, to say nothing of the fernery, which +she tells you has flourished under her care. Why talk of leaving me, +Dick?’ + +‘You are too good; and I am more grateful than any words of mine can +tell. But I must go all the same.’ + +‘You are not happy with me, Dick?’ + +‘I have been most happy with you.’ + +‘Have been. That means you are not happy now. It is you who are tired +of my company. That long illness of mine wore you out. You had too +much of me at Dorley Mill.’ + +At the name of Dorley Mill a spasm of pain passes across Richard +Plowden’s face--so faint that it might have escaped a less watchful +observer than Alexis. But Alexis is sorely puzzled by Dick’s desire +to leave him, and is watchful of his friend’s countenance. + +‘Too much of your company--no, Alexis. You know that your company is +like the wine of life for me.’ + +‘And yet you persist in leaving me. There must be some reason.’ + +‘There is a reason--one that I can never tell you. A foolish reason. +But strong enough to send me away from Cheswold.’ + +‘And the roses, and the ferns, and all those bright things of summer +you love so well--you to whom the hills and woods and wandering +streams are new. You would exchange all the pleasures of the country +for the Brompton Road and the ever-flowing stream of many-coloured +omnibuses, the cry of the hawker, the reek of the ham and beef shop, +the glare of the gin-palace? The reason must be a strong one, Dick.’ + +‘It is as strong as Fate.’ + +‘And you will not trust me with it?’ + +‘I cannot tell you my reasons. You would laugh at me, despise me.’ + +‘Try me, Dick. Suppose I can guess your secret.’ + +‘Oh no, no!’ cries Dick, with alarm. + +‘Those days at Dorley Mill, when my broken ribs were slowly knitting +themselves together again--peaceful, happy days, were they not, +Dick? That quaint Elizabethan homestead seemed more like home to +both of us than this good old house of mine. It had the atmosphere +of home, which this has not. There is no such thing as home without +the presence of a woman. We were very happy--in a tranquil, sleepy +fashion--at Dorley, weren’t we, Dick?’ + +‘Very happy,’ answers Dick, looking down at an open book, the leaves +of which he turns over restlessly, as if looking for some particular +passage. + +‘And now I begin to fear that Dorley Mill was an unlucky place for +both of us. Neither of us came away heart-whole.’ + +‘Alex,’ cries Dick, looking up. + +‘No half-confidences, old friend. You see I am not afraid to trust +_you_. Such a confession comes amiss from me, you think--from me +who am bound fast by an old tie--which, if the marriage tie could be +broken by a wife’s unkindness, might well have been cancelled for me +last December, when I stood before that mercenary wife of mine and +pleaded the cause of love against money. Do not be alarmed, Dick, I +am not going to sophisticate. The old tie is binding, and the old +bond shall be honoured, though it should keep me a lonely man for the +rest of my days. But I may be forgiven if I have had my dream of what +might have been--if I have thought how fair and perfect my life might +be made in this good old home of mine, were I but free to seek Linda +Challice for my wife.’ + +‘Yes,’ murmurs Dick, ‘I thought so.’ + +‘You thought that I was human, Dick, and that it was not easy for me +to feel all the sweetness of Linda’s society--to be sheltered and +cherished by her kindness--to know that I owed my life to her patient +tenderness, and withhold my heart from her altogether. My heart went +out to her, Dick, unawares, but by not so much as a word or look did +I ever betray my secret. I woke one day to a full knowledge of my +peril, and the next day I left Dorley Mill.’ + +‘You acted nobly,’ cries Dick, clasping his friend’s hand. ‘Yes, I +suspected the truth, and it made my own thoughts all the more bitter. +How could she think of me? What a worm I must seem to her beside you!’ + +‘She shall think of you, Dick. She shall learn to know your noble +heart--your talents--your love of all that is lofty and lovely in +life. She shall learn to understand you and appreciate you as I do. +Trust to time, Dick, and me. It shall be my task to win her for you.’ + +‘Impossible,’ sighs Dick. ‘She is won already, and not by me.’ + +‘Silence, Dick. There is treason against her in such an insinuation. +She knew that I was married.’ + +‘She must have known it at the last, but I am not quite sure that she +knew it at first, unless anything you said when you awoke from your +delirium may have enlightened her. I don’t think, somehow, that she +did know it. Remember, you were a perfect stranger to her. You came +to Dorley Mill as if you had dropped from the clouds. How should she +know anything of your domestic history, which has only been whispered +amongst your neighbours?’ + +‘You might have told her my painful story, Dick.’ + +‘It was not my business. It would have been an impertinence in me to +gabble about your affairs. I felt assured that you would tell her.’ + +‘Why should I do so, Dick? I am not a coxcomb. I foresaw no peril +to myself in my association with that sweet girl, still less did I +imagine danger to her. I accepted all her bounties as if she had been +verily a ministering angel lent to this lower world for a little +while to be my comfort. Upon my word, Dick, I think there is a spice +of folly--or unconscious jealousy, perhaps--in your notion that I am +any more to Miss Challice than the traveller who fell by the wayside.’ + +‘I can read her face,’ answers Dick, sorrowfully, ‘and it has told me +her secret.’ + +Alexis is moved by this conviction of Richard Plowden’s. For so +little he could be glad. He sees the fair young face, the bended +brow, the soft eyes which have so often avoided his own. Dare he +interpret those signs--those little looks which he remembers so +well--as the tokens of a hidden passion? Dare he suffer himself to +believe that while Linda Challice ministered to him pity grew to love +in her heart, as gratitude widened into love in his? The thought +that it is so can bring him nothing but sorrow; yet he finds himself +encouraging the fancy notwithstanding. + +‘I am a weak fool, Dick,’ he cries at last, after pacing the firelit +library for some time; ‘and you ought not to say these things to me. +Linda Challice does know that I have a wife. She learned it directly +from my own lips; but only on the morning before I left Dorley. But +she shall know all my wretched story. She shall know that I deserve +her pity, though I dare not ask for her love. I am bound to pay one +more visit to Dorley Mill, if it is only to repeat my thanks for all +her goodness to me. I will go to-morrow. I have ordered a little +present for her from London which I think she will like.’ + +‘She is not a girl to care for presents,’ says Dick. + +‘You sulky old bear! women love souvenirs and keepsakes.’ + +‘Yes, when they love the giver.’ + +‘You know that shabby silver watch she wears.’ + +‘It was her father’s,’ growls Dick; ‘he wore it to the day of his +death, or had it under his pillow on his death-bed. He died in Rome, +you know, in something like impoverished circumstances. I dare say he +had a fine gold hunter when his pictures were the fashion.’ + +‘Poor fellow! it was his watch, was it? Then I’m afraid Lin----Miss +Challice won’t care for the one I’ve bought her.’ + +Alexis takes a neat little morocco case out of a drawer in the +library table, a dainty case lined with white velvet, on which +reposes the most fascinating of watches--about the size of a florin. +The case is dark purple enamel, with Linda’s monogram in pearls, and +round the watch is coiled a slender gold chain set with pearls. + +‘Rather too pretty for a miller’s granddaughter,’ says Dick. ‘But +I’ve no doubt she’ll be pleased. Did you buy anything for Mr. +Benfield?’ + +‘Yes, Dick, I didn’t forget the miller;’ and from another drawer +Alexis produces a splendid meerschaum pipe. ‘The old gentleman can +smoke his tobacco in that when he sits by the fire after supper.’ + +‘I don’t suppose it will draw as well as his clay,’ murmurs Dick. + +The drawing-room at the Grange seems more than usually empty that +evening when the two young men leave the dining-table. It is a wet +night, and they lack the amusement which the gardens and stable +yard afford them in fine weather. Alexis has read all the magazines +and newspapers, and is hardly in the humour for serious literature, +although all his favourite authors, newly bound and newly arranged +upon the shelves in the library, invite him to study. His mind is +disturbed, he knows not why. He takes up a volume of Tennyson from +the table and turns the leaves idly till he comes to that exquisite +poem called ‘Love and Duty.’ This he reads aloud, Richard Plowden +listening intently. + +‘That was written by a MAN, Dick,’ he says when he has finished. +‘Byron-worshipper as I am, I confess that there is more stamina in +that than in all Childe Harold’s wailing against destiny. But then +Byron died in the flower of his manhood. We know not what noble fruit +the tree might have borne had it grown to maturity. Byron never came +to the age at which Scott began to be a poet, or at which Goethe +wrote his masterpiece. What would have been the aftermath of Byron +and Shelley had inexorable death spared so much genius?’ + +After this Alexis and his friend talk of their favourite poets, and +both brighten a little as their thoughts drift away from their own +individual sorrows. + +Soon after breakfast next morning, Alexis mounts Titmouse and rides +down to Dorley, through the perfumed lanes where the dog-roses and +woodbine make a tangle of flowers among the young oak saplings and +the sturdy hawthorn bushes. Dorley Mill is looking its prettiest as +he rides along the winding track that leads to it. Trot is sitting in +the porch playing with a very fat black and white puppy with a round +stupid-looking head, a puppy that has not long been added to the +population of Dorley. + +At the sight of Alexis, Trot lets fall his pinafore, and gives the +puppy a sudden drop in the world. It is the youthful animal’s first +experience of the uncertainty of friendship, and he yelps out his +remonstrance against life’s delusions. + +‘Mammie!’ yells Trot, ‘mammie, come out, it’s the genlamum.’ In spite +of their familiarity, Trot has never learnt to call Alexis anything +but the ‘genlamum.’ + +Linda is not forthcoming, and Trot remembers presently that mammie +has gone down to the village. + +‘She not be long,’ says Trot. ‘I’ll show oo my noo puppy;’ and he +introduces that animal, held firmly by the tail. + +‘Daddie says he grow big--ever so big--bigger than Trot,’ says the +boy, opening his eyes tremendously wide. They are hazel eyes, with +lashes of gold, which time will darken to brown. + +‘I’ll come in and wait, Trot,’ says Alexis, dismounting, and tying +Titmouse to the gatepost. She is a lazy animal, and has no objection +to stand there nibbling the grass by the wayside. + +He goes in at the familiar porch, beneath which he was carried +unconscious on the day of his accident, and seats himself by Linda’s +work-table. How pleasant the room is to his sight! how homelike! +There are the books Linda read to him--the books that seemed to +breathe a deeper pathos and holier tenderness when she read. There +is her drawing-board with an unfinished landscape, a wind of the +river overshadowed by willows. There are the flowers her hand has +arranged; there the sofa on which he passed so many reposeful hours +of unthinking happiness. + +‘Why did I permit myself to be so happy?’ he thinks, in +self-reproach. ‘It was a pleasant dream, but the return to life’s +dull reality is a little hard to bear.’ + +He rouses himself from his musing mood, and begins to talk to Trot, +taking Trot and the puppy on his knee together. Trot stops tolerably +quiet; but the puppy begins a perambulation--a voyage of discovery up +and down Mr. Secretan’s coat sleeves and collar, and even on to his +head, which is more familiar than agreeable. + +‘Well, Trot, you haven’t forgotten me, I hope?’ + +‘I not forgotten oo, but I don’t love oo no more,’ replies Trot, +decisively. + +‘Not love me any more? Oh, Trot, that is cruel. Why not?’ + +‘Why oo go ’way and make mammie cry?’ demands Trot, facing the +accused with magisterial severity. + +Alexis crimsons at the interrogation. + +‘I never made mammie cry,’ he falters. + +‘That’s a tory. Oo did. She cried the day oo went,--she cried a +little every day, she said it was a headache,--Trot knows better, she +not such a coward as to cry for a headache. Trot doesn’t cry when his +head aches, he’s a man!’ + +‘Yes, but mammie’s only a woman, Trot, and a headache might make her +cry if it was a very bad one. Mammie wouldn’t tell a story.’ + +‘She says _I_ mustn’t,’ responds Trot, ‘but I think she did. Grown-up +people may do anything. Mayn’t they tell tories?’ + +‘No, Trot, not good people. Only wicked people tell stories.’ + +A shadow flits across the threshold, and the subject of their +conversation enters. Trot scrambles off Mr. Secretan’s knee and runs +to his adopted mother. + +‘I told him he was naughty to go away and make oo cry,’ says Trot, +‘and he says he didn’t.’ + +‘Foolish Trot. What silly notions you get into your head!’ says +Linda, bending over the child and blushing deeply. + +Alexis sees the blush, and he sees something more than that. He sees +that Linda has changed within the ten days that have gone by since he +left Dorley Mill. A settled pallor succeeds that fleeting red. Her +eyes are sunken, and there is a dark line beneath them, which deepens +their colour, and gives a pathetic expression that touches him to +the heart. She has cared for him, she has been sorry for him, and +he, poor fettered wretch, dare say no word of his care or his sorrow +for her. She must drink the cup of humiliation to the dregs, and +know that the man to whom her innocent heart has gone forth is the +property of another. + +‘I have been anxious to come and tell you once more how gratefully +I shall ever remember your goodness to me,’ says Alexis, after they +have talked about Trot and Trot’s puppy for a few minutes. The puppy +is to grow up into a Newfoundland if it realizes the expectations of +its friends, but there is an element of uncertainty in these things, +and Alexis has a lurking conviction that this puppy will develop into +the most mongrel of mongrels. + +‘Believe me, neither my grandfather nor I consider our care of you +a matter for gratitude, Mr. Secretan,’ replies Linda. ‘Providence +brought you to our door. We should have been very unchristian-like if +we had not cared for you. I think you must know that if you had been +the poorest tramp that ever dropped down on the road-side we should +have done the same.’ + +‘I am quite sure of that,’ replies Alexis, ‘and that is why I have +never ventured to speak about the expense that my illness must have +entailed upon you.’ + +‘Pray relieve your mind upon that score. Your housekeeper sent all +the broths and jellies, hothouse fruits, poultry, game, and wines +from the Grange. I think you only cost us a few new-laid eggs and a +little milk. Mrs. Bodlow kept our larder almost too well supplied in +her anxiety that you should have nourishing diet.’ + +‘Mrs. Bodlow only did her duty. But lightly as you regard the +obligation, Miss Challice, it is one which I shall carry to my dying +day. If ever I am inclined to make a bad use of this life of mine, +I will remember how hard you strove to win it back from the grave. +I have ventured to bring you something--a little gold watch, with +your initials on the back, which I hope you will wear sometimes in +remembrance of the many weary hours you spent by the stranger’s sick +bed.’ + +‘I will wear it always,’ replies Linda, with tears in her eyes. + +‘Oo can’t wear two wathes,’ exclaims Trot. ‘Oo wear oor fazer’s wath.’ + +‘I shall keep that among my treasures, Trot; but it is nearly worn +out, poor old watch, and I am sure this will keep better time.’ + +‘Oo like this best ’cause the genlamum give it oo,’ cries the +far-seeing Trot. + +Alexis pretends not to hear this last observation, and produces +the meerschaum pipe, which Linda admires amazingly, and which Trot +wants to have in his mouth and to make believe to smoke, as he does +sometimes with daddie’s homelier clay. + +‘Dear little Trot,’ exclaims Alexis, ‘how your small voice would +enliven us at Cheswold Grange. You cannot imagine how dull it is +there, Miss Challice, in the long summer evenings.’ + +‘No? And yet I think I know how long the summer evenings can be. +But Trot would not do much to enliven them. He is worn out by seven +o’clock. Oh, by the way, talking of Trot, I have made one little +discovery since you left us.’ + +‘What is that?’ cries Alexis, eagerly. + +‘Don’t let me raise false expectations. It is such a trifle, scarcely +worth mentioning, but you seemed anxious to find out our little +darling’s parentage, and this seems a clue, however small.’ + +‘What is it? Pray tell me. I am most anxious, more anxious than I can +explain.’ + +‘Pray do not excite yourself, Mr. Secretan. I was looking over some +papers in my desk, the other day, when I came upon the blank sheet of +note-paper which contained that last remittance for Trot,--I remember +it on account of the peculiar way in which it was folded,--and I +noticed for the first time that there was a name stamped upon it in +the corner, the name of the stationer who supplied it, no doubt.’ + +‘Yes, of course.’ + +‘I have saved the sheet of paper to show you. The name is Morgan, +Redcastle.’ + +Alexis starts from his chair and seizes Trot as if he would take +possession of him on the instant. He is speechless with surprise. + +‘You know the name of that place.’ + +‘Know it? yes. I have reason, bitter reason, to know it. A small town +in Yorkshire. And that money, obviously sent by the child’s mother, +was sent from Redcastle?’ + +‘One would suppose so.’ + +‘There can be no doubt of it. Tell me, Miss Challice, if I were to +show you a photograph of the woman you sheltered, the mother of this +boy, would you recognise her? The picture I shall show you was taken +in the bloom of her beauty. You saw her--should it indeed be the same +woman--faded, worn by care and deprivation. Should you know the face +under such altered conditions?’ + +‘I should know it anywhere. But why should you be so agitated? Why +should the mere name of this place excite you so much?’ + +‘Ask me no questions till I come back to you with the photograph,’ +says Alexis. ‘I shall go and return as fast as my horse will carry +me.’ + +‘Pray be careful. Remember----’ + +‘That I have been thrown! Trust me, dear Miss Challice. I will run no +risks. I am too anxious to settle the question of Trot’s parentage.’ + +He takes the child in his arms, kisses him as he has never kissed him +yet in all their friendly companionship, gives him back to Linda, and +runs out at the gate. + +He has mounted Titmouse and is out of sight before Linda has +recovered from her astonishment at his agitation. + +‘Genlamum’s in a hurry!’ exclaims Trot. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + A FATHER’S CLAIM. + + +Alexis scarcely knows what he is doing during that scamper back to +Cheswold Grange. + +Titmouse, inspirited by the knowledge that she is going home to her +stable and two o’clock feed, throws her shoulders forward and sends +out her feet, trotting as if for a wager. + +‘Take off her bridle and give her some corn,’ says Alexis to the +groom who receives him. ‘I shall want her again in ten minutes.’ + +He goes to the library, unlocks a despatch box, and takes out an +oblong velvet case, containing his wife’s portrait--a picture taken +by a famous photographer during their bright Parisian honeymoon,--the +portrait of a girl-bride, lovely, elegantly dressed, smiling at the +unknown future, and unconscious that these happy, idle honeymoon +hours were eating up the capital that should have served to start +husband and wife in the business of life. It is a photograph of +Sibyl at her best--before secret cares and hypocrisies had wrought +their lines on her fair young face. + +Alexis contemplates the picture regretfully for a few moments before +he puts it in his pocket. + +‘Yes, she was very lovely then,’ he tells himself. ‘And there is +nothing in this face that bespeaks a heart capable of treachery or +deceit. It was poverty’s bitter school that spoiled her. Some noble +spirits grow strong by treading the rough ways of life--hers was too +weak to survive the ordeal of misfortune. Poor child, she must have +suffered!’ + +He is on Titmouse again and returning to Dorley in a few minutes, +very much against the mare’s inclination. She indulges in a stubborn +crawl, or, being touched up with the whip, jogs and jolts her rider +in an irregular trot, expressive of supreme ill-temper. Urged out +of this, she sets off in a furious canter, as if to inform him that +she has some ‘go’ left in her yet, in spite of ill-usage, and may +contrive to pitch him over her head if he is too aggravating. + +These devices finally bring Alexis to Dorley, where he finds Linda +and Trot in the front garden, evidently on the watch for him. + +‘I am so glad you have returned,’ cries Linda. ‘You have made me +quite miserable.’ + +‘Forgive me, dear Miss Challice, but if you knew what hopes that one +little word Redcastle have raised in my mind! See here’--he takes the +case from his pocket and shows her Sibyl’s photograph,--‘does that +face remind you of any face you have ever seen before?’ + +‘Yes,’ she answers, pale to the lips, but without an instant’s +hesitation, ‘it is the portrait of Trot’s mother. She was not so +beautiful as that. She was thin and worn and haggard, but I should +recognise the eyes and mouth anywhere. It is she.’ + +‘This is the portrait of my wife, Linda; and Trot, the helpless baby +you adopted in order to save him from the hazards of his mother’s +distraction or despair, is my son.’ + +‘You told me your son was dead.’ + +‘I was taught to believe so. My wife, for some mysterious reason, +told me that cruel lie. She was ashamed, perhaps, of having +abandoned our child to the care of another, and feared to tell me the +truth.’ + +‘Are you sure?’ falters Linda. ‘You are not deceiving yourself and +me?’ + +‘If you are sure that this picture is the portrait of Trot’s mother, +there can be no doubt that Trot is my son.’ + +‘And you will take him away from me,’ says Linda, piteously; ‘just +when he has grown most dear. After all I have suffered--all I have +borne patiently for his sake--I am to lose him. That is hard.’ + +‘If you knew how I have pined for a son, Linda--what day-dreams I +have woven about my little one’s image--how bitter a grief I felt +when I was told that wicked lie about his death--you would understand +my rapture at finding him, my eagerness to claim him for my own--my +darling, my hope, my precious care, heir to the fortune that +Providence has dropped into my lap--poorly deserved on my part Heaven +knows. He shall be better worthy of it.’ + +‘Yes,’ murmurs Linda, faintly, ‘I can understand. It is only natural. +He is your son; your rights are sacred.’ + +‘And you have suffered for his sake, Linda. Your generosity has been +rewarded by the world’s injustice. But I can set all right. I shall +claim him for my own, and every one round and about Cheswold and +Dorley shall know all his story. Yes, I will not blush to tell the +whole bitter truth. How my wife left me in poverty, and how my son +was born in a workhouse.’ + +They are standing in the parlour, Trot watching their excited +countenances, with wonder depicted upon his own. + +‘You have a right to take him away,’ says Linda, sadly, ‘but I think +you will take all the sunshine of our lives with him. My grandfather +is almost as fond of him as I am.’ + +‘I am not going to dissever old links, Linda. He shall come often to +see you. He shall be taught to know you as the guardian angel of his +infancy; he shall always remember his first home.’ + +‘Yes, but it will be his home no longer,’ replies Linda, with a sigh. + +Alexis is silent. He feels that he must seem a wretch, a destroyer, +entering this happy household only to ruin its joy. But how can he +forego his claim? How can he relinquish the delight of watching his +son’s infancy develop into boyhood--guiding the baby mind, making the +boy at once pupil and plaything, source of all his pleasures in the +present and all his hopes in the future? + +At this juncture Trot, who has listened intently, arrives at the +comprehension that he has a personal interest in the conversation. +He catches at the idea that he is to be taken away--transferred +from mammie to the genlamum, and he suddenly bursts in upon the +conversation with a dismal howl. + +‘Me won’t be took away; me stay with mammie,’ cries the boy, and he +clambers up into Linda’s arms, and clings there as if resolved to +resist any attempt at dislodging him. + +‘What, Trot,’ cries Alexis, smiling at the little one’s excitement, +‘won’t you come and live with me, and have a dear little Shetland +pony to ride, and a big garden to play in, and a rocking-horse,--and +a--lots of plum cakes and picture-books?’ Here Alexis’s knowledge +of juvenile weaknesses fails him, and he knows not what further +temptation to offer. + +‘Me won’t have pony, me not want oor garden, me got nice big garden, +me want mammie,’ cries Trot, and he clings still tighter to Linda. + +‘Trot, shall I tell you a secret?’ + +‘’Ess,’ says Trot, who thinks that a secret must needs be something +worth hearing. + +‘You must come and live with me, Trot, my darling. God meant you and +me to live together. I’m your father!’ + +‘No, you not,’ screams the boy, ‘you’re the genlamum with the broken +arm. Me never have no fazer.’ + +‘And you won’t come to live at the Grange? Such a large garden, six +times as big as the garden here, and a Shetland pony with a long +tail.’ + +‘Me won’t,’ cries Trot, emphatically. ‘Bozer de pony!’ + +‘Trot has decided, Miss Challice,’ says Alexis, gravely. ‘If I were +ungrateful enough, selfish enough, to wish to take him from you, his +childish heart is true and fast. He shall stay with you, since you +wish it, for the next few years at any rate. This shall be his home, +and he shall come to Cheswold only as a visitor. You will let me have +him sometimes?’ + +‘Let you have him! Oh, Mr. Secretan, are you not too generous in +consenting to leave him with me?’ + +‘I should be an ungrateful hound if I could refuse. You have made my +son’s infancy bright and happy. You have saved him from the evils of +poverty--from his mother’s selfishness. How can I be grateful enough +to you?’ + +‘Only let me keep my darling a little longer, and I am more than +recompensed. I must be proud and happy too, when I have recovered +a little from this surprise, to know that he is your son--that +his future will be bright and prosperous--his worldly position +honourable,--to think that my little waif and stray should be the +future squire of Cheswold. My grandfather will be so pleased. It is a +triumph for me over him, dear old man, for he said that I was very +foolish to adopt a nameless child, and now my dearest has name and +fortune, home and father.’ + +‘We will make a good man of him between us, Miss Challice,’ +says Alexis, more elated by this discovery than he was by the +inheritance of Miss Secretan’s estate. He has no doubt as to Trot’s +identity--there seems to him no room for doubt, yet he is anxious to +make things as certain as possible--to secure independent evidence in +case his claim to his son should ever be disputed. + +He goes back to the Grange only to get a fresh horse, and then rides +into the quiet old cathedral town to talk the matter over with Mr. +Scrodgers. He does not consider the provincial solicitor a Mansfield +or a Cockburn; but Mr. Scrodgers’s is the best legal intellect +available on the spot, and to Mr. Scrodgers he goes. + +The family solicitor listens to all Alexis has to tell with the +gravity of a learned owl that has lived a century or so in the same +ivy bush. He contracts his eyebrows, he purses up his lips, and looks +as if he had known the whole story before, but, for some wise reason +he had kept his knowledge to himself. + +‘A curious case, Mr. Secretan,’ he says at last, ‘a very curious +case. It’s lucky your estate is not entailed.’ + +‘Why so?’ + +‘There might have been difficulties in the way of succession. It +might not be easy to identify this infant--born in such a very +irregular manner--as your son and heir. There might be suspicions. +The heir-at-law might file a bill in Chancery. I should consider +it a very hazardous business were your estate entailed; but you +as an independent man, fettered by no entail, may leave your real +property to Tom, Dick, or Harry. I should recommend you to take this +infant into your house at once, let him bear your name, let him be +recognised by all your acquaintances as your son.’ + +‘Yes, I shall take care of that. I shall tell everybody. But there is +a difficulty about bringing him into my house. The lady who brought +him up--who rescued him from I know not what misery--has a claim upon +his affection, the strongest, and as strong a claim on my gratitude. +To take him away from her would be almost to break her heart.’ + +‘Almost, but not quite. There’s a long distance between the two +adverbs,’ replies the cynical Scrodgers. ‘Most women have their +hearts almost broken once in their lives. Give her a new bonnet.’ + +‘You do not know the lady, sir. She is not a woman to be solaced by a +bonnet.’ + +‘Hasn’t she a head?’ asks Mr. Scrodgers. ‘I never knew a woman, with +a head, that a bonnet wouldn’t pacify. Half the cases at the assizes, +in which the female is a plaintiff, might be settled out of court if +the defendant knew when and how to offer the _solatium_ of a bonnet.’ + +‘I see, Mr. Scrodgers, you are a bachelor and a misogynist,’ says +Alexis, smilingly. + +‘No, sir,’ replies the lawyer, ‘I am a misogynist, and a married man.’ + +‘The first thing I have to do is to alter my will,’ says Alexis, +returning to the business question. + +‘Decidedly. If you are convinced that this infant--hereinbefore +named--is your son, you had better make a will in his favour.’ + +‘Prepare one as fast as you can, Mr. Scrodgers, leaving the bequest +to my good friend Plowden just as it stands.’ + +‘You must have trustees in case of your dying before the child +attains his majority.’ + +‘Make Plowden trustee.’ + +‘You should have a second, in the event of Mr. Plowden’s death.’ + +‘How you lawyers remind us of our mortality! Well, make Miss Challice +the second trustee and guardian of the boy in case of my death. +Nobody will ever love him better than she does.’ + +‘And in the event of her marriage----’ + +‘Marriage would make no difference in her. She would always love my +boy.’ + +Mr. Scrodgers relieves his doubtful mind by a faint smile. His idea +of marriage is that it makes a very great difference. To his legal +mind marriage transforms a man. Even the will he made as a bachelor +is no longer valid, proving that in the eye of the law the married +man and the bachelor are two distinct personages. + +‘Then you would recommend me to get together all the evidence I can +bearing upon my boy’s birth says Alexis. + +‘I think it would be wise to do so. The fact of your parentage +may never be disputed. You can dispose of the Cheswold estate +as you choose, but still it might be well to have all necessary +documents--an attested copy of your marriage certificate, and so on.’ + +‘Yes, I was a reckless fellow when I married. Heaven knows what +became of the certificate. My wife may have kept it. Certainly I +didn’t take any care of it. The parson had made her my wife. That was +all I thought about on that bewildering day.’ + +‘Then you had better get a copy of the register without delay.’ + +‘Yes, and I will go to the woman with whom my wife and I lodged. She +will remember that my wife was expecting to become a mother when she +left me. If that woman is to be found I will get from her a written +declaration of that fact.’ + +‘It would be as well to do so,’ says Mr. Scrodgers, approvingly, and +Alexis leaves him to prepare the new will, which he is to bring to +the Grange early next morning. + +‘Stay,’ says the lawyer, on the threshold. ‘You haven’t told me the +infant’s Christian name.’ + +‘He was christened William.’ + +‘No other name?’ + +‘I believe not. But you can fill in the names to-morrow. I will ask +that question in the meantime.’ + +Alexis goes back to Cheswold pondering on the lawyer’s advice about +his son. Mr. Scrodgers has distinctly said that it is for the child’s +welfare, for the security of his future position, that he should be +domiciled with his father; and Alexis longs to have the little one +under the same roof with him, to see him daily, hourly, to watch over +him sleeping and waking, to make him his plaything and companion. +Against this natural desire there is the promise he has made to Linda +Challice--the debt of gratitude he owes her. Hard to break that +promise--hard to ignore that debt. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + A WEDDING EVE. + + +The days pass with a frightful rapidity as it seems to Sibyl after +that Tuesday night on which Joel Pilgrim came back from York with the +marriage licence. + +Stephen Trenchard is ailing, and keeps his room for the greater part +of the time, but Dr. Mitsand, a most careful man in all critical +cases, comes to Lancaster Lodge only once a day, and there is no +hint of danger. The doctor’s manner has that pleasant vivacity which +suits a trifling derangement of the patient’s system. He sits by the +bedside and discourses upon local topics--the water company, sewage, +and other agreeable subjects. On Thursday morning Sibyl lies in wait +for him on the landing outside Mr. Trenchard’s room. + +‘You do not think my uncle very ill, do you, Dr. Mitsand?’ she asks, +with evident anxiety, a solicitude which the kindly old doctor thinks +highly creditable to her, and which he remembers afterwards--to her +disadvantage. + +‘Certainly not, my dear Miss Faunthorpe,’ he replies, cheerily, +‘there is a little prostration; our dear patient is very feeble; that +is only to be expected at his time of life. There is a wonderful +reserve of vigour about his constitution, exceptional recuperative +power; he is all muscle and sinew--no superfluous flesh; and this, +taken in conjunction with his temperate habits, would lead one to +anticipate a long life. I fear his mind has been a little troubled +lately. Very foolish. A man in his position should worry himself +about nothing. But no doubt wealth has its responsibilities.’ + +‘Then there is no reason for alarm?’ + +‘Not the slightest. If there were I should call in my friend Dr. +Wilmot, of Krampston, for a consultation. Your uncle’s is not a life +to be trifled with,’ adds Dr. Mitsand, solemnly, as if the life of a +millionaire were a much bigger thing in creation than the existences +of the vulgar herd. ‘Pray don’t be uneasy, my dear young lady. And +now I look at you I fear you have been fretting. You are looking +pale and fatigued. And this little hand,’ as he shakes hands with +her, ‘is very feverish.’ He lays his finger on her wrist. ‘Good +gracious, what a pulse! This won’t do, my dear Miss Faunthorpe. +Mental disturbance has been going on here. I’ll send you a composing +draught. You must keep yourself quiet for the next day or two, +especially as you are so soon to start upon a long voyage. Your dear +uncle has told me of the interesting event which is to take place +next Saturday. Very sudden! On account of Mr. Pilgrim’s recall to +Calcutta, yes,--yes, I understand, and a very quiet wedding, your +uncle’s health not allowing--of course, of course. I shall take the +liberty to be present in the church, in order to have the pleasure +of congratulating you. I used to think our young friend Stormont was +to be the happy man; and then there was some talk of your becoming +mistress of the How; but you have managed to deceive us all, you see.’ + +‘Yes,’ falters Sibyl, with a sickly smile. + +‘Don’t forget to take the composing draught. Good-bye.’ + +Distinctly does Dr. Mitsand remember the anxious look she turns upon +him as he leaves her. + +‘That’s not a happy marriage,’ he tells his daughters at luncheon, +‘it’s a case of hands, not hearts, my dears. All money, money, money! +with these self-made men that question swallows up every other +consideration.’ + +It is long since Redcastle has had such a delightful subject for +gossip as this suddenly arranged wedding. Mrs. Chasubel has made +a round of morning calls in order to tell her dear friends the +startling news, and the marriage has been discussed from every point +of view, the general idea being that Mr. Trenchard is a tyrant, and +Sibyl the victim of his mercenary views. Mrs. Stormont’s particular +idea--which she imparts in confidence to everybody--is that Sibyl was +devotedly attached to her dear Frederick, and that it is to prevent +her eloping with Fred that Mr. Trenchard has hurried on her espousals +with Joel Pilgrim. + +Inexorable time, like death, advances with measured tread. It is +Friday, the eve of that ill-omened bridal, and Sibyl sits alone in +her pretty morning-room--the room in which Joel found her on his +return from York. She has made all her arrangements for her journey, +packed her trunks, and labelled them for the steamer _Ganges_. Her +own firm hand has written those labels--Mrs. Pilgrim, passenger to +Calcutta, Joel looking on all the time with that ugly smile of his. +One small leather bag is unlabelled, and in that Sibyl has put her +little stock of trinkets, a small supply of under linen, and the +marble-paper covered book containing the diary she kept at Mrs. +Hazleton’s. She has kept no diary at Lancaster Lodge. She is alone +now, exhausted by a long morning devoted to the task of packing. +Marion has been with her, pretending to help, full of exclamations +and congratulations, wonderment and curiosity. + +‘It doesn’t seem so much of a match after all,’ Marion has observed +candidly. ‘But I suppose this Mr. Pilgrim is awfully rich, and money +is what you like, Sibyl. However, I must say if I had been you I +should have tried to lead Sir Wilford Cardonnel on a little further. +He did seem very much taken with you, and every one was surprised +that it only ended in a flirtation. But men are such deceivers, as +some one says in an old song--one foot on somewhere, and one on +somewhere else, to one thing constant never.’ + +Sibyl has contrived to get rid of her sister a little before +dinner-time. Marion is to be at the wedding, and is to officiate +as sole bridesmaid, but there has not been time for her to get a +new dress made, a fact which she does not omit to bewail with much +lamentation. + +‘It’s the worst apology for a wedding _I_ ever heard of,’ she +remarks, ‘but I suppose you’ll recompense yourself for all this with +balls and parties when you get to Calcutta.’ + +‘Yes,’ answers Sibyl, with a faint smile. ‘I shall enjoy myself +immensely in Calcutta.’ + +It is seven o’clock, a lovely summer evening, and Sibyl sits by the +disordered table, scattered with books and papers. She is very pale, +and there is a look of apathy in her face and attitude, as if she had +abandoned all effort and surrendered herself to fate. + +She is startled from this blank listlessness by the announcement of +Sir Wilford Cardonnel. No visit could surprise her more than this at +such a time. + +‘Sir Wilford told me to say that he wishes most particularly to see +you alone, ma’am,’ says the servant, ‘he will not detain you long.’ + +‘You had better bring him up here. Mr. Pilgrim is in the +drawing-room, I suppose?’ + +‘Yes, ma’am.’ + +‘There is not much to attract him now in this white wretched face,’ +thinks Sibyl, with a hurried look at the glass, which reflects the +shadow of a vanished beauty. + +Sir Wilford enters breathless, and evidently strongly agitated. + +‘My dear Miss Faunthorpe,’ he says hurriedly, ‘I only came home from +the north this afternoon, and heard of this intended marriage. I +rode over at once. Can I be of any use? You honoured me with your +confidence, and I told you that if ever the hour should come when you +would need a friend, you might command me. Let me be your friend +to-day. Let me stand between you and the tyranny that is being +practised--let me save you from----’ + +‘A crime! You are all that is good and generous, Sir Wilford; and if +I needed help I would ask for yours. But I need none.’ + +‘What do you mean? Your marriage is appointed for to-morrow morning. +You, the wife of another man, are to be married to this Mr. Pilgrim.’ + +‘The marriage is appointed for to-morrow, but no such marriage will +take place.’ + +‘How will you prevent it?’ + +‘In a very simple manner. The bride will be missing.’ + +‘You are going away?’ + +‘Yes. I am left with but one resource--flight! I shall be far away +from Redcastle at eleven o’clock to-morrow.’ + +‘You are sure of being able to escape--sure that no coercion will be +used?’ + +‘I think not. I have acted my part carefully during the last few +days, and Mr. Pilgrim believes that I am resigned to the inevitable. +My trunks are all packed for India. I have labelled them with my own +hands.’ + +‘And you have made every arrangement for going away?’ asks Sir +Wilford, anxiously. ‘You have friends to whom you can go?’ + +‘Yes, I have made all arrangements. I have decided where to go,’ +replies Sibyl after a pause. + +‘Pray trust me,’ pleads Sir Wilford, earnestly. ‘Think of me no +longer as your lover, but your friend only. You must need friendly +counsel. Do not take any step unadvisedly. You have played a +desperate game for your uncle’s fortune, and, as it now turns out, a +losing game. Would it not be wiser--better in every way, even at this +last moment, to confess the truth to your uncle? He might forgive +you. You might even retain your hold upon his affection.’ + +‘Impossible. You do not know my uncle Trenchard as I do. I thank you +for your friendship, Sir Wilford, but this is a case in which advice +is useless. There is but one course open to me. It is one that I +ought to have taken long ago, perhaps--the only straight and womanly +course. But I have stubbornly pursued my own plan, and the end is +failure.’ + +‘If you would only confide in me--if you would only tell me where you +are going--to whom?’ + +‘I am going to my husband.’ + +‘Then I can say no more. I feel that you are taking the right course. +If--if----’ here Sir Wilford hesitates and blushes--‘if you should +be in want of ready money for your travelling expenses, or for any +emergency which you may not now foresee, pray suffer me to be your +banker. I cashed a cheque at the bank as I came up the town,’ taking +out a well-filled pocket-book. ‘Let me lend you fifty or a hundred in +small notes.’ + +‘You are too good,’ exclaims Sibyl, touched by his thoughtfulness. +‘But I have money, and money’s worth which will serve me abundantly. +I promise that if ever I am in desperate need of help--in such need +as my husband and I have known in the past--I will apply to you. I +will not be too proud to be a petitioner.’ + +‘Thanks for that promise. And now good-bye. I will not intrude upon +you any longer; but if anything should happen within the next few +hours--if there should be any attempt at constraint on the part of +your uncle, or Mr. Pilgrim, send a messenger to me, and I will be +at your side as soon as my horse can carry me; or I will stay in +Redcastle to-night, if you like, at the “Coach and Horses,” so as to +be nearer at hand in case I am wanted.’ + +‘Believe me, there is no occasion. If the worst comes I have but to +declare my marriage.’ + +‘Then good-bye. I will not wish that we may meet under happier +circumstances, for it will be happier for me not to see you. But I do +most heartily wish you every happiness Providence can bestow.’ + +‘I am not very hopeful,’ answers Sibyl, with a sigh. ‘I begin to +think that I flung away my chance of happiness when I tried to win +fortune.’ + +And thus they part, Sir Wilford honestly anxious for the welfare of +the woman he has loved, Sibyl touched by his devotion. + +She goes down to the drawing-room presently, and finds Joel Pilgrim +walking up and down in the twilight, with by no means a radiant brow. + +‘You have had a visitor,’ he says, frowning upon her as she enters. + +‘Only Sir Wilford Cardonnel, to offer me his congratulations,’ she +answers, lightly. + +‘Only your former admirer,’ sneers Joel. ‘I should hardly have +thought he would have considered your marriage a subject for his +congratulations.’ + +‘He is more generous than you give him credit for being.’ + +‘So it seems. I don’t, as a rule, credit my acquaintance with an +unlimited amount of generosity.’ + +They dine together _tête-à-tête_, and Sibyl seems at her brightest +throughout the meal, which is conducted with the strictest ceremony, +and lasts a long time. Gladly would she have escaped the weariness +of Mr. Pilgrim’s detested society for these last few hours, but she +wishes to disarm suspicion by every means in her power, so as to +leave herself free and unfettered at the last. + +Her fascinations, which have stood her in such good stead with the +rest of the world, seem to be wasted on Joel Pilgrim. He is gloomy +and absent-minded all dinner-time, eats little, but drinks a good +deal, and when Sibyl leaves him to return to the drawing-room he does +not follow her with lover-like haste, but sits brooding over his +wine for half an hour, and then goes straight upstairs to Stephen +Trenchard’s room. + +Mr. Trenchard is lying on the sofa, wrapped in his dressing-gown, +with all the apparatus of invalidism around him, medicine bottles, +hothouse grapes, soda water on the table by his side, a fire burning +on the hearth, though it is nearly midsummer, for ill-health has made +the Anglo-Indian inclined to chilliness and shiverings. + +He looks up with a frown as Joel enters. + +‘I thought you were never coming near me any more,’ he says fretfully. + +‘I have been devoting myself to my intended bride. Such affection as +she lavishes upon me deserves some return.’ + +‘Spare that poor child your sneers. She is much too good for you. +Have you succeeded?’ + +‘Entirely. The bank consents to discount my bills for the required +amount. I have told them that I am buying an estate in this +neighbourhood, and have to complete the purchase to-morrow.’ + +‘Have they sent you the money?’ asks Mr. Trenchard, eagerly. + +‘No. But I shall have it to-morrow morning. I have telegraphed them +that the purchase is to be completed to-morrow at eleven o’clock, +and so it is, only it is another kind of purchase--the purchase of a +lovely wife--which is to be concluded at that hour. I shall have the +money--ten notes for a thousand each--by the first post to-morrow +morning.’ + +‘I’m glad of that.’ + +‘You are drawing the life-blood out of the concern, remember. There +is very little hope of the business surviving such a withdrawal of +capital.’ + +‘Then, my dear Joel, it must go. If it were a question of capital you +might have some occasion to look unhappy about it, but as I am only +absorbing your superfluous credit----’ + +‘Superfluous,’ echoes Joel, derisively. + +‘Yes, my dear Joel, a man of your abilities should be able to extend +his credit to an almost illimitable measure. The more he owes, the +more reason his creditors have for upholding his credit. Debt is the +most solid foundation a commercial house can be planted upon, for its +pillars have their bases in other people’s pockets. You’re sure the +bank will send the money?’ + +‘As sure as one can be of anything in this world.’ + +‘Remember, no money no marriage. And a telegram to my Calcutta lawyer +to make short work of Pilgrim and Company.’ + +‘I understand. No quarter. Don’t be uneasy. Your demands shall be met +and fully satisfied.’ + + * * * * * + +It is midnight, and Lancaster Lodge is at rest. A light still burns, +as it burns all night in Mr. Trenchard’s room, brighter than the +ordinary lamps of a sick chamber, a light by which the invalid can +read if he pleases; for Mr. Trenchard’s slumbers are often disturbed, +and in every night he has some wakeful hours. Podmore, the butler, +who sleeps in the room over his master’s, comes down at stated +intervals to give the invalid his medicine. A secondary door near the +head of the bed in Mr. Trenchard’s room opens on to a small landing +on the back staircase leading to the servants’ quarters. By this +servants’ staircase Podmore descends and ascends; through this door, +almost hidden by the ample draperies of the tall Arabian bed, he +enters and departs, noiseless as a ghost in the silent watches of the +night. + +Mr. Trenchard has protested more than once that he is quite well +enough to look after his own medicine, and wakeful enough to take +it at the appointed hours; but Dr. Mitsand has laid a stress upon +the matter, and has insisted upon Podmore being responsible for the +regular administration of those gentle tonics, not strong enough to +hurt a baby and too mild to take effect upon the constitution of a +healthy rabbit. Whereby Podmore’s nights are made a burden to him +from the necessity of arousing himself at certain intervals, and the +ticking of his big silver watch under his pillow is as the stroke of +doom. + +Sibyl spends the quiet hour between midnight and one o’clock in +writing to her uncle Stephen. That which she dares not tell him she +finds courage to write, knowing that her letter can only reach his +hands after she has left Redcastle, in all probability for ever. If +he is desperately angry, as she believes he will be, she will not +see his anger. If it is in his nature to forgive her, severance may +help to soften his feelings and touch his heart. After all it is just +possible that the hold she has obtained upon his affections is too +strong to be loosened, and that love may extinguish wrath. She would +have been more ready to hope this before the coming of Joel Pilgrim, +but she fancies that his presence under that roof has changed her +uncle’s feelings towards her, that as Joel’s influence has increased +hers has grown less. + +In that letter she tells Stephen Trenchard the true story of her +marriage--tells how from utter destitution, with starvation staring +her in the face she fled to him for shelter and comfort. Of her hope +of inheriting his fortune she says nothing, but her story in all +other respects is fully and truthfully told. + + ‘When I first came beneath your roof,’ she writes, ‘I hoped to be + able some day to tell you of my marriage, to win your pity and + regard for my husband; but when I discovered your rooted hatred + of his name and race, when I found how deeply the old wound still + rankled, I lost courage and kept my secret, at the hazard of + seeming the worst of deceivers should you ever discover the truth. + + ‘The hour has come when I can keep my secret no longer. I go out + into the world to seek my husband, to share his home, however + humble or however wretched. If you can bring yourself to forgive + me, if you can believe that I have been grateful for all your + goodness, as Heaven knows I have been, if you can take the more + generous view of all past wrongs and extend your kindness to the + guiltless son of your enemy, it shall need but one word to bring + me back to you. + + ‘Your grateful and dutiful niece, + ‘SIBYL SECRETAN.’ + +She feels a thrill of joy and pride as she signs her own rightful +name for the first time since she left her husband. Even in this +hour of uncertainty--the wide world, so cruel to unprotected poverty, +all before her--she is glad that the mask has been thrown aside, and +that she is her honest self once more. + +She addresses the letter to Stephen Trenchard in a bold, firm +hand, and places it conspicuously on the mantelpiece of her little +sitting-room, where it must be seen by the first person who enters +the room next morning. + +‘I have played my game and lost!’ she thinks, as she lies down for a +few hours, if possible to rest, sleep she knows to be impossible. ‘If +I had won I wonder whether success would ever have recompensed me for +all I have suffered from the bitterness of an acted lie--for the many +hours in which I have pretended to be happy with a gnawing pain at my +heart?’ + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + THE PASSING-BELL. + + +About half-past nine o’clock on that Saturday morning which has been +talked of as Sibyl Faunthorpe’s wedding day, Redcastle is disturbed +by a sound of ill omen. No blithe marriage peal rings out on the soft +summer air, but the slow and solemn passing-bell tolls dismally from +the minster tower, and strikes on every heart with its grim reminder +of mortality. Let that bell sound as often as it will, it carries +always the same message, and something less or more than mortal +must be the ear which can hear its direful note with indifference. +Before the day is old, Redcastle has subject-matter for the talk of a +year. Wonder, curiosity, and an atmosphere of excitement pervade the +town. Business, if not suspended, is performed in an absent-minded, +perfunctory manner. People group themselves in doorways, hang over +counters, lounge in public-house bars, gather at the street corners, +and there is but one name in every mouth, and that name is Trenchard. + +A name worn no more upon earth--a name that is a name, and nothing +more henceforward. It is no longer the docket of humanity, but a mere +collection of letters to be engraven on a tombstone. + +Stephen Trenchard is dead. He was found dead in his bed, at nine +o’clock this morning, by the expectant bridegroom, who went to his +room at that hour to wake him, and found him locked in a slumber for +which earth has no key. + +‘Very sudden!’ exclaims Redcastle. ‘We knew that the dear old +gentleman was ailing, but we did not expect this. At his age, though, +of course, life is precarious, the thread worn to attenuation, easily +snapped. How about the old gentleman’s will? And is Miss Faunthorpe +sole heiress?’ + +‘That will not be known till after the funeral,’ says Redcastle, ‘and +we must languish for some days in suspense.’ + +‘How does Miss Faunthorpe take it?’ asks Redcastle, ‘and Mr. Pilgrim? +The match between those two will be off now, most likely. A sad loss +for the gentleman, a happy escape for the lady. She will marry Sir +Wilford Cardonnel after all, perhaps, and take a leading position +in the county. How uncertain is life! How wonderful are the ways of +Providence!’ + +Mrs. Stormont and Mrs. Groshen send out their pages for black-edged +note-paper of superfine quality, and rather deeper than the usual +complimentary mourning, and pen elaborate letters of condolence, +interlarded with appropriate quotations from the Scriptures. The +silver cord and the golden bowl are brought out, with various other +similes, which, by much use or misuse, have been, as it were, dragged +in the gutter of commonplace composition. + +‘I will venture to call to-morrow, my sweet friend,’ concludes Mrs. +Stormont, ‘to mingle my tears with yours. I hope you will feel equal +to seeing me. Poor Fred is broken down with grief at the thought of +what you must suffer.’ + +Inside Lancaster Lodge there is confusion worse than death. Dr. +Mitsand has been summoned to the death-chamber, not at Joel Pilgrim’s +bidding. What can a doctor do for the dead? Mr. Pilgrim has asked +contemptuously. The best of them can do little enough for the living. +It is Mrs. Skinner, the housekeeper, who has sent for Dr. Mitsand. +Podmore is helpless and useless on this awful morning. He sits in his +pantry stricken, as if the blow had stupefied him. + +The blinds are down in Stephen Trenchard’s room as they are +throughout the darkened house, but Joel, who has wandered in and out +of the room while the last offices have been performed for the dead, +has flung the windows wide open to the warm June morning, and the +scent of the roses floats in from the garden below, mingled with the +more subtle perfume of blossoming limes. + +Dr. Mitsand had started on his morning rounds when the messenger was +sent for him, and it is noon when he calls at Lancaster Lodge. + +Joel receives him in the study, grave, sorrowful of countenance, but +tranquil. + +‘This is a sad event, Dr. Mitsand,’ he says. + +‘Not more sad than it is unintelligible, Mr. Pilgrim,’ answers +the doctor. ‘There was not the slightest indication of a +fatal termination to Mr. Trenchard’s illness when I saw him +yesterday--nothing to alarm the most anxious of medical men.’ + +‘Something wrong about the heart, I suppose,’ suggests Joel. + +‘We shall see if it was that.’ + +‘You mean----’ + +‘I mean that this is a case which calls for an inquest. You would +have no objection, I suppose? As Mr. Trenchard’s intended son-in-law, +I naturally regard you as in some manner a member of his family.’ + +‘Why should I object? But it is rather out of the usual course, is it +not, to hold an inquest upon a man who has been in failing health for +a long time, and whose death, although sudden, may be taken as the +natural termination of his illness?’ + +‘I beg your pardon. Death comes too soon and too suddenly to be +taken as a natural termination here. I am as much surprised at Mr. +Trenchard’s death as if I had left him yesterday in robust health. I +gave Miss Faunthorpe my positive assurance that there was no danger, +or likelihood of danger in her uncle’s condition. Poor young lady! +The blow will be a terrible one for her. How does she bear it?’ + +‘That is a question I cannot answer, for I have not seen her to-day. +She went out this morning before breakfast--indeed, before any of the +servants were up--and has not come in yet.’ + +‘That is very strange. This was to have been her wedding day.’ + +‘It was.’ + +‘And she leaves the house before the servants are up, and does not +appear again? It is now between twelve and one.’ + +‘It is strange, but true.’ + +Dr. Mitsand is evidently disturbed by this intelligence. + +‘Pardon me, Mr. Pilgrim, if I say something not quite agreeable +to you,’ he says after a pause, ‘but was there no coercion used +on the subject of this marriage? It was arranged rather suddenly, +and we in Redcastle had an idea that Miss Faunthorpe’s affections +were engaged in another direction. When I spoke to this poor young +lady the day before yesterday, I certainly perceived indications of +mental disturbance. She was feverish, unduly excited, her appearance +haggard, her eyes sunken. Did she freely consent to this marriage, +Mr. Pilgrim? Were you and she on good terms?’ + +‘On the best possible terms. Ask Podmore, who waited upon us at +dinner yesterday when we dined _tête-à-tête_.’ + +‘Then you can imagine no reason for what I may call Miss Faunthorpe’s +disappearance?’ + +‘None whatever. Her trunks are packed for our Indian journey. She +directed them with her own hands. I do not say that the alliance was +a love match on her part, as it was on mine. But she knew that I was +devoted to her, that her uncle had set his heart upon our marriage, +and she was quite reconciled to the idea.’ + +‘I am glad to hear that; for I was inclined to fear that her +wandering away at such an early hour this morning might be the result +of mental disturbance--the mind thrown off its balance by extreme +distress. She left the house before any one knew of her uncle’s +death, you say?’ + +‘She certainly left the house before I knew of it,’ answers Joel, +gravely. + +‘And before it was known to any of the household?’ + +‘Yes. She was gone when the servants went downstairs to open the +house. They found the chain and bolts of the front door unfastened.’ + +‘The lodgekeeper must have let her out.’ + +‘No; she must have gone out by a door in the garden wall which opens +into the lane that divides Sir John Boldero’s grounds from these. +The door is locked on the inside, and the key hangs on a nail beside +the door. This door was found to be unlocked and the key left in the +lock.’ + +‘Very deliberate,’ says Dr. Mitsand; ‘but lunatics and sleep-walkers +are wonderfully deliberate in their actions. The mind travels in a +certain groove, but it goes steadily enough in that groove.’ + +The doctor’s impression is that Sibyl, urged into an uncongenial +marriage, has been goaded into a state of temporary derangement. +That is the theory by which he explains her extraordinary absence. + +‘This poor girl may be wandering about the country,’ he exclaims, +‘and may come to harm. Have you made no attempt to find her?’ + +‘No. I have had enough to think about in the awful event of this +morning. Until an hour or so ago I thought it possible that Miss +Faunthorpe had gone to her uncle Robert’s. She might have something +to say to her sisters, I thought, on so eventful a morning. It was +only when Marion came here at ten o’clock, expecting to find Sibyl, +that I began to take alarm. And even then my mind was too much +occupied to realize----’ + +‘I understand. I sympathize with you, my dear sir,’ cries the +good-natured doctor. ‘But I feel really concerned for this poor +girl. For the dead we can do but little. Science will enable us +to establish the cause of death, but beyond that last duty there +is, alas! nothing. But for the living we must be active. I should +recommend you to send in every direction you can think of to search +for Miss Faunthorpe, and to communicate with the police. With a mind +thrown off its balance, one knows not what may happen. There is +always the fear of a suicidal tendency.’ + +‘True,’ says Joel Pilgrim, with a gloomy look which may mean fear, +love, anxiety, or anything else, but which certainly indicates a mind +ill at ease. ‘I will go down to the police office at once. I will +send some of the servants to look for her.’ + +‘One word before you go. Tell me how and when you discovered our poor +friend’s decease.’ + +‘At nine o’clock in the morning. Podmore had gone to him at four +to give him his medicine, and had left him sleeping tranquilly. I +came down to breakfast at eight, breakfasted alone, and at nine went +upstairs to take my friend his letters, and to ask his advice about +a business letter which the post had brought me. I knocked at his +door--no answer; knocked again, and louder--the same result. This +alarmed me at once, for I knew him to be a light sleeper. I ran +downstairs to the hall, called Podmore, and went up the back stairs +with him to the other door of Mr. Trenchard’s room, a door always +left unlocked to admit Podmore, who, as you know, has valeted his +master of late. We went in, and found Mr. Trenchard lying to all +appearance in a quiet sleep, but it was the sleep of death.’ + +‘No sign of a struggle, no disturbance of the features?’ + +‘None.’ + +‘Very mysterious. There was nothing amiss with the heart; no organic +disease of any kind. I have used the stethoscope frequently since +the bronchial tubes have been a little irritated. There never was a +sounder organization.’ + +‘You would like to see him?’ says Joel, interrogatively. + +‘Immediately.’ + +The doctor goes upstairs to that darkened room where the master of +Lancaster Lodge takes his last rest amidst the warm breath of roses +and limes. Every chair and table has been set in its place; every +fold of drapery straightened by methodical hands; every species +of litter--newspapers, medicine bottles, forgotten flowers left +to wither in their vases--all the familiar rubbish of every-day +existence has been cleared away--the chamber is funereal as death +itself--mathematically exact as the tomb. + +Dr. Mitsand goes in alone, and remains there for about ten minutes. +He comes out again looking very grave--nay, even troubled, like +a man who has something on his mind--something heavier than that +professional burden of a patient’s death which a family doctor +is called upon to carry so often that he acquires the knack of +supporting his load easily. He finds Joel Pilgrim waiting for him on +the broad landing outside--landing glorified by the bust of somebody +with a sunken nose, and no pupils to his eyes, staring steadily into +space. + +‘He looks very peaceful, doesn’t he?’ asks Joel, in a subdued voice. + +‘Very.’ + +‘His end must have been painless, I should think.’ + +‘It must have been instantaneous, Mr. Pilgrim. I am sure of that.’ + +‘The heart,’ suggests Joel. + +‘No, sir. The heart was as sound as mine--or sounder. It is not a +case of heart disease.’ + +‘Of what then?’ + +‘The inquest will tell us that.’ + +‘You still hold to the necessity of an inquest.’ + +‘More than ever.’ + +‘Will you tell me why?’ Joel inquires thoughtfully, smoothing down +his silky moustache with a plump tawny hand. + +‘Yes, when the inquest is over.’ + +Joel looks searchingly at the doctor’s face, but it tells him +nothing. The Greek philosopher--Truth’s first martyr--on the landing +does not present a more complete blankness of expression than Dr. +Mitsand offers to Joel’s observation. + +‘Oh, by the way,’ says Dr. Mitsand, ‘that is the door of Miss +Faunthorpe’s sitting-room, is it not?’ + +‘Yes. That is the room she generally uses of a morning.’ + +‘I should like to look round before we go downstairs. There might be +something which would suggest the motive of her absence--a letter +perhaps. You have not been in that room this morning?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Nor the servants?’ + +‘Yes, some one must have been in to draw down the blinds.’ + +‘True. Unless the blinds were down last night. They would be most +likely. But I suppose the housemaid would arrange the room this +morning in the common course of things?’ + +‘Naturally.’ + +Dr. Mitsand opens the door and goes in, followed by Joel. The room +has been dusted and arranged by the housemaid, but the table near +the window, covered with books, workboxes and feminine trifles of +various kinds, remains just as Sibyl left it the night before. It is +one of Sibyl’s laws that this table shall not be touched. There is to +be no tidying or arranging of the trifles she values--her books, her +writing materials, her fancy work. + +The doctor’s eye surveys the pretty little room. The sunshine is shut +out by the lowered venetians, but there is light enough for him to +see everything. + +‘I thought she might have left a letter somewhere,’ says Dr. Mitsand. +‘That is what young ladies generally do when they run away from home.’ + +‘We have no right to suppose that she has run away,’ observes Joel. + +‘True. Yet it looks rather like it.’ + +He has looked at the mantelpiece, at the cabinet with its +upholsterer’s collection of pink and blue Sèvres teacups, the +inevitable Marie Antoinette,--the eternal De Maintenon, the +everlasting Pompadour, smirking behind plate-glass panels. No, there +is no letter on cabinet or mantelpiece. He goes to the table, glances +at the books, the dainty basket lined with rose-coloured satin, the +shreds of lace, and ivory needle-cases and filigree thimble-boxes. +Still no letter. How intently he examines all these trifles, peers +into the basket, raises the lid of the workbox, always looking for +that letter! + +He comes upon something presently that engages his particular +attention, but it is not a letter, only a glass phial corked and +empty, nestling in the satin-lined basket among needle-cases and +reels of cotton. + +‘Dilute prussic acid,’ he says, sniffing at the cork cautiously. +‘That’s curious.’ + +Joel watches him closely. + +‘Very curious,’ echoes Joel, ‘but I believe young women sometimes use +it for their complexions, don’t they?’ + +‘No. I’ve heard of their using arsenic, never prussic acid in any +form. Miss Faunthorpe may have been taking the dilute acid as a +sedative. I’ll take care of the bottle. She ought not to leave such +things about.’ + +‘But an empty bottle can do no harm,’ says Joel. + +‘Perhaps not, but I may as well keep it. You’ll remember where we +found this bottle, Mr. Pilgrim,’ says Dr. Mitsand, as he drops the +empty phial into his pocket. + +‘Perhaps you will kindly call at the Registrar’s and certify my poor +friend’s death,’ says Mr. Pilgrim. ‘Podmore tells me there is some +kind of certificate necessary in these cases.’ + +‘It is just that certificate which I do not feel myself at liberty to +give until after the inquest,’ replies the doctor. + +‘Why not?’ + +‘Because I do not know the cause of death.’ + +‘But the arrangements for the funeral----’ + +‘Must remain in abeyance till after the inquest.’ + +‘Very unpleasant,’ says Joel. + +‘Yes, death is apt to be unpleasant for the survivors, especially +under certain circumstances,’ replies Dr. Mitsand, gravely. + +He leaves Joel, and goes straight to the coroner, his old friend +and ally, a medical man who has retired from practice, and the two +talk together gravely of the event that has darkened the windows of +Lancaster Lodge. It is decided between them that the post-mortem +examination shall take place immediately, and that, if possible, Mr. +Pollintory, of Krampston, shall be ready to give evidence to-morrow +at the inquest. The coroner gives an order for the post-mortem +examination, and Dr. Mitsand writes a telegram to Mr. Pollintory, one +of the medical staff of the Krampston Infirmary, a skilled chemist +and analyst, and a man of some distinction in his own particular line. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + DARK SURMISES. + + +In the old house at the lower end of the town there is surprise and +agitation, and a flutter of excitement which throws all the machinery +of life out of gear. Hester leaves her dishes unwashed, and sits down +in her disorderly kitchen to talk over Mr. Trenchard’s death with +the charwoman. They talk immensely, though they know hardly anything +about the dread event, save such jetsam and flotsam of intelligence, +chiefly false, as has been cast up on the shore of the High Street. +But they evolve a great deal out of their inner consciousness. They +speculate upon that ever-interesting subject, the will, and argue for +and against Sibyl’s appointment as sole heiress. + +‘It will be an unjust will if he’s left everything to her,’ says +Hester, vindictively. + +‘Ah, but she was the favourite, you see,’ pleads the charwoman, +tilting her bonnet on to her eyebrows in her animation, ‘and so +pretty, and such winning ways with her. I shouldn’t wonder if all +the money was left to her.’ + +‘Then I hope she’ll remember my poor old master, and all he’s done +for her and her sisters,’ says Hester. ‘They might all have gone to +the workhouse if it hadn’t been for him. Mr. Trenchard was across the +seas and couldn’t help ’em, and many a good meal Dr. Faunthorpe’s +gone without to bring up three hearty-eating girls.’ + +‘I dare say Miss Faunthorpe will take her uncle to live with her +at Lancaster Lodge,’ says the charwoman. ‘Such a lovely place! I +went in one evening that there was a dinner party, to help the +kitchenmaid wash up. Why, the very scullery’s ekal to some people’s +drawring-rooms!’ + +‘Dr. Faunthorpe ain’t going to live there, you may depend,’ replies +Hester, decisively. ‘He don’t want none of your finery. He likes his +own house and his independence, and his water cake and bit of smoked +bacon for breakfast.’ + +‘It’s odd Miss Faunthorpe being out this morning, when her sister +went up,’ speculates the charwoman. + +‘Yes, that’s odd. It’s my belief she was always against this Mr. +Pilgrim, and her uncle had forced the marriage upon her, and she went +off this morning to some of her fine friends to get out of the way. +Them Cardonnels, perhaps, that she and Miss Marion was visiting at +Christmas.’ + +‘Ah, they do say she might have married Sir Wilford Cardonnel if +she’d liked,’ says the charwoman. + +‘Of course she could,’ answers Hester, glad to exalt the family she +has served so faithfully. ‘Only she’s as full of fancies as an egg’s +full of meat, and she wouldn’t have him.’ + +While this discussion goes on in the kitchen, Marion and Jenny sit +in the parlour, occupied by all-absorbing thoughts of the dead man’s +will and their own mourning. They have not liked Stephen Trenchard +well enough to feel any regret for his loss; nay, his death is an +event to which they have looked forward as a turning-point--the +beginning of brighter days--in their own lives. He is dead, and a +painful interval of suspense must be endured before they can know +what he has done for them. They are hopeful meanwhile, and wildly +speculative--especially Jenny, whose ideas ramble among thousands +and tens of thousands as they have never rambled before, save in the +agreeable mazes of an arithmetic book. + +‘You see he had such oceans of money,’ argues Jenny. ‘He could afford +to make Sibyl a great heiress, and to leave us twenty thousand +apiece quite easily. And the interest of twenty thousand pounds is +a thousand a year. Uncle Robert told me so. Fancy you and me with a +thousand a year each! No stocking-darning, no turning and twisting +our winter dresses to make them do for spring. I shall go into long +skirts immediately.’ + +‘That will be a boon to the rest of humanity, for they’ll hide your +legs,’ replies Marion. + +‘Shall you have crape tucks or flounces on your black silk?’ inquires +Jenny, recurring to that inexhaustible topic, the mourning. + +‘Whichever is the last fashion. Miss Eylett shall make our mourning, +and she always has the newest style.’ + +‘But we ought to have dresses ready for the day of the funeral,’ +says Jenny. ‘And how can we get them before the will is read? We +don’t know whether we’re heiresses or beggars.’ + +‘Carmichael’s people will let us have anything we want,’ replies +Marion. ‘Depend upon it they’ll give us any amount of credit now +uncle Trenchard is dead. They know we must come in for some of his +money.’ + +As the day goes on the fever of curiosity and wonder which has +seized upon Redcastle is intensified, for the flame is fed by new +revelations of a startling character. First there is the news of +Sibyl’s disappearance; and then it becomes known somehow that there +is to be a post-mortem examination, followed by a coroner’s inquest. +This is really interesting, and would distinguish the deceased from +the common ruck even if he had not been a millionaire. The two local +papers are in a flutter of excitement, and rival reporters hang about +Lancaster Lodge and question the respectable Podmore, whose large +pale face--in shape and expression somewhat resembling the station +clock--assumes a troubled and bewildered look. + +From the coroner’s house Dr. Mitsand goes on to his brother +practitioner, Dr. Faunthorpe. That meek little man has just returned +from a long round in his dilapidated chaise, and has ‘run in,’ as +he calls it, to get a little bit of dinner. Regularly to dine is a +luxury unknown to the parish doctor. The cloth is laid in the homely +parlour, the remains of joint or stew are kept in the oven, with +a potato or two simmering in greasy gravy, and the doctor takes +his repast hurriedly and alone an hour or two after the appointed +dinner-hour. + +He has just seated himself at his savoury mess, when Hester enters +mysteriously and announces Dr. Mitsand. + +‘I’ve shown him into the best parlour,’ she says, whereupon Dr. +Faunthorpe, faint with hunger, reluctantly lays down his knife and +fork, and goes to receive his guest. + +‘What can he want with me?’ he thinks. + +Dr. Mitsand explains himself briefly. + +‘The coroner has ordered me to make a post-mortem examination, +assisted by Mr. Pollintory--you know Pollintory, of course; and +I thought you ought to be present, as a near connection of the +deceased,’ he concludes. + +‘I am surprised that a post-mortem should be thought necessary,’ says +Dr. Faunthorpe, fluttered by this intelligence. ‘There was nothing +mysterious in my brother-in-law’s death, I hope. He had been ailing +for some time.’ + +‘He had; but his death was not the less unexpected. It is always best +to err on the side of caution. By the way, may I ask if you use much +prussic acid in your practice?’ + +The question startles the meek little doctor, and he looks at the +inquirer with a perplexed expression of countenance. + +‘I have used it occasionally, but not often.’ + +‘You keep some in your surgery, no doubt?’ + +‘Yes, I have a little of the diluted acid.’ + +‘You are careful to keep it out of harm’s way, I suppose. It is not +within any one’s reach?’ inquires Dr. Mitsand. + +‘I keep that and all poisons on a top shelf, in blue bottles. They +could not possibly be used in mistake for anything else, if that is +what you mean.’ + +‘I am glad of that.’ + +‘But what has this to do with Mr. Trenchard’s death?’ asks Dr. +Faunthorpe, with a troubled look. + +‘Only this much. From the indications presented by the body after +death--a livid hue--the nails purple--the hands so firmly clenched +that the women who laid out the dead have not been able to place them +in a peaceful attitude--and from the odour of the room where he lies, +I have too much reason to fear that Mr. Trenchard died poisoned by +prussic acid. This calls for immediate investigation.’ + +‘Great Heaven, yes!’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, white with horror. ‘But +how do you imagine the poison administered? Whom can you suspect?’ + +‘I suspect no one as yet. The least painful supposition is that he +took the poison himself.’ + +‘Why should he do that? What motive had he for committing suicide? Or +what motive could any one have had for murdering him?’ + +‘Hard to imagine a motive in either case. Unless it were possible +that some one who expected to profit by his death was tempted to +hasten that death by poison.’ + +‘Dr. Mitsand,’ exclaims Robert Faunthorpe, tremulous with indignant +horror, ‘are you aware that my eldest niece is the person who had +most expectation to be a gainer by her uncle Trenchard’s death?’ + +‘I know that.’ + +‘And you come to ask me whether I keep any form of prussic acid in my +surgery--you suspect that the poison by which Mr. Trenchard died--or +by which you suppose him to have died--was taken from this house?’ + +‘I tell you that I suspect nothing, Dr. Faunthorpe. But until the law +has taken this painful business into its own hands, it is my duty to +act in the interests of law and right. Mr. Trenchard was in my care. +He dies, as I believe, foully murdered. Your niece disappears on the +day of his death.’ + +‘She runs away to escape a marriage which we may fairly suppose had +been forced upon her by Mr. Trenchard.’ + +‘That is one view of the case--and I hope the right one. Yet her +absence cannot fail to prejudice the minds of those who have to +investigate this matter. If you have any idea where she is, I should +recommend you to communicate with her, and urge her immediate return.’ + +‘I have no idea. She had no friends before she was adopted by her +rich uncle. She may have gone to some of her new friends, but they +are unknown to me. I don’t know where to look for her, or how to +communicate with her.’ + +‘It is a most unhappy case, Dr. Faunthorpe, but you and I must do our +duty.’ + +‘My poor Sibyl--my poor unhappy girl--to be the subject of such a +horrible suspicion!’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, helplessly. + +He sits alone for some time after Dr. Mitsand has left him, sits +hopeless and stricken. It is not that he believes his niece guilty of +this hideous crime--this almost impossible wickedness,--but that the +mere suspicion should have fallen upon her is a calamity that bows +him to the dust. + +At four o’clock that bright summer afternoon the three medical men +meet at Lancaster Lodge for their dismal work. Podmore, with his +large round face, still white and horror-stricken, admits them into +the dusky silence of the hall. Joel Pilgrim comes out of the study +to receive them, very calm and business-like in manner, and leads the +way to the room where the dead man lies. At the door he leaves them, +and goes quietly downstairs to his retreat in the study, where he +sits reading the paper--or making believe to read it. + +In the room upstairs the dismal work is performed in silence. + +To Mr. Pollintory, the skilful analyst, it is no more than an +every-day matter of business. A jar is sealed in the presence of the +three medical men, and this vessel Mr. Pollintory is to take back to +Krampston with him, there to perform his analysis, and apply tests +scientific and physiological, in the retirement of his own laboratory. + +But in the minds of those three men analysis is hardly needed to +establish the one fatal fact that Stephen Trenchard has been poisoned +by prussic acid. In the appearances which add to the awfulness of +death, in the odour which exhales from that lifeless form, there is +evidence enough of a technical kind to convince a whole college of +physicians. + +The doctors go quietly downstairs when their work is done, and again +Mr. Pilgrim appears at the study door. + +‘Well, gentlemen?’ he exclaims interrogatively, ‘What is your +verdict? Do you find the cause of death in the heart or brain?’ + +‘In neither,’ replies Dr. Mitsand. + +‘What then?’ + +‘I had rather not state my opinion till I am called upon at the +inquest to-morrow.’ + +‘Humph,’ mutters Joel. ‘You doctors like to be mysterious. It is a +trick of the trade. But pray walk in, gentlemen, you will take some +refreshment after your painful task, I hope.’ + +Dr. Mitsand and his colleagues decline this proffered entertainment. + +‘I should like to ask a few questions of the butler before we go,’ +says Dr. Mitsand. ‘I believe it was he who last saw Mr. Trenchard +alive.’ + +‘To the best of my knowledge it was so,’ answers Joel, scraping his +smooth chin thoughtfully, ‘But Podmore is a very stupid fellow, and +this sad event seems to have thrown him quite off his balance. +The man has no self-possession whatever. You’ll not get a succinct +account from him.’ + +‘I don’t want an account. I only want an answer to a question or +two,’ replies Dr. Mitsand. ‘Be kind enough to ring for him, Mr. +Pilgrim.’ + +Joel obeys. Poor little Dr. Faunthorpe sits in a corner meanwhile, +pale as a sheet of letter-paper, and full of vague apprehensions. +That Stephen Trenchard has either destroyed himself or been foully +murdered there can be no doubt. Which is it? And why is Sibyl absent? + +Podmore appears in answer to the bell, and by his aspect fully +justifies Joel’s account of him. He looks from one of the doctors to +the other with a countenance full of apprehension. + +‘You gave Mr. Trenchard his medicine at four o’clock this morning?’ +inquires Dr. Mitsand. + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘Did you find him in his usual health?’ + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘You noticed nothing particular in his manner?’ + +‘No, sir--unless----’ + +‘Speak out, pray.’ + +‘He might have been a little more irritable than usual, perhaps. He +had been rather irritable for some time past. Mr. Pilgrim may have +noticed it.’ + +Joel nods acquiescence. + +‘As if he had something on his mind,’ suggests Dr. Mitsand. + +‘Well, yes, sir. You might take it that way.’ + +‘Who removed the glasses and bottles from Mr. Trenchard’s room this +morning? Was it one of the women-servants?’ + +‘No, sir. Mr. Pilgrim told me to see to clearing the room. The +women-servants were timid about going in.’ + +‘What did you do with the glass in which your master was in the habit +of taking potash water?’ + +‘I took it down to the pantry with the rest of the things, sir, and +washed it with my other glasses.’ + +‘You are sure you washed it?’ + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘Do you think you could find me that particular glass?’ + +‘I might perhaps, sir. It was a large soda water glass. There’s a +dozen of the same pattern in the pantry. They’re kept on the same +shelf; but I think I should know the one Mr. Trenchard used last from +the position of it.’ + +‘Bring it then,’ says Joel, authoritatively. + +Podmore shuffles out, and returns presently with the glass. Dr. +Mitsand takes it to the window, and examines it with his back to Joel +and the rest. + +‘You wash your glasses in very hot water, I think,’ he says to +Podmore. + +‘Pretty hot, sir. And I use a bit of soda to keep them bright.’ + +‘I see. Was there a table with glasses and bottles on it within reach +of your master’s hand as he lay in bed?’ + +‘No, sir.’ + +‘Nonsense, Podmore!’ cries Joel, quickly. ‘You forget the little +table which Mr. Trenchard had placed close to his bed a few days ago, +in order that he might help himself to a bottle of potash water if he +wanted it without ringing for you.’ + +‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ stammers Podmore. ‘Yes, I forgot the little +table; my master had it put handy to his hand, as you may say. But +it didn’t use to be there, and it slipped my memory.’ + +‘And was it from that table you took this soda water glass?’ + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘That will do,’ says Dr. Mitsand, and Podmore shuffles out again, +escaping gladly as a soul released from torment. + +‘If I could understand any motive for such an act,’ says Dr. Mitsand, +as he and his colleagues go along the shrubberied drive between +Lancaster Lodge and its gates, ‘I should be inclined to believe that +that man poisoned his master. I never saw a more craven hound. We +shall see if he comes in for an annuity, or a handsome legacy, under +his master’s will.’ + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + IN THE SURGERY. + + +That speech of Dr. Mitsand’s about Podmore awakens hope in Robert +Faunthorpe’s breast. If there has been murder done, if Stephen +Trenchard has not been in some distracted hour his own destroyer, +this man is surely more likely to have been the murderer than any one +else under that roof. He has had access to his master at all hours of +the night--in those silent hours when the rest of the household has +been locked in sleep. He may have stolen the plate, made away with +the valuables committed to his charge, and may have been tempted to +make away with his master in order to escape the punishment of his +dishonesty. Or he may have known himself to be a legatee under his +master’s will, and may have done this foul deed to expedite fortune. +So Dr. Faunthorpe reasons with himself during his dismal homeward +walk. + +Marion and Jenny are sitting in the parlour at work when he goes in. +The tea-tray still adorns the table. + +‘How white and tired you look, uncle!’ exclaims Marion. ‘You’d like +some tea, wouldn’t you? I’ve saved the teapot.’ + +‘Thank you, my dear. I’ll take a cup of tea,’ says the doctor +faintly. He sinks into a chair with a weary sigh. His parish patients +have been neglected to-day, and conscience pricks him. They will +be coming presently, poor things, with their burns and scalds, and +boils, and whitlows, and festers, and all that variety of thorns in +the flesh to which poverty is subject, and he will have to brace his +nerves and attend to them. But for the moment he feels prostrate. + +Marion shakes the teapot vigorously, and pours out a liquid not very +unlike that infusion of senna which the parish patients consume by +the pailful. + +‘There, uncle, that’ll do you good. Run to the kitchen, Jenny, and +get the hot cake we saved for uncle Robert;’ and Jenny rushes off and +returns swiftly with a crisp and greasy bannock, which the doctor is +wont to enjoy above all other delicacies. + +‘Any news of Sibyl?’ asks Marion. + +‘No, my dear,’ sighs the doctor. + +‘Strange, isn’t it?’ exclaims Marion. + +‘Very strange, my dear. I begin to feel very uneasy about your poor +sister. What could have induced her to take such a step? At such a +time too!’ + +‘Just at the time when she ought to have been thinking about her +mourning,’ says Marion. + +‘I hope she hasn’t committed suicide,’ cries Jenny, with a strangled +sob. + +‘Jane,’ exclaims the doctor, severely, ‘I am shocked at your +suggesting anything so dreadful. Your sister is a Christian, I hope.’ + +‘Of course, but she might have been unhappy, poor thing. I dare say +she detested that horrid Mr. Pilgrim, and uncle Trenchard tried to +force her into marrying him, and then perhaps she got frightened and +miserable, and was driven to p--p--poison herself,’ concludes Jenny +with a burst of sobs. + +The little doctor starts in his chair as if he had been shot, and +puts down his cup and saucer with a trembling hand. + +‘How dare you say such things, Jane?’ he demands, severely. He is +very angry when he calls his youngest niece Jane. ‘How dare you +mention such a thing as poison in connection with your sister’s name? +Where should she get poison, I should like to know? How should she +get it?’ + +‘If--if she wanted it very badly she might get it in the surgery,’ +whimpers Jenny. + +‘Not without my knowledge. I have forbidden every one in this house +to touch a single bottle in my surgery.’ + +‘Yes, uncle,’ falters Jenny, recalling the many half-hours in which +she has diverted herself with those very bottles; ‘but if Sibyl +wanted anything very badly, some laudanum for the toothache, for +instance, and you happened to be out at the time, she might not stand +upon--what’s its name?’ + +‘What is the girl driving at?’ cries Marion, in a disgusted tone. + +‘What do you mean, Jenny?’ says Dr. Faunthorpe, nervously. ‘If there +is anything in your knowledge that I ought to be told, speak out, +and for God’s sake speak only the truth to me, and hold your tongue +to all the rest of the world about it,--and you too, Marion. This is +more serious than either of you can imagine.’ + +‘Sibyl had the toothache one afternoon when she was here--about a +fortnight or three weeks ago, perhaps,--or she had been having the +toothache very badly, she said, and couldn’t get any sleep, and she +wanted some laudanum.’ + +‘Laudanum?’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, relieved. ‘Is that all?’ + +‘Yes, but laudanum’s poison, isn’t it, uncle Robert, if you take +enough of it? I told her where the laudanum was kept, and she got +up on the step-ladder and took some in a little bottle out of one +of your drawers. But there was one thing that struck me as very +mysterious.’ + +‘What was that?’ + +‘Does laudanum ever smell of bitter almonds?’ + +‘No, child!’ cries the doctor, with a start. + +‘Well, then, this did, ever so strong. The smell of it made me feel +quite queer. But Sibyl declared it was laudanum, and that my smell +must be all wrong.’ + +‘But you would know opium, surely, a dark brown liquid?’ + +‘Yes, but I didn’t see this. Sibyl had her back towards me while she +was filling the little bottle. I only smelt it. When I asked her to +show me the bottle, she refused, and called me a stupid. But I’m +positive it smelt of bitter almonds; and Sibyl looked quite pale and +faint afterwards, as if the smell had upset her too.’ + +‘Can this be true?’ cries the doctor, profoundly agitated. + +‘Pray don’t put yourself out of the way about it, uncle,’ exclaims +Marion, soothingly. ‘Sibyl might have taken all the poisons in the +surgery, and no harm need come of it. She’s a great deal too fond of +herself and her pretty looks to commit suicide. I dare say she’s with +her grand friends at the How, flirting with Sir Wilford Cardonnel, +and enjoying herself ever so.’ + +‘But if she were at the How she would have heard of Mr. Trenchard’s +death by this time.’ + +‘I don’t know about that.’ + +‘I must send to the How. I must send to every place where is a chance +of finding her. It is most vital that she should return without +delay.’ + +‘Yes,’ says Marion. ‘She ought to see about her mourning; and if she +is to be uncle Trenchard’s chief heiress it certainly looks queer for +her to be out of the way at such a time.’ + +Dr. Faunthorpe sighs and says no more. The bell rings at this moment, +and he goes to his surgery to see a parish patient, who has brought +the latest variety in scalds for his inspection. A whitlow drops +in five minutes afterwards, followed by an interesting case of +enlarged glands wrapped in flannel, after which comes a promising +whooping-cough, and on the heels of that a very fair specimen of +incipient measles. These occupy Dr. Faunthorpe till nine o’clock, +and he has but just dismissed the measles with a comforting dose of +senna when a bell rings sharply--not the surgery bell this time. He +is standing in the passage when it rings, and he opens the door +himself, and admits a respectable-looking stranger, of business-like +aspect and middle age. + +‘Dr. Faunthorpe, I believe?’ + +‘Yes, I am Dr. Faunthorpe.’ + +‘Can I have a few words with you in your surgery?’ + +‘A patient,’ thinks the doctor, as he ushers the visitor into his +stuffy den, heated like an oven by the gas, and odorous with senna +and peppermint. + +‘I may as well come straight to business, Dr. Faunthorpe,’ says +the stranger directly the door is shut. ‘You were present at the +post-mortem this afternoon, and you know that Mr. Trenchard has been +poisoned with prussic acid. My name is Judbury, and I belong to the +Krampston police force. I am sent here by our chief to look into this +business. My duty is to find out where that prussic acid was bought. +Now, before I go to the chemists shops, Dr. Faunthorpe, I want to +know if it came out of your surgery, as there is reason to suppose it +did.’ + +‘What reason can there be to suppose any such thing?’ + +‘Never you mind that. You’ll be summoned to appear at the inquest +to-morrow, and you’ll be asked certain questions, I dare say. I want +to see your bottle of dilute prussic acid.’ + +‘Suppose I tell you that I keep no such thing in my surgery?’ + +‘Then I should have to look for myself. I’ve got authority to search +your surgery. You’d better let me see the bottle. It’ll come to the +same thing in the end.’ + +Very pale, and with a sinking of his heart which he has never +felt before in all his patient life, Robert Faunthorpe drags the +step-ladder to the recess of the fireplace, and mounts to look for +the dark blue bottle. + +Mr. Judbury follows him to the steps, and eyes him as a cat eyes a +mouse during the operation. + +Poor Dr. Faunthorpe’s hand trembles a little as he takes down the +fatal bottle, and before he can examine it Mr. Judbury’s firm fingers +have taken it from him. + +‘How much acid do you suppose you had in the bottle, sir?’ asks +Judbury. + +‘I really can’t say to a nicety--it’s a drug I rarely use--perhaps a +matter of two ounces.’ + +‘And there isn’t an ounce here.’ + +‘But I can’t be positive,’ exclaims the doctor, profoundly agitated. +‘I tell you it’s ever so long since I used any. I can’t be called +upon to state the quantity. It may have evaporated.’ + +‘I understand. But your impression is that you had two ounces. The +bottle doesn’t look as if it had been disturbed lately; the dust’s +pretty thick upon it,’ says Mr. Judbury, taking it to the gas burner +and examining it closely. + +‘Do you see this, Dr. Faunthorpe?’ he asks, pointing to the side of +the dark blue bottle. + +‘This’ is the impression of two slim fingers on the dust-whitened +glass. Two streaks of blue show where two fingers have grasped the +bottle. + +‘That’s the mark of a hand, sir,’ says the detective decisively, ‘a +woman’s or a child’s.’ + +‘Jenny, my youngest niece, may have tampered with the bottle,’ +stammers the doctor, beside himself with fear and trouble. ‘She has +been forbidden to touch anything, but she’s a tiresome child, and +may----’ + +‘Send for Miss Jenny, sir, and let us ask her all about it,’ says Mr. +Judbury. + +Robert Faunthorpe could cut out his tongue for having uttered +the girl’s name. Jenny will come, and under this horrible man’s +cross-questioning will say something to implicate Sibyl. Horrors are +thickening round this miserable house. Is this the hour they have all +hoped and waited for, the hour which was to bring Stephen Trenchard’s +days to an end, and be the beginning of his kindred’s prosperity? + +Seeing the doctor hesitate, Mr. Judbury makes bold to ring the bell +for himself. It is answered by Hester, looking daggers. She hates to +be disturbed at her supper. It may be only bread and cheese, or the +scrapings of some bone or pie dish, or the greasy remnants of hashed +mutton, washed down with a mug of table beer, but she likes to eat +her meal in peace. + +‘What is it, sir?’ she asks, snappishly. + +‘Send Miss Jane here,’ falters the doctor. + +Jane comes and is questioned about the blue bottle. She fences with +her questioner at first, and looks as if the rack itself would not +twist an admission of any kind out of her; but subjected to Mr. +Judbury’s insidious process of interrogation, she finally tells the +whole story of Sibyl’s coming into the surgery to get some laudanum, +and the mysterious smell of bitter almonds, and the bottle which +Sibyl filled and would not let her see. + +‘Thank you, miss,’ says Judbury, approvingly. ‘I think we must get +you to appear before the coroner to-morrow.’ + +‘Jane,’ exclaims the doctor when Mr. Judbury had made his bow and +departed, ‘you have put a rope round your sister’s neck.’ + + + + + CHAPTER X. + + STEPHEN TRENCHARD SURPRISES HIS FRIENDS. + + +Redcastle is profoundly excited next morning by the inquest which +is held in the large room--a ballroom or a dining hall on festive +occasions--at the ‘Coach and Horses’ Hotel. Whispers of foul play +have floated in the air since the _post-mortem_ examination at +Lancaster Lodge. Sibyl’s disappearance has become known, and people +look at one another ominously as they mention her name. Mr. Pilgrim’s +behaviour in this time of trial is the admiration of everybody, the +enthusiasm beginning with the firm of upholsterers and undertakers +whom he entrusts with the conduct of Mr. Trenchard’s obsequies, and +gradually permeating the town till every one is loud in his praise. +His coolness, his clearness of head, his decent grief for his +departed friend, his thoughtful consideration for Sibyl, in quest of +whom he has sent far and wide,--all these things entitle him to the +admiration of the town, and Redcastle does not stint its praise. + +Never has the coroner sat in so crowded a court as this which he +gravely contemplates to-day. Mrs. Stormont has borrowed her cook’s +bonnet, and put on her thickest veil, fondly feeling herself +disguised by these means, when every turn of her head and every angle +of her figure are as well known in Redcastle as the town pump. Mrs. +Groshen is also present and thickly veiled. The two matrons have been +accommodated with chairs in a quiet corner near the reporters’ table, +and they put their heads together, and sigh dismally, and talk of the +awfulness of life and death, and the mysterious depths of wickedness +in the human heart, pending the commencement of the proceedings. + +The first evidence is entirely medical. Dr. Mitsand describes those +appearances in the corpse which led him to conclude that Stephen +Trenchard had been poisoned. Mr. Pollintory deposes to the finding +of the poison in his analysis of the contents of the stomach. Dr. +Mitsand describes the discovery of a phial which has contained the +diluted acid in a basket in the room usually occupied by Sibyl +Faunthorpe. + +Joel Pilgrim is examined as to the discovery of the death at nine +o’clock on the previous morning. He is questioned as to those +appearances which at once impressed Dr. Mitsand, and he owns that in +the agitation consequent on the sad event he had overlooked these +indications. + +‘You saw nothing particular in the appearance of the corpse?’ +inquires the coroner. + +‘I was too agitated to observe.’ + +‘Yet you must have perceived the livid hue which struck Dr. Mitsand.’ + +‘I may have perceived that. My impression was that death had been +caused by an apoplectic stroke.’ + +‘And that, in your mind, would account for the livid tinge?’ + +‘It would.’ + +‘Did you observe the eyes?’ + +‘I was too agitated to observe details.’ + +‘But you must have seen the expression of the eyes. Were they bright +and glassy--staring--the pupils dilated?’ + +‘I cannot say. I sent for the women to lay out the corpse +immediately. The whole thing was too painful, too sudden, to allow of +my observing particulars.’ + +He is questioned as to Sibyl’s disappearance. + +‘Can you give any reason for the young lady being absent at such a +time?’ + +‘I cannot.’ + +‘She was to have been married to you yesterday morning?’ + +‘She was.’ + +‘Had she given her free consent to the marriage?’ + +‘She had.’ + +‘I beg your pardon,’ interposes a gentleman sitting at the table. +‘I think these questions are quite irrelevant to the object of the +inquest. The jury have only to determine the cause of death. Miss +Faunthorpe’s conduct is outside the question.’ + +Robert Faunthorpe has engaged a Krampston solicitor to watch the +proceedings in his niece’s interest. He has done his utmost for her +in this, having an idea that the genius of Krampston is infinitely +superior to that of Redcastle, and that a Krampston lawyer must be a +man of much experience and acumen. + +Podmore, the butler, is examined as to his last visit to his master’s +room, and the state in which he left the deceased. His answers to the +coroner’s questions closely resemble those he made to Dr. Mitsand +yesterday afternoon, but there is a thickness in his speech which +offends that functionary. + +‘That will do, sir. This is very shameful, sir, positively +disgusting. You are intoxicated.’ + +‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ falters Podmore, dissolving in tears. ‘You +blas’ my ch--ck--ar--racter, sir. I haven’t touched--drop--spiriss +this morr’ng. It’s my feelings.’ + +‘Go away, sir. You are drunk. I won’t hear another word.’ + +Dr. Faunthorpe is now examined as to the abstraction of a portion of +prussic acid contained in the bottle in his surgery, but the coroner +can obtain no positive statement from him as to the quantity which +ought to have been in the bottle. + +‘Come, Dr. Faunthorpe, you must have some approximate idea as to the +quantity of acid in your possession. Your books would show you when +you last bought any. If your memory is so much at fault we shall have +to ask to see your books.’ + +‘It is three years at least since I bought any. I may not have kept +the wholesale chemist’s bill. I have no record.’ + +‘Oh, come, you must remember something about it. If you so rarely +employ the acid in your medicines you must have the quantity you +purchased nearly intact. Now what is the smallest quantity you have +ever bought?’ + +‘I think, about two ounces.’ + +‘You have never bought above two ounces?’ + +‘I do not think so.’ + +‘Come, Dr. Faunthorpe, you are too scientific a man to think about a +fact. You must know.’ + +And finally the coroner wrings from the reluctant witness the +admission that he ordered two ounces of the diluted acid with other +drugs three years ago. That he used it once as a sedative in a case +of violent sickness, that he cannot remember having used it since. He +admits the finding of a bottle in his surgery last night, with only +one ounce or less than one ounce of the poison. The bottle is now in +the possession of the authorities. + +The Krampston solicitor objects to these questions, as having no +bearing on the main issue, which is simply to ascertain the cause +of death, but his objections are not entertained. The coroner of +Redcastle conducts his inquest with a lofty hand, and is as arbitrary +as any of his mediæval predecessors. + +Jane Faunthorpe is not called, much to the doctor’s relief. Yet he +feels that even as matters stand there is a dark cloud hanging over +the head of the absent Sibyl. + +‘Perhaps it would be better for her never to return,’ he thinks. + +He has sent a messenger to The How, and has sent in other directions +without avail. He can discover no trace of Sibyl. Yet Mr. Judbury is +already in possession of some information upon this subject. He knows +the hour at which she left Redcastle, the train by which she went, +the clothes she wore, the bag she carried. His next duty will be to +discover whither she has gone. + +The jury go to Lancaster Lodge to view the body. The medical evidence +having settled the cause of death, this is little more than a +formula, which it is indeed in many cases where investigation should +be thorough. + +After this, although the cause of death is sufficiently clear, +the coroner suggests the adjournment of the inquiry until further +evidence can be brought forward. + +There is some little discussion between the coroner and one of the +jury as to a convenient date for the adjourned inquiry, and Mr. +Judbury, who has been present throughout the proceedings, has a few +words to say upon this subject. Finally the inquest is adjourned to +this day week. The funeral arrangements meanwhile may proceed. + +‘And the will may be read,’ thinks Dr. Faunthorpe, ‘and we shall know +if Sibyl is the heiress. God grant she may appear without delay, and +make her innocence manifest to every one.’ + +He goes back to his daily round of duty sorely dejected in spirit. +There is none of his parish patients, hard as may be their struggle +for existence, who carries so heavy a heart this day as he who +ministers to their wants. There is no rheumatism or sciatica that +gripes its victim with a sharper pang than the agony which tears +Robert Faunthorpe’s breast when he thinks that in the minds of all +his townsfolk Sibyl lies under suspicion of murder. + +Meanwhile Messrs. Kabriole, the upholsterers and undertakers, +are in their glory. The massive oaken coffin, glittering with +brazen furniture, is in hand,--merrily rings the joiner’s hammer +on the stout oak. The best velvet pall is brought forth from its +resting-place, aired and brushed. The big Flemish horses have +their manes combed and their fetlocks clipped, and receive all the +embellishment that skilful grooming can bestow. The sable plumes are +shaken out, the inky cloaks unfolded, and there is quite an agreeable +excitement in Messrs. Kabriole’s back shop. + +‘I shan’t be sorry to get our account in,’ says Kabriole the elder to +his Son and Co. ‘There’s a heavy amount outstanding. Mr. Trenchard +was like many of your millionaires, slow in parting with his money.’ + +‘I should have asked him for it, father, if I was you,’ suggests the +son. + +‘Yes, and have lost a first-rate customer,’ replies the senior, +severely. ‘Gentlemen in that position mustn’t be pressed for money. +The most one can do is to send in one’s account at Christmas.’ + +‘You might have had a bill to make up, or something.’ + +‘I does that with my pettifogging customers, Joe, never with a man of +Mr. Trenchard’s standing. It’s too ’ollow.’ + +‘Well, the money will come handy in a lump,’ remarks the son. + +‘Of course it will, Joe; and you must bear in mind that I charges +five per cent. interest all along--and the interest gets posted up +every quarter, and carries interest on the back of it. It’s like +putting one’s money in the bank--and safer.’ + +‘Well, you’re a good ’un, father. There’s no getting the right side +of you.’ + +‘I’ve got an ’ed for business, Joe,’ answers the parent, +complacently. ‘I was born so.’ + +The days go by, but bring no tidings of Sibyl. The day of the +funeral comes, a quiet funeral, but splendid. All that wealth can do +to disguise the awfulness of death--or to add to it--with funeral +pomp, has been done here. Mr. Kabriole watches the sable train leave +his premises with a thrill of pride. Every item of that gorgeous +_cortége_ is already entered in his ledger. He feels that the +metropolis could hardly beat this display. + +‘Drat your reformed funerals--with their rubbishing open cars, +reminding folks of Lord Mayor’s Day, or Ashley’s Theayter!’ exclaims +the upholsterer, who has served his time to a London firm. ‘Give me +the good old style--the legitimate, as your playgoers say of the +draymer.’ + +Dr. Faunthorpe, Mr. Pilgrim, Dr. Mitsand, and Colonel Stormont +are the only mourners, and occupy two mourning coaches. Poor Dr. +Faunthorpe weeps silently behind his handkerchief--not for the dead, +for whom he cares but little, but for the living, over whom clouds +lower so heavily. He feels very much as if he were going in solemn +state to his own execution. Except these tears there is but little +show of grief. Dr. Mitsand and Colonel Stormont talk of the mystery +of the dead man’s end, but do not commit themselves to any opinion on +the subject. Joel Pilgrim is silent as death itself. + +A good many private carriages testify to the respect in which +Stephen Trenchard has been held by his fellow-townsmen. Sir Wilford +Cardonnel’s family chariot follows with high stepping bays, and the +coachman and footman in their last new liveries. + +Solemnly toll the minster bells as the procession wends its slow and +pompous way down the street. Shutters are up before almost all the +shop windows--blinds are down in many places--a respectful crowd +gazes in reverential silence at the spectacle. + +The town of Redcastle bears witness that it has lost a benefactor. + +However solemnly performed, that service of the Church which remits +dust to dust is not a long one, nor is Stephen Trenchard’s funeral +protracted by any desperate burst of grief from the mourners. +Decently, reverently, are all ceremonies performed. The mourners +linger for a moment or so looking down at the coffin, rather as if +they expected to see the departed spread his wings and soar visibly +to a better world. Finding his ashes quiescent they sigh, shake their +heads despondently, and move away, scrape the clay off their boots +upon an adjacent plebeian tombstone, and walk slowly back to their +carriages. + +‘Now for the will,’ says Colonel Stormont, cheerily, as they drive +away from the churchyard. + +There is something of the nature of a lottery in that will. There may +be small prizes even for outsiders. Mourning rings, silver tankards, +lapis-lazuli snuff-boxes, carved ivory, or other spoil of Ind. + +‘Most mysterious disappearance of that girl,’ exclaims the colonel, +after a pause. ‘What motive could she have for running away, +unless----’ + +‘Unless she had poisoned her uncle,’ says Dr. Mitsand, interpreting +the colonel’s awful look. ‘If she were guilty of that crime I think +she would be here to-day. If she were capable of such an act she +would be capable of holding her ground afterwards.’ + +‘They can’t always stand it, you know,’ argues Colonel Stormont, +speaking of the murderous profession generally. ‘They lose their +heads and bolt after the thing is done. I suppose it looks so much +worse to them when it is done than it did from the other side. They +are a pluckless set for the most part, I think.’ + +‘It was not in that girl to commit a murder,’ says Dr. Mitsand, +with conviction. ‘The circumstantial evidence is strong against +her, I admit--her disappearance--the poison taken from her uncle’s +surgery--her expectation of Mr. Trenchard’s fortune. But if she had +poisoned him in order to get possession of his money, it stands to +reason she would have stayed to receive her inheritance. She would +have known that to fly was almost to admit her guilt.’ + +‘She may have been seized with a panic when the thing was done.’ + +‘She would have stayed, colonel,’ persists the doctor. ‘She might +have been stricken with fear, but she would have held her ground. +She is too clever to commit such a blunder as flight if she had been +guilty.’ + +‘How do you account for her absence, then?’ + +‘Easily enough. Her uncle was forcing her into a hateful marriage, +and she had not moral courage enough to oppose her will to his, so +she let matters go on to the very last, and then ran away. A foolish +thing to do, no doubt, but human.’ + +‘But why should she have taken that prussic acid from her uncle’s +surgery, as it is pretty evident she did take it, though the fact +hasn’t come out yet?’ + +‘She may have armed herself with that as the means of suicide--a last +resource if all other modes of escape failed her. We have no evidence +that the prussic acid which killed Stephen Trenchard was the poison +taken from Dr. Faunthorpe’s surgery.’ + +‘You have the evidence of the empty bottle?’ + +‘She may have thrown the stuff away, fearing to keep anything so +dangerous in her possession. If she were guilty, she would hardly +have left that bottle in her work-basket.’ + +‘Humph,’ mutters the colonel. ‘You take an indulgent view of the +case.’ + +‘I admit that at the first I was staggered by the facts, and inclined +to suspect Miss Faunthorpe; but reflection has led me to form another +opinion.’ + +‘Gad, sir, and I should be glad if I could believe her innocent,’ +says the colonel, energetically. ‘She has eaten my bread and +salt; I have liked and admired her; and even’--with ineffable +condescension--‘thought of her as a wife for my eldest son. I believe +that poor boy adores her. It would be horrid to think her guilty. But +these things ought to be looked straight in the face, Dr. Mitsand, +if we don’t want the whole fabric of society shaken. We mustn’t be +prussic-acid-ed into our graves in a quiet little town like this, +and the poisoner go scot free. No, sir; I wish the good old law for +the punishment of poisoners was still in force. We want our _Chambre +Ardente_, sir, for these scoundrels.’ + +They are at the gates of Lancaster Lodge by this time. The mourning +coaches drive up to the hall door, where stands Podmore, quite sober +on this occasion, and fully awake to the dignity of his position. +He ushers the mourners to the drawing-room, where the sunlight is +subdued by half-closed venetian shutters, through which shines the +sunny vista of lawn and flower-beds. The crimson satin couches and +ottomans are ranged in solemn order. A silver tray of decanters and +glasses is placed unobtrusively on a side table. There is a small +writing-table in front of an open window, with a chair set beside it, +evidently prepared for the family lawyer, thinks Colonel Stormont, as +he takes a glass of old Madeira from the obsequious Podmore. + +No family lawyer appears, however. The four gentlemen refresh +themselves gravely at the side table, assisted by Podmore. Very +bitter is the taste of the Amontillado to Dr. Faunthorpe, but his +parched lips need to be moistened in some wise. The moment is at +hand when the dealings of the dead to the living will be known. Will +justice have been done to all his nieces, or will favours be heaped +upon that one of them whom in secret he, Robert Faunthorpe, has loved +the best? + +Joel Pilgrim takes a second glass of sherry, clears his throat, and +goes to the little table by the window. + +‘I believe, gentlemen,’ he begins, and the three mourners turn +towards him, full of eager curiosity, ‘that in cases where there is +a will to be read this is about the time at which the ceremonial is +gone through. Now my good friend Stephen Trenchard has left no will.’ + +There is a look of amazement in the countenances of his three +hearers. Dr. Faunthorpe feels the room going round bewilderingly, and +tries feebly to remember how the law of inheritance stands in the +case of nieces whose uncle dies intestate. + +‘Do you mean to say that Mr. Trenchard, a man of business, has died +intestate?’ exclaims Colonel Stormont, with indignant incredulity. + +‘He has died intestate for the best of all reasons,’ answers Joel, +coolly, as he unlocks a drawer in the writing-table. ‘He had nothing +to bequeath!’ + +‘Come, sir, you are laughing at us,’ cries the colonel. + +‘He was too sincere to indulge in the mockery of a will, and, in that +self-restraint, was a model to mankind in general, who seem to take +delight in disposing of imaginary effects,’ replies Joel, in an easy +conversational tone. ‘He made no will, but during his late illness he +entrusted me with a little paper which it was his wish that I should +read to any of his friends and relatives who should be present on +this sad occasion. With your permission, gentlemen, I shall proceed +to do so.’ + +‘Make haste about it, sir,’ cries the colonel. ‘I can see that we +have all been outrageously humbugged.’ + +‘You are not the first, colonel, who has taken the appearance for the +reality,’ replies Joel, politely. + +He unfolds a sheet of letter-paper covered with Stephen Trenchard’s +neat penmanship, and reads thus:-- + + ‘Having reason to believe that I may die insolvent, I refrain + from the empty formula of a last will and testament. I have + nothing to bequeath except those accommodation bills drawn upon + Providence, which good men call blessings. + + ‘The business which I conducted for thirty years in India was on + the verge of insolvency when I retired from it, though the house + of Trenchard and Co. stood high in the opinion of the commercial + world, and its paper was as easily negotiated as that of the + Bank of England. I had sunk my capital in the business, and I + consider that I was guilty of no fraud in withdrawing from it + about a third of the amount of that original capital, although I + knew that in so doing I must precipitate the ultimate failure. + I transferred my speculative trade to a man adroit enough to + navigate the leaky vessel for a few more voyages upon the + commercial sea, and I was enabled to make my retreat from India + with ten thousand pounds and high repute; for, although I was + known to have been engaged in some doubtful adventures, and to + have been somewhat unscrupulous in my traffic, I was believed to + be enormously rich. + + ‘I was sixty-six years of age when I made up my mind to retire + from the excitements and agitations of a hazardous trade, and to + enjoy the lotus-eater’s calm repose for the rest of my days. I + calculated that the ten thousand pounds that I was able to draw + would, with a judicious use of my credit, last out my life, and + enable me to glide in comfort to the grave. It pleased me to + return to that native town which I had left as a penniless lad, + and which, when I was honest and industrious, refused me daily + bread. With a few thousands at my banker’s, and the reputation + of unlimited resources, I was able to command all that the town + could give. Redcastle laid its riches at my feet. I had but to + pay the rent of my house, the wages of my servants, and to give + a cheque on account now and then to my tradespeople. Every year + left me a little deeper in their debt. + + ‘I fear that I may have excited false hope in the mind of my very + dear niece, Sibyl Faunthorpe. I regret the possibility of this, + but I cannot be blamed for any baseless ideas which she may have + entertained on the subject of my supposed fortune. I have never + made any statement calculated to mislead her. I have neither + directly nor indirectly fostered expectations of an inheritance + from me. My dear Sibyl has been the companion and solace of my + retirement, and she has enjoyed all those luxuries and comforts + with which I have smoothed the pathway of my declining years. + Should there be any balance, or residue of the money now in my + banker’s hands, at the time of my death, after the payment of my + just debts, I hereby give the same to my friend and successor in + commerce, Joel Pilgrim; but as I apprehend that my moneys in hand + will hardly suffice to pay my outstanding accounts, I have not + taken the trouble to put this bequest in the form of a will. + + ‘STEPHEN TRENCHARD, + + ‘May 20th. 187--.’ + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + + ‘IT IS NOT NOW AS IT HAS BEEN OF YORE.’ + + +Alexis goes to Dorley Mill a few days after his interview with Mr. +Scrodgers the lawyer, and tells Linda Challice all that the man of +law has said in relation to Trot, and the advisability of that young +gentleman’s being domiciled at the Grange. + +‘You see I want to establish the fact of his being my son,’ says +Alexis. ‘People will hardly believe in my paternity while the little +fellow is here. He ought to live with me--he ought to be seen in my +company. A few years hence it won’t so much matter where he may live. +His name and position will be settled.’ + +‘I understand,’ says Linda, sadly. ‘Yesterday you gave me a promise +which made me very happy; to-day you take it back again.’ + +‘Linda, forgive me,’ cries Alexis, deeply distressed. ‘If you knew +how it grieves me to rob you of your darling! But it is for his good. +Why cannot we three be happy as we have been together? The sweetest +days of my life were those I spent under this dear roof--with +him--with you. Why cannot those happy days come again, Linda? My +love, my darling, what is the world worth that it should part us?’ + +His arm is round her, he draws her to his breast, looking down into +those beseeching, agonized eyes, which meet his in silent reproach +that pierces deeper than words. For one passionate moment he has +forgotten the fetters that hold him to another, forgotten everything +except that this girl has grown inexpressibly dear to him. + +She releases herself from his arm, and he stands before her with +shame-bowed head, conscience-stricken. + +‘Forgive me, Linda,’ he pleads. ‘I was thinking of what might have +been. No, I will not be such a wretch as to rob you of Trot--not +yet awhile, at any rate. What can I give him to replace his adopted +mother’s fond care? You shall keep him, Linda.’ + +‘Not if it is for his interest to be with you,’ Linda answers +gravely. ‘But you need not be in a hurry to take him from me. A few +days--a few weeks even--can make little difference. Give me time to +get accustomed to the idea of parting with him.’ + +‘So be it. And you will let me come here very often and see him, +so that he may grow fonder of me, and come to look upon me as his +father?’ + +‘No,’ she answers, with downcast eyes. ‘Let me have him quite to +myself for this time. He loves you already, you have no need to win +his affection. Let me have him all to myself, and when the day comes +claim him from me, and I will give him to you without a tear.’ + +Alexis understands the motive of this denial, and feels that he has +merited to be thus denied. + +‘You have only to command me, Miss Challice,’ he says, ‘and remember +that this boy will be no son of mine if his affection for you, or his +remembrance of your goodness, is ever lessened.’ + +‘He is so young,’ replies Linda, with a sigh. ‘He will have so much +time in which to forget.’ + +And then they part with a friendly shake hands, and a little +commonplace talk about old Mr. Benfield and the mill, and both try to +forget, or seem to forget, that fatal betrayal of feeling on the part +of Alexis; and when he has gone Linda creeps up to her room,--the +pretty girlish chamber, with its white draperies and water-colour +sketches, Linda’s own work, on the paneled walls--and kneels beside +the little white bed, and sobs as if her heart were broken. Happily, +her life of simple duty affords little leisure for the indulgence of +grief, and she is obliged to bathe her swollen eyelids presently and +to go downstairs to see about Trot’s custard pudding, which delicacy, +made with a new-laid egg, and baked in a saucer, no other hands can +be permitted to prepare. Trot’s sharp eyes discover the traces of +tears in those heavy eyelids. + +‘What for you cry, mammie?’ he demands. ‘You not been naughty, has +you?’ + +Tears and naughtiness go together in Trot’s mind. + +‘I hope not, love.’ + +‘And you not tumbled down ’tairs.’ + +‘No, darling.’ + +‘Den oo got nosing to cry for,’ says Trot, decisively. + + * * * * * + +It is with the deepest shame that Alexis remembers that unhappy +outbreak of his. This is how he has pleaded his friend’s cause. This +is his allegiance to Dick Plowden. He can hardly look that faithful +friend in the face without blushing, when he gets back to the Grange. + +‘Did you see her?’ asks Dick. + +‘Oh yes, I saw her.’ + +‘And was she looking well?’ + +‘A little pale and worried, I thought. She doesn’t like parting with +Trot, you see.’ + +‘No, of course not.’ + +Alexis goes to London that afternoon and procures a copy of the +entry of his marriage in the register at the little Gothic church in +the Pimlico district, so memorable to Sibyl and to him; the church +they entered so hopefully that bleak March morning, four years ago, +careless of the future, confident of happiness, and knowing little +more of life’s actualities than if they had been the prince and +princess of a fairy tale. In that stony labyrinth of Pimlico Alexis +is within an easy walk of Dixon Street, Chelsea. He goes by ways that +were painfully familiar to him in the days of his poverty. He seems +to know every shop-front in this water-side street, every stone, +every housetop, and chimney-stack, and street corner. He leaves the +prim dwelling-places of middle-class respectability, and enters +poverty’s Bohemia. There flows the river beyond its muddy margin, +rosy in the evening sun. How the scene brings back the bygone time, +the heart-sinking and despair, the dread of to-morrow, the vain +hope, the crushing disappointment! There is little use, perhaps, in +this visit to his old quarters. His will is made, his son’s heritage +is rendered as secure as the law of the land can make it; there is +little fear, one would suppose, of the boy’s parentage being called +into question in the time to come; but Alexis has a fancy for seeing +the house which sheltered his poverty and care, which was home in +the days when he thought himself secure of his wife’s love. Here +is the dingy old street, more dingy and dismal in the warm summer +twilight than in wintry obscurity. How sorely all the doors and +window-sashes want painting! what wisps of dirty straw and ragged +scraps of paper have drifted to this quiet haven from the busier ways +outside. Odd curtains drape the parlour windows, grimy blinds droop +hopelessly on their slackened lines, like sails in a dead calm. Here +and there a few flower-pots testify to the love of the beautiful in +some struggling denizen; in one area there is a family of rabbits, in +another a collection of poultry; in a third a cobbler has built his +wooden workshop. If it were possible for anything already so debased +to sink a little lower, Alexis would think that Dixon Street has gone +down since he last beheld it. But the effect lies doubtless rather in +his own eye, which is a stranger to the place. + +Mrs. Bonny has been endowed with an orderly mind, and it has been +her constant struggle to raise her dwelling-place above the Dixon +Street level. She has eschewed rabbits and poultry. Her parlour +windows are shaded by clean though faded chintz, and display the +healthiest geraniums in the street. Her door-steps are hearthstoned +daily, and it grieveth her to the heart when the ruthless feet of her +lodgers or their following sully the purity of the stone. It must +be confessed that this aspiration after the beautiful, this struggle +to maintain cleanliness in a neighbourhood where blacks fall as the +rain from heaven, has exercised a deteriorating influence upon Mrs. +Bonny’s temper. The native sweetness of that overworked woman’s +disposition has been turned to sour by the perpetual falling of +smuts, the frequent passage of muddy soles across newly hearthstoned +steps, the reckless disregard of scrapers and doormats, which is +idiosyncratic of the lodger family. When she opens her door to a +stranger, Mrs. Bonny looks not at his face, but directs a furtive and +angry glance at his boots, and follows his progress into her house +with a smothered murmur of dissatisfaction. Her life is an endless +warfare, which her constancy of spirit would render absolutely noble, +were the enemy wherewith she striveth a trifle more exalted; but +to fret and fume about the soiling of a doorstep, to be miserable +because a dirty boot sullieth one’s stair carpet, hath in it +something of pettishness and folly; and these small and sordid cares +have impressed themselves upon Mrs. Bonny’s visage--they have drawn +down the angles of her mouth, and written a network of wrinkles upon +her brow. + +She opens the door to Alexis this evening. The rosy light on the +river is deepening to a crimson glow; the sky grows faint and +opal-tinted; and a young moon, which has been showing pale all the +afternoon, begins to brighten in the eastern gray. Alexis had been +prepared to observe some surprise in his landlady’s countenance +at this sudden reappearance of his, after a lapse of three years +and a half, but to his astonishment she receives him with perfect +tranquillity of countenance, save for an anxious downward glance at +his boots, a look which he remembers of old. + +‘I thought as much,’ she mutters. ‘You can walk upstairs, Mr. +Stanmore.’ + +Stanmore was the adopted name of his poverty. + +‘I have called for a little chat with you, Mrs. Bonny, if you can +spare time,’ he begins politely, remembering that his old landlady, +like the Fates, was a goddess who needed a good deal of propitiation. + +‘I ain’t got the time now,’ replies Mrs. Bonny, snappishly, ‘for I +was cooking my parlour’s supper when you rang, and I dessay it’ll +have stuck to the bottom of the frying-pan when I get back. You can +walk upstairs, can’t you? You know your way, I should think.’ + +‘To the front room?’ inquires Alexis. + +‘Yes, of course. It happened to be empty when the young woman called +about it--not as I’m ever long empty, thank Providence. It ain’t much +reward to get for slaving from morning till night, gracious knows. +Wipe your boots, if you please, Mr. Stanmore. There’s a mat at the +foot of the stairs.’ + +The master of Cheswold Grange does not quite understand the drift of +these remarks, but he obeys as meekly as the penniless waiter upon +fortune was wont to do in days gone by. Mrs. Bonny hurries back to +her frying-pan, and Alexis goes up the well-remembered staircase, +with its papered wall representing a bewildering multiplication of +Gothic archways of a dingy brown hue, its narrow window with a gaudy +painted blind of ecclesiastical design, its heavy old balusters, the +remains of better days, when Dixon Street was the abode of polite +society, and fine gentlemen and ladies may have roystered and +gambled in these old rooms after an evening at Ranelagh. + +Twilight has thickened, and Mrs. Bonny’s staircase is wrapped +in shadow when Alexis opens the door of that one room which was +once his home--a single chamber which would then have been deemed +all-sufficient as a home could he but have found the wherewithal +to pay the rent thereof. How well he remembers that miserable +home-coming, when, like Byron, he found his hearth deserted and his +household gods shattered. The memory saddens him. He forgets his +newly found son--forgets the business that has brought him to Dixon +Street. The picture of that bitter day comes back, and shuts out +every other image. + +The room looks as if not one article of its furniture had been +removed or altered since he saw it last. There stands the scarlet +tea-tray on the table against the wall--there the tea-caddy--there +the leather-bound family Bible. There are the old chintz-covered +arm-chairs, the tent bedstead, the trumpery crockery images--awkward +caricatures of old Chelsea ware--on the high narrow mantelpiece; +and yonder, seated on the well-remembered sofa, in a despondent +attitude, with hands clasped listlessly and drooping head, appears a +figure at sight of which Alexis Secretan recoils as if he had seen a +ghost. + +He may well be startled, for this figure is the image of his wife as +he has seen her on many an evening, at his home-coming, when she has +grown weary of waiting for his return, and has sunk into despondency. + +For a moment his blood freezes, and he feels as if a spirit were +there; but in the next instant a cry of surprise breaks from his +lips, ‘Sibyl, can it be you?’ + +She starts up from the sofa, looks at him in bewilderment, and then +throws herself upon his breast. + +‘Alex, my best, my dearest, my only protector and comfort,’ she +cries, ‘how did you know--who told you that I was here?’ + +He puts her away from him gently but firmly. The thought of her +falsehood about his son’s death comes between him and his wife; and +it may be that love for her, as he has often told himself, has died +out of his heart, murdered by her unkindness. There is something +else too, perhaps, in this moment that comes between him and the pale +face lying on his breast. The image of a sweeter and less selfish +woman, whose eyes looked up at him full of grief and pain a few hours +ago. + +‘Alex, how unkind you are, and how coldly you look at me! But you +came here in search of me, did you not? You are not living here?’ + +‘No, Sibyl, I am not living here, and I did not come here to look for +you. How was I to suppose that I should find you here when I left you +at Redcastle in the house of Stephen Trenchard? I did not think you +would come back to such a place as this of your own election.’ + +‘It was the only place I could think of as a refuge, Alex. I knew +that I should be safe with Mrs. Bonny, and I knew of no other +lodgings in London. Perhaps, too, I had a fancy for coming back here. +It was like returning to the past--to the days when you loved me.’ + +She says this shyly, standing before her husband with downcast eyes, +like a child who has offended and anticipates reproof. There is all +the old innocence of manner, the almost childlike sweetness which +charmed Alexis when he first saw Sibyl Faunthorpe in Mrs. Hazleton’s +drawing-room, but there is a chilled and deadened feeling at his +heart, as of love that has fallen asleep and can wake no more, or +love that has been stricken dumb, and can find its old familiar +speech never again. + +‘Say rather the days in which I thought you worthy to be loved,’ he +replies, gravely. ‘You made your election when you left this room. +You cannot undo it by returning here, whatever may be the caprice +that moves you. When you chose to be your uncle Trenchard’s toady +instead of my wife, you cancelled the bond between you and me. I gave +you the option of renewing that old bond, but, having your sordid +aim in view, and fancying yourself on the threshold of success, you +refused my offer. That made an end of our union for ever. There is no +legal process, no decree of the Divorce Court, which could separate +us more utterly than we are parted now.’ + +‘Alex,’ she cries piteously, ‘you did once love me. How can you be so +unforgiving?’ + +‘I’ll tell you how and why. When we last met and parted I asked you +a question, a question that involved the happiness of my manhood and +the hope of my age. You answered me with a deliberate lie.’ + +‘I don’t remember,’ falters Sibyl, deeply humiliated. She had thought +it so easy a matter to reclaim this faithful heart. In her darkest +hour she had always counted upon her husband’s love as a certainty, a +treasure inalienable, despite her sins against him, thinking of him +somewhat after the manner in which man is apt to think of God’s mercy +and forgiveness, as an inexhaustible fund, upon which he can draw as +largely as he likes, with no fear of having his bills returned. + +‘You don’t remember that when I asked for my son you told me he was +dead,--looked me calmly in the face and told me a black and bitter lie. +He had only survived his birth by a few days, you said. All the hopes +I had built upon his existence were baseless and delusive. You made +me believe this, Sibyl.’ + +She looks at him intently in the twilight, with a look that is half +terror, half wonder. + +‘Why should you imagine that I was deceiving you when I told you of +your son’s death?’ she asks. + +‘For the best possible reason. I have found my son!’ + +‘What? You have been to Dorley Mill?’ + +‘I have been to the place where you left your child, left him, glad +to be released from a tie which most women hold sacred; left him +to play your part at the feet of Stephen Trenchard, to pass for a +spinster, and captivate country gentlemen, and angle for a fortune. +You have won your game, I hope after making such sacrifices,--if +it can be called a sacrifice to have abandoned husband and child. +Stephen Trenchard is dead, I suppose, and you have inherited his +fortune, or you would hardly have deserted your post, even for the +sentimental pleasure of revisiting the scene of your married life.’ + +‘My uncle Stephen is not dead. I have inherited nothing. I stand +before you a pauper, Alex, bankrupt in everything; even in hope, +since you have ceased to love me.’ + +‘Your uncle not dead! You have voluntarily abandoned your chance of +being his heiress? You must have changed greatly since that night +when you and I talked together in Mr. Trenchard’s house.’ + +‘I was surrounded with difficulties, Alexis. I should have held my +ground to the very last;--yes, call me mercenary, despise me if you +will, I will not shrink from the truth;--I would have stopped with my +uncle till the day of his death if he had not made that impossible by +his tyranny.’ + +She tells Alexis the story of the last few months how she had been +urged to marry Joel Pilgrim, and how when matters grew desperate she +had taken flight. + +‘I wrote to that good girl, Jane Dimond, and asked her to find me a +lodging, here if possible. Luckily for me this room was empty, and I +came straight from the railway station here.’ + +‘A disappointing end to your schemes and hopes,’ says Alexis, still +unpitying. He cannot easily forgive that heartless falsehood about +his boy. His wrongs as a husband he might pardon. The injury done him +as a father rankles deeper. + +‘It is a sorry end, Alexis, humiliating, shameful. For upwards of +three years I have been my uncle’s patient companion. I have borne +all his caprices, devoted myself to the task of making his life +pleasant to him. He has been very good to me. I should be wickedly +ungrateful if I were to deny or to forget that. I think, too, that +he loved me, in his undemonstrative manner; and if I was deceived +in believing that he would make me his heiress, everybody else in +Redcastle laboured under the same delusion. But this Mr. Pilgrim’s +influence upon him is stronger than mine. I do not believe that my +uncle really wished me to marry that man, or even that Joel Pilgrim’s +presence in his house made him happy; but there was an influence of +some kind--an influence which I could never understand--exercised by +that East Indian upon my uncle Stephen.’ + +‘I congratulate you upon having escaped that unholy house,’ says +Alexis. ‘I am glad you did not carry your subservience to your uncle +so far as to marry the East Indian. I am very glad you drew the line +at that.’ + +‘Had I been as free as my uncle thought me I should have done the +same,’ replies Sibyl. + +‘And may I ask what plan of existence you have formed to replace your +blighted hopes?’ says Alexis. ‘I suppose after this rebellious flight +of yours there is no chance of your inheriting your uncle’s fortune.’ + +‘I gave up every idea of that when I left his house. As for a plan of +life, I have none. The only hope I had has left me. I have a little +ready money, and a few trinkets which I can convert into money. This +will carry me on till I can get a situation as a governess--if that +is to be done without a friend to speak for my character. I have not +neglected my education during the last three years, and I can fall +back upon the old drudgery.’ + +She says all this despondently. Hope has died within her breast. She +had thought it so easy a thing to cancel the past, and now it seems +to her that she and Alexis Secretan are as far apart as if they had +never loved each other, never sworn life-long fidelity, never spent +their careless honeymoon together under the young leafage in the Bois +de Boulogne, among St. Germain’s forest walks, and on the lamplit +Boulevards, with all the joyous life of Europe’s gayest city drifting +by them like a stream of folly--never suffered poverty’s cark and +care together--never shared hope and despair--never wandered, side by +side, on the chill border-land of famine. + +So far Alexis has shown no sign of relenting. His tone has expressed +contempt rather than anger, and has wounded more deeply than the +stormiest reproaches could wound. He now grows thoughtful, and walks +up and down the room in meditative silence, as he has walked many a +time in days gone by when his meditations were of ways and means. +Sibyl watches him as he moves slowly to and fro with bent head. The +twilight hides his face, that summer twilight in which they sat so +often when they first became inmates of this room, and when poverty +was a new thing to them. + +‘Why did you tell me that lie about our child?’ he asks, after a long +silence. + +‘Shall I tell you why, Alexis? It was because I wanted to have some +hold upon you; to have some treasure to give you when the time came +for me to come back to you, your true and faithful wife as I have +been from first to last. You would scorn my uncle Stephen’s fortune, +you told me--repudiate that as you would repudiate me. But I thought +you could not shut your heart against me if I came to you with our +son. He must have been a link between us, a tie no unkindness of +yours, no sin of mine, could break.’ + +‘And you thought to make that link the stronger by telling me that my +son, whom you had placidly resigned to the care of a stranger, was +dead.’ + +‘If I had told you the truth you would have claimed him. He would +have been yours, and not mine.’ + +‘You are an accomplished schemer, Sibyl, but Fate has a knack of +spoiling your plans. Accident brought me in the way of my boy; an +accident, which put my life in peril for some time, brought me under +the same roof with my son, and I loved him before I knew that he had +any claim to my love.’ + +‘How did you discover his identity at last?’ asks Sibyl faintly. + +‘Oh, in a very simple way. I need not trouble you with details.’ + +‘And he is well--happy?’ + +‘How good of you to inquire about him! Yes, he has thriven admirably +with strangers. So well that he naturally rebels against being +transferred to his own flesh and blood.’ + +‘Alexis,’ falters his wife, piteously, ‘I know I must seem a +heartless mother, a woman without woman’s natural feeling, but +starvation brings humanity very low. When I came to Dorley Mill I +had been keeping fellowship with Hunger for a long time. I had known +what it was to be houseless and ailing, to lie shivering under the +cold unpitying stars. It was vital to me to find a home for my baby, +a home far away from Redcastle. I was obliged to disassociate myself +from my child. It was imperative for me to do that if I wanted to +win my uncle Trenchard’s fortune--and I did want to be rich, Alex, +for your sake, for our child’s sake, as much as for my own. If it +was your duty as a man to try every honest means to conquer fortune, +was it a sin in me to try the only means I knew, to snatch the only +chance Fate ever offered to me? Will you try and think of all this, +Alex, and forgive me, if you can?’ + +She rises once more from the sofa where she has sat despondingly. She +goes to her husband, and lays her hand lightly on his shoulder--such +a poor little hand--such a feather’s weight, as it seems to him, +lying loosely there. That touch, faltering and tremulous, moves him +more than her arguments. + +‘Forgive you? yes, poor child,’ he says, gravely. ‘Perhaps, after +all, it is foolishness rather than sin that I have to pardon--and God +pardons even sin. What am I, weak offending man, that I should be +more unmerciful than Heaven? Yes, I forgive you, Sibyl; but remember, +my dear, that the past is an unalterable quantity. We have to carry +the burden of our past deeds down to the grave. No man ever shifts +that load from his shoulders. You and I can never be again what we +were the day you left this house to go in quest of fortune. You left +something behind you then that you can never reclaim.’ + +‘You mean that I lost your love?’ + +‘My affection, my compassion, you shall have to the end of our lives; +but the heart that trusted and loved you is dead and gone.’ + +‘I have no right to expect that it should be otherwise,’ answers +Sibyl, in a voice broken by sobs; ‘I set too much value on money. I +was blind to all other loss that might befall me. I thought that when +I came to you with my uncle Trenchard’s fortune in my hand you would +forgive me, you would take me back to your heart.’ + +‘It is because you come to me without fortune that I am able to +forgive you, Sibyl. I thank Providence for the failure of your plans. +No good could ever have come of Stephen Trenchard’s money to me or my +race.’ + +‘And you will let me see my boy, Alex. I know that I have been a +heartless mother, but I have suffered many a pang of remorse. You +will let me see him before----’ + +She breaks down here, and sobs upon her husband’s shoulder. + +‘Before what, Sibyl?’ he asks, gently. ‘Don’t cry, my dear. There are +quiet days in store for both of us, now that we have got rid of our +evil genius, Stephen Trenchard.’ + +His tone is kinder than it has been yet. He has felt a touch of +remorse at remembering that he could have given his erring wife a +warmer welcome had she but returned to him before his experience of +womanly tenderness and womanly unselfishness at Dorley Mill. It was +only when he learned to draw comparisons between his wife and another +woman that love had perished. + +‘God bless you for those kind words, Alex, the first you have spoken +to me to-night; and you will let me see my child--before I die.’ + +‘Before you die! Yes, Sibyl, and through many a year to come, if you +will be true to your little one and me, and put Stephen Trenchard’s +money out of your head. Who talks about dying?’ + +‘I have suffered so much, Alex, and it has been so hard a task to +hide every pang--to be all smiles, and gaiety, and thoughtfulness for +others, with my own hidden sorrow always gnawing at my heart. It has +been a bitter task. I feel as if the burden had been too heavy for +me--I feel quite worn out with the long battle--physically as well as +mentally. Indeed, Alex, I do not think that I have long to live.’ + +This is a plea for mercy _in formâ pauperis_, and touches Alexis. He +is growing very tender-hearted to this wife, for whom he had told +himself that his old love was dead and gone. The room in which they +had suffered poverty’s chilling apprenticeship together seems to +him to bring them closer to each other than any less familiar place +of meeting could have done. And presently, when Sibyl has struck a +match and lighted a pair of sallow-looking candles, which but dimly +illuminate the scene, Alexis is moved to deeper pity by seeing the +change that the last six months have wrought in his wife’s beauty. +That wan white face, those sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, tell of a +struggle that has been exhausting alike to mind and body. + +‘My poor girl, how changed you are!’ he exclaims, drawing her to him +in the dim light, and scrutinizing her altered face. + +‘Yes, there is no beauty to be proud of now, Alex. I might sit in my +corner in Mrs. Hazleton’s drawing-room, and even your eye would not +notice me. The faded governess would come and go like a shadow. I +have lost my good looks--all the capital Fortune gave me to start in +life--and I have won nothing--not even uncle Trenchard’s money.’ + +‘We can do without it, Sibyl. If you had come to me with that +ill-gotten wealth in your hand I would have had nothing to say to +you. I take you back to-night because you come without it.’ + +‘Back to your heart, Alex?’ + +‘To my home and my affectionate regard, my dear. Our hearts are not +always to be commanded. Don’t look so sad, Sibyl, our Hampshire +breezes will blow the colour back to your cheeks.’ + +‘Hampshire? Ah, that is where our boy lives. But what took you to +that part of the country, Alex?’ + +‘I’ll answer that question when you have told me what took you there, +and how your child came to be born in a Hampshire Union.’ + +‘I’ll tell you, Alex. I have no need to hide anything now. When +I left you, with those ten pounds which I extorted from you so +cruelly, my only thought was to hide myself somewhere till after +my baby’s birth. I went into a little country village in Surrey--a +quiet little place near Guildford--and hired a room in a cottage, a +tiny whitewashed bedroom which cost me three and sixpence a week, +and there I lived for seven weeks, spending as little as possible, +living on bread and butter and tea, till at last my landlady, who was +only a farm labourer’s wife, would bring me up a little plate of meat +sometimes out of charity. In seven weeks I had spent only four pounds +on myself, but I had spent three more in buying clothes for my baby, +and I had spent almost all my time in making them--those long dull +days when I used to sit for hours together alone in my little room +listening to the ticking of the Dutch clock, and the chirping of the +crickets downstairs. I think I must have gone mad in those monotonous +desolate days, if it had not been for my needlework. I used to go +out into the fields sometimes at dusk, and wander about for an hour +or so, and I felt as if I belonged to nobody, and was quite the +loneliest creature in this wide world.’ + +‘A sorry prologue to your dignified existence at Lancaster Lodge.’ + +‘As the time for my baby’s birth drew nearer, I began to think +with dread of his being born in that poor little room among coarse +labouring people. I pined for a friend, any one of my own class who +would be kind to me. I took a horror of that stifling little room +with its one small window, and whitewashed walls, and patchwork +coverlet, and all the piggy and cabbagy smells that used to creep +up from the room below. So I tried to remember any friend who would +be likely to be kind to me if I flung myself upon her benevolence. +I could think of only one person, Maggie Rawlings, a girl who had +been very fond of me at school, almost ridiculously fond, giving me +keepsakes, and insisting on wearing some of my hair in a locket, +and showing her affection in all manner of foolish ways. She was +the daughter of a farmer in Hampshire, and as she had huge hampers +sent her twice in a quarter, and had always plenty of money to +spend, I concluded that her people were rich. I knew that she was an +impulsive, warm-hearted little creature, and generous as the light of +day. So I thought that if I went to her she would find me a shelter +of some sort and be kind to me and my baby. I went to Winchester by +rail, and from Winchester I went on foot to find Hill-side Farm.’ + +‘Poor child,’ murmurs Alexis, ‘poor foolish child--our worst +fortunes shared together were not so bad as this.’ + +‘Unfortunately, I had forgotten all but the name of the farm, and +that Winchester was the nearest station, but how far that nearest +station might be from Maggie’s home I had no idea. The consequence +was that I wandered helplessly about from village to village for +three days, led astray by wrong information--sent first to one farm +and then to another--and having to sleep at village inns, where I +paid dear for very poor accommodation. On the fourth day I succeeded +in finding Hill-side Farm, nearly thirty miles from Winchester, and +there a cruel disappointment awaited me. My old schoolfellow was +married, and had gone to live in Lincolnshire. Mrs. Rawlings was +barely civil to me, and gave me her daughter’s address with evident +reluctance. No doubt she thought me a very questionable character. +My shabby clothes denounced me. If I had possessed money enough +or strength enough for the journey, I think I should have gone +down to Lincolnshire in search of Maggie, but I had neither. I was +ill and worn out by the fatigue of the last three days, and this +disappointment at the end of all completely crushed me. Two days +afterwards my baby was born in the workhouse. That was the only +refuge left open to me at the last. If you have been to Dorley Mill +you must know all the rest. I left the workhouse penniless, and but +for Linda Challice’s goodness I could never have made my way to +Redcastle. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me, Alex, now +that you know all the truth?’ + +‘I forgive you, Sibyl, and pity you with all my heart. You did +yourself a deeper wrong than you did me when you sacrificed all +natural feeling to the worship of your golden calf. You have paid a +heavy price for your mistake; it would be cruel to add my upbraidings +to the sum. And now let us begin life afresh, little woman, and +be happy if we can. Fortune has been kinder to me--who have wooed +her somewhat carelessly--than to you who have sought her with such +mistaken diligence. Poverty need never more afflict us. Your husband +is no longer Mr. Secretan, _alias_ Stanmore, a humble waiter upon +the tide of luck, but Alexis Secretan, Esquire, of Cheswold Grange, +in the county of Hants--able to give his wife her carriage and her +flower-garden, her dairy, poultry-yard, and village school, and to +leave his son the modest heritage of a small landowner.’ + +‘Alexis! you are laughing at me.’ + +‘No, Sibyl. When I stood before you at Lancaster Lodge, last +December, I was able to take you to as fair a home as you could care +to inhabit; but I would not tempt you with the gifts of fortune. I +waited for your heart to speak.’ + +‘And you were absolutely rich at that time? You could have given me +all I had to hope for from my uncle Stephen?’ + +‘I cannot presume to measure Mr. Trenchard’s possessions. My fortune, +I have told you, is a modest one, but it is large enough to buy all +things needful to real happiness. The man of fabulous wealth can only +live. He cannot eat two dinners in the same day, or ride two horses +at once, or consume more than a given quantity of fresh air, or get +more pleasure out of life than his mental capacity for enjoyment will +let him, be he king or kaiser.’ + +‘It seems that I have made a sorry mistake,’ says Sibyl, with a sigh. + +‘A mistake which we will do our best to mend, poor child,’ replies +Alexis, kindly. ‘And now, Sibyl, I don’t know whether you have dined +to-day, but I am quite sure I have not. So I think the best thing I +can do is to go out to our old haunts and buy a rump-steak, which our +faithful Bonny will cook for our supper. Unless you had rather come +to an hotel and bid the faithful Bonny good-bye.’ + +‘I had rather stay where I am for a day or two, Alex; I don’t feel +well enough to move.’ + +‘We must call in a medical man, Sibyl, if you are so ill as that.’ + +‘I don’t think a doctor would be of any use. I am not so much ill as +tired. I shall soon be better, I dare say, now you are so kind to me.’ + +‘And doesn’t it cheer you to know that we have done with our old +enemy, poverty; that our future is to be bright and prosperous?’ + +‘I am glad with all my heart, Alex, for your sake and our boy’s; +but I do not feel as if I had any future to look forward to in this +world.’ + +‘Nonsense, Sibyl! That is all the effect of debility--a +hypochondriacal view of life altogether. You will see things +differently after half a dozen doses of quinine, and a daily mutton +chop. I shouldn’t wonder if Guinness’s stout were the best antidote +for these dark ideas. And now I’ll go and see if Mrs. Bonny can send +any one for that steak, or if I must go out and forage for myself.’ + +He goes to the door, opens it, and finds himself face to face with +an unknown individual in a gray coat. Mrs. Bonny stands behind the +stranger with a brass candlestick uplifted, to show him the way that +he should go. + +‘Who the deuce are you, sir?’ asks Alexis, rather savagely. ‘This +room is not to be let.’ + +His nerves have been too completely unstrung by that unexpected +meeting of the last hour to allow of his being civil to an intrusive +stranger. + +‘I am not looking for lodgings,’ answers the gray man coolly. ‘I have +come here to look for a young lady. Ah! there she is, I see. I have a +warrant to arrest Miss Sibyl Faunthorpe--on suspicion of murder.’ + +‘Suspicion of murder!’ + +‘Yes, on suspicion of having murdered her uncle, Stephen Trenchard, +Esq., of Lancaster Lodge, Redcastle, in the county of York, to be +transferred in my charge to Redcastle gaol, there to remain pending +the issue of the adjourned inquest held to inquire into the death of +the aforesaid Stephen Trenchard, Esq.’ + +‘The man must be mad,’ cries Sibyl, clinging to Alexis. ‘I left my +uncle alive--in no danger.’ + +‘Anything you say now will be used against you hereafter, miss,’ says +the man in gray, in a warning voice. + +‘Alexis, you don’t believe----’ + +‘I believe nothing so wildly improbable, my dear. Let me see your +warrant, sir.’ + +It is shown him; a formal document, issued in Redcastle, Yorkshire, +and endorsed by a Middlesex magistrate. Alexis knows just enough of +the law to know that the warrant is a genuine instrument, and that +resistance is likely to be useless. There is but one loophole. + +‘Your warrant seems right enough,’ he says, ‘but it is issued +against Sibyl Faunthorpe; this lady is Mrs. Secretan, my wife.’ + +‘The lady may have a dozen aliases, sir,’ replies Mr. Judbury, with +undisturbed equanimity; ‘but she’s the lady we want, all the same; +and with your leave I’m going to take her back to Yorkshire by the +mail. There’s just about time to do it, I think, Trivett,’ adds Mr. +Judbury across his shoulder to a man in the background. + +‘My wife is not well enough to travel,’ says Alexis. + +‘Oh, come, she was well enough to travel to London less than a week +ago; she must be well enough to go back. I’ll take the responsibility +of removing her. You’ve got a cab, Trivett?’ + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘Come along, Miss Faunthorpe. If you come quietly I shall say nothing +about the handcuffs, you know, but I’ve got ’em in my pocket.’ + +‘What am I to do, Alexis?’ Sibyl asks, piteously. + +‘If you think you can bear the journey, go, dear. I will go with you. +Whatever hideous mistake has arisen out of your uncle’s death can be +best righted by your presence. Don’t be afraid, Sibyl, I will stand +by you.’ + +‘And you do not believe----’ + +‘I believe that you are as innocent as a baby of any wrong against +Stephen Trenchard,’ answers Alexis with conviction. + +‘That makes me strong,’ says Sibyl, quietly putting on her hat and +jacket. ‘I will come back to Redcastle.’ + +‘Well, I think, miss, under existing circumstances you’d better,’ +answers the officer, with suppressed satire. + +‘When did my uncle die?’ + +‘The morning you left, miss, strange to say. Found dead in his bed. +You left by the 6.20 train. According to the medical evidence your +departure and Mr. Trenchard’s death must have been pretty nearly +simultaneous.’ + +‘He died suddenly, then?’ + +‘Uncommon.’ + +‘And why do they suppose that he was murdered?’ + +‘Because about an ounce of prussic acid was found in his inside. +Please to bear in mind, miss, that any remark of yours will be used +against you by-and-bye.’ + +This warning is unheeded, nay, unheard by Sibyl. + +‘Prussic acid!’ she cries, with an awful look. ‘Oh, Alex, how +dreadful! I had some prussic acid in a bottle, enough to put an end +to my life if there had been no other way of escape left me from that +horrid man, and I left the bottle at Lancaster Lodge.’ + +‘Yes, miss, and it was found there empty.’ + +They go down to the cab, Sibyl leaning on her husband’s arm, and +drive away from Dixon Street in the summer dusk. Mrs. Bonny watches +the departing chariot with uplifted hands, and eyes that ask the +heavens to witness her astonishment. + +‘This beats all my experience of lodgers,’ she exclaims. ‘That I +should live to have my first floor took prisoner for murder, and +to see my door-steps spiled by the muddy boots of a defective +perliceman!’ + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + + ‘’TIS HELD THAT SORROW MAKES US WISE.’ + + +Throughout the tedious journey by the night mail Alexis supports and +comforts Sibyl by his presence. All bitterness of feeling has passed +out of his mind. He sees his wife the victim of a false accusation, +and he is ready to pity and defend her. + +‘You do not believe these men, Alex?’ she repeats many times during +that summer night as she clings closer to her husband with a shiver +as of cold, though the midsummer air is mild and balmy. ‘You do not +believe this horrible accusation, dear?’ + +‘Not a word, not a breath,’ he answers, cheerily. ‘These mistakes are +common enough, love. It will be easily set right. You have only to +keep up your courage and trust in Providence and me.’ + +‘Oh, Alex, how good you are! and how little I deserve your goodness!’ +she answers, with a stifled sob. + +Mr. Judbury, though hardened by much travelling on the stormy path +of official life, shows some delicacy of feeling. He sends his +follower to a second-class carriage, and takes his seat as far from +Mr. and Mrs. Secretan as the limits of a first-class compartment +will allow. Nay, he is benevolent enough to refresh himself with +occasional comfortable naps, but is always wakeful and alert when +speed slackens and the train stops. He apparently considers that an +attempt to escape from the train at full speed is an evil not to be +apprehended. + +So the soft summer morning dawns gradually, mysteriously, with a +slow lightening of the landscape and a faint breath of chiller air +creeping among the woods and across the hill-tops, and Aurora sees +Mr. Judbury reposing luxuriously in his padded corner with a red silk +handkerchief draped picturesquely about his bald head, and his manly +chest in a manner doubled up into his shepherd’s plaid waistcoat. +The new-born day sheds but a sickly light upon Sibyl’s worn face, as +it leans against her husband’s shoulder, and Alexis, scrutinizing it +in that clear light, sees how marked and deep is the change that has +been wrought there. Care has engraven lines that happiness can never +erase. This pallid countenance, with sunken eyes, ringed with purple +shadow, is but the ghost of the fair face that shone upon him in Mrs. +Hazleton’s drawing-room. Deepest pity moves him as he gazes on that +altered beauty, lovely still, for the lines have the perfection of +the sculptor’s marble--a beauty that neither age nor death, sickness +nor care can deface,--but the glow and brightness of colouring are +gone. Sibyl is no longer a beauty for the vulgar eye to admire, no +longer the handsomest woman in Redcastle. + +That melancholy journey comes to an end at last. They arrive at +Krampston in the early morning, and after waiting nearly an hour in +a labyrinthine terminus get a train to convey them to Redcastle, +which provincial shrine of the genius of quietude they reach at an +hour which Mr. Judbury picturesquely describes as breakfast-time. +From the Redcastle station, naturally half a mile out of the town, +they drive to Redcastle Jail, a clean and modern building, of Gothic +architecture, occupying an important site on the high road above +Bar, an edifice which is described in local handbooks as an ornament +to the town. Sibyl has ridden and driven past its mediæval gateway +many a time, and has glanced at the lancet windows with a ladylike +indifference to the life going on behind them. It seems a curious +thing--a severance from all the outer world and the common round +of life--to be driven under that stony arch, and along that smooth +gravel drive, and to hear the iron gate close behind her with a clang +that sounds like the snap of the shears of Atropos. + +They all go into a stone-flagged hall together, a hall in which +cleanliness and order reign supreme, and in which the ticking of a +large clock overpowers all the sound of humanity. Here there is a +brief consultation held between Mr. Judbury and an official, and, +after a little humming and hawing, Sibyl is conducted to a small +plainly furnished room, which is hardly to be called a cell. There is +a bedchamber adjoining, and both rooms are guarded with substantial +doors, ponderously locked and bolted, but the place is not so bad as +the dungeon she has pictured to herself with a shudder during that +long journey. She has fancied herself crouching in a stone cell, with +a little straw in a corner, and a large iron ring against the wall, +to which she would perchance be chained, while between massive iron +bars, high up in the wall, crept a faint gleam of light. This is the +only kind of dungeon with which painters and poets have made her +familiar. + +Alexis has not been allowed to accompany his wife to the room +allotted to her, but on his explaining the case to the warder +he is treated with considerable civility, and taken straight to +the governor of the prison, a young man who has lately exchanged +a military career for the guardianship of criminals. From this +gentleman Alexis receives every assurance of sympathy, and to this +gentleman, Captain Heathcote, he gives a brief history of his married +life, telling nothing that can throw discredit upon Sibyl, but +alleging her attachment to her uncle Stephen Trenchard, as the reason +of their separation and her concealment of her marriage. + +‘It happened, unfortunately, that the Secretans and Trenchards were, +like the Montagues and Capulets, foes to the death,’ he tells Captain +Heathcote. ‘There was an old feud between my poor father and Stephen +Trenchard, the circumstances of which I need not enter into. I +believe my father was the injured person in that quarrel; my wife +naturally believed her uncle in the right. We were quietly married, +in London, and my wife kept her marriage a secret from her family. +When Mr. Trenchard came home from India he asked her to go and live +with him. My circumstances at that time were at very low water, and +I had no home to give my wife. So she came to Redcastle, resumed her +maiden name, and lived under her uncle’s roof, until his attempt +to force her into a marriage with an East Indian _protégé_ of his +compelled her to leave his house.’ + +Captain Heathcote listens, and is thoughtful. The story sounds +credible enough, and is in some measure confirmed by the copy of the +marriage register, which Alexis shows the captain. Captain Heathcote, +upon whose military status Redcastle society looks kindly, though +inclined to be somewhat supercilious about his official position, +has met Sibyl at Colonel Stormont’s, and it goes hard with him to +imagine that she can have been capable of this hideous crime which is +imputed to her. Yet it must be confessed that there was never a more +awkward combination of circumstances. Her secret flight--coincident +with her uncle’s death; her possession of the poison--or the same +kind of poison--by which he died; the finding of the empty bottle +in her work-basket; and now this revealment of her marriage, so +long concealed from those among whom she has lived--her nearest +friends and kindred--these things suggest a capacity for deceit--a +disposition in which duplicity is second nature. These considerations +make Captain Heathcote grave and thoughtful, but he is not the less +courteous and obliging. + +‘You may be assured I shall do all in my power to lessen the +painfulness of Miss--I beg your pardon--Mrs. Secretan’s position. +We are never very severe in our treatment of persons who are here +only under suspicion; and until Mrs. Secretan is committed for +trial--which I trust she will not be--we shall contrive to relax our +rules as much as possible in her favour. Burton tells me he has given +her comfortable rooms.’ + +‘You are very good. Please God she will not be long under this +horrible suspicion. I imagine that directly the matter is +investigated her innocence must appear; but in the meanwhile I am +most grateful for your kindness. My wife is looking very ill. I think +she really requires medical attendance. Her uncle is a medical man +in this town, perhaps it would be as well for him to see her, if it +might be allowed.’ + +‘Certainly. Dr. Faunthorpe is not our official surgeon, but he might +see Mrs. Secretan.’ + +‘Thanks. And may I be allowed to see her?’ + +‘As often as you like; but not alone. I shall be obliged to place a +female warder in Mrs. Secretan’s room.’ + +‘I am not likely to have anything to say which the warder may not +hear; and I shall be glad to know that my wife is not alone. She +is in a very low state of health, and will be all the better for +companionship, however humble.’ + +‘You would like to see her, perhaps, before you leave?’ + +‘Very much.’ + +‘Then we’ll go to her.’ + +Captain Heathcote leads the way to a clean and airy corridor, beckons +to a warder to unlock a door, and admits Alexis into the prisoner’s +room. + +Sibyl is sitting listlessly by the open window--a closely barred +window looking into the stone quadrangle where the prisoners are +solemnly tramping, single file, in a circle, for their regulation +hour of air and exercise. A respectable young woman, in a white +muslin cap, has just brought a cup of tea and a plate of bread and +butter for the new arrival. There is no question of jail fare yet +awhile. Mrs. Secretan could have ortolans or _pâtés de foie gras_, if +she liked to import those delicacies from the outside world. + +‘My dear Sibyl, Captain Heathcote has been kind enough to promise +that you shall have all possible indulgence, so you must try to keep +up your spirits.’ + +‘Yes, Alexis,’ she answers, quietly, ‘I have very little cause for +unhappiness when you are so kind to me. How do you do, Captain +Heathcote?’ she says, turning to the governor with a faint smile. ‘It +seems strange for us to meet like this, does it not? I feel as if I +had come to your house as an uninvited guest.’ + +‘I shall do all in my power to make your visit agreeable, and shall +be unhospitable enough to wish that it may be brief,’ answers the +captain. + +‘I am very anxious to know all about my uncle’s death,’ says +Sibyl. ‘It was a great shock to me to hear that he was dead. Dr. +Mitsand told me that he was in no danger the very day before I left +Redcastle. Can it be true that he died from poison?’ + +‘Unhappily there is no room to doubt that,’ answers Captain +Heathcote, gravely; ‘but do not let us talk about this sad business, +Mrs. Secretan. Your husband will do all that can be done to protect +your interests--to clear your name. Be assured of that, and give +your mind as much repose as you can. The inquest will be reopened +to-morrow, and you will have to appear.’ + +‘As a criminal--in the dock?’ asks Sibyl, with a shudder. + +‘There is no dock in the coroner’s court.’ + +‘My dearest, what does it matter?’ says Alexis, soothingly. +‘To-morrow’s examination will doubtless clear you of this shameful +charge. Be patient and trust in God. I am going to call upon your +uncle, Dr. Faunthorpe. I thought perhaps you would like him to come +and see you.’ + +‘Yes, I should like to see him very much, if he does not believe +that I am----I can’t say the dreadful words, Alex. But no, I am sure +uncle Robert does not believe in this accusation. Dear soul, he never +thought evil of any one.’ + +‘You shall see him, dear, and he shall prescribe for you, unless +there is any other medical man whose advice you would rather have.’ + +‘I do not think medicine can do me much good, Alex; but I shall +consult any one you wish. But I want to see uncle Robert--to ask him +about uncle Stephen’s death,--he must know everything; and about the +will.’ + +‘Ah, by the way,’ exclaims Alexis, ‘there was a will, I suppose. And +pray who is the gainer of Mr. Trenchard’s wealth?’ + +Captain Heathcote looks at the inquirer with a grave smile. + +‘Have you heard nothing? Don’t you know the particulars?’ he asks. + +‘We know nothing except that Mr. Trenchard is dead, and is supposed +to have been poisoned. Has his will been read yet?’ + +‘His will--or rather, a final statement of his circumstances, briefly +set forth in a paper to be read after his death, was made known to +two or three people yesterday. As generally happens in Redcastle, +what was known to three people in the morning had become town talk in +the evening. Mr. Trenchard has not left sixpence to any one.’ + +Sibyl’s eyes open to their widest. Faintly, dimly during that +wearisome night journey she had seen herself cleared from the +monstrous charge of murder and possessed of Stephen Trenchard’s +fortune. His sudden death would have prevented his disinheriting her. +Death overtook him before he could have known of her flight. + +‘Do you mean to say that he has left all his money to hospitals?’ +exclaimed Alexis. + +‘I mean to say that he has left no money whatever--or hardly enough +for the payment of five shillings in the pound upon his debts. We +are very wise in Redcastle, but with all our wisdom are apt to take +outward show for reality. Mr. Trenchard has contrived to impose +upon us all. He has been living upon a few thousands taken out +of a business on the verge of insolvency, and upon his credit in +Redcastle, which was large. Rather hard upon Mrs. Secretan, whom +everybody supposed to be his heiress.’ + +‘The policy of his old age is of a piece with the treachery of his +youth,’ replies Alexis, quietly. ‘My wife can afford to do without +his money.’ + +Sibyl sits silent, in utter bewilderment. What phantom has she +followed in these years that are gone? To what false idol has she +sacrificed love and truth, and duty to husband and child, all fair +things that are honourable in woman? Bad enough to have worshipped +a golden calf; but to find the calf of basest metal is indeed the +lowest depth of humiliation and disgrace. + +‘Alexis,’ she says at last, looking piteously at her husband, ‘there +never was any one so foolish, so deluded, as I have been. How you +must despise me!’ + +‘No, my dear, I am only sorry for you and our mistaken lives, the +lost years that can never come back to us.’ + + + + + CHAPTER XIII. + + ‘BUT HERE IS ONE WHO LOVES YOU AS OF OLD.’ + + +Mr. Secretan is not sorry to get away from that quiet orderly room +in the prison, where never comes any sound of outward things more +human than the creaking of the warder’s boots in the passage, or +the ticking of that inexorable clock in the hall--dismal clock that +checks off hours that are heavier than lead, minutes whose every +moment is a sigh. + +Alexis would willingly stay all day with his wife, to lighten the +burden of her solitude, to strengthen the fainting heart with words +of cheerfulness and comfort, if he had not work to do elsewhere. He +has a task to perform, and a difficult one, and he hardly knows how +to set about it. He has been careful to ask no questions of Captain +Heathcote, feeling that the governor’s position must compel him to +caution and reticence. He stands as it were upon the opposite side +in that game of life and death which has to be played out--the +rouge et noir of the criminal court. Not to him can Alexis look for +information or assistance. + +Mr. Secretan leaves the prison sorely perplexed as to what his first +step should be. At present he knows nothing, save that Stephen +Trenchard is supposed to have died from prussic acid, and that +Sibyl has confessed to having had a bottle of prussic acid in her +possession at Lancaster Lodge. + +‘We must meet law with law, I suppose,’ thinks Alexis. ‘As my wife is +in the grip of the law, I must get a lawyer to fight her battle.’ + +He thinks of the names he has seen in connection with the criminal +courts--names that have a sound of power,--and there is one that +comes uppermost in his mind, super-eminent and invincible, a shield +and buckler in the fight. + +This is the legal firm of Levison and Levison, Parchment Street, +Viaduct Hill. + +He goes straight to the telegraph office, and telegraphs to Messrs. +Levison and Levison, solicitors, requesting that one of their firm +may start for Redcastle that afternoon, a most urgent case, money no +object. He feels fortified against danger in some measure when he has +sent this message, and goes from the station to Dr. Faunthorpe’s. + +The shabby old house looks a little shabbier and more woebegone +than usual to-day in the vivid sunshine of midsummer. Hester, whose +spirits generally maintain an equable acidity, has drooped and given +way to absolute despair since the revelation of Stephen Trenchard’s +insolvency. It seems to her as if the shattered fortunes of the +house of Faunthorpe had received the final blow that brings them +to the dust. Jerusalem besieged by Titus could hardly have fallen +lower. The idea of Stephen Trenchard’s fortune--to be divided in +some manner among his nieces--had been the faithful servant’s only +day-dream. She had not set her hopes very high. She had languished +for no translation to a loftier sphere, but she had believed that a +little money would find its way through his nieces to the pockets of +Robert Faunthorpe. She had fancied that the dilapidated old house +would be painted and whitewashed, some of the worm-eaten flooring +replaced with sound wood--new deal--which would repay the labour of +her scrubbing-brush. She had pictured her master in a new coat. She +had told herself that a few pounds spent upon the pony carriage would +rehabilitate that vehicle, and that a new set of harness would make +the pony a gentleman. Long arrears of wages due to herself in times +past, a sum that would have doubled itself by this time at compound +interest, might possibly be paid in that flood tide of fortune; but +this last item was one of secondary consideration in the faithful +Hester’s mind. She wanted to see the family raise its head from the +dust. She wanted to feel that the house of Faunthorpe had something +of the phœnix in its nature. The habits of this fabulous bird have +been made familiar to Hester, not in the pages of Herodotus, but by +the fire office which has taken it for its device and emblem. + +The disappointment has been very bitter to the doctor’s two younger +nieces, and Marion lies on the sofa and bewails her fate, and +declares rebelliously that she will never more try to deserve well of +Providence. + +‘What’s the use of being good?’ she demands, with an injured air. +‘One couldn’t be used worse if one was a forger or a murderer. I +didn’t expect much. Sibyl’s artfulness nipped _my_ expectations in +the bud, but I did build upon getting something, if it was only a +paltry five thousand pounds.’ + +Jenny is more philosophical, and more easily reconciled to Fate. + +‘If he hadn’t any money to leave, he couldn’t leave it to us,’ she +argues, ‘but he must have been a sly old fox to make believe to be a +millionaire, and take in all Redcastle.’ + +‘A wicked old impostor,’ exclaims Marion, wrathfully. + +‘Poor Sibyl’s disappointment will be worse than ours,’ says Jane. + +‘Yes, that’s a comfort. She’ll find how she has wasted all her +scheming and artfulness on a Jesuitical old pauper. She’ll feel small +enough, I should think.’ + +‘Perhaps she knew the truth all along, and was laughing in her sleeve +at our expectations,’ suggests Jenny. + +‘She’s deep enough for anything. However, I forgive her all her +baseness now, and pity her with all my heart,’ says Marion, with a +magnanimous air. ‘She’ll find life a very different thing now she has +seen the last of Lancaster Lodge.’ + +‘I hope she won’t get into trouble about that prussic acid,’ says +Jenny, thoughtfully. + +And Marion also grows grave. That question about the prussic acid +is serious. One might wish one’s sister’s unholy pride in temporal +blessings to be chastised by Providence, for her own spiritual +chastening and benefit, but one would shrink appalled from the idea +of that erring sister lying under a suspicion of having poisoned her +uncle. In the first place such an imputation would be too severe +a punishment for the offender, and in the second it would cast +discredit upon all her family. + +‘It’s my opinion that uncle Trenchard has spent all his money, and +knew he must be found out if he let things go on any longer, and got +out of the difficulty by poisoning himself,’ says Jenny, sagely. ‘The +only thing that’s hard to account for is how he could have got hold +of the prussic acid that Sibyl took out of the surgery.’ + +‘It mightn’t have been that very prussic acid that killed him, +stupid,’ exclaims Marion, contemptuously. + +‘True,’ says Jenny. + +‘If you had only held that blabbing tongue of yours nobody need have +known that Sibyl had ever taken anything out of the surgery,’ says +Marion. ‘If we are all brought to disgrace it will be your doing.’ + +Whereat Jenny bursts into tears and weeps dismally for the +next half-hour. She has shed many a tear about that fatal +communicativeness of hers within the last few days. + +They are sitting in the front parlour when this conversation takes +place, on the morning of Mr. Secretan’s arrival in Redcastle, and +when Jenny has wept till her eyeballs ache, she wanders listlessly +to the window, and stares out at the small square garden, where the +bountiful cabbage roses and a few ancient perennials bloom as well as +the dust will allow them. There is not much in the way of traffic at +this end of the town. A farmer’s cart jolts by once in half an hour, +or a labouring man passes on a plough horse, or a drove of oxen +straggles by, hunted by an abusive driver. Not often do the _élite_ +of Redcastle penetrate to this end of the town. There is not much +distraction of mind, therefore, to be obtained from looking out of +the window, and Jenny contemplates external things from listlessness +rather than interest. But on a sudden, to the surprise of her sister, +who has buried herself in a novel, Jenny ejaculates abruptly,-- + +‘Good gracious! It’s him.’ + +‘Whatever our family troubles are, you might remember that the verb +to be takes the same case after as before it, Jane,’ remonstrates +Marion with dignity. ‘And pray whom do you mean by him?’ + +‘The young man,’ cries Jane, incautious in her surprise. ‘My +brother-in-law.’ + +‘What does the ridiculous child mean?’ exclaims Marion, pulling +herself up from the sofa with a wrench, and looking out at the gate. + +Yes, there is a very good-looking and gentlemanlike young man in the +act of entering at that modest green gate. + +‘Why, he’s a perfect stranger,’ says Marion. + +‘Is he?’ remarks Jenny, who has recovered her self-possession by this +time, ‘ah, to be sure, now I look at him, I see he is a stranger. I +took him for some one else.’ + +‘It’s my belief you are demented, child,’ cries Marion, crossly. ‘I +suppose he’s a patient for uncle.’ + +Marion is confirmed in this belief when Mr. Secretan inquires for Dr. +Faunthorpe, and on being told that he is out, asks permission to wait +his return. He looks respectable, nay, even superior to some of the +Redcastle gentry, so Hester shows him into the surgery, and asks him +to take a seat. + +‘The doctor always runs home for his bit of dinner when he can,’ she +says, ‘and I don’t think he was going very far to-day, so he’ll be in +by half an hour or so, I dare say.’ + +Left in the surgery, Alexis thinks of that summer day, nearly a year +ago, when he came here in quest of his truant wife, and allowed +himself to be put on a false scent by a schoolgirl’s deceitfulness. +He is very angry with Jane Faunthorpe to-day, when he thinks that +all the evil that has befallen Sibyl might have been prevented had +that child told the truth. + +‘But she had been taught her lesson by Sibyl, no doubt,’ he reflects; +‘I do wrong to blame her.’ + +He has more than an hour to wait for Dr. Faunthorpe, a weary while, +for he is burning with impatience to know all that can be known about +Stephen Trenchard’s death. It is past two o’clock when the doctor +comes into the surgery looking tired and anxious, and Alexis feels as +if much precious time had been lost. + +He hastens to introduce himself to Robert Faunthorpe, and to give +that bewildered practitioner the history of Sibyl’s marriage. + +‘Sir, you petrify me,’ exclaims the meek little doctor, wiping +the perspiration from his bald forehead with an ancient silk +handkerchief. ‘Do you mean to tell me that my niece, whom I have +ever considered the incarnation of candour, could be capable of so +deceiving me?’ + +‘It was not your resentment she feared, Dr. Faunthorpe, but her uncle +Trenchard’s antipathy to my name. You are no doubt acquainted with +the family history.’ + +‘Yes, yes, my poor sister-in-law told me the story.’ + +‘That family quarrel of the past was Sibyl’s motive for concealing +her marriage with me. And now that you know who I am I have to speak +of something much more serious. Your niece has been arrested on +suspicion of being concerned in her uncle’s murder, and is now in +Redcastle gaol.’ + +Dr. Faunthorpe sinks into a chair, speechless with horror. For the +last three days and nights he has lived in the apprehension of +something like this, but the reality seems more dreadful than his +fears. + +‘Don’t tell me so,’ he cries. + +‘It is unhappily the truth. I was with my wife at the time of her +arrest. I am here to protect and defend her. And now tell me all you +know about Stephen Trenchard’s death.’ + +Dr. Faunthorpe tells all that is to be told--disjointedly at first, +but on being closely questioned by Alexis, plainly enough at the +last. He tells Alexis the unlucky facts connected with that blue +bottle of prussic acid; he tells Alexis the various opinions, +conjectures, and rumours which obtain in Redcastle. + +‘Why should he not have poisoned himself?’ asks Alexis. + +‘Ah, we might have supposed that; but then comes the question of the +bottle, or vessel from which he took the poison. With so powerful a +dose death would have been instantaneous; he would not have had time +to throw the bottle from him; he must have died clutching it. And the +empty bottle was found in Sibyl’s work-basket.’ + +‘Where it might have been easily placed by any one who wished to fix +the guilt upon her.’ + +‘Yes, of course. If we could only prove that.’ + +‘We must prove that, Dr. Faunthorpe. We must find the poisoner, or +show that Stephen Trenchard took the poison of his own free will. +He may have felt that his game was played out, and may have adopted +suicide as a happy escape out of his difficulties.’ + +‘That might be.’ + +Alexis has made notes of Dr. Faunthorpe’s answers to his questions. +He has made a list of the people in the house at the time of Stephen +Trenchard’s death. + +‘How about this Joel Pilgrim? Why should he not be suspected rather +than Sibyl?’ + +‘There is that unfortunate circumstance of Sibyl’s flight, and the +prussic acid taken from this surgery.’ + +‘Both facts tell against her. Yet, if she had been guilty she would +have been too wise to excite suspicion by that secret departure; and +if she had wanted to commit murder she would hardly have chosen a +poison which she must have known is of all poisons the most easily +detected.’ + +Dr. Faunthorpe’s only answer is a hopeless sigh. He is borne down, +nay, crushed, by calamity. Whatever elasticity of spirit Nature +may have endowed him with at the outset of life has been worn out +of him by a long career of self-abnegation and endurance. He is so +accustomed to trouble, sorrow is such a common flavour in his cup, +that he cannot easily look beyond the darkness of the hour. To-day +he sees himself enclosed in an impenetrable cloud of misery. Freely, +gladly would he give his life--such feeble remnant of life as he +holds--to save his niece, but he cannot devise any mode of being +helpful to her. + +‘This Pilgrim must be the man,’ says Alexis, after reading over his +notes meditatively. + +‘I cannot see any motive----’ + +‘Can you not? He may have believed in Trenchard’s wealth, and +expected to inherit some of it. He may have wanted money badly, and +determined on hastening his inheritance.’ + +‘There is one little circumstance that I ought, perhaps, to have told +you,’ begins the doctor, falteringly. + +‘For God’s sake tell me everything.’ + +‘It was after the post-mortem. Dr. Mitsand, who has taken up this +matter in a very energetic spirit, asked a few questions of the +butler at Lancaster Lodge.’ + +‘Well?’ + +‘The questions themselves were of no particular importance--touching +the position of a table beside the bed, the bottles and glasses, +and so on. But there was something in the man’s manner which struck +Dr. Mitsand and myself as remarkable. He had been drinking, I +believe, and may have been muddled by drink. But he had, to my +mind, and Dr. Mitsand’s, the manner of a person labouring under +some kind of apprehension. He had a shifty look, and answered the +simplest questions reluctantly, as if afraid to commit himself. At +the coroner’s inquest he appeared in the same muddled state--worse +indeed, and drew upon himself a severe reprimand from the coroner.’ + +‘Is the man still at Lancaster Lodge?’ + +‘Yes. I saw him go in at the lodge gate to-day as I came past on my +way home.’ + +‘Then I’ll see him without delay, and see what is to be made of him,’ +says Alexis. + +‘In a case of such importance would it not be better to employ a +detective?’ suggests the doctor, humbly. + +‘Dr. Faunthorpe, in a case that affects my wife’s honour and her life +there is no detective living whose wits would be keener than mine,’ +replies Alexis. ‘I will trust no one with this work while I have +power to do it myself.’ + +And thus they part. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV. + + ALEXIS INVESTIGATES. + + +Before going to Lancaster Lodge, Alexis goes back to the jail, and +spends half an hour with his wife. He feels that it would be cruel +to leave her all through the long lonely day. He finds her curiously +patient and quiet, resigned to the horror of her position, and +touchingly grateful for his interest in her. + +‘It is a strange end to all my dreams, Alexis,’ she says sadly. ‘I +fancied that when our reconciliation came life would be full of +brightness for us. I have comforted myself in many a lonely hour with +the thought of our reunion. We should be fabulously rich, free as +air, with all the world and its pleasures before us. The reality is +strikingly different from the day-dream, is it not? No freedom, no +wealth. Our reconciliation finds me a prisoner and a pauper.’ + +‘The prison will not be for long, dear, and I have fortune enough +for both of us. So you need not regret your day-dream about Stephen +Trenchard’s wealth, a factor which had no real existence in the sum +of our lives.’ + +‘Why did I not learn wisdom from my spelling-book, that dog’s-eared +old spelling-book, with fables for reading lessons?’ says Sibyl, with +her faint smile. ‘I am like the dog in the fable, who dropped the +substance to snatch the shadow.’ + +She asks no questions as to his morning’s occupation. She seems in +no manner to realize the peril of her situation, and the urgency of +prompt action. Perhaps she is more womanly in this hour of trial than +she has been at any other crisis of her life. Alexis has forgiven +her. That is the one fact she dwells upon most, and the danger and +horror of her position touch her lightly. That which she feels most +bitterly is to know herself the dupe of her own avarice, fooled to +the top of her bent by false appearances, mocked at perhaps in secret +by the insolvent Belial of her worship. + +‘Love is better than gold or silver, Alexis,’ she says, resting her +languid head upon her husband’s shoulder. + +‘Poets, philosophers, and sages have been singing that chorus ever +since the world began, Sibyl. Yet there are a good many people left +who set their affections on filthy lucre, and, however much we may +abuse it, that yellow ore which keeps the world moving has some good +uses as well as evil ones. And now I must leave you for an hour or +two. I have some more business to get through in your lively town. +You will not be alone all the afternoon, dear. Dr. Faunthorpe is +coming to see you.’ + +‘Dear uncle Robert! Oh, Alex! how I hate myself when I remember my +neglect of that dear good man, while I paid my court to an impostor! +And yet, perhaps, I have no right to say that. I have been thinking +over the past as I sat here this morning, and I see that I have been +self-deceived rather than the dupe of uncle Trenchard. He never told +me that he meant to make me his heiress. He never told me that he had +a great fortune to leave. It was other people who deceived me. Those +Stormonts and their set, always harping upon one string, courting me +and flattering me as the heiress elect. I have little right to blame +my uncle. He did not know how much I had sacrificed for his sake. +He did not know how false and wicked a part I was playing. He was +anxious that I should make a rich marriage, that I should profit by +the false appearances that surrounded me, and establish myself before +he died. He meant kindly by that at any rate.’ + +‘We will say no harm of the dead, my dear. And now good-bye for a few +hours.’ + +Alexis meets Dr. Faunthorpe on his way out. The good little man has +only stopped to perform some necessary duties in the dispensing line +before hastening to his niece. + +From Redcastle Jail to Lancaster Lodge is only ten minutes’ walk. +Alexis has no difficulty in finding the mansion which he came to +six months ago in the winter dusk, for Lancaster Lodge has made +itself unusually conspicuous to-day, having put on a breastplate +of auctioneer’s bills, announcing that all the elegant furniture, +brass bedsteads, superior bedding, German spring mattresses, best +Brussels, Axminster, velvet pile, and other carpeting, glass, china, +pictures, electro-plated goods, valuable library of standard authors, +grand piano by Broadwood, patent lawn-mowing machine, knife-cleaning +apparatus, and other household effects, together with the valuable +lease of the mansion, at a moderate rent, are to be disposed of by +public auction on Monday next, July 3rd, and three following days, +the whole to be on view on the previous Saturday, admission by +catalogue, price one shilling. + +This is Thursday, and Alexis resolves to ask for a private view of +the mansion. The request may be a little out of order perhaps, but +a judicious distribution of half-crowns will, in all probability, +remove difficulties. This man, Podmore, the late Mr. Trenchard’s +butler, is doubtless in charge of the house. + +Alexis makes his application at the lodge gate, where the +lodgekeeper’s wife has taken prompt advantage of Mr. Trenchard’s +death to hang out her family linen on the laurels and conifers in the +shrubbery. + +‘It’s a comfort to do a bit of washing in freedom,’ this matron has +remarked to her liege lord, the head gardener. ‘Mr. Trenchard were so +partikeller.’ + +‘Partikeller,’ growls the husband. ‘He were a man that allus wanted +eighteenpennorth o’ work for a shillin’. I don’t call that there +partikeller. Seems to me that there breed’s rayther common.’ + +Mollified by half-a-crown, the guardians of the gate are of opinion +that Mr. Secretan can see the house. + +‘It ain’t the day,’ says the gardener, scratching his head +doubtfully; ‘you’ll see wot’s wrote up on they bills--Saturday. But +if you’re only passin’ through and wanted to see if there’s anythink +you’d like to bid for, I dessay as they might strain a pint up at the +house. There’s old Podmore, the butler, a very pertikler old party, +but still he’s ameliable to reason.’ + +Alexis, having passed the outer gate of the citadel, goes straight +to the hall door, where he finds Mr. Podmore sunning himself on the +threshold, cadaverous and flaccid of aspect, as a man who has been +living for the last few days upon gin and water, and slovenly in his +apparel--as a man who, having retired from official life, feels that +he has no occasion to be punctilious in the use of soap and water. To +him Alexis makes his request. + +‘There are some pictures that I want to see,’ he says, ‘and, as I am +only passing through the town, I shall be much obliged if you can let +me see them to-day.’ + +He accompanies the request with a dexterous passage of half a +sovereign from his fingers to Podmore’s palm--quite a delicate feat +in prestigiation. + +Podmore turns his gin-and-watery eyes upon the applicant with a +puzzled air, dimly recalling that face and voice as in some wise +familiar to him on the blurred page of memory. But memory’s page is +so much blotted that he vainly strives to decipher the imperfect +record. + +‘Ain’t I seen you before somewhere?’ he asks, feebly. + +‘Very possibly,’ replies Alexis. + +‘You ain’t been a visitor here in the old gentleman’s time?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Then it must have been in some former situation. Yes, you can +see the pictures. There’s no harm in that. Not that the pictures +are good for much--reg’lar Wardour Street duffers supplied by the +upholsterer, old Kabriole, and now he’s served an attachment on the +goods as chief creditor. He’s been let in nicely, has old Kabriole. +The ’ousekeeper’ll show you round. There’s only me and her left +in the ’ouse now, and it’s very lonesome. In fack,’ adds Podmore, +confidentially, ‘it’s undermining my spirits. I feel that low, I +could shed tears by the pailful.’ + +‘Yes,’ replies Alexis, watchful of the butler’s countenance. ‘It +must be dreary work living in a house where a foul crime has been +committed--the foulest of crimes, secret murder.’ + +Podmore looks uncomfortable at this, but he hardly realizes Mr. +Secretan’s idea of a man stricken with the sense of guilt. But then +there are some criminals so callous, some men with whom crime is, +as it were, a natural development; and from these the agonies of +remorse, the throes and convulsions of a guilt-burdened soul, are not +to be looked for. Had not Nemesis overtaken William Palmer, in the +person of his latest victim’s stepfather, that practised plotter +against the lives of his friends and relatives would, doubtless, have +gone on driving his profitable trade, and gone down to the grave +jaunty and debonnaire, liked and trusted by his comrades, the jolly +good fellow of his jovial circle. Be sure no tell-tale muscle of +Mr. Palmer’s face assisted the task of detection, no quiver of that +iron lip betrayed the hand of the poisoner as he presented the fatal +draught to the lips of his friend. Phrenology has declared that in +that man’s brain the capacity for pity or remorse was wanting. + +‘The ’ousekeeper’ll take you round,’ repeats Podmore, slipping the +half-sovereign into his pocket. + +Podmore’s eyes are dull and watery, and his breath is flavoured with +juniper berries, or it may be turpentine; his limbs are heavy, and +he is averse from motion. He calls a thin and vinegar-faced female, +whose temper has been soured by a life-long devotion to the kitchen +stove, and an apparatus she describes as a ‘bang Mary’--a large metal +tray, containing a family of stew-pans of various sizes, in which +sauces, glazes, and divers savoury compositions simmer gently in a +perpetual warm bath. The bain Marie and the stove together have been +too much for Mrs. Skinner’s temper, which is disagreeably suggestive +of that fiery region she has so long inhabited. + +‘This gentleman wants to have a look round the house,’ says Podmore, +in those thick and hazy tones which have become habitual to him. + +‘Then he must come on the proper day,’ replies Mrs. Skinner, +snappishly. + +‘Oh, but it’s all right; he’s got a horder. You’re to show him +everythink.’ + +Mrs. Skinner looks doubtful; but on a solemn wink from the hazy +Podmore, yields the point, expectant of largess. + +‘You can come this way,’ she says to Alexis, with scant courtesy. + +‘I should like to see the room in which Mr. Trenchard died,’ says +Alexis, when he has surveyed the drawing-room and dining-room, dismal +tabernacles of upholstery. + +‘I hope you haven’t come out of curiosity,’ says Mrs. Skinner, +reproachfully. ‘It’s the first time _I_ ever lived in a house where +there was suspicion of murder, and it’s very trying to my feelings. +My father was a respectable tradesman. I wasn’t brought up to this +sort of thing.’ + +‘Curiosity has not brought me here,’ replies Alexis, ‘but I have a +particular desire to see the room in which Mr. Trenchard died.’ + +He is about to say, ‘and to hear all you can tell me about his +death,’ but it strikes him that Mrs. Skinner, despite her acid +countenance, will talk freely of her own accord presently, not for +his gratification, but for the relief of her own pent-up feelings. He +politely offers her half a sovereign, which she takes with a curtsey, +and as near an approach to a smile as her features can shape. + +‘Thank you kindly, sir. I won’t deny that it is acceptable, finding +one’s self suddenly out of place, and disappointed of any little +legacy one had a right to expect. I’m sure the pains I took with +the old gentleman’s curries was quite wearing to my nerves--scraped +cocoa-nuts, and prawns, and chutnee, and oysters, and all manner of +fiddle-faddle, and his Bombay ducks, and his rubbish; but he’s gone +to his last account, and will have to answer for ’em all, I make no +doubt, and for his deception towards his servants.’ + +‘And his favourite niece,’ suggests Alexis. ‘The deception came +hardest upon her.’ + +‘Ah!’ sighs Mrs. Skinner, pursing up her lips. ‘When young folks hold +their heads too high, Providence is apt to lay snares and pitfalls +for them. We’ve king David’s word for that in the Psalms.’ + +Alexis remembers that ‘a favourite has no friends.’ + +The housekeeper, considerably mollified by the stranger’s liberality, +leads the way to Mr. Trenchard’s bedchamber, where the furniture +has a gloomy and even shabby look since the auctioneer’s men have +overhauled it--everything pushed out of its place and twisted +the wrong way, defaced with lot numbers, degraded from its pride +and pomp. The bedstead heaped with an untidy pile of bedding, +bundles of blankets, tumbled counterpane and sheeting. Things that +careful housewives think they ought to get very cheaply under such +conditions, but which generally cost the feminine bargain-hunter +more than if they came straight from a draper’s shop. + +Alexis notices the door by the head of the bed. + +‘There is a second door to Mr. Trenchard’s room, I see,’ he remarks. + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘Was that always unlocked?’ + +‘Yes, that was kept unlocked for Podmore to come down to give Mr. +Trenchard his medicine.’ + +Mrs. Skinner opens the door and shows Alexis the landing on the back +staircase, and the flight of stairs leading to Podmore’s room. There +are two more doors that open on to this landing. Alexis inquires +about these. + +‘That one opens into Mr. Trenchard’s dressing-room,’ replies Mrs. +Skinner, ‘and this,’ indicating the further door, ‘into Mr. Pilgrim’s +room.’ + +Alexis opens this last door and looks into Mr. Pilgrim’s apartment, +a comfortable bachelor’s room, with another door opening into the +gallery at the top of the principal staircase. Lancaster Lodge +belongs to a period of domestic architecture in which architects +delighted in the multiplication of doors, and if prevented by +untoward conditions from putting in real doors consoled themselves +by filling in their blank corners with ornamental dummies leading to +nowhere. + +‘Mr. Trenchard’s room was as easily accessible to Mr. Pilgrim as to +the butler,’ says Alexis. ‘And now show me Miss Faunthorpe’s rooms.’ + +Mrs. Skinner obeys, and Alexis finds that, taking into consideration +that Mr. Trenchard’s door of communication with the gallery was +locked on the inside on the night of his death, Sibyl could only have +entered his apartment by going down the principal staircase, opening +a door which Mrs. Skinner declares to have been always locked after +ten o’clock in the evening, and the key in her possession, crossing a +lobby, and ascending the servants’ staircase. + +Stay, there is another way; if Stephen Trenchard’s dressing-room has +a door opening on the gallery. + +He hastens to ascertain this. No, there are two doors to the +dressing-room, but neither communicates with the gallery. One opens +into the bedroom, the other on to the landing before mentioned. + +This must surely make a strong point in Sibyl’s favour. While all +communication between her room and her uncle’s was cut off in the +night-time, Joel Pilgrim and Podmore had easy access to the dead +man’s bedchamber. + +To this argument a counsel for the prosecution might reply that the +poison was possibly put ready for the patient’s own hand, on the eve +of the murder, mixed with his drink or his medicine. + +Yet in the latter case, Podmore, who administered the poison, must +have seen its deadly effect; unless the man were, as Alexis supposes, +an habitual drunkard, and too far gone on this occasion to take +notice of his master’s condition. This seems too much to believe. +Even stupid drunkenness would have sense enough to perceive the +effect of a deadly and instantaneous poison. + +Alexis sees Sibyl’s boudoir, where the prussic acid bottle was found +in the work-basket. Might it not, he asks himself, have been taken +from that basket full, and returned to it empty, by some other hand +than Sibyl’s? And yet how should any one else have known of her +possession of the poison? + +The housekeeper has been obligingly communicative. She has entered +into all the details of Stephen Trenchard’s last illness and death, +dwelling on the gloomiest particulars with that ghoul-like relish +peculiar to women of her kind. She has described the finding of the +body--its awful appearance--Miss Faunthorpe’s mysterious flight, +‘which naturally set folks against her.’ + +‘You don’t surely believe her to have had anything to do with her +uncle’s death?’ cries Alexis. + +Mrs. Skinner shakes her head solemnly, till the crape roses and jet +ornaments in her cap--she has brought out some dingy weeds laid by +from a previous time of mourning--tremble and shiver. + +‘I don’t like to express an opinion as a Christian woman,’ she says, +‘but the opinion in Redcastle is that Miss Faunthorpe did it. She had +the poison--there’s no denying that--and she got it in an underhand +way, and then on the very morning of her uncle’s death she runs away, +secretly--and no one knows where she’s gone.’ + +‘A way to proclaim her guilt, which she would hardly have taken if +she were guilty. She would not be so short-sighted as that.’ + +‘Murderers generally are short-sighted,’ replies Mrs. Skinner, +sagely. ‘It’s a merciful dispensation of Providence by which they run +their necks into nooses. There’s not much good could be done by the +detective police if it wasn’t for the short-sightedness of criminals.’ + +‘That’s a very wise remark, Mrs. Skinner, and I’m surprised that so +sensible a woman as you can imagine that poor girl guilty of a crime +which only a hardened sinner could conceive.’ + +‘There’s no knowing where to look for hardened sinners,’ replies the +housekeeper. ‘Ministers wouldn’t tell us about original sin in the +pulpit if wickedness wasn’t born with some of us. And as to good +looks, they’re no criterion. Black thoughts may lie behind pretty +faces as well as ugly ones.’ + +And Alexis foresees that, with the female community in Redcastle, +Sibyl’s beauty will be no certificate of innocence. He pursues the +subject no further, seeing that loose conjectures of Mrs. Skinner’s +will in no wise help in the unravelling of this tangled skein. + +‘I rather wonder,’ he says, thoughtfully, still moving about the +empty rooms, and making believe to examine the furniture, ‘that Mr. +Trenchard should have employed your fellow-servant as his attendant +in illness. I should have supposed from his manner to-day that he was +somewhat inclined to drinking.’ + +‘Ah,’ says Mrs. Skinner. ‘Well, you may think so, for of all the sots +that ever was, there never was a stupider sot than Joseph Podmore has +been since his master’s death.’ + +‘Since,’ cries Alexis. ‘Was he sober before then?’ + +‘Yes, sir. Joseph and me has been fellow-servants here since Mr. +Trenchard took this house, three and a half years ago, and I must say +that Joseph Podmore has never laid himself open to reproach in all +that time. Not but what he liked his beer at dinner and supper, and +his tumbler of grog after supper, and a glass of dry sherry wine with +his mouthful of bread and cheese between breakfast and dinner, but +was never the worse for anything he took.’ + +‘And since his master’s death----’ + +‘He has never been properly sober, muddling himself with gin and +beer--dog’s nose, he calls it, and the very lowness of the name is +enough to set any decent person against the stuff, let alone its +being cold and comfortless to the inside, all day long, and that low +in his spirits, that it’s a misery to be in his company.’ + +‘Low-spirited?’ asks Alexis. + +‘Awful; and yet, according to his own account, things have prospered +with him, for he says he’s going to take a public-house, and begin +life as an independent gentleman directly he leaves here; though +how he can have saved money to go into business, seeing that he +has a wife and two children to keep out of his wages, and she an +extravagant drab into the bargain, flaunting about after dark with a +Paisley shawl down to her heels, and a black lace bonnet with roses +in it, and a baby in one arm and a market basket over the other, +which I call out of keeping,--how Podmore can have saved money with +such a drag upon him is more than I can account for.’ + +Again it flashes upon Alexis that this man is the murderer. Every +word of Mrs. Skinner’s tends to confirm him in that idea. He pushes +his inquiry a stage further. + +‘By the way,’ he begins, ‘have you any idea whether Mr. Trenchard +had money about him at time of his death? May he not have had a +sum of money in his possession at that time--sufficient to offer a +temptation to an assassin? Murders have been inspired by very small +temptations of that kind.’ + +‘I know that, sir. But I don’t see how Mr. Trenchard can have had +much ready money about him. He had no call for it. He always paid +everything by cheque--even servants’ wages. And it wasn’t often that +he paid the tradesmen anything except at Christmas-time. I don’t see +what he could have wanted with ready money in the house.’ + +‘You never heard of his keeping money in his room, or saw him open a +box, desk, or drawer containing money?’ + +‘Never.’ + +‘Had he any valuable jewellery in his possession?’ + +‘I never saw him wear so much as a diamond ring. His watch was all +the jewellery he ever wore, and that was found under his pillow.’ + +This seems a kind of no thoroughfare. If Mr. Trenchard had no +valuables to tempt Podmore’s cupidity, why should the butler have +murdered him, and whence the talk about taking a public-house, +since it is clear from Mrs. Skinner’s account of Podmore’s domestic +responsibilities that he can hardly have saved money. A slatternly +wife in a flaunting Paisley shawl, marketing after dark, is as +exhaustive a drain upon a husband’s finances as the bottomless bucket +of the Danaides. + +‘One thing about money I do remember,’ exclaims Mrs. Skinner after a +pause; ‘and I must say it struck me as singular after I’d heard about +that paper in which Mr. Trenchard declared he had only brought ten +thousand pounds from India.’ + +‘What was that?’ asks Alexis, eagerly. + +‘Well, it was the last night but one before his death. I was going up +to bed, after locking my downstairs doors and seeing all the others +up before me--even to Podmore,--which was always my way, and as I +passed this door about ten minutes, or it might have been a quarter +of an hour after the others had gone to bed--for I’d been hunting +for our tabby cat, which is a troublesome animal to have prowling +about at night, though a good mouser and an affectionate disposition, +and I was coming up in the dark, the gas being turned off at the +main--when I saw master’s door ajar, the door opening on our +staircase, you understand. It was just the least bit ajar, leaving a +narrow streak of light, and I heard Mr. Pilgrim’s voice speaking as I +came upstairs, and then I heard master say, “Now understand clearly, +Joel, I must have that money--ten thousand in bank notes--before the +wedding. There must be no shilly-shallying. You don’t marry my niece +till that money is in my hands. No money, no marriage, remember; +and the telegram to wind up the business goes to my Calcutta agents +on Saturday unless the money is forthcoming.” He had a very sharp, +precise way of speaking, poor old gentleman, and I heard every +syllable.’ + +A new light flashes on Alexis. This Pilgrim, the odious persecutor of +his wife, may not he be the murderer? The idea has presented itself +to him before, but he has put it aside for want of any motive to +ascribe as the mainspring of the action. But there is motive strong +enough supplied in these words of Stephen Trenchard’s. This threat +to communicate with an agent in Calcutta might mean ruin to Joel +Pilgrim. He must have been in some way in Trenchard’s power. And to +murder Trenchard would be to cut the knot of the difficulty. + +Alexis Secretan’s heart beats loud and fast. He feels as if he were +now on the right track. That there is something mysterious--nay, +guilty--in the butler’s conduct, he is assured; but the butler may be +an accessory before or after the fact, rather than a principal. There +is apparent, as yet, no sufficient motive for the butler’s guilt; +there is an obvious motive if this Pilgrim be the murderer. + +‘The first thing now to be done is to find out all about this man,’ +thinks Alexis. + +‘Where is Mr. Pilgrim staying?’ he asks. ‘He has not left the town, +has he?’ + +‘No, sir. He is residing at the “Coach and Horses.” He was to have +sailed for India directly after his marriage. That’s why things were +arranged so sudden. But of course Mr. Trenchard’s death altered all +that.’ + +‘At the “Coach and Horses,”’ says Alexis. ‘That is where I mean to +put up myself.’ + +‘You couldn’t do better, sir. It’s the best hotel in Redcastle.’ + +And now, having accomplished all he can for the time being, Alexis +takes leave of Mrs. Skinner. + +‘I should like to have another look at the pictures before I leave +the town,’ he says. ‘Perhaps you would not object to my looking round +again to-morrow morning?’ + +‘You are freely welcome, sir, as often as you like. When I see that a +gentleman _is_ a gentleman, I’m very happy to oblige him.’ + +Alexis goes from Lancaster Lodge to the ‘Coach and Horses,’ whence +he has addressed his telegram to Messrs. Levison and Levison. He +is delighted to find a member of that firm waiting for him in the +coffee-room, an undersized gentleman, with a smooth sallow face and +keen black eyes, thin lips, compressed and horizontal. + +‘A junior in the house,’ thinks Alexis, with a look of +disappointment. He would have desired age and experience to guide and +aid him in this desperate strait. ‘He looks a shrewd little fellow +though, and I dare say he knows his business.’ + +He takes Mr. Levison off to a private room, orders a bottle of dry +sherry, and then proceeds to state his case without delay or waste of +words. + +Mr. Levison listens with quiet intentness, and makes no remark till +the story is finished. Even then he is provokingly slow to express +himself. He sits looking at Alexis like the head of Memnon, and +compels his client to ring his ideas out of him by the closest +questioning; and as he pauses for the space of a minute, looking his +stoniest, after each question, this process is rather slow. + +‘Do you think Pilgrim is the man?’ asks Alexis. + +A long pause. Alexis repeats his question, no gleam of light in Mr. +Levison’s countenance indicating that the inquiry has been heard. + +‘If he were the man he could have got away by this time.’ + +Even when Mr. Levison does speak he drops out his words charily +through scarcely parted lips, as if they were pearls and diamonds, +and he did not like to waste them. + +‘True. But he might wish to throw people off the scent by remaining.’ + +‘Dangerous that. He had ample excuse for going. His Indian voyage was +arranged before Mr. Trenchard’s death. He only had to carry out the +arrangement. There would have been nothing suspicious in that. He is +in this house, you say?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘That’s convenient. We can keep an eye upon him.’ + +‘I can’t see how we are to do that,’ grumbles Alexis, provoked by his +solicitor’s phlegmatic tone, ‘unless we could see through doors or +walls. He may leave Redcastle while we are sitting here.’ + +‘No, he won’t,’ replies Mr. Levison. ‘I brought a clerk of mine down +with me, and he has got the office to look after Pilgrim.’ + +‘But how could you know anything about him till I told you----’ + +‘Do you suppose I waited for you to tell me? That’s not our way in +Parchment Street. I had a chat with the landlord--heard all about +your wife’s arrest, and guessed what I was wanted for, heard all the +particulars of the murder, or supposed murder, the inquest held in +this house, and so on, and gave my man the office.’ + +‘And you think that Pilgrim----’ + +‘I never think, Mr. Secretan; I wait for facts. If I squandered my +brains upon thought I should have no brain power left to deal with +evidence. We shall hear what comes out at the inquest.’ + +Alexis has to take this vague comfort for what it is worth, and make +the best of it. He and Mr. Levison dine together, and then Alexis +goes back to the jail and spends another half-hour with Sibyl, who is +low-spirited, but not so anxious or fearful as she might naturally be +in so awful a position. + +‘Uncle Robert has been here, dear good man,’ she tells Alexis, ‘and +has been feeling my pulse, and looking at my tongue, and prescribing +tonics, and port wine, and beef tea, and all manner of tiresome +things. He quite broke down when he saw me here, and burst into +tears--the first I ever saw him shed. It gave me more pain to see him +than anything that has happened since last night, when I thought you +had shut me out of your heart for ever.’ + +‘I thought so too, Sibyl; but sorrow has opened the door of my heart +and let you in again.’ + +‘Ah!’ she exclaims, with a little joyful cry, ‘I thought you could +not be long unkind. And you have not forgotten those foolish early +days when we walked in Kensington Gardens, and you told the children +fairy tales.’ + +‘No, love, I have forgotten nothing.’ + +‘I will show you something some day, Alex, if ever this dreadful +suspicion passes away, and I am free from the charge of murder.’ + +She shudders at the word, and clings to him for a moment like a +frightened child. + +‘What will you show me, dear?’ + +‘A book--such a foolish old book--in which I kept a journal when I +first began to care for you. It is all written there, every stupid +thing I ever thought about you.’ + +‘The rise and fall, the ebb and flow, of love. That must be a +precious volume, Sibyl. I would give a great deal to see it.’ + +‘You will laugh----’ + +‘I am more likely to cry--remembering how Fate has parted us since +then.’ + + + + + CHAPTER XV. + + MR. LEVISON CROSS-EXAMINES. + + +The inquest is resumed on the following day at eleven, in a room +closely packed with eager spectators, among whom the _élite_ of +Redcastle are to be distinguished. The _élite_ are deeply interested +in the issue of this inquiry. Have they not taken Sibyl, as it were, +to their bosoms, admitted her to those sacred hearths where never +lowered the shadow of evil, and is it not incumbent upon her, for +their sakes, for their untainted reputes, to clear herself of this +hideous charge? Her own shame, her own guilt, her own undeserved +agony, if innocent, are of secondary consideration. ‘She has visited +_us_!’ cry the _élite_. ‘How dreadful it will be for us if it turns +out that she has poisoned her uncle! People will say they met her in +_our_ houses. Quite a disgrace to happen to one, dear Mrs. Stormont,’ +says Mrs. Groshen. ‘Actually humiliating, my dear,’ replies Mrs. +Stormont. + +The prevailing opinion in Redcastle is that Sibyl has done the +deed. Perhaps had Stephen Trenchard endowed her with a million +of money popular feeling might have leaned the other way. It is +difficult to suppose that the possessor of a million can err. The +property qualification, once necessary to members of Parliament--so +many hundred per annum as a pledge of respectability--runs through +life. Qualified with a million, no one could have imagined Sibyl a +poisoner. But disappointed, deluded, penniless, an abject failure--as +much a disappointment to her friends as to herself--Sibyl now appears +in the light of a base and insidious schemer, who has well merited +the disappointment of her schemes. + +And what is this last revelation? asks Redcastle indignantly, when +the story of Mr. Secretan’s arrival at the jail with his wife gets, +no one knows how, into active circulation,--what is this about a +husband? What! She has been deceiving us all this time. She has +been parading herself in fine dresses, which may never be paid for, +she has been spreading her silken train like a peacock’s tail, and +showing herself off in her false colours as an unmarried woman to +the detriment of _our_ daughters. She has been exercising her wicked +fascinations upon _our_ sons. She has flirted with our husbands even, +and has taken us all in with her pretended innocence and affected +girlishness. + +‘The husband must be as bad as the wife,’ says Redcastle, and various +are the speculations and statements as to Mr. Secretan’s character. + +The inquest begins, and here he is, standing behind his wife’s chair +as she sits in the place of the accused, the focus of every pitiless +eye, eyes that have once looked kindly at her, eyes that have +admired. There is Fred Stormont, with his mouth open, standing on +tiptoe to look over his father’s shoulder, as if he were at a play. +Stay, there is one face not quite unpitying. Dr. Mitsand sits yonder +near the coroner, grave, watchful, and with a look which Sibyl takes +for sympathy. + +‘Really, a handsome young man,’ whispers Mrs. Stormont through that +thick veil of hers to Mrs. Groshen. ‘He looks like a gentleman, too.’ + +‘Rather the air of an adventurer, I fancy,’ replies Mrs. Groshen. + +The witnesses are examined, and there is much repetition of evidence +given on the previous examination. Joel Pilgrim, calm, precise, and +faultless of intonation, relates the discovery of Mr. Trenchard’s +death. + +‘At what hour had you last seen him alive?’ inquires the coroner. + +‘At ten o’clock on the previous evening, when I bade him good night.’ + +‘You had access to him at any hour of the night, I believe?’ +interposes Mr. Levison. + +Joel looks at the questioner somewhat insolently. + +‘Am I to answer this person’s questions?’ he inquires of the coroner. + +‘Yes, so long as they are relevant to the case.’ + +‘I don’t know what you mean by having access,’ answers Joel. ‘Mr. +Trenchard’s bedroom door was locked. There was a second door, but +that opened on a back landing, and was only used by the butler.’ + +‘But it was equally convenient for you, had you wanted to see Mr. +Trenchard in the night, I think,’ says Mr. Levison. + +‘I don’t see that,’ answers Joel, curtly. + +‘Don’t you? Allow me to make the fact clearer to you. Here is a +little plan of the landing on the back staircase.’ He exhibits a +sheet of cartridge paper, with a ground plan in pen and ink. ‘Here +are doors numbered 1, 2, 3. No. 1, Mr. Trenchard’s bedroom; No. +2, his dressing-room; No. 3, your bedroom. You perceive that from +the secondary door of your bedroom to the secondary door of Mr. +Trenchard’s bedroom is but a step.’ + +‘That is right enough, but I never entered Mr. Trenchard’s room by +that secondary door.’ + +‘What, not upon the night but one before the murder, when you +had an important conversation with Mr. Trenchard upon financial +matters,--a conversation which was overheard by a witness I shall +produce by-and-bye--overheard in consequence of your having left that +secondary door ajar?’ + +Mr. Levison looks fixedly at the witness as he asks this question; +Mr. Secretan’s eyes are also turned upon that tawny countenance, and +every eye in the court follows those other eyes. A curious change +comes over that dusky complexion of Mr. Pilgrim’s. It is not pallor, +but rather a deeper tint of olive, which makes him look like a +sufferer in an advanced stage of yellow jaundice. + +‘Did you make use of that secondary door?’ asks Levison. + +‘Never!’ replies the witness, resolutely. + +‘And you have no recollection of that particular conversation?’ + +‘I can recall no particular conversation of the kind. Mr. Trenchard +and I had been in business together, and had many conversations upon +financial matters.’ + +‘Was not some of Mr. Trenchard’s capital engaged in your business at +the time of his death?’ + +‘Mr. Trenchard took all he could take out of the business when he +left Calcutta.’ + +‘But he still retained a share in the business, and had a claim to +his share of profits arising therefrom?’ + +‘What can my business relations have to do with this inquiry?’ +exclaims Joel, angrily. ‘These questions are simply impertinent. We +are here to ascertain the cause of Mr. Trenchard’s death.’ + +‘I beg your pardon,’ replies Levison, sharply. ‘Medical evidence has +established the cause of death. We are here to find out who killed +him,--and to get at the murderer we have to discover the motive. I +venture to affirm that no motive can be ascribed to the lady now +under arrest.’ + +The name of Levison is such a power in the criminal court that the +Redcastle coroner, who might have restricted the inquiries of a +lesser man, allows Mr. Levison full licence. The coroner, being +a medical man, has not that affection for legal formulas which +distinguishes some of his brother officials, and is content to let +another man have his share in the development of the case. + +Podmore is the next witness examined. He has not forgotten the +coroner’s reproof, and has brought his mind to as near an approach +to sobriety as it is possible for a brain so steeped in alcohol to +arrive at on short notice. He gives pretty much the same evidence +as he gave on the previous occasion; and of him Mr. Levison asks no +questions. + +Next comes a witness whose appearance causes a feeling of compunction +even in those minds most set against the accused. This is Jane +Faunthorpe, who stands before the assembly in her black frock and +black straw hat--cheap mourning provided by the parish doctor’s +scanty purse--with her face paler than it has ever been seen before, +and her eyelids swollen with weeping. + +She has but one feeling, and that is the conviction that Sibyl is to +be hung, and that the hanging will be in some measure her own work. +She has not forgotten that speech of her uncle’s about her having put +a rope round her sister’s neck. + +She looks at Sibyl piteously, her eyes brimming with tears, and the +corners of her mouth remorsefully depressed. + +‘I can’t help it, Sibyl,’ she whispers. ‘It isn’t my fault.’ + +‘Do you know the nature of an oath, my dear?’ asks the coroner. + +‘I know that it is very dreadful, and one mustn’t do it,’ replies the +tearful child. + +The question is explained to her, and the oath administered, and then +comes the ordeal. She is made to tell everything, reluctantly and +with many tears. She gives a detailed account of Sibyl’s visit to +the surgery, and her own remarks about the odour of bitter almonds. + +‘But I know why she took that horrid stuff,’ adds Jane. ‘It wasn’t to +poison uncle Trenchard, but to poison herself, poor dear thing, and I +know why she wanted to poison herself.’ + +‘Really, Mr. Coroner,’ interposes Joel, ‘if these childish +speculations are to be admitted as evidence----’ + +‘“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,”’ says the coroner, +gravely. ‘Let the little girl tell us her opinion. It can do no harm.’ + +‘I know that Sibyl was very unhappy,’ pursues Jane, eagerly. ‘Uncle +Trenchard wanted her to marry him,’ pointing to Joel. + +‘You must not point at people,’ says the coroner. ‘You must tell us +whom you mean.’ + +‘Well, then, Mr. Pilgrim. Uncle Trenchard wanted her to marry Mr. +Pilgrim, and she didn’t like him, and couldn’t have married him if +she had liked him, because she had a husband already, and there he +is,’ pointing to Alexis, ‘and how he can let his wife be taken +up for murder is more than I can understand,’ concludes Jane, +indignantly. + +‘And you think your sister may have taken that poison with an idea of +destroying herself?’ inquires the coroner. + +‘I’m almost sure she did.’ + +‘When we have done with these expressions of juvenile opinion I +suppose we shall pass on to actual evidence?’ says Joel, with a sneer. + +‘You and I are at one as to the object of this inquiry, I hope, Mr. +Pilgrim,’ replies the coroner, gravely. + +Mr. Levison asks more questions of Jenny, all tending to show Sibyl’s +distress of mind at the time of her abstracting the poison, and that +this distress was occasioned by her uncle’s endeavour to force her +into a marriage with his friend. + +‘It was quite dreadful at the last,’ says Jane. ‘Things were to be +huddled up anyhow. She was to be married after a few days’ notice, +without a single bridesmaid, or a wedding dress, or anything, and +then to go out to India. And she had a husband already, and so what +could she do but poison herself or run away?’ + +After this, Jenny is dismissed, and retires weeping. On the whole she +has made an impression in Sibyl’s favour, except upon some of the +feminine members of the audience, Mrs. Stormont in particular, who +whispers to Mrs. Groshen,-- + +‘That girl is a mass of deception;’ to which the banker’s wife nods +acquiescence, though not very clear as to whether ‘that girl’ means +Sibyl or Jenny. + +Sibyl keeps her seat meanwhile, pale but very calm. She gives +an upward look at her husband now and then in the course of the +proceedings, a look that is full of trustful affection, and which +goes straight to the heart of Sir Wilford Cardonnel, who surveys the +scene from the back of the crowd at the other side of the room. Sir +Wilford would give much to be in Mr. Secretan’s place, ay, although +that awful suspicion hung over his wife. The possibility of Sibyl’s +guilt has never entered his mind, although Phœbe and Lavinia have +been loud in their denunciations, and have gone so far as to say +that they saw ‘secret poisoner’ written upon Miss Faunthorpe’s +countenance while she was staying at the How. Loud will be their +self-congratulations and crowings by-and-bye when they hear that +this chosen of their brother’s was a married woman all the while, +and that poor Wilford has been deluded by a designing adventuress. +They are not present at this examination. They would not degrade +themselves by being interested in this business. It is all very +well for the town to be in a fever of curiosity. The county sits +aloof amidst its gardens and stables, and poor schools, and vested +interests, and can afford to let the topic of the day go by. + +After Jenny’s examination the coroner adjourns the inquiry, with a +view to obtaining additional evidence. But before this adjournment +the coroner and Mr. Levison talk confidentially together for +some minutes, and it is clear to every one present that the +additional evidence will be given by witnesses suggested by Mr. +Levison,--witnesses for the defence. + +The suspended inquiry closes somewhat abruptly as it seems to the +audience, and there is a sense of disappointment at this unfinished +condition of things. + +Alexis leaves the court full of anxiety, yet more hopeful than he +had been before the inquest. He has seen that curious change in Joel +Pilgrim’s countenance when pressed by Mr. Levison’s questions, and +he is convinced that Joel Pilgrim is in some manner concerned in the +murder. + +He accompanies Sibyl back to the jail, and then returns to the hotel +to meet his legal adviser, eager to know what Mr. Levison has to say +of the day’s work. + +‘Well,’ he asks as soon as they are closeted together, ‘what do you +think of Joel Pilgrim?’ + +‘I think he did the trick,’ replies Mr. Levison after one of his long +pauses, which are aggravating to a man as anxious as Alexis, ‘and I +think he’ll bolt.’ + +‘Bolt?’ + +‘Yes. Try to get out of the country. My questions hit him hard. He +sees the game is up. The case is simple enough. The old man wanted +to wring money out of him, a lump of money, and he was under the old +man’s thumb in some way. The old man could wind up his business--had +a bill of sale or partnership deed that gave him unlimited power, +and threatened to crush Pilgrim unless the money was forthcoming. And +not being able to get the money, Mr. Pilgrim took the easiest way out +of the difficulty by giving his partner a dose of prussic acid.’ + +‘He must have known that detection was inevitable.’ + +‘I’m not so sure of that. There’s a great deal of ignorance in this +enlightened age of ours. This man has been brought up in the East, +where crime of this kind is commoner and easier than it is here. He +may not be very well posted in English law or English customs. He +may have thought that in a sleepy little town like this Redcastle no +inquiry would have been made as to the cause of an old man’s death. +He was ailing and he died, and there an end; or he may have thought +that the death would have been put down to suicide; or, supposing him +to be a very bad lot, he may have intended from the outset to lay the +crime at your wife’s door. He knew of her possession of that prussic +acid.’ + +‘How do you know that?’ + +‘From her own lips, when I talked this matter over with her half an +hour before the inquest. She had shown him the bottle of poison, and +threatened to kill herself if he molested her with such attentions +as he might have thought he had a right to pay to his affianced +wife. She let him know that she had the poison in her possession, +and then in the hurry of her flight she forgot the existence of the +bottle, and left it, she does not remember where. It was found in her +work-basket, where no doubt he put it when he had used its contents.’ + +‘Might not just the same thing have been done by Podmore?’ + +‘How was Podmore to know that your wife had that bottle in her +possession? or granted that he did know it, I don’t see his motive.’ + +‘Servants have murdered their masters for the sake of plunder, or to +come into the possession of a legacy.’ + +‘True, but I don’t think Podmore is the man. I have had the two men +under my eye, and have taken my measure of both.’ + +‘What are we to do if Pilgrim makes a bolt?’ + +‘Stop him. I’ve taken measures for that already. I telegraphed to +Scotland Yard for a man I can depend upon. He came down by the first +train this morning, and Mr. Pilgrim is under that man’s surveillance. +He’ll play with him as a clever angler plays with his fish, and if +it’s to be done, he’ll land him. But we want the bolt to be decided, +we want Pilgrim to throw up the sponge. An attempt to get away may +help us to fix him with the fact, for you see the case is a very +difficult one. We have to get that prussic acid bottle, known to be +in your wife’s possession, transferred to the hands of Pilgrim. It’s +not enough for us to show that there was sufficient motive for his +putting the old man out of the way, we must show that he actually did +the deed.’ + +‘I don’t see how it is to be done,’ says Alexis despondingly. + +‘No more do I, just at present.’ + +‘Do you think the jury were favourably impressed as regards my wife +by to-day’s examination?’ + +‘Well, yes; I should say rather favourably than otherwise. Your wife +is very handsome, you see, and beauty has a great influence upon +juries. Then that little girl’s evidence, though it was awkward as +to the possession of the poison, was good in some points. Children +are capital witnesses if you work them carefully. They always excite +sympathy. The little girl suggested a motive for Mrs. Secretan’s +securing the poison--suicide--persecuted, unprotected, and so on. +That idea fits in with her flight from Redcastle. Yes, I think on the +whole the little girl’s evidence was good.’ + +It is seven o’clock by this time, and Mr. Levison is ready for his +dinner, a substantial fact in the day which he is not inclined to +ignore, even though a client’s life and fair name tremble in the +balance. The two gentlemen dine together, Alexis too anxious to eat, +a condition of things which Mr. Levison severely reproves. + +‘If you want to see your wife safely through this business you must +begin by taking care of yourself, Mr. Secretan,’ says the lawyer, +helping himself to a second supply of fish. ‘This salmon is the +finest I have ever eaten in this part of England. Try a little bit of +the back.’ + +But salmon cannot tempt Alexis, who is full of anxieties this evening. + +The post has just brought a letter from Dick, enclosing another from +Linda Challice, and telling him that the little boy has arrived at +the Grange. + +‘He’s a dear little fellow,’ writes Dick, ‘but he frets a good deal +about Miss Challice, and it’s as much as the maid-servant and I can +do to comfort him. We’ve found a pony for him, and we are teaching +him to ride up and down the meadow, which we find very consoling. He +laughs and enjoys himself very much during the ride, but when it is +all over he still cries for mammie. I am afraid that in the process +of consolation we have given him rather more strawberries and other +fruit than may be quite advisable. I dare say when you come back he +will speedily reconcile himself to his new home. He is to go and see +grandpapa Benfield on Sunday afternoon. Miss Challice has gone to the +south of France on a sketching tour. I dare say she has told you all +about it in her letter.’ + +This is rather startling news to receive at such a time. His boy at +home, Linda gone. He hastens to read her letter. + + ‘DEAR MR. SECRETAN, + + ‘A little quiet reflection has convinced me that you, and you + alone, have a right to the custody of my darling Trot. Providence + brought him to our home. Providence brought you there to claim + your own. What can I wish for him better than a happy home and + his father’s love? Parting with him is a wrench that must almost + break my heart, but the pain would be just the same let the + parting come when it might. Knowing this, I have made up my mind + to give him up at once, and send him to you this day. + + ‘In order that I may not feel the loss of my darling quite so + keenly as I must feel it if I stayed in the home that he has + brightened, I have determined to go abroad for a short time. I + am going to Cannes, to an old lady, an aunt of my father’s, who + keeps a boarding-house there. I shall be enabled to practise my + favourite art of landscape painting among strange scenes, and the + change will be altogether an advantage to me. Of course you will + understand that I shall not stay too long away from my dear old + grandfather. + + ‘Good-bye, dear Mr. Secretan; may my darling Trot be as happy as + I wish him, and a source of unfailing happiness to you. I shall + expect to see him grown quite a big boy when I come back to + Dorley. + + ‘Very sincerely yours, + ‘LINDA CHALLICE.’ + +Alexis folds up the letter with a sigh. So ends his brief romance +of Dorley Mill. That Linda has been dearer to him than she should +have been he knows but too well. That her heart has been touched by +some feeling warmer than pity for a helpless invalid he more than +half suspects; but he has never harboured one dishonourable feeling, +he has never cherished one guilty wish, and he feels that in thus +leaving Dorley for a little while Linda has shown herself as wise +as she is good. Pity for his wife’s most pitiable condition has +strangled that unpermitted love in its birth. He can think of Linda +now with a pathetic tenderness hardly akin to pain, as of one he has +loved and lost long ago. + +He answers Dick’s letter before he leaves the hotel, and gives him a +string of directions about Trot. The things that are to be done, and +the things that are to be left undone. No mother writing about her +firstborn could be more careful. He posts this letter himself on his +way to the jail. + +He spends a quiet hour with Sibyl, but says not a word about his boy. +He cannot bring himself to talk of Trot within those walls. It will +be time enough when Sibyl is free from this horrible suspicion, and +he can take her to Cheswold Grange. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI. + + THE PODMORES THINK OF EMIGRATION. + + +It is nine o’clock when Alexis leaves the prison, the latest hour to +which he can, by any stretch of authority, be allowed to remain. It +is a moonless night, with a drizzling rain, and the road is wet and +muddy. + +In going back to the ‘Coach and Horses’ he has to pass Lancaster +Lodge, and here something arrests his attention. It is a cab loaded +with boxes standing before the lodge gate. He sees this vehicle from +a little way off, and it has driven through the Bar before he reaches +the lodge door. + +He rings the bell sharply. + +‘Who is that just gone away in a cab?’ he asks. + +‘Mr. Podmore, sir, the butler,’ answers the woman at the lodge. + +‘Do you know where he is going?’ + +‘To the railway station, sir.’ + +‘Yes, of course. But where afterwards?’ + +‘I don’t know for certain, sir, but I think I heard Mrs. Podmore--she +came to pack her husband’s things--make mention of Liverpool. I +believe it’s his ’ome, sir.’ + +‘But his wife and children lived in this town, didn’t they? What do +you mean by Liverpool being his home?’ + +‘Yes, sir, they lived here, Podmore being in service here, but they +was only lodgers. I believe Liverpool is his ’ome when he is at ’ome.’ + +‘When does the train go?’ + +‘At half-past nine, sir.’ + +‘And where can I get a cab?’ + +‘None nearer than the “Coach and Horses.”’ + +‘Thanks.’ + +Alexis looks at his watch. There is just time for him to walk the +distance at his fastest, and he would rather trust his own legs than +wait for a fly to be got ready at the ‘Coach and Horses,’ always +a slow business. He is at the station just as the bell rings. The +platform is clear, no sign of Podmore or Podmore’s family. Alexis +runs along by the side of the carriages, catches a glimpse of the +Podmore household, almost snowed up in bandboxes and bundles, in a +second-class compartment, and then jumps into a carriage himself, +calling to a porter to get his ticket. There is no time to get a +ticket, and Alexis has to defer that operation till the next station. +He is hardly in the carriage when the train starts. At Krampston he +sees the Podmore troop struggling on the platform, a slatternly woman +in a trailing shawl with a frowsy bonnet hanging to the back of her +head, two bare-legged children hanging to the long shawl, Podmore, +hurried and excited, trying to do two things at once,--namely, to +look after his luggage, and to inquire what train he is to take for +Liverpool. + +‘Ten fifteen,’ gasps a guard, without looking at the enquirer, +‘second platform on the right, change at Wandlethorpe, change at +Spilbury.’ + +Alexis hears this, and follows the Podmore party at a respectful +distance. He waits to see Podmore take tickets for Liverpool, sees +him and his belongings safely shipped in another second-class +compartment, both children crying, and Mrs. Podmore frantic about +a missing bandbox, and then he hurries to the telegraph office and +sends the following message to Mr. Levison at the ‘Coach and Horses,’ +Redcastle:-- + + ‘Podmore is off to Liverpool with family. This looks like a bolt. + I am after him. Telegraph your instructions to the Washington + Hotel.’ + +This done, Mr. Secretan takes a second-class ticket for Liverpool, +and gets into the compartment adjoining that occupied by the +Podmores, whence come sounds of infantine wailing and wifely +remonstrance, and the husky tones of Podmore as if in pacification of +these avenging spirits. + +Wandlethorpe Junction at midnight is about as dismal a place as a +student of the hideous need care to behold. It is on the bank of an +inky canal, and coal barges and railway trucks seem to be mixed up in +hopeless entanglement. Huge cranes stand up in iron ugliness against +night’s purple sky. Sidings run off at impossible angles, and unknown +lines dip under bridges as if they would take the traveller into the +bowels of the earth. Lights are sparsely sprinkled on the gloom, +and what lamps there are have a lurid glare, suggestive of the under +world. + +Solitary engines block the anxious traveller’s way, and snort +defiance at him from their sonorous throats, as he tries to cross the +labyrinth of iron rails. The soil is coal-dust, and the atmosphere +smoke. In the horrible deeps of that infernal world which Dante saw +in his midway of life, this last and lowest horror of a railway +junction in the coal districts was wanting. + +Here, on a dark platform, Alexis is able to keep pretty close to the +Podmore family, who are too much occupied with their own affairs +to perceive that they are watched. Podmore consoles himself with +a tumbler of hot gin and water at the refreshment counter, and +gives the same balm to his wife; while the children, with solemn +sleepy faces, resolutely gnaw their way through buns of the most +indigestible order. + +There is half an hour to wait at Wandlethorpe, and then a journey +of an hour in the slowest of trains, through a coaly district, on +the border of a canal, brings them to Spilbury, where they arrive +in a chilly hour on the edge of night, and where they have again +to wait for another train to take them on to Liverpool. It is gray +morning when they arrive at that busy port, having wasted more time +at junctions than the actual journey has occupied, and having spent +more time altogether in the transit than would have been required for +a journey from Liverpool to London. + +The Podmore family have a weary look as they select their belongings +from the heterogeneous contents of the luggage van. The elder child +reposes on his father’s shoulder, the head of the younger infant +hangs helplessly across the mother’s arm. + +‘When does the _Horonoker_ sail?’ asks Podmore of a porter. + +‘’Merican steamer. Inquire at the office.’ + +‘I hope we’re in time,’ says Mrs. Podmore to her lord. ‘If we are +to go, the sooner we sail the better. We shan’t do no good dragging +about here, spending money in a strange place.’ + +‘_Oronoko_,’ says a man of seafaring aspect, who has just possessed +himself of a huge green chest, ‘_Oronoko_ for New York. You’d best +look sharp if you’re going in her, mate; she sails at ten o’clock +this morning.’ + +‘Ten o’clock?’ echoes Podmore, ‘then there’s time enough to get a bit +of breakfast, anyhow.’ + +‘And I’m that faint I’m ready to drop,’ adds his wife, plaintively. +‘Such dragging about as we’ve gone through, I never did. I feel as if +I’d been travellin’ for a week at a stretch--and as dizzy in my poor +head----’ + +‘Hold your jaw!’ says Podmore, sternly; ‘there never was such a woman +to whine. You’re wuss than the childring.’ + +Podmore arranges with a porter for the conveyance of his boxes, +inquires for a decent coffee-house at which he may breakfast, and +then leaves the station, his wife straggling after him, clutching a +child with one arm and a bandbox with the other, and trailing her +gown through the Liverpudlian mud, which is a compound _sui generis_, +and a little worse than anything to be found at the east end of +London. + +Alexis follows the family party to a side street near the station, +and into a coffee-house, in whose dusky window three empty +breakfast-cups, a stale muffin, two yellow-looking eggs, and a plate +of watercress are suggestive of the temperate refreshment to be +obtained within. + +Mr. Podmore is just seating himself at a table in a corner, when +Alexis taps him on the shoulder. + +‘I think you’d better have a private room, Mr. Podmore,’ he says, +‘for I want a little chat with you while you are eating your +breakfast.’ + +Podmore stares with a bewildered air. + +‘Did you ring, sir?’ he asks, and then recalling his scattered +senses, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, I haven’t the honour of your +acquaintance.’ + +‘Oh yes, you have, Mr. Podmore, and you’ll know more of me before +we’ve done with each other. Waiter, can we have a private room?’ asks +Alexis, appealing to a sleepy youth in a white apron, who is making +a good deal of unnecessary clatter with some cups and saucers in the +endeavour to keep himself awake. + +‘Yes, sir, convenient room upstairs, families and private parties. +This way, sir.’ + +‘Now then, Mr. Podmore,’ says Alexis. + +‘But really!’ remonstrates Podmore. + +Alexis half pushes him up the stairs, following close upon his heels. +The wife follows, dragging her children after her. When they are all +safe inside the room, Alexis turns to the waiter and whispers,-- + +‘Go and fetch the cleverest police officer in Liverpool, and let him +wait outside this door till I want him. I’ll take care of you if you +look sharp about it.’ + +‘I’m fly,’ answers the youth, brightening at the prospect of +excitement and remuneration. ‘Case of ’bezzlement, I suppose, sir? +I’ll get you the right kind of man in a quarter of an hour, if you +can keep your party quiet till then.’ + +‘Ham and eggs and coffee for four,’ says Alexis, aloud, as he enters +the private room--a musty den redolent of the meals that have been +consumed within the last month. The atmosphere without not being much +purer than the atmosphere within, opening the window to admit fresh +air is but a choice of evils. + +‘Now, sir,’ says Podmore, plucking up his spirit, and assuming a +defiant air, ‘may I ask by what authority you take me and my family +in hand, and order us up to this here room----’ + +‘For which we shall have to pay hextra,’ interjects Mrs. Podmore, +shrill with indignation. + +‘And ordering of our breakfastes.’ + +‘’Am and eggs is no choice of mine,’ protests Mrs. Podmore. ‘If +they’re in, I would rather have a Yarmouth bloater.’ + +‘Who are you, sir, may I ask, to take all this upon yourself?’ +inquires Podmore, finally. + +‘I’ll tell you, Mr. Podmore. I am the husband of a lady you know +something about; a lady you have known as Miss Sibyl Faunthorpe. That +lady has been accused most unjustly of being concerned in the murder +of her uncle, and what I am here to do is to find the murderer.’ + +‘You won’t find him here,’ shrieks Mrs. Podmore; at which maternal +outburst the two children set up their loudest wail, the youngest +crying his hardest with all his fingers in his mouth, and his +innocent nose streaming sympathetically. + +‘I don’t know anything about the murderer,’ says Podmore, doggedly. + +‘Oh yes, you do,’ replies Alexis, resolutely. ‘You know so much that +you are either a principal or an accomplice. That is why you have +left Redcastle, stealthily, under cover of night, although bound to +appear as a witness at the adjourned inquest. That is why you are +on your way to America. And let me tell you, Mr. Podmore, that an +accessory before the fact is a principal; and that if you knew that +this deed was to be done, and stood by while it was done----’ + +‘I didn’t. I didn’t know it. I was as innocent as that baby there.’ + +‘Then why have you tried to get away? Come, Mr. Podmore, if your +share in this work is not that of a principal, if you can clear +yourself from actual participation in the crime, or consent to it, +the best thing you can do is to make a clean breast of it. Help me to +prove my wife’s innocence, and I’ll stand your friend through thick +and thin.’ + +‘I may have better friends than you,’ grumbles Podmore, with a dogged +air,--‘friends as willing to help me, and better able to do it.’ + +‘Yes,’ cries Alexis at a venture, ‘such a friend as Mr. Pilgrim, who +gave you the money to go to New York, who wants to get you out of the +way, who poisoned Stephen Trenchard with your knowledge and consent.’ + +The bow drawn at a venture has sent its shaft home. Alexis can +see that in the butler’s face. Mrs. Podmore sits by open-eyed, +open-mouthed, horror depicted in her countenance. Whatever the +butler’s secret may be, it is evident that his wife has not shared it. + +‘Not with my knowledge, nor yet with my consent,’ cries Podmore, +affrightedly. + +‘But he did it, and you knew that he did it,--after the fact, +perhaps, in which case you’d better turn Queen’s evidence. Come, Mr. +Podmore, your only chance lies in candour. This attempt to get away +from the country is in itself enough to condemn you. You had access +to your master all through the night. You gave him his medicine. Who +so likely as you to have given the fatal dose? Come, I have a police +officer waiting outside this door with a warrant for your arrest.’ + +‘Run and look outside, Liz; this here’s only bluster,’ says Podmore; +but before his wife can reach the door Alexis has turned the key and +put it into his pocket. + +‘Neither you nor your wife leave this room till you’ve told me all +you know about Stephen Trenchard’s death.’ + +‘Podmore,’ cries the wife, distractedly, ‘what have you been and +done? What disgrace and trouble have you gone and brought on your +innocent wife and children? This is all along of drink, Podmore. I +always said you’d bring us to the workhouse, but I didn’t suppose +you’d bring yourself to the scaffold.’ + +‘Hold your noise, you lunatical idiot!’ roars Podmore. ‘I’ve done +nothing to bring me to harm, but I may know somethink about them that +have.’ + +‘Remember that to help or comfort a murderer, or to conceal his +crime, is to become an accessory after the fact, Mr. Podmore,’ says +Alexis. + +‘Tell what you know, Podmore, and clear yourself,’ cries the wife, +clasping her hands. ‘Clear yourself, and clear your innocent wife and +children. I never did like the looks of this sudden scuffling of +us off to New York. It’s all very well to emigrant, but I like to +emigrant at my leisure. Not a thing fit to put on me or the children +is there in them boxes, and not so much as a bottle of Daffy for +baby. A nice thing to have this blessed innocent in convulsions with +his teeth on board ship, and me that seasick I couldn’t do nothink +for him.’ + +‘Hold your tongue, Liza,’ exclaims the ex-butler testily. ‘Come now,’ +he says, turning to Alexis, ‘if I tell what I’ve got to tell am I to +be kept clear of the law?’ + +‘Yes, if it’s in my power, or in the power of Levison and Levison to +clear you.’ + +‘And what am I to get for standing by you and helping you to clear +your wife--Miss Sibyl Faunthorpe that was.’ + +‘Everything.’ + +‘That ain’t definite enough for me. I want five hundred pounds to set +me up in the public line. Hang New York! I ain’t going to be pitched +and tossed across the Atlantic if I can get myself comfortably +provided for at home. Give me a written undertaking to pay me five +hundred pounds if I get your wife clear off. Take me round to a +lawyer’s office, and do it all in legal form, _scundem hartem_, as a +master of mine used to say, and I’ll go back to Redcastle with you +and bear the brunt of having kept something back as I ought to have +told. I expect I shall get a twelvemonth for it, but I shan’t so much +mind that if I’ve got a snug bit of capital to fall back upon.’ + +‘Podmore!’ shrieks the wife. + +‘You shan’t go to prison if Levison and Levison can get you off +scot-free,’ says Alexis. ‘And now we’d better get back to Redcastle +as fast as we can, and the agreement can be drawn up there by Mr. +Levison.’ + +‘Oh, come now, when you’ve got me back you won’t care about the +agreement. I’m not such a fool as to walk into a trap of that sort.’ + +‘If you don’t come of your own free will, you’ll have to come in +custody,’ replies Alexis, firmly. ‘It wasn’t an empty threat of mine +about the police officer. He’s outside.’ + +He has heard a firm foot on the stair. He turns the key, opens the +door a little way, and looks out. Yes, there stands the officer, +steady as a rock. + +‘The gentleman outside is ready to take you into custody, Podmore,’ +says Alexis, ‘unless you accept my offer and come back quietly with +me. As a proof of good faith, I am prepared to hand you fifty pounds, +on account of the five hundred.’ + +He produces his purse and takes out a bank note for fifty pounds. He +had written to his bankers for a supply of ready cash on the day of +his arrival at Redcastle, knowing that the sinews of war would be +needed at this juncture. + +The sight of the crisp new note, and of the officer waiting outside, +has a wonderful effect upon Podmore. He looks at his wife dubiously, +contemplates his children, whose tears have been dried by their +mother’s judicious administration of peppermint rock, and who are now +engaged in looking out of the window, and printing impressions of +their sticky paws upon the dingy glass. + +‘I don’t want to go to New York, no more don’t she,’ he says, with a +jerk of his head towards his wife; ‘but we’ve sent all our traps on +board, and it’ll be very awkward----’ + +‘All awkwardness can be got over by the expenditure of a pound or +two. Here are five sovereigns for Mrs. Podmore. She can see to the +recovery of the luggage, and bring it back to Redcastle by a later +train. We had better catch the next that starts.’ + +The golden coin has a pacifying effect upon Mrs. Podmore’s nerves. +She takes the sovereigns up one by one, and turns them over, rings +them on the table, and finally engulfs them in a greasy-looking +leather purse. + +Podmore is thoughtful, but consentient. Alexis says a few words to +the officer, and that functionary accompanies Mr. Secretan and his +charge to the railway station, sees them comfortably into their +carriage, and there leaves them, satisfied with the modest honorarium +which Alexis slips into his palm at the last moment. + +The train once started, Alexis feels quite capable of dealing with +Mr. Podmore single-handed. + + + + + CHAPTER XVII. + + COMMITTED FOR TRIAL. + + +The adjourned inquiry is again resumed before the coroner, two days +after the return of Alexis from Liverpool, with his companion the +butler, whom he has contrived to keep snugly hidden under Robert +Faunthorpe’s roof, where Podmore, his wife and children, have been +boarded and lodged, and kept in custody by the faithful Hester, who +watches her charges as a cat watches a mouse. + +‘Remember you are not one of you to put so much as your noses out +of doors till I come for you,’ says Alexis, impressively; ‘not a +creature in Redcastle is to know of your return till the right +moment!’ + +‘As long as I have my meals regular I’m satisfied,’ replies Podmore, +‘I never was a prowler about the streets.’ + +So the Podmore family occupy the kitchen at Dr. Faunthorpe’s, and +no one outside the doctor’s house knows anything about these extra +inmates. + +Alexis and Mr. Levison have crossed each other on the railroad, +and that gentleman has returned from a bootless journey to the +‘Washington,’ considerably out of temper. He has reconciled himself, +however, to this wasted expedition in finding what his client has +done. + +Joel Pilgrim is still at the ‘Coach and Horses’ where he lives +well, and seems to enjoy life. He plays billiards and makes himself +eminently agreeable to the youth of Redcastle, Fred Stormont +included; but he complains loudly of his detention in the town, on +account of this sad business of his old friend’s mysterious death, +while his own affairs need his presence in Calcutta. + +‘This dawdling old coroner may drag the inquiry out for the next +month,’ he says, ‘and at last arrive at the conclusion that my poor +friend was poisoned by some person or persons unknown. I don’t see +that there’s evidence enough to bring the crime home to that poor +girl, and it seems a hard thing that a young and lovely woman should +be placed in such a position.’ + +Frederick sighs, and shakes his head, and shrugs his shoulders. + +‘It is hard,’ he says, ‘and I’ve positively worshipped that girl, +you know--devoted myself to her quite awfully. And now to find that +there was a husband in the background all the while. Shows a want of +candour, you know.’ + +‘Proves an artful disposition certainly,’ replies Mr. Pilgrim, ‘but +if every artful young woman took to disposing of people with prussic +acid there’d be an alarming decrease in the population.’ + +‘True,’ says Fred. ‘Well, I’m sure I hope she didn’t do it, poor +thing. But I’m sorry to say the opinion of the town is against her.’ + +He says this with an air which implies that to be condemned by public +opinion in Redcastle is to have received sentence from a supreme +tribunal, and to be found guilty at a bar from which there is no +court of appeal. + +‘I really feel for her, you know,’ says Fred, as he prostrates +himself upon the green cloth to aim at a distant ball, ‘but the town +thinks badly of the case. She had the poison in her possession, you +know, and she ran away, you know. It’s difficult to avoid making +four out of two such twos.’ + +‘Looks suspicious, certainly,’ replies Mr. Pilgrim. + +‘As far as the running away goes, she might have done that to avoid +marrying you, certainly,’ says Fred, reflectively. + +‘That would have been a very childish proceeding,’ answers Joel; ‘she +had only to tell me the truth, and all question of marriage would +have been at an end.’ + +‘But women do odd things sometimes, you know. They’re apt to get +wrong in their heads when they’re frightened.’ + +‘I don’t think Sibyl is that sort of girl; she must have been a very +cool hand to come here to her uncle--the wife of a man whose name he +detested, and pass herself off as a single woman, and play her cards +to inherit a fortune.’ + +‘True,’ says Frederick, despondently, and his opinion of Sibyl is a +little worse than it was before Mr. Pilgrim undertook her defence. + +It is just possible that Mr. Pilgrim would not remain at Redcastle +quite so patiently were it not for a suspicion on his part that +a certain shabby little man in black, who hangs about the public +rooms of the hotel, and spends a good deal of his time in the hall +and porch, and contrives always to be in the way when Mr. Pilgrim +goes out, nay, even happens to have business or pleasure that takes +him exactly the same way, has been set as a watch upon somebody’s +movements, and that any attempt to hasten his intended journey to +Calcutta might be attended with unpleasant consequences. Whatever +perils may surround Mr. Pilgrim’s path will be best overcome by a +calm adherence to his present policy, or at least so argues that +gentleman; and he quietly awaits the conclusion of the examination in +which his evidence is required. + +On this bright summer morning the same crowd is again gathered in the +well-known assembly-room--a room famous for town and county balls, +for concerts, and fancy fairs, and other local festivities, but +affording a scene of more absorbing interest to-day than the most +aristocratic of dances or charity bazaars. + +Mrs. Stormont is there again, with her constant ally Mrs. Groshen, +wearing the same veils and bonnets, and seated in the same sheltered +corner near the reporter’s table. There is Mr. Levison sitting near +the Coroner, with that Memnon’s head of his, stony and inexpressive, +but certainly not given to melodious breathings at sunrise or any +other time. There sits Sibyl, pale as marble, and calm as a statue, +her husband standing behind her chair. + +To-day there are fresh witnesses to be examined--so runs the rumour, +and there is an eager curiosity about these new witnesses and the +evidence they may give. + +The first witness called is Bathsheba Skinner, spinster, lately cook +and housekeeper in the employment of the deceased. + +‘What can that woman have to say about the case?’ mutters Joel +Pilgrim to Colonel Stormont, who is standing next him. + +‘Not much, I should think, unless she poisoned him in one of her +curries,’ replies the colonel; ‘doocid good curries they were.’ + +Bathsheba Skinner is sworn, and stands up before the assembly, +vinegar-faced, but eminently respectable, with black kid gloves, +a trifle too long in the fingers, on her industrious hands, and a +pictorial brooch a little smaller than a cheese-plate clasping her +rusty black lace shawl. + +‘You were in the habit of preparing all nourishment that was taken up +to Mr. Trenchard’s room;’ says the coroner after a few preliminary +questions, ‘broths, arrowroot, and so on.’ + +‘Yes, sir, I did it all with my own hands. There was many things I +might have left to the kitchenmaid, but I felt it was my duty to see +to it myself. There was not a thing in the way of beef tea, or jelly, +or tapioca, or arrowroot, that went up to Mr. Trenchard which was not +prepared by my own hands. + +‘And are you sure that nothing of a poisonous nature entered into any +of these things?’ + +‘As sure as I am that I’m alive, sir.’ + +‘Come, you may have used essences to flavour your jelly, or your +tapioca. Essential oil of almonds, or at any rate essence of almonds. +That is a favourite flavouring with cooks, and a dangerous one. +Didn’t you use essence of almonds to flavour Mr. Trenchard’s jelly?’ + +‘I hadn’t a drop in the house, sir. I never have held with such +stuff. When I want almond flavouring I use the best Jordans at two +shillings a pound, but I know my business better than to use almond +flavouring of any kind for an invalid. Invalid cookery can’t be too +simple.’ + +‘You did not even use bitter almonds, or ratafia, peach kernels, or +anything of that kind?’ + +‘No, sir.’ + +‘You slept on the same floor as Podmore, the butler, I believe?’ + +‘Yes, sir, my room was next to his.’ + +‘Did you hear anything remarkable, any unusual stir or movement,--in +short, anything at all out of the common course in Podmore’s room +or on the stairs leading to Podmore’s room during the night of your +master’s death?’ + +‘Well, sir, I did hear something which struck me at the time as +curious, and yet it might mean nothing. I mentioned it afterwards to +Podmore, and he put me down----.’ + +‘You mustn’t tell us what you said to Podmore, or how he answered +you. That isn’t evidence. We want to know what you heard on the +night of the 23rd of June.’ + +‘Well, sir, I am a light sleeper at all times, and perhaps I was +extra wakeful on that night on account of the wedding that was fixed +for next day. It was to be quite a quiet wedding, and there was no +breakfast ordered, but I’d cooked a tongue and a pair of fowls, and +made a jelly and a cream or two, and boiled a bit of salmon for +a mayonnaise, and got everything in order to put a pretty little +luncheon on the table, and the fag and worry of that had over-tired +me, so that I got very little sleep. It was broad daylight, and I was +just dropping off, when I heard Podmore get up and go down stairs in +his creaky slippers. “He’s gone down to give master his medicine,” +says I to myself; “I won’t try to go to sleep no more till he comes +up again or else he’ll be startling me just as I’m dropping off +comfortable again. He won’t be gone above five minutes.” Well, I +waited and waited but instead of being gone five minutes as usual, it +was a good half-hour before Podmore came upstairs again.’ + +‘Did you look at your watch?’ asks a precise juryman. + +‘Lor, no, sir, but I can guess a half-hour as well as any one. I’ve +got into the way of it over my roasting; a good cook knows the value +of time. It was a full half-hour before Podmore came up, and then he +came up ever so slowly, holding to the baluster, and his footstep +was as heavy as lead. And when he got into his room he flung himself +down on his bed, and gave a groan. “What was the matter with you +last night?” I asked him at breakfast-time. At first he didn’t seem +as if he understood what I meant, but when I told him I’d heard him +groaning, he said he’d had an attack of spasms, and he’d been down to +the pantry to look for some mustard for a poultice. I didn’t think +much more of it after that, and an hour later the house was all upset +by my master’s death. But I’ve thought of it since many times.’ + +‘Do you know what time it was when Podmore went down stairs?’ + +‘It was a few minutes after five. I’d heard the stable clock strike +a little before. And I took particular notice on account of its being +just an hour late for Mr. Trenchard’s medicine, for four o’clock was +the hour at which he ought to have took it.’ + +‘There was nothing else you remarked that night.’ + +‘No sir.’ + +‘I think that will do.’ + +‘I beg your pardon,’ interposes Mr. Levison, ‘I should like to ask +the witness one or two questions.--Pray will you be kind enough, Mrs. +Skinner, to tell the jury of a conversation which you heard outside +Mr. Trenchard’s door on the last evening but one before his death?’ + +‘I did certainly overhear a conversation, sir.’ + +‘What can any such conversation, or any eavesdropping whatever, have +to do with the question at issue,’ cries Joel Pilgrim, livid with +anger or fear. The change in his countenance is noticed by every +one, just as the less marked change during the last examination was +noticed by a few. + +‘We shall see how far the conversation is relevant, sir,’ replies the +coroner, ‘when Mrs. Skinner has answered Mr. Levison’s question.’ + +‘I did hear a conversation, sir, between my master and Mr. Pilgrim,’ +says Mrs. Skinner, with a vindictive look at Joel, ‘but I was not +eavesdropping. I’ve lived too long in the best of families to be +an eavesdropper, or to be suspected of being such by any gentleman +calling himself a gentleman. What I heard that night I heard +promiscuous, and I stayed to hear no more than reached my ears +promiscuous as I went past Mr. Trenchard’s door.’ + +Mrs. Skinner goes on to relate the conversation which she had +described to Alexis on his visit to Lancaster Lodge. + +‘Gentlemen,’ cries Joel, vehemently, ‘this is an abominable +fabrication, prompted by some hidden influence. No such conversation +took place. My----Mr. Trenchard held no such threat over me. Mrs. +Skinner must have been a long time crossing the landing to hear all +this, gentlemen of the jury. I tell you that she could not have heard +it in that time, she did not hear it at any time; but she invented +it, or it has been invented for her----’ + +‘Mr. Pilgrim, I really cannot allow this,’ says the coroner. + +‘You will better appreciate Mr. Pilgrim’s warmth when you have heard +the next witness,’ says Mr. Levison. + +A faint flush of colour warms Sibyl’s marble cheek. She feels as if +light were coming swiftly through the gloom. Her husband has told +her nothing, except to trust in Providence and in him. She has so +trusted, and those quiet monotonous days in Redcastle jail are the +most peaceful days she has known since she fled from Dixon Street and +poverty more than three years ago. + +Joel Pilgrim looks intently to the other end of the room, watching +for the appearance of that witness of whom Mr. Levison has spoken. He +starts, and the leaden hue of his countenance takes a more death-like +shade when some one calls ‘Joseph Podmore!’ + +Podmore advances to the little railed-off space which has been made +for the witnesses. He is very pale, and is evidently nervous; but he +is perfectly sober. + +‘Now, Mr. Podmore,’ says Levison, when a few questions, chiefly +repetitive, have been asked by the coroner, ‘will you be good enough +to state what happened within your knowledge on the night of Mr. +Trenchard’s death?’ + +The ex-butler rubs his hands nervously, looks round the assembly, +shifts his balance from one foot to the other, coughs dubiously, and +then begins,-- + +‘Gentlemen of the jury, and your worship, I am about to make a +statement which I ought to have made before. It has preyed upon my +mind havin’ kep’ it back; but I am a pore man, with a young fambly +dependent upon my exertions in service. I was ackshally on my way to +New York, gentlemen of the jury and your honour, and had got as far +on my voyage as Liverpool, when the facks in question preyed upon +my mind to that degree that I felt I must come back to this town to +reveal them. I hope this will plead in my faviour, your worship and +gentlemen of the jury, if there is any irregularity in my not having +made this revelation sooner.’ + +‘The man is drunk or mad!’ cries Joel, savagely. + +‘The man is sober to-day, Mr. Pilgrim,’ says the coroner. ‘Go on, Mr. +Podmore.’ + +‘The statement I have to make relates to the night of my master’s +death, the night of June 23rd. I was an hour late, gentlemen, on that +night in going downstairs to give my master his medicine. I had slep’ +extra heavy, and it was five o’clock instead of four when I woke. +I went down as usual. The house was very quiet; but I took notice +that the door of Mr. Pilgrim’s bedroom--the secondary door opening +on to the landing--stood ajar. So, thinks I, Mr. Pilgrim is with my +master, perhaps he has given the old gentleman his medicine. I wasn’t +so much surprised as I might have been at Mr. Pilgrim being astir so +early, for he always was early. It was one of his Indian ways. Well, +gentlemen of the jury, I goes to my master’s door, and when I puts +my hand against it, the door opens a little way, without any noise; +for the locks at Lancaster Lodge are old-fashioned box locks, and +the catches give way, so that half your time though a door looks to +be shut it’s not really fastened. The door gave way to my hand, and +I looked in. Mr. Trenchard was sitting up in bed, and Mr. Pilgrim +was opening a bottle of soda water on the dressing-table. I saw him +pour some of the soda water into a tumbler, and then I saw him, quick +as lightning, pour something out of a bottle in his other hand. As +I live, gentlemen of the jury, it didn’t strike me at that moment +that there was any harm. I thought it was some kind of medicine or +drops, like choraldyne, or choral, or some of those new-fangled +oppiates, and I didn’t feel myself called on to interfere. There was +no time for me to turn it over in my mind, you see; there wasn’t a +moment between Mr. Pilgrim’s pouring the stuff into the glass and +his handing the glass to my master. Mr. Trenchard drank it off at +a draught. It weren’t above a third of a bottle of soda water. He +sat for an instant bolt upright, his eyes straining out of his head +and glassy; then he gave one long gasp, and fell back on his pillow +purple in the face, as if you’d clutched him by the throat and +strangled him. I rushed into the room, and lifted him up in my arms. +I thought at first he was in a fit; but when I stooped over him I +smelt a sharp strong smell like bitter almonds, and then I knew it +was prussic acid. “What have you given him?” I asked. But Mr. Pilgrim +made no answer. “You’ve killed him,” I said, and then he told me that +it was accident. He had taken the wrong bottle. He had taken a bottle +of prussic acid which Mr. Trenchard kept in his medicine-chest, +among other drugs, instead of choral. He seemed in a dreadful state +of mind. I couldn’t help feeling for him. Who could tell whether it +wasn’t accident? and, if it was, anybody might have found theirselves +in the same position.’ + +‘Spare us your reflections, if you please,’ says the coroner. ‘Had +your master any medicine-chest in his room?’ + +‘Yes, there was a small box, with about half a dozen bottles in +partitions.’ + +‘Do you know one of these bottles to have contained prussic acid in +any form whatever?’ + +‘I can’t say that I do, your worship. There was hartshorn, and +caddleput oil, and tincter of rhubub, and such like.’ + +‘You have named three bottles out of the half-dozen,’ says the +coroner. + +Mr. Levison whispers into his ear. + +‘Yes, that would be best,’ says the coroner, and he beckons one of +the men in attendance and despatches him on some errand. + +‘Did Mr. Pilgrim offer you money to hold your tongue about what you +had seen?’ asks the coroner. + +Podmore fences with this question for a little, but ends by +confessing that Joel Pilgrim did offer him money; that he gave him +twenty pounds on the spot, and promised to provide for him hereafter. +He further admits that Joel had instigated him to emigrate to +America, and had given him neither rest nor peace till he had made +all arrangements for his departure. Mr. Pilgrim had paid his passage +on board the _Oronoko_. + +By the time this question is settled the man who has been sent +out by the coroner returns, carrying a small mahogany case, with +brass plates at the corners, an old-fashioned case divided into six +compartments, each containing a small square bottle of very thick +glass. + +These bottles the coroner takes out one by one, examines them, and +exhibits them to the jury. The six bottles contain hartshorn, sal +volatile, opium, tincture of rhubarb, cajeput oil, and syrup of +squills. + +Each bottle is carefully labelled with a label in Stephen Trenchard’s +handwriting pasted on the glass. + +‘Gentlemen,’ says the coroner, ‘I think we have now arrived at a +stage in this inquiry when a further adjournment will be necessary. +It will be as well to give time for the inquiry which is going on +before the magistrate.’ + +There is a little consultation, and the jury are dismissed. + +White to the very lips, Joel Pilgrim turns to Colonel Stormont with a +contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. + +‘Was there ever anything so absurd as the manner of this inquiry?’ +he asks. ‘There is actually a premium offered for perjury! This man, +Secretan, has had ample time to bribe any number of false witnesses. +What more easy than for him to get up this story, and pay the +housekeeper and butler for perjuring themselves?’ + +Colonel Stormont makes no reply. He feels rather uncomfortable in Mr. +Pilgrim’s neighbourhood after the butler’s evidence. The story may be +a tissue of lies, woven by Sibyl’s husband; but, on the other hand, +it is as likely to be true--and that dark face of Joel Pilgrim’s +tells strange tales. + +There is a general move towards the door. Mr. Pilgrim is about to +pass out with the rest, when a hand is laid upon his shoulder, and +Mr. Judbury, the detective officer, takes possession of him. + +‘What do you mean by this?’ asks Joel, indignantly. + +‘Only that I have a warrant for your apprehension under suspicion of +being concerned in the murder of Mr. Trenchard,’ replies Judbury, +coolly. ‘I’ve had my eye upon you for a good time; but it’s always +foolish to hurry these things, and if we’d hurried you we shouldn’t +have had Podmore’s attempt to get away to New York, which brought +matters to what I call a focus. Come along, sir, I’ve got a fly +outside. You may just as well come quietly.’ + +And Joel submits, knowing quite enough about English law and English +customs to be aware that anything in the way of resistance would be +worse than useless. He shrugs his shoulders, and affects to take the +matter lightly, though those white lips and haggard eyes of his give +the lie to his assumed carelessness. + +‘If your Redcastle magistrates choose to take me into custody on a +fabricated charge, they do it at their own peril,’ he says, loud +enough for those round him to hear. ‘I shall make them pay as heavily +for their pig-headed folly as the law will enable me.’ + +‘Step inside, sir,’ says Mr. Judbury; ‘you shall have plenty of law, +free, gratis, for nothing.’ + +The fly drives off, and Joel makes his entrance for the first time +under that mediæval archway whose gates were opened just a week ago +to admit Sibyl. + +There is a further examination before the magistrates next day. The +same witnesses repeat the same evidence. Mr. Levison cross-questions, +and is unusually active. Joel Pilgrim sits in the seat of the +accused, side by side with Sibyl. He is defended--or rather, the +case is watched for him--by a rival of Mr. Levison’s, a gentleman +equal in renown in the criminal courts. Further details are extorted +from Podmore under this cross-firing of interrogation; but Joel +Pilgrim’s solicitor strives in vain to shake one iota of his +testimony. If this be perjury, there never was a more accomplished +perjurer, or a false witness that held more firmly to the lesson he +had learnt. + +When the examination of witnesses is concluded Mr. Levison addresses +the magistrates, and urges that his client shall be dismissed without +a stain upon her character. + +The magistrates confer together, and agree that there is not +sufficient evidence to connect Sibyl Secretan with the murder, and +that she may therefore be set at liberty. + +This being done, Mr. Levison suggests that she shall be placed in the +witness-box, and examined as to her possession of the prussic acid. + +Pale, and trembling a little, Sibyl takes the necessary oath upon the +small black book, and waits to answer the magistrate’s questions. + +‘You have heard your sister’s evidence as to your abstraction of the +prussic acid from the bottle in your uncle’s surgery?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Do you admit the truth of that statement?’ + +‘Yes. I was in great distress of mind at the time, and I thought if +there were no other way out of my troubles I might destroy myself. I +do not say that I meant to do such a wicked thing. I only considered +it as a means of release from my difficulties--open to me at the very +last extremity.’ + +‘And you took the prussic acid with that idea?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘You had no other design whatever in taking it?’ + +‘None whatever.’ + +‘Did Mr. Pilgrim know that you had this poison in your possession?’ + +‘He did.’ + +‘How did that happen?’ + +‘Am I obliged to answer this question?’ asks Sibyl. + +‘Yes, it is positively necessary for you to tell us everything +relating to your possession of this prussic acid.’ + +‘It had been arranged by my uncle Trenchard that Mr. Pilgrim and I +were to be married. My uncle did not know that I was married already. +He had a prejudice against my husband’s family, and I had been so +foolish as to keep my marriage secret from him. Mr. Pilgrim went to +York to obtain the licence, and we were to have been married on the +Saturday, the day on which I left Lancaster Lodge. I made up my mind +to run away at the last rather than to tell Mr. Trenchard about my +marriage. It was a cowardly act, I dare say, but I had deceived him +so long that I feared his anger on hearing the truth.’ + +‘How does this bear upon Mr. Joel Pilgrim’s knowing about the prussic +acid?’ + +‘I am coming to that. It was on the night of his return from York +with the marriage licence. He came up to my little sitting-room late +that night, between ten and eleven, and told me about the licence. He +had been dining, and he seemed in very high spirits.’ + +‘Do you mean that he was intoxicated?’ + +‘Oh no, he was only a little more excited than usual. He talked a +good deal about our marriage, and for the first time in his life he +tried to kiss me. I showed him the prussic acid bottle, and told him +that I would sooner poison myself than let him touch my lips. He was +very angry, and he told me that prussic acid was a dangerous thing +for a woman to carry about her, and that I was playing with edged +tools.’ + +‘Did he take the bottle from you?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘What became of the bottle after that?’ + +‘I really can’t tell. My intention was to put it back into my pocket, +but I was very much flurried at this time. I may have left it on +the table among the books and other things. There were a great many +things on the table.’ + +‘When did you miss the bottle?’ + +‘Not till I was in London, when it recurred to my memory. I searched +my pocket for it, but it was not to be found.’ + +‘Were you wearing the same dress you had on upon the evening when you +showed Mr. Pilgrim the bottle?’ + +‘Yes. It is the dress I am wearing now.’ + +This is all. The inquiry is again adjourned. + +The inquiry before the coroner is concluded next day, the verdict +wilful murder against Joel Pilgrim. The inquiry before the +magistrates is concluded the day after by Joel Pilgrim’s committal +for trial, on the capital charge. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + + ‘A DARK TALE DARKLY FINISHED.’ + + +Sibyl is free once more. She has been in durance scarcely a +fortnight, yet it is a new thing for her to come out into the light +of day, and feel that she is at liberty to go where she pleases. It +is a wondrous and a strange relief to know that the awful suspicion +which has been hanging over her, separating her from all the rest +of the world, is removed. But her first anxiety is to escape from +Redcastle. The place has become hateful to her. She knows that the +eyes of those who once flattered and courted her have been turned +upon her in cold unpitying curiosity, that of all her summer friends +not one has remained true to her in the hour of adversity, and she is +eager to get beyond ken of those cold hard faces, beyond the sound +of those false voices, which have spoken her fairly in the day of +prosperity, and kept silence when she had need of comfort. + +‘I have no one but you, Alex,’ she says humbly; ‘no one but you and +dear old uncle Robert. I wonder that you are both so good to me.’ + +She goes straight from the court to Dr. Faunthorpe’s house, and is +curiously gentle and affectionate in her demeanour to her uncle and +the two girls. Marion plunges into vehement hysterics at sight of +her elder sister, and on recovering from that attack embraces Sibyl +warmly, and is more demonstrative of sisterly affection than she has +been for a long time. She is far more kindly disposed towards Sibyl, +penniless, and the mark of the world’s scorn, than she ever felt +towards the supposed heiress to Stephen Trenchard’s wealth. As for +Jenny, she goes fairly mad, hugs her sister to desperation, is very +proud of her own performance in the witness box, and finally rushes +out to the kitchen to ask Hester to make hot cakes for tea. No one +who has not eaten Yorkshire cakes, and seen them made and baked in a +Yorkshire kitchen, by a brisk and energetic Yorkshire housewife, can +have a just idea of the celerity with which this operation can be +performed. + +But on this particular evening Sibyl is far too languid to be tempted +into injuring her digestion by the consumption of hot buttered cakes. +She sits in a corner of the old parlour sofa and takes her cup of +tea in pensive silence, and the anxious little doctor sees that the +events of the last few months have had a destroying influence upon +his favourite niece’s health and beauty. He creeps close beside her +and feels her pulse. It is quick and irregular. + +‘You want rest, my love,’ he says, ‘you must stay with us for a few +weeks in your old room, and let me doctor you, and Hester nurse you, +till you get strong again.’ + +‘I like my old room, uncle Robert, and I love to be with you, but +I hate Redcastle. I should never get well here. Let me go with my +husband to his new home, if he will have me.’ + +She looks pleadingly at Alexis, and sees that she has been forgiven. + +‘My home is yours, Sibyl, and I will take you there as soon as you +are free to go. But I think you had better accept your uncle’s +hospitality for a little while, as your evidence will be required +for Mr. Pilgrim’s trial.’ + +‘What?’ asks Sibyl, ‘is it not all over?’ + +‘No, my love, the trial has to come yet, and the witnesses examined +by the coroner and magistrate will have to repeat their evidence.’ + +‘How dreadful!’ sighs Sibyl. + +‘It is an ordeal to be gone through, my love, but when that is over +we shall be free to go to Cheswold Grange, and all our troubles will +be over, I hope. And before the summer is ended your uncle and your +sisters must come and pay us a visit in Hampshire.’ + +‘That will be delightful!’ cries Jenny, rapturously; ‘Have you a nice +garden?’ + +‘A glorious old garden, Jenny, with about a mile of wall fruit. Such +plums and peaches!’ + +‘A nursery for English cholera,’ says the doctor. + +‘And there’s a pony, Jane,--you’d like that, I think,’ observes +Alexis. + +‘Shouldn’t I just!’ + +‘But before you come to Cheswold Grange I should like you to +cure yourself of one bad habit, Jane. I won’t mention it before +company, but if you recall to your mind a certain interview between +a gentleman and a young lady I dare say you will understand what I +mean.’ + +Jenny blushes vehemently, remembering that little romance about Mrs. +Yokohama Gray. + +So all is forgiveness and peace in the shabby old house at the end of +the town, and Alexis, touched to the heart by his wife’s contrition, +and by those sad eyes of hers which have a weary look that tells of +suffering borne and hidden, feels that his old love for her is not +quite dead, and that after all, faulty though she has been, she is +the woman he would choose to sit by his fireside in the old house at +Cheswold. + +Alexis returns to his hotel that evening, where there is much talk +of Joel Pilgrim and his arrest. No one has any doubt of his guilt, +and many go so far as to affirm that they have been convinced of +it from the first, and have declared their convictions to their +friends and acquaintance. These being called upon to bear witness to +this fact answer meanly that they don’t exactly remember: that such +opinions may have been expressed: but that they fail to recall them. +In any case Joel is prejudged in Redcastle, and there is a wonderful +reaction about Sibyl, who is exalted into a heroine and martyr, as if +to have been wrongfully suspected was equivalent to having performed +some great and noble action. Mrs. Stormont calls for the first time +in her life at the shabby old house at the lower end of the town, and +leaves quite a packet of cards for Dr. Faunthorpe and his nieces, and +one of the Colonel’s cards for the special benefit of Mr. Secretan; +for it has become known to Redcastle that Alexis has a pretty little +estate in Hampshire and is by no means that fortuneless adventurer he +was supposed to be on his first appearance upon the Redcastle stage. + +Everybody is eager for the trial, and there is a great deal of +speculation as to the exact date at which it will ‘come on,’ and who +will be the Crown lawyer, and who will defend the accused. Before +midnight there runs a rumour that Pilgrim has secured the famous +Vallentyne for his defender, and there is an idea that he will get +off. + +‘A clever counsel could shake the butler’s evidence, make the jury +disbelieve him altogether perhaps; and without his evidence how are +they to bring the crime home to Pilgrim?’ ask the knowing ones. + +Before noon next day it is known that Joel Pilgrim has accepted +his earthly defeat, and has gone forth to meet the fiat of a more +terrible Judge than that sage and learned lawyer who would have sat +in judgment upon him at the forthcoming assizes. Early on the morning +following his arrest he has found means to elude the vigilance of his +warder, and has opened a vein with a small penknife, which he has +contrived to keep hidden in the silken lining of his coat-sleeve. +Lying quietly on his prison bed, the warder slumbering on a pallet +by his side, he has given himself his death-wound, and let life ebb +silently without a groan. + +He has occupied the earlier part of the night in writing, and this +is the result, which is speedily devoured by the ravening maws of a +thousand different newspapers and given to the world. It figures on +the hoardings before newsvenders’ shops in fat black capitals:-- + + ‘Startling Revelation--The Redcastle Murder--Dying Confession of + Joel Pilgrim!’ + + ‘If it is any satisfaction to the world at large, which never + gave me anything that I did not obtain by an appeal to its + self-interest, to know the history of a man whose hours are now + numbered, I give it in a few words. + + ‘I am the son of Stephen Trenchard, the only offspring of his + marriage with a Hindoo dancing girl, and that marriage about + as legal an union as a European of some social standing cares + to contract with a low caste Indian. My mother had, I believe, + little except her beauty to recommend her to an Englishman’s + notice; but she was inoffensive, and she died young,--two merits + which secured her husband’s respect. + + ‘My father never acknowledged this marriage, or me as his son. + But he took me into his office at an early age, and finding + that I was tolerably shrewd, and of his own way of thinking in + commercial matters, had me well educated between the age of + eighteen and twenty-four, and at twenty-five took me for his + partner. + + ‘The fortunes of our house varied as years went on. We made + money very fast, but we had the misfortune sometimes to lose it + even faster. Our gains generally tempted us to make losses, and + each successful transaction brought an unlucky follower at its + heels. Thus if we made a hundred per cent. by indigo one year, we + perhaps lost a hundred and fifty per cent. by indigo the next, + being lured into some reckless speculation, time bargains, and + the rest of it. Our opium trade brought us most money, and we + trafficked in other goods which proved profitable merchandise, + but somewhat damaged the character of our house. In other words, + rather than let our vessels ground upon their beef-bones for + want of a remunerative cargo, we occasionally went in quietly + for the slave trade, supplied our Demerara friends with Coolies, + and shipped a good deal of live stock of this kind at different + ports. To put it briefly we were general dealers on a large scale. + + ‘The business had never been weaker than in that year when my + father suddenly took it into his head that it was time for him + to retire, and drew ten thousand pounds out of the house, some + thousands beyond our real capital. It left me with a crippled + business, and I felt that my father had done me a great wrong + by this selfish retirement. For the first year after his return + to England fortune favoured me, and the prospects of the house + brightened. I made one or two lucky hits and began to pluck up + spirit. But this state of things did not last long. I lost a + shipload of coolies under somewhat painful circumstances. The + ship and supposed cargo, not the coolies, were heavily insured. + The underwriters refused to pay, and there was some talk of + scuttling. This scandal, although strangled in the birth, did me + harm. A commercial man’s reputation is as delicate a blossom as + a hothouse flower, any chill wind nips it. When I found things + going to the bad in Calcutta, I came home, thinking that my + father might help me out of my difficulties, or at least enable + me to float my unwieldy ship a little while longer by the use of + a few of those thousands he had squeezed out of the business. + This he peremptorily refused, and had the injustice to accuse + me of bad trading. We had bitter words on the subject on many + occasions; and not content with refusing to help me, he urged me + to raise money to pay off the remaining ten thousand pounds due + to him by a deed of dissolution which he had made me sign before + he left Calcutta, he resigning his share of the business in + consideration of receiving twenty thousand pounds, ten thousand + at the time of the execution of the deed, ten thousand within + three years from that date. + + ‘The time had expired, and he urged me repeatedly to raise the + money. When he found that I had set my heart upon marrying his + niece--whom I naturally supposed to be a single woman, he made my + payment of this ten thousand pounds a condition of my marriage. + No money, no wife, he said--thus using my tenderest feelings as a + lever to wrench money out of me. I think this plan of proceeding + hardly comes under the head of fatherly affection. + + ‘Of the tragedy which terminated the story of my father’s + existence I have nothing to say. Time may perhaps make that + mystery clear. I shall not gratify idle curiosity by any + revelation, supposing it to be in my power to reveal anything + touching this question, which I leave as a subject for + speculation to that new school which devotes its labours to the + study of psychological mysteries.’ + +This is all--disappointing perhaps to the world in general, but +giving Redcastle a new subject for conversation. + +‘Imagine that horrid Indian being Mr. Trenchard’s son after all!’ +exclaims Mrs. Stormont, when she and her dear Mrs. Groshen meet to +discuss the latest scandal over their harlequin teacups. ‘I always +thought there was a likeness.’ + +‘I can’t say that I saw any resemblance. Such a difference in +complexion, you know. But what a horribly disreputable set these +Trenchards seem to have been!’ says Mrs. Groshen, in a wholesale way, +as if there had been a regiment of them. + +‘Yes, selling slaves, and opium, and scuttling ships, and doing +everything horrid.’ + +‘And to think that we should have asked them to dinner!’ cries +the banker’s wife, remembering how often she has squandered her +housekeeping money upon hothouse fruit and flowers to decorate the +board at which Stephen Trenchard was to be the chief guest. + +‘How lucky that dreadful Pilgrim never accepted our invitations!’ +exclaims Mrs. Stormont. ‘I have no doubt he was afraid to show +himself in society. He eats with chopsticks, I dare say.’ + +‘I rather think that chopsticks are Chinese, my dear,’ replies Mrs. +Groshen, whose remembrance of the Child’s Guide to Useful Knowledge +has not been weakened by the lapse of so many years as have gone by +since her elder friend left a fashionable boarding school, carefully +finished in all those elegant accomplishments which take six years to +learn and can be comfortably forgotten in three. + +Thus runs town talk in quiet Redcastle. There will be no trial, and +among the general public interest in Stephen Trenchard’s murder +languishes, and soon dies for want of nutriment. + + + + + EPILOGUE. + + +All through the rest of the summer weather, till the leaves change +from green to red and yellow, and the sturdy oaks, slow to bud and +last to succumb to Time the destroyer, have put on their russet +livery, Sibyl lies in the chief bedchamber at Cheswold Grange sick +nigh unto death. She has broken down utterly now that the struggle +is over, now that all storms are ended and her frail bark safe in +harbour. There is no violent illness, no raging fever of brain or +body, only an extreme prostration, which for a long time baffles the +skill of an intelligent physician and a careful family doctor. + +She lies in the bright pretty bedroom, with its old paneled walls +painted pale pink and cream colour, its needlework pictures, its +quaint furniture, and many relics of a departed generation. There is +a wide window opposite her bed that extends from ceiling to floor, +and through this she listlessly contemplates the fair landscape, the +smiling garden, the autumnal glory of the park. She suffers little +pain, except such weariness as attends extreme prostration. She is at +peace, and even declares herself happy. + +‘I have lived long enough, Alex,’ she says one day when her strength +has ebbed to the lowest point compatible with life, and the doctors +have begun to despair of the efficacy of the pharmacopeia in this +particular case. Alexis, deeply moved, sits by her bed, and holds her +feeble hand in the dim autumn twilight. ‘I am content for my earthly +race to finish here. You have forgiven me. That is enough.’ + +‘But have you no thought of me, Sibyl? Is it kind to talk like that?’ + +‘Dear Alex, you have been more than good to me, but I have not +forgotten what you said that evening of our meeting in the old room +at Mrs. Bonny’s. “Love is dead,” you told me.’ + +‘That was said under the influence of anger, Sibyl. I thought it was +true, but sorrow soon fastened the old knot again. Sorrow and peril +reunited us, Sibyl.’ + +‘And do you really love me? I know that you have forgiven me, but are +you sure you love me still?’ + +‘Very sure,--as much and as truly as I ever loved you in old +Kensington Gardens, under the elms, when I told the Hazleton children +fairy tales, and my life and yours seemed as sweet a fairy tale as +any of those old nursery stories, and as sure of a blissful ending.’ + +‘Oh, Alex, is that the truth?’ + +‘As I live, darling.’ + +‘Then I think I shall make an effort and get well,’ replies Sibyl, +with a sigh of utter contentment. ‘I have been willing to glide +gently out of life, believing that, however good you were to me, I +could never hope to win more than your forgiveness; but now I shall +try very hard to get well.’ + +She keeps her word. Whether her illness has reached its natural +turning-point--the tide of life flowing back to its source,--or +whether the ardent desire of the patient to live helps the work of +recovery, the medical men can not say. But from this time there is a +change. Slowly but surely health and youth come back to the pale wan +face. The lovely eyes lose their glassy lustre, and grow bright with +happy thoughts; faint gleams of carnation flit like the shadow of a +sunset cloud over the marble pallor, then linger, and warm the pallid +cheek into life and beauty. + +‘Your love has won me back from the grave, Alex,’ whispers Sibyl, +four or five weeks after that talk in the twilight, when the +family doctor--that very Mr. Skalpel who attended Alexis after his +accident--has declared that Mrs. Secretan’s recovery is absolutely +marvellous. + +When Sibyl is out of danger, Richard Plowden, who has been a faithful +friend and comforter throughout this time of trouble, and has acted +as Trot’s chief nurse and playmate into the bargain, departs somewhat +abruptly upon a journey, the business and destination whereof he does +not reveal to his dear friend Alexis. + +‘It’s a little bit of a trip I’ve been meditating for a longish +time,’ he says; ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I come back. I think +I shall start to-morrow.’ + +‘You’ll write to us while you’re away, of course Dick?’ + +‘Well, yes, if I can manage it,’ replies Mr. Plowden, with rather a +sheepish air; ‘but you mustn’t be alarmed if you don’t hear from me. +I shall be moving about from place to place, you see, and I may be +out of the way of post offices--off the beaten track, you know.’ + +‘Good gracious!’ exclaims Alexis, ‘are you going to the centre of +Africa? Is my modest geographer coming out as a second Sir Samuel +Baker?’ + +Alexis is too much occupied with his wife’s recovery just now to +be very curious about his friend. He thinks Dick’s movements are +somewhat eccentric, and that is all. + +‘Perhaps he objects to my being here,’ says Sibyl, who has learned to +think very humbly of herself of late. + +‘Object to you, Sibyl! Why you must know that he is absolutely +devoted to you, and has been almost as anxious as I was during your +illness. He was prejudiced against you before he saw you, out of +affection for me, poor fellow, thinking that I had been hardly used; +but when once you came back to love and duty he was your slave.’ + +For about a month nothing is heard of Richard Plowden, and Alexis is +beginning to feel somewhat uneasy about his friend’s fate, when he +receives a letter, in Dick’s neat hand, posted at Cannes. + + ‘My dear friend,’ writes Richard, ‘when I left you and Mrs. + Secretan so abruptly I was departing upon so daring and so + wild an expedition, that I felt too much ashamed of my own + audacity to tell you my errand. I came to the south of France + to discover whether there was any hope of my ever winning, by + long years of patient devotion, the dearest and best, purest, + and most unselfish of women. You had told me to hope in the day + of my despondency, and I had hoped, although I scorned myself + for my foolishness in hoping. At last I told myself that it was + worse than foolish to go on hoping and dreaming. I must “put + it to the test, and win or lose,” as the old song says. So I + came here, found my sweetest Linda working industriously at her + art, pensive, but not altogether unhappy. She was delighted + to see me--not for my own sake, you may be sure, but because + I could tell her all about Trot. How I have blessed that dear + child! She was never tired of hearing me talk of him. I spent + all my evenings at her aunt’s house--such a dear old lady, the + aunt--talking about Trot, and a little about art and science, + and literature, and my own small views and ambitions. What happy + evenings they were! + + ‘Well, Alex, I am too proud of her--too ashamed of my own + unworthiness, to tell you much more. I can only say that God + has been very good to me--that I am more blessed than ever I + hoped to be--that if I had been born in the dear old fairy times + which I have told Trot so much about that I have grown almost + to believe in them myself--if I had been the special favourite + of some omnipotent good fairy, and had had a talking bird, and + Fortunatus’s purse, and an invisible cap, and a flying carpet, + and the princess with the golden locks for my bride, I could not + have been one whit happier than I am, or more astonished at my + own happiness. + + ‘I am in such a state of surprise that I am doubtful of my own + identity, and hardly feel sure that I have any right to sign + myself--your faithful friend, DICK PLOWDEN.’ + + * * * * * + +Very happy are Alexis and his wife one sunny morning early in +December, when Sibyl, leaning on her husband’s arm, and with Trot at +her side, makes her first round of the Cheswold domain. + +The hoar-frost whitens the lawn and meadows; yet there are late roses +still blooming on the wall. Alexis insists upon his wife seeing +everything--hothouses, stables, piggeries even--and Sibyl inspects +and admires rapturously enough to content an exacting lord of the +manor. + +‘It is all lovely!’ she exclaims; ‘and what is best of all, the place +suits you, Alex, and you suit the place to perfection. You seem to +have been made for a country squire. How strange it is to know that +Providence held _this_ in store for you in that bitter time at Mrs. +Bonny’s! While I was waiting for a dead man’s shoes, you, who never +cringed to any man, or courted any inheritance, have been blest by +Fortune.’ + + + THE END. + + + + + LONDON: + J. AND W. RIDER, PRINTERS, + BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE. + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + +Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been +silently corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences +within the three volumes of this work and consultation of external +sources. Some hyphens in words have been silently removed when +a predominant preference was found in the original work. Except +for those changes noted below, original spellings in the text and +inconsistent or archaic usage have been retained. + + Page 13: “need no recompence” replaced with “need no recompense”. + + Page 72: “lived century” replaced with “lived a century”. + + Page 113: “post-mortem examintaion” replaced with “post-mortem + examination”. + + Page 134: “thestep-ladder” replaced with “the step-ladder”. + + Page 138: “trembles alittle” replaced with “trembles a little”. + + Page 157: “head and salt” replaced with “bread and salt”. + + Page 163: “form a will” replaced with “form of a will”. + + Page 178: “told me black” replaced with “told me a black”. + + Page 247: “stil moving about” replaced with “still moving about”. + + Page 254: “shrew dlittle” replaced with “shrewd little”. + + Page 263: “before the murler” replaced with “before the murder”. + + Page 263: “urned upon that” replaced with “turned upon that”. + + Page 298: “Coach and Ho rses” replaced with “Coach and Horses”. + + Page 301: “that gentlemen” replaced with “that gentleman”. + + Page 320: “ns everything relating” replaced with “us everything + relating”. + + Page 336: “old panelled walls” replaced with “old paneled walls”. + +Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. + +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the +public domain. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78774 *** diff --git a/78774-h/78774-h.htm b/78774-h/78774-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..88059f9 --- /dev/null +++ b/78774-h/78774-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10130 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + Dead men’s shoes, Vol. 3 (of 3) | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; 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+ color: black; + font-size:small; + padding: 2em; + margin-bottom:2em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + color: #A9A9A9; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + + +/*spacing between words and letters */ +.word-sp {word-spacing: .4em;} +.letter-sp {letter-spacing: .1em;} + +/* spacing */ +.phalfb {padding-bottom: .5em;} +.p1b {padding-bottom: 1em;} +.p2b {padding-bottom: 2em;} +.p1t {padding-top: 1em;} +.p2t {padding-top: 2em;} +.p3r {padding-right: 3em;} +.p1r {padding-right: 1em;} +.p3qb {padding-bottom: .75em;} + +.linesp {line-height: 1.5em;} /*this is to make more space between lines in a span*/ +.linespmore {line-height: 2em;} + +/* font size */ +.fs250 {font-size: 250%;} +.fs200 {font-size: 200%;} +.fs125 {font-size: 125%;} +.fs90 {font-size: 90%;} +.fs80 {font-size: 80%;} +.fs70 {font-size: 70%;} + + +/* font style */ +.gothic { + font-family: Impact, Blackletter, Fraktur, Textur, "Olde English Mt", "Olde English", + Diploma, England, Gothic, serif, "Franklin Gothic", Gabriola, "Segoe Print", + "Segoe Script", "Ink Free", "Comic Sans MS"; + } + +/* width */ +.wd70 {width: 70%;} + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowe5 {width: 5em;} +.illowe9 {width: 9em;} + +/* hovers */ +.corr { + text-decoration: none; + border-bottom: thin dashed blue + } + +/* paragraphs */ +.noindent {text-indent:0em;} +.bigindent {text-indent:55%;} +.regindent {text-indent:3em;} +.bigindent {text-indent:5em;} + +/*ebook */ +.x-ebookmaker .wd70 {width: 100%;} +.x-ebookmaker .fs250 {font-size: 175%;} + + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78774 ***</div> + + +<h1 class="p1t word-sp fs250"> +DEAD MEN’S SHOES +</h1> + +<p class="noindent center gothic p1t p2b"> +A Novel</p> +<p class="noindent center fs80 word-sp phalfb"> +BY THE AUTHOR OF</p> +<p class="noindent center letter-sp word-sp fs125 phalfb"> +‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’</p> +<p class="noindent center fs70 p2b word-sp"> +ETC. ETC. ETC.</p> +<p class="noindent center phalfb fs80 word-sp"> +IN THREE VOLUMES</p> +<p class="noindent center fs125 p1b word-sp"> +VOL. III.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe9" id="colophon"> + <img class="w100" src="images/colophon.jpg" alt="colophon"> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent center linesp p1t"> +<span class="fs90"> +LONDON</span><br> +<span class="fs125 word-sp letter-sp"> +JOHN MAXWELL AND CO.</span><br> +<span class="fs80"> +4, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET</span><br> +<span class="fs80"> +1876<br> +<br> +[<i>All rights reserved.</i>]</span> +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center fs125 phalfb"> +CONTENTS TO VOL. III. +</p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe5"> + <img class="w100" src="images/toc_deco.jpg" data-role="presentation" alt=""> +</figure> + +<table class="autotable wd70"> +<tr> +<th class="tdr">CHAP.</th> +<th class="tdr"></th> +<th class="tdrr">PAGE</th> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I</a>.</span> </td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Trot’s History</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">1<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Gaining Time</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">15<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">At Bay</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">32<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV</a>.</span> </td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On the Threshold of a Discovery</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">43<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">A Father’s Claim</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">64<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">A Wedding Eve</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">78<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII</a>.</span> </td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Passing-Bell</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">97<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII</a>.</span> </td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Dark Surmises</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">114<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX</a>.</span> </td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In the Surgery</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">130<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Stephen Trenchard surprises his Friends</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">142<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> ‘<span class="smcap">It is not now at it has been of yore</span>’</td> +<td class="tdrr">164<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> ‘<span class="smcap">’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise</span>’</td> +<td class="tdrr">202<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII</a>.</span> </td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">But here is one who loves you as of old</span>’</td> +<td class="tdrr">215<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Alexis Investigates</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">230<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Mr. Levison Cross-examines</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">259<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI</a>.</span> </td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Podmores think of Emigration</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">280<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII</a>.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Committed for Trial</span></td> +<td class="tdrr">297<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII</a>.</span> </td> +<td class="tdl">‘<span class="smcap">A Dark Tale darkly finished</span>’</td> +<td class="tdrr">323<br></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><a href="#Epilogue">Epilogue</a></span></td> +<td class="tdrr">336</td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center fs200 p1t p3qb word-sp"> +DEAD MEN’S SHOES. +</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe5"> + <img class="w100" src="images/ch1_deco.jpg" data-role="presentation" alt=""> +</figure> + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_I"> + CHAPTER I. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">TROT’S HISTORY</span>. + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">Alexis wakes next morning with a throbbing head +and a vague sense of trouble and regret; but upon +the one question of his immediate return to the +Grange his mind is fixed. There shall be no further +delay. He has been long enough at Dorley—perhaps +too long for his peace.</p> + +<p>‘If any one had told me last Christmas that my +heart could ever beat one throb in the minute faster +for any woman living except my wife, I should have +given him the lie boldly enough. Is it gratitude—respect—affection—that +makes me think so much of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>my fair young nurse, and think it so hard a thing to +part from her? Or is it a feeling that I am bound +to stifle? I hardly know how to answer that question +even to myself. At worst the sentiment is a +mild one. Passion has no part in my love—if love +it be. It is pure and reverent, and I will say no +word that shall sully it. Yet I can but feel what +new brightness might glorify my life if I were free +to love this girl.’</p> + +<p>He rises later than usual, and not before Trot +has come to knock at his door and announce the +hour.</p> + +<p>‘Bekkust is weady for oo,’ says Trot; ‘oo eggs is +boiled. Trot found ’em in the henhouse; Cothin +Thina ones.’</p> + +<p>‘Dear little Trot! How I shall miss that baby +voice, and those pretty baby ways!’ thinks Alexis. +‘Coming presently, Trot,’ he cries cheerily, and Trot +makes his way downstairs rather noisily, as he +alights upon every stair with a jump.</p> + +<p>It is noon when Alexis goes down to breakfast, a +radiant summer noon, and the first strawberries from +the garden are upon the table, nestling among their +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>aristocratic leaves. Linda is seated in her accustomed +place by the window, her inexhaustible work-basket +by her side. When she is not working for +her grandfather or Trot she is making clothes for the +poorest among her neighbours.</p> + +<p>‘You accused me of looking ill last night, Miss +Challice,’ says Alexis as they shake hands; ‘and +this morning I find you as pale as your lilies out +yonder. What has happened to disturb you?’</p> + +<p>‘I have been told what you did yesterday evening,’ +answers Linda, gravely.</p> + +<p>‘What, my little escapade with one of your +amiable neighbours,’ cries Alexis, lightly. ‘You +don’t mean to say people have been talking of such +a trifle as that? I think I taught the gentleman +that it’s bad manners to laugh at a sick man.’</p> + +<p>‘Was it for laughing at you that you struck him, +Mr. Secretan?’ asks Linda.</p> + +<p>‘Certainly. My cadaverous looks provoked his +mirth, and if I do resemble the Knight of the Rueful +Countenance, I don’t choose to be laughed at before +my face.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, Mr. Secretan, I know all that was said by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>that man. Elizabeth has been in the village this +morning, and people have told her all that happened. +It was the slander against me which you +resented. The old cruel slander which has pursued +me ever since I took pity upon that desolate child.’</p> + +<p>The tears roll slowly down her cheeks, but she +wipes them hastily away and regains composure. +She is not one of those women who wash out their +grief in tears.</p> + +<p>‘No one shall slander you in my presence, Miss +Challice, and go unpunished. I’m sorry I let that +foul-mouthed ruffian off so easily.’</p> + +<p>‘And you do not believe⁠——you⁠——’ Her +voice fails her, and again the unbidden tears start to +her eyes.</p> + +<p>‘I believe anything against you? No, Linda. +But if you would trust me with your secret⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘I have no secret,’ replies Linda, with a frank, +steady look, more convincing than a world of protestation. +‘I have shrunk from talking to you of +that dear little fellow’s history only because it is a +very sad one, and because the scandal which he has +brought upon us has made the subject particularly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>painful to me. I should have been weak and +cowardly if I had consented to part with my little +darling just because people are wicked enough to +speak evil of me, but I am not so brave as to endure +their slander without pain. I have suffered deeply.’</p> + +<p>‘Tell me all, I entreat you. I think I love that +child almost as well as you do. He is about the age +my own son would have been had he lived—the son +I never saw. That sounds curious, does it not? +but the history of my marriage is a very painful one, +Miss Challice, though I thank God it has no +element of disgrace—and I⁠——’ here he falters a +little, as if the words he has to speak were somewhat +difficult to say—‘I still have the hope of reunion +with my wife.’</p> + +<p>He may have some motive for speaking of Sibyl +to-day, though she has been very little in his +thoughts of late.</p> + +<p>‘Tell me all about Trot’s birth.’</p> + +<p>‘Let me see you begin your breakfast first. It’s +rather a long story.’</p> + +<p>‘I am all attention.’</p> + +<p>‘It was about the end of March, three years +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>ago, when I first saw Trot. It was a bleak afternoon, +windy and cold. I had gone out into the +front garden to look for the first wall-flowers, when +I saw a woman leaning against the railings for +support. I did not see at first that she had a +baby in her arms, it was so hidden by an old +sealskin jacket. I asked her if she was ill, and +she said yes, she was ill and tired. She had +walked all the way from Winchester. I asked +her to come into the porch and rest. She came in, +and had hardly seated herself when she fainted, +and would have fallen if I had not managed to support +her in my arms. Then the baby began to cry, +and I saw him for the first time—such a tiny thing. +Fortunately I was accustomed to young babies, from +having visited a good deal among our cottagers.</p> + +<p>‘And you took them in, mother and child, and +sheltered and nourished them?’</p> + +<p>‘What else could I do? Elizabeth and I soon +discovered that the poor creature was starving. +She had been living on penny rolls for the last +fortnight—ever since she had left the workhouse, +where her baby was born. Yes, that sounds dreadful, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>doesn’t it? Our darling Trot was born in +Winchester Union.’</p> + +<p>‘Dreadful indeed from society’s point of view. +What kind of person was the mother?’</p> + +<p>‘I can hardly tell you. She was very ill when +we took her in—worn and wasted to a mere shadow. +She must have been very pretty when she was +happy and well, but her beauty was all gone. +She was very reserved, and though I tried to win +her confidence, she would tell me nothing about +herself—what she had been in the past, or what +she hoped to be in the future. She seemed very +unhappy, and though she was evidently fond of +her baby, he seemed rather to add to her unhappiness. +I felt that her story must be a very +sorrowful one.’</p> + +<p>‘And you pitied her?’</p> + +<p>‘With all my heart. One day when she had +been with us about a week, and was beginning to +get a little better and stronger, I asked her if she +had any home to go to. She had been talking +about leaving us in a day or two. Yes, she said, +she had a home, and she was going to it, but she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>did not know what to do with her baby. There +were reasons why she could not take the baby +home. And then she asked me if I knew any +honest woman in the village who would take care +of the child for a year or two, and trust to her +sending payment for its maintenance regularly after +her return home. I told her that I was afraid +none of our own villagers would take the responsibility +of a stranger’s child. They would want to +know who and what she was before they trusted +her. Of course I said this as kindly as I could.’</p> + +<p>‘As if you could be anything but kind!’ exclaims +Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘After this I could see she was very much +disturbed in her mind. She sat with the baby in +her lap, crying over it in a fretful way, and she +was evidently in great trouble, and chiefly about +the baby. I don’t know how it was, but just then +there came into my mind the thought of all I had +ever heard about wretched women killing their +children. I thought of this poor creature wandering +about the country penniless, friendless, with a +wailing infant in her arms, and how in some +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>dreadful hour wandering by the side of a river, +the temptation might come to her to drown this +sweet, innocent little thing, which, even in its +unconsciousness, seemed to cling to me, and to be +happier in my arms than in its mother’s.’</p> + +<p>‘Doubtless infants, like the lower animals, have +an instinct that tells them when they are beloved,’ +remarks Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘“If my grandfather would only let me keep +your child!” I said, at which she burst into tears +again, and threw her arms round my neck, and +entreated me to take care of the little one, and +promised me all kinds of rewards by-and-bye, when +fortune smiled upon her. I told her I wanted no +reward except the delight of making the little +fellow happy, and teaching him to love me. I +thought very little of the responsibility I was +assuming, I am afraid. It seemed scarcely more to +me than if I was offering to take care of another +kitten to add to our family of pets.’</p> + +<p>‘What did your grandfather say to the idea?’</p> + +<p>‘Bless his kind heart, he never refused me anything +in his life. He was rather against the notion +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>at first, and he asked me if I had considered what +a burden we should be taking upon ourselves, and +what we were to do with the baby when it grew +up. “A baby’s easy to keep;” he said; “a quart +of new milk more or less won’t hurt us, but what +shall we do when he’s a big fellow and wants +schooling?” “He can go to the mill and work for +his living,” I said. “Not if you bring him up as +a pet and plaything,” said grandfather, “he’ll be +too good for the mill.”’</p> + +<p>‘And you had your way?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes; I couldn’t get that idea about the river +out of my mind, and I was determined the unhappy +mother shouldn’t take the baby away, so I talked +my dear old grandfather into giving his consent, and +he promised to adopt the child. The poor creature +went down on her knees to me when I told her that +I would take care of her baby, but she was not any +more inclined to confide in me than she had been +at the very first; and two days afterwards she +insisted upon leaving us, though I begged her to +stay till she was stronger and better able to travel. +She was resolute, so I gave her a couple of sovereigns, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>all the money I had of my own, and patched +up her clothes a little. She was dreadfully shabby, +poor thing, and at daybreak one morning she left us +to walk to Winchester, where she was to take the +parliamentary train to London.’</p> + +<p>‘You are sure she was going to London?’</p> + +<p>‘That is what she told me, and she was anxious +to get to Winchester in time for the London +train.’</p> + +<p>‘She did not even tell you her name?’</p> + +<p>‘No. “I might give you a false name,” she said, +“but what would be the use of that? If I live, and +things prosper with me, you shall know all about me +some day.”’</p> + +<p>‘That was vague,’ says Alexis. ‘Did she wear a +wedding ring?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, but she told me that it was one she had +bought for a penny. “I sold the real one to buy +bread,” she said.’</p> + +<p>‘And she left her child without showing any +grief?’</p> + +<p>‘No, just at the last she broke down, clasped him +to her breast, and cried over him bitterly.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span></p> + +<p>‘Have you heard nothing of her since that time?’</p> + +<p>‘I have had no actual communication. But I +have received three ten-pound notes at intervals +each in a blank envelope, posted in London. I have +put the money into the savings bank for my darling.’</p> + +<p>‘And the envelopes, you kept them, I suppose?’</p> + +<p>‘No, they were directed in a cramped unformed +hand, like that of a very common person. I cannot +think that it was the writing of Trot’s mother, yet I +feel sure the money must have come from her.’</p> + +<p>‘There was nothing written inside the envelope?’</p> + +<p>‘Not a word. The bank note was wrapped in a +blank sheet of paper.’</p> + +<p>‘Provoking!’ exclaims Alexis. ‘I would give +a great deal to know more about Trot’s origin. His +name of Trot, by the way, how did he come by +that?’</p> + +<p>‘It is only a pet name which my grandfather +gave him when he first began to walk and was +always trotting about the house. He was christened +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>William after my grandfather, who stood for him. +We had him christened the week after his mother +left us.’</p> + +<p>‘Poor little Trot, but for you he might have +been left outside the fold. Poor little Trot, born in +a workhouse, abandoned by his mother, fatherless, +nameless! Well, Miss Challice, his schooling shall +never trouble you or your grandfather. We’ll send +him to Winchester when he’s old enough, and to +Oxford after, and make a man of him. That shall +be my duty, and it may be some small return for all +the care you and your worthy grandfather have bestowed +upon me.’</p> + +<p>‘You are too good. Believe me, we <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'need no recompence'" id="tn-13">need no recompense</ins>.’</p> + +<p>‘No more did the good Samaritan. How long +is it, by the way, since you received the last bank +note?’</p> + +<p>‘Not more than two months ago. It came while +you were very ill.’</p> + +<p>‘I thank you most sincerely for having told me +this story. I am deeply interested in Trot, deeply +moved by your goodness to him. It is a hard thing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>that such an act of divine charity should have +brought sorrow upon you. It makes me detest your +innocent rustics.’</p> + +<p>‘Do not blame them. It arises out of their ignorance⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘No,’ cries Alexis sternly, ‘it arises out of +their knowledge of evil, and incapacity to believe in +good.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_II"> + CHAPTER II. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">GAINING TIME</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Not long does Mr. Pilgrim content himself with undeclared +and silent homage. The day comes, too +soon for Sibyl, when he opens the floodgates of his +passion. He is a very different wooer from the +honest-minded English gentleman, Sir Wilford Cardonnel, +and Sibyl finds her position more painful +than it has ever been yet.</p> + +<p>He follows her into the garden one June evening +after dinner, when twilight is creeping over Redcastle, +purpling the foliage in Sir John Boldero’s +park, and spreading a faint gray shadow over the +brilliant flower-beds on Mr. Trenchard’s lawn.</p> + +<p>‘Why always avoid me?’ asks Joel tenderly, as +Sibyl quickens her pace at his coming.</p> + +<p>‘I think the reason is obvious,’ she says.</p> + +<p>She has constrained herself to be civil to him +since that remonstrance of her uncle’s, but to-night +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>the tenderness of his tone, its oily smoothness, its +hypocritical sweetness, irritates her beyond all +bearing.</p> + +<p>‘You mean that my presence is disagreeable to +you.’</p> + +<p>‘You may construe my remark in that way if +you please. I may respect you as my uncle’s friend, +but you really give me a little too much of your +society for me to value you on your own account.’</p> + +<p>‘But it is on my own account that I seek to be +valued, Sibyl. A fig for the respect you pay your +uncle’s friends! Give me love for love, truth for +truth.’</p> + +<p>‘Love!’ she echoes scornfully.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, love; am I so revolting a person that the +word sounds obnoxious from my lips? Yes, Sibyl, +love. You know that I love you devotedly, passionately, +with the kind of love that can conquer obstacles +and win its wish in spite of all opposing +influences. There is nothing to oppose me but your +own obdurate heart. Your uncle’s most ardent +desire is that you should be my wife.’</p> + +<p>‘You have worried him into expressing such a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>desire,’ replies Sibyl; ‘but I do not believe that it is +really his wish. His ardent desire before you came +here was that I should marry Sir Wilford Cardonnel.’</p> + +<p>‘Sir Wilford Cardonnel has no claim upon your +uncle’s affection—can never be to him what I am.’</p> + +<p>‘Whatever you may be to my uncle, I only +know that the effect of your presence has been to +alter him strangely for the worse. There has been +no happiness in this house since you have lived +in it.’</p> + +<p>Happily for Sibyl, she does not see the vindictive +look—a look of wrath that is almost deadly—which +Joel Pilgrim turns upon her after this speech. Her +eyes are fixed on the shadowy line of woodland +which shuts out the world beyond Sir John Boldero’s +park.</p> + +<p>Joel takes time before replying to these uncomplimentary +remarks, and his voice when he does +reply has all its familiar blandness,—that oily +smoothness which is so hateful to Sibyl.</p> + +<p>‘Why do you say these hard things to me, +Sibyl?’ he asks. ‘Is it to prove my love—to test +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>my forbearance, and gauge the depth of my devotion +by my power to endure your insults?’</p> + +<p>‘I have no wish to insult you,’ replies Sibyl, +feeling that she has gone a little too far, and that +this scene may be used to her disadvantage with +her uncle. ‘We might be good friends if you would +only leave me alone. I do not interfere with you. +I am not jealous of your influence with my uncle. +Why do you follow me about and persecute me with +attentions which, as I have candidly told you, are +disagreeable to me?’</p> + +<p>‘Why does the sunflower turn to the sun? I +follow you because I love you, and because I have +sworn to win love for love.’</p> + +<p>‘That you will never do.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, Sibyl, love will come by-and-bye with +time and custom, when you are my wife.’</p> + +<p>‘That day will never dawn.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, it will, Sibyl. You have played your cards +too well to throw up the game just at the last, when +you are close upon winning. Come, we will abandon +poetical similes and lovers’ talk, and settle the subject +like a man and woman of the world. With all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>your sweetness there is a touch of worldly wisdom +about you, Sibyl. We will speak plainly. You +have set your heart upon inheriting your uncle’s +fortune, a prize worth winning, I grant—a diamond +not to be found in every mine. You have wound +yourself about the old man’s heart, and have made +yourself dear to him. You stand a good chance of +being heiress to that incalculable wealth. But I +come upon the scene, an adventurer, you think, +perhaps, and one who seeks to deprive you of that +vast inheritance. You are wrong, Sibyl. I have +never schemed to inherit Stephen Trenchard’s fortune; +but he and I have certain business relations, and +he is necessary to me. He is fond of me too, after +his own fashion—just as he is fond of you—and he +has made up his mind that we two shall be one. +If you thwart that desire you hazard his favour, nay, +I will go so far as to say that I know your refusal to +gratify this wish would lead him to alter his will.’</p> + +<p>‘And you know that he has made a will in my +favour?’ cries Sibyl, betrayed into a question which, +after a moment’s reflection, she feels ashamed at +having asked, of this man most of all.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ replies Mr. Pilgrim, deliberately. ‘I know +that Stephen Trenchard has bequeathed the bulk of +his fortune to you; nay, I may go so far as to say +his entire fortune. Your sisters will be disappointed, +I fear, but you have made yourself the +favourite, you see.’</p> + +<p>‘And he is soon to die,’ reflects Sibyl. ‘If I +offend him now by absolutely refusing to marry this +man I shall lose all. If I can gain time—a very +little time, perhaps—all will be mine.’</p> + +<p>‘Give me your answer, Sibyl,’ pleads Joel. ‘I +am ready to forgive all the cruel things you have +said. A woman’s hard words signify but little. +Tell me that you will be my own sweet wife, that +I may go back to India by-and-bye, with a fair +princess from the west—fairer than a dream to +Indian eyes. Give me hope, Sibyl.’</p> + +<p>‘Give me time,’ replies Sibyl. ‘I have told +you that—that I do not understand you—that +the idea of your affection is at present most +painful to me. Give me time to overcome what +is perhaps an unworthy prejudice on my part. I +would make any possible sacrifice to please my +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>uncle, who has been very good to me. With time, +perhaps⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘So be it,’ says Joel, offering her his hand, that +small, cold hand, whose touch she so much dislikes. +‘Shake hands upon that, my princess. I will wait. +You have no idea how patient I can be if I see my +way clear to the end. Let Fortune say to me such +or such a prize is there for you to win, and I will +win it. I will win you, my love, if conquest lies +within the limits of the possible.’</p> + +<p>‘And you will not torment me with attentions +which⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Which only increase your prejudice against +me. No, Sibyl, I will sink the lover and be only +the man of the world. I will say to myself, “My +love knows that it is her interest to overcome +her distaste for me, that to refuse my hand is to +throw away fortune. I have only to be patient. +All good things come to him who can wait, like +yonder moon which pierces that summer cloud, +and shines upon some belated traveller, just when +the way seemed darkest.” Come, Sibyl, let us go +back to our dear uncle—my uncle as well as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>yours, by-and-bye. The dew is falling, and your +English compounds—or gardens, as you call them—are +so damp.’</p> + +<p>They go back to the drawing-room, where +Stephen Trenchard sits reading by a brilliant carcel +lamp, and the look which Sibyl turns upon him is +perhaps the most awful look that has ever scrutinized +his face, for it is the gaze of one who watches +for the tokens of death. Is that true which they all +say? she wonders despairingly. Is the forecast +shadow of the end dark upon his face already? +Does that grayish tinge which overspreads the +sallower tint beneath, mean only the slow advance +of age? or is it the awful hue of swift approaching +death? She cannot tell. He is so fitful in his +health and spirits, feeble to helplessness to-day, +full of restless activity to-morrow.</p> + +<p>He looks up from his newspaper as they enter +from the garden.</p> + +<p>‘Well, young people, have you been enjoying +the moonlight?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, we have had a pleasant stroll, the +pleasantest I have had since I came to England. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>I never saw a moonrise that shone upon such +content as I feel to-night,’ answers Joel.</p> + +<p>Sibyl tries not to shudder too obviously.</p> + +<p>‘Shall I read to you, uncle?’ she asks, feeling +that even the money article will be better than +lover-like speeches from the lips of Joel Pilgrim.</p> + +<p>‘No, my dear, I have finished my <cite>Times</cite>. You +and Joel can play chess.’</p> + +<p>It is a game of skill in which Joel excels and +which Sibyl utterly detests. He has taught her +to play just tolerably, and she would rather play +chess with him—the game engaging all his faculties +and exercising all his cunning—than hear him talk; +so she takes her place at the board submissively, +and Joel’s tawny hands arrange the stately carven +images, castles on elephants, Indian potentates for +kings, Indian warriors for pawns, and Brahmins +for bishops.</p> + +<p>For a little while after this interview in the garden +Sibyl’s life is more endurable, for Mr. Pilgrim’s +attentions are less marked. He does not follow +her from room to room so persistently as he did +before his declaration. He allows her to ride alone, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>horsemanship being an exercise which he cordially +dislikes. She has leisure in which to brood upon +the difficulties that hem her in, and calculate upon +the hour which will bring her release.</p> + +<p>But this period of repose does not last long. +One morning her uncle sends Podmore to summon +her to his study. She finds him seated at his table, +which is littered with papers and letters, and before +him lies that oblong volume which she saw on the +night after the races, through the glass door, and +which she supposes to be a ledger.</p> + +<p>Joel Pilgrim stands by the window, very serious +of aspect, his tawny countenance a shade paler than +usual.</p> + +<p>‘I have sent for you to discuss a very important +subject, Sibyl,’ begins Mr. Trenchard, ‘one that is +vital to you and Joel.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, uncle Stephen,’ she answers falteringly, +feeling as if she were expected to reply in some +wise.</p> + +<p>‘Sit down, my dear. We may have much to say +to each other;’ and Sibyl sinks into the nearest +chair, dreading to hear the rest. ‘The last mail has +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>brought Joel some unpleasant—I should rather say +some unexpected—news about his business in +Calcutta. He will have to return to India almost +immediately.’</p> + +<p>Joel gnaws his nether lip and turns his face away +from the speaker, perhaps to hide that vindictive +look in eye and lip. Sibyl’s heart beats furiously, +but her agitation is full of joy. Heaven has sent +her a reprieve. Her tormentor is obliged to depart. +There will be an end of that hateful question about +marriage.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, my dear, our poor Joel has to return to +Calcutta by the next steamer, or the first steamer +that he can be ready for, and he does not want to go +back alone. You understand, Sibyl.’</p> + +<p>Very ghastly is the change in Sibyl’s face as she +looks at her uncle, struck speechless by this sudden +revulsion from gladness to despair.</p> + +<p>‘You understand, my dear?’ repeats Stephen +Trenchard.</p> + +<p>‘No indeed, uncle.’</p> + +<p>‘You have promised to be Joel’s wife⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘No, uncle, I gave no promise,’ she falters with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>white lips. ‘I only said that I would try to like +him better—that⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Bah! that’s a girl’s vague way of putting it. You +women always beat about the bush. Joel looks +upon it as a promise, and so do I. It is a settled +thing. You and Joel are to be man and wife, thus +fulfilling the dearest wish of my heart, as Joel’s +oldest friend and your nearest kinsman. By this +means you will mutually enjoy all I have to +bequeath. In a word, I have set my heart upon +this marriage, Sibyl, and it cannot take place too +soon. Joel’s recall to India is a reason why it +should take place immediately. Joel will lose no +time in obtaining the licence. Let me see—this is +Tuesday. When does the next Peninsular and +Oriental leave Southampton, Joel?’</p> + +<p>‘On Monday.’</p> + +<p>‘Good; you can be married on Saturday. You +can go to York for the licence this afternoon, Joel.’</p> + +<p>‘But, uncle Stephen, so soon—in a few days—it +is impossible.’</p> + +<p>‘Nonsense, child! nothing is impossible to men of +business, like Joel and me.—We have managed more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>difficult things than this in our time, haven’t we, +Joel?’</p> + +<p>A sardonic laugh is Joel’s only answer. Persistent +as he has been in his wooing, his air this +morning is not exactly suggestive of delight, or of +that entrancement which should belong to triumphant +love.</p> + +<p>‘But you are so ill, uncle,—I could not leave +you.’</p> + +<p>‘I am flattered by the affectionate thought, but I +am not so ill as you suppose. And the idea that I +have made you and Joel happy will be better than +medicine.’</p> + +<p>‘My trousseau, uncle,—my outfit? To go to +India at a few days’ notice! I assure you that any +one would tell you it is impossible.’</p> + +<p>‘Any one might tell me any absurdity, but I +should not be obliged to believe them. Do not let +us have any more young ladylike objections, Sibyl. +The matter is settled. Joel will go to York by the +two o’clock train, and I will write to Mr. Chasubel +to give notice of the wedding on Saturday. As to +trousseau, as you call it, you must have finery +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>enough to last your lifetime, I should think, judging +from the length of your bill at Carmichael’s; and +now go, my dear; Joel and I have business matters +to discuss for the next half-hour. Joel, salute your +bride.’</p> + +<p>Mr. Pilgrim intercepts Sibyl at the door, and +takes her hand. He draws her towards him, as if +about to kiss her on the lips, but there is something +in her look so repellent, nay, so abhorrent, that even +his audacity is checked. He falls back a little, and +raises her hand to his lips, and with this ceremonious +salutation lets her go.</p> + +<p>‘You are not a very warm lover, Joel,’ says +Stephen Trenchard, with a sneer, when the door has +closed upon his niece. ‘The sun of the tropics +doesn’t seem to have infused much of its fire into +your veins.’</p> + +<p>‘You see me at a disadvantage,’ replies the other, +seating himself at the table, and examining one of +those numerous documents with a moody attentiveness +that suggests trouble. ‘The girl hates me.’</p> + +<p>‘And you hate the girl. Is that it?’</p> + +<p>‘No. I think her one of the loveliest women I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>ever saw; a prize worth winning at some cost of +self-abasement. But her detestation for me is a +little too obvious, and I must confess that I am +somewhat less eager to win her than I was a few +weeks ago.’</p> + +<p>‘Before I made certain confidences, eh, Joel? +Never mind. I told you I would make her marry +you, and you see I mean to keep my word. Loving +or loathing will make very little difference to you, I +take it. You will know how to make her obey you. +You will have a pretty wife to uphold your position +in Calcutta—a good card to play always where fools +abound, as they do in the City of Palaces. And you +will have the handling of my fortune.’</p> + +<p>‘I ought to be grateful,’ replies Joel, coldly, with +his eyes still bent upon a column of figures.</p> + +<p>‘And now, Joel, let us be business-like. I think +you will confess that I have gone into your affairs +thoroughly this morning. There has been no impatience. +I have not been betrayed into one angry +word, but I have arrived at a conclusion, and I shall +abide by it.’</p> + +<p>‘And that is⁠——’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> + +<p>‘I must have ten thousand pounds from you +between this and Saturday at nine in the morning. +Just two hours before your wedding. Or +else⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Or else what?’</p> + +<p>‘The house of Pilgrim and Company will go +down like a vessel that breaks her back—straight +to the bottom, Joel.’</p> + +<p>‘It is quite impossible.’</p> + +<p>‘Not to a man of business, Joel. To great +generals and clear-headed commercial men there +is nothing impossible. We only print the word +in our dictionaries for the weak and brainless +portion of humanity.’</p> + +<p>‘It is not to be done.’</p> + +<p>‘It is to be done, and it must be done,’ retorts +Stephen Trenchard, bringing down his clenched +fist upon the open ledger, ‘ten thousand pounds in +hard cash, Joel—a drop out of the ocean, a brand +from the burning. Borrow it, raise it how or +where you can, among your English connections, +but understand I must have it on Saturday morning, +or before Saturday afternoon I shall have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>telegraphed to my solicitors in Calcutta, and the +house of Pilgrim will be doomed.’</p> + +<p>‘After all the money I have earned for you +in the past?’</p> + +<p>‘That past is long gone by, Joel—it is the +pluperfect. You have been sucking my blood +like a vampire for the last three years, and have +left me all but bloodless. I must have that ten +thousand pounds.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_III"> + CHAPTER III. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">AT BAY</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">It is evening. Stephen Trenchard has retired to +his room immediately after dinner, looking wan +and wearied, worn out perhaps by that interview +with Joel Pilgrim in the study. Sibyl has offered +to go to his room and read to him, and has had +her offer refused.</p> + +<p>‘I am tired, my dear, and want sleep, if I can +get it; but that seems harder for me to obtain +now than for a pauper to get gold. One would +think the voice of doom had cried out to me, as +it cried to Macbeth, “Sleep no more”!’</p> + +<p>‘Macbeth was a murderer, uncle. You should +not compare yourself to him.’</p> + +<p>‘No; I have never dipped my hands in blood. +I have used the world pretty much as it has used +me, I believe—give and take.’</p> + +<p>Sibyl is alone in a small sitting-room adjoining +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>her bedroom; a pretty little room which Mr. +Trenchard has allowed her to appropriate to herself, +and which she has adorned with various elegant +trifles from the Redcastle shops—books, engravings, +statuettes—the things that women love.</p> + +<p>Here she sits to-night, a prey to something +very near despair. She is now completely hemmed +in. Only two modes of escape lie before her. The +first and more obvious is flight. She can leave +Lancaster Lodge. There is no constraint upon her. +She is free to go away, penniless as when she +came, leaving fortune behind her. The second and +more hazardous alternative is to prevail upon Joel +Pilgrim to abandon his design; to induce him, of +his own accord, to give up the idea of marriage +until he is able to return from Calcutta.</p> + +<p>Ten o’clock strikes, and soon afterwards she +hears the bell at the lodge entrance, and then wheels +grinding over the gravel, and she knows that Mr. +Pilgrim has returned with the licence. She has +breathed more freely during his absence, and his +return seems to bring an atmosphere of trouble and +perplexity into the house. Will he come to her, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>or send for her to tell her that his hateful errand +has been successfully accomplished? She sits +listening for his detested footstep. The ears of +hate are as keen as those of love, and she knows +that footfall only too well.</p> + +<p>Yes, there it comes along the carpeted corridor, +slow and stealthy. ‘The jungle tigers walk like +that, I dare say,’ thinks Sibyl.</p> + +<p>Joel opens the door softly and comes in. The +dull yellow of his complexion is relieved by a +crimson flush on the smooth cheeks. His black +eyes glitter with an unaccustomed light. Mr. Pilgrim +has dined more generously than usual at York, +and has refreshed himself with soda and brandy +more than once during the homeward journey. He +is altogether a different man from that Joel +Pilgrim who recoiled from Sibyl this morning, +abashed by her coldness.</p> + +<p>‘I saw the light in your window, my pretty +one,’ he says, seating himself at the table where +Sibyl is reading, and drawing his chair close to +hers, ‘and I knew where to find you.’</p> + +<p>‘Hadn’t you better go downstairs and order +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>some supper, Mr. Pilgrim? It is nearly eleven +o’clock, and the house will be going to bed almost +immediately.’</p> + +<p>‘Let the house go to Gehenna,’ exclaims Joel; +‘I want nothing it can give me. I only want to +see your lovely eyes, Sibyl, to hear your sweet +voice, and to claim the kiss you denied me this +morning. Look here,’ taking a paper from his +breast pocket; ‘the Archbishop of York has given +me permission to make you my wife; the knot is +to be tied next Saturday; in four days, Sibyl—only +four days, you who have been so cruel, you +who have held me aloof so long, will be all my +own. Yes, Sibyl; you who have pretended to +hate me⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Pretended!’ cries Sibyl, with an angry flash +from her dark eyes. ‘My hatred has been very +real.’</p> + +<p>‘I am glad of that. They say extremes meet. +It will be an easy transition from hatred to love; +both are fiery passions. It is your lukewarm indifference +that can never be kindled into affection.’</p> + +<p>‘Now is the time,’ thinks Sibyl, ‘if I am to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>make an appeal to his forbearance, his pity, his +self-interest. I can but try him.’</p> + +<p>‘Mr. Pilgrim,’ she begins falteringly.</p> + +<p>‘What a formal mode of addressing your +affianced lover—the man who has his marriage +licence in his pocket!’</p> + +<p>‘I can call you by no other name,’ she answers. +‘I am going to be more candid to-night than I have +ever been. You may betray my confidence, perhaps +ruin me with my uncle; I cannot help it. Between +you, you have driven me to bay.’</p> + +<p>‘Very cruel of us,’ murmurs Joel, leaning back +in his chair and looking at her with an admiring +smile. She is very lovely in her agitation; cheeks +faintly flushed, eyes brilliant, parted lips of carnation. +Her suffering moves him not a jot.</p> + +<p>‘You have seen how I have striven to avoid you. +You have put my avoidance down to hatred, and +this perhaps has galled your pride—you have felt a +natural anger against me, and you have resolved to +win me in order to revenge yourself upon my insolence.’</p> + +<p>‘A very subtle way of putting the case. No, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>Sibyl; I resolved to win you because you are lovely, +and I love you. I need no stronger reasons than +those two.’</p> + +<p>‘You could not be determined to make me miserable +unless I had provoked your anger. Forgive +me for my seeming hatred of you; it was not really +hatred of you, but love for another. My heart has +long been given to another. I have pledged myself +to be faithful to him to the end of my life, no matter +what obstacles might intervene to keep us asunder. +There are reasons why I can never tell my uncle of +this engagement, reasons why I must keep it faithfully +in spite of the world.’</p> + +<p>‘No reason can stand against the archbishop’s +licence, and the fact that you and I are to be married +on Saturday,’ replies Joel, with the same insolent +smile—the smile of a schemer who has brought his +plot to a triumphant issue.</p> + +<p>Sibyl has one argument still to offer. The +strongest.</p> + +<p>‘You tell me that my uncle has made a will in +my favour, that he will leave me all his fortune,’ +she says.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, that is a settled thing. You heard +him say that we were to have his wealth—you +and I.’</p> + +<p>‘I did. And we can share it. Share it honourably +and equally, without the hateful tie which +would bring us nothing but misery. Release me +from this entanglement, Mr. Pilgrim. Tell my +uncle that you would rather defer our marriage until +you return from Calcutta. He is not likely to see +that day. Do this, and I will pledge myself in any +way that you may consider most binding. I will +sign any document you choose to put before me, engaging +myself to deliver over to you half my uncle’s +fortune, whatever it may be, the day I become possessed +of it.’</p> + +<p>‘A very liberal and business-like offer,’ exclaims +Joel, with a quiet sneer, which freezes all hope. It +is so pitiless! ‘But I would rather have the pretty +wife and the whole of the fortune, as by the existing +arrangement I shall. Of course I shall knock off a +handsome sum for pin-money. Your uncle hints +that your tastes are somewhat extravagant, and +Calcutta is not a place to teach economy. I shall +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>not be a severe husband, and I shall like to see my +wife the queen of taste and fashion.’</p> + +<p>Sibyl sits with her hands clasped on the table +before her, unhearing, unheeding. She has made +her last appeal, and she might as usefully have +made it to stone. There is nothing for her now +but flight. Yes, one alternative. She may confess +all to Stephen Trenchard—tell him that she has +been an impostor—that she has duped him into +giving her his affection—that the wealth he has +bequeathed to her will be shared by the son of his +unforgiven foe.</p> + +<p>No hope lies that way. She has played her +desperate game to the last, and she must throw up +the cards.</p> + +<p>Once resolved, courage and calmness return together. +She glances at the Swiss toy clock on the +chimney-piece.</p> + +<p>‘Eleven o’clock, Mr. Pilgrim, and I am very +tired. I really must wish you good night.’</p> + +<p>She rises, gathers together her dainty fancy +work, closes her book, and holds out her hand to +Joel Pilgrim.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p> + +<p>But there is more of his native sunshine in +Mr. Pilgrim’s veins to-night than there was at noon +to-day, and he is not to be satisfied with so cold +a salutation from his affianced bride.</p> + +<p>‘You refused me my kiss this morning, Sibyl. +I must exercise my privilege to-night.’</p> + +<p>His arm is round her, he tries to draw her towards +him, but that slim form recoils from him as +from something more hateful than death.</p> + +<p>‘Do not touch me,’ exclaims Sibyl, in a voice +that is scarcely above a whisper. ‘You cannot +guess how much I would dare to escape such +pollution. Look at this,’ taking a small +glass phial from her pocket, and holding it up +before him. ‘Do you know what this is? Sure +and instant death. I would rather this should +pass my lips than that your lips should touch +them.’</p> + +<p>‘I did not know you were a member of the +Borgia family, or that such delightful customs +prevailed among young ladies in England,’ says +Mr. Pilgrim, letting her go, and contemplating her +excited countenance with a gloomy look. ‘But +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>perhaps you are only playing with me, and that +bottle of yours contains one of those homœopathic +preparations so fashionable now-a-days, a globule +of poison diluted with a gallon of water.’</p> + +<p>‘It contains prussic acid, which I took from my +uncle’s surgery a few days ago, so that I might +have one resource against all evils, even the horror +of your touch.’</p> + +<p>‘Not very complimentary to the man who is +to be your husband next Saturday. Don’t be +foolish, Sibyl. Give me that bottle, and let me +throw it under the grate.’</p> + +<p>‘No, you shall not take it from me,’ exclaims +Sibyl, clenching her hand upon the phial, so tightly +that it would need some exercise of Mr. Pilgrim’s +brute force to take it from her.</p> + +<p>‘Keep it then,’ he cries savagely. ‘Keep it, and +reconcile yourself to all the evil it may do you. +You are a heartless and unreasonable woman, and +deserve to suffer for your folly. Keep your deadly +poison, but remember your English proverb which +tells you that it is dangerous to play with edged +tools. And so good night, Miss Faunthorpe. I’m +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>afraid I shall have a vixen for a wife, and get the +worst of it in our domestic quarrels.’</p> + +<p>Thus, with a sneer, he leaves her.</p> + +<p>‘No resource,’ murmurs Sibyl, ‘none but flight—or—’ she +looks at the little bottle, full of a +colourless liquid—‘or this.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_IV"> + CHAPTER IV. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">ON THE THRESHOLD OF A DISCOVERY</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Alexis goes back to Cheswold Grange, and resumes +the even tenor of his life, a prosperous +country gentleman, with very little to occupy him, +and plenty of leisure in which to muse upon destiny, +and dream of the things that might have been. +The hunting season has long been over. It is the +time of roses, and he has no temptation to endanger +his neck upon Bayard again just yet awhile. He +rides his steady little brown mare in the shady roads +and lanes round Cheswold, while Bayard stretches +his noble limbs in the home paddock, and gathers +strength for the crisp, clear days of October and +the chill mists of November.</p> + +<p>It is a pleasant life, but an idle one, and a +thought too lonely. True that there is plenty of +society in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Secretan, of +Cheswold, is popular; but life cannot be a succession +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>of dinner parties, and Alexis has little inclination +for croquet and garden parties, archery, fancy fairs, +or any of those small amusements which beguile +the long days of a country summer.</p> + +<p>The two young men have scarcely returned to +the Grange when Richard Plowden declares that +he must go home.</p> + +<p>‘I’ve been with you nearly a year, Alexis,’ he +says. ‘I am sure you must be sick of my society.’</p> + +<p>‘When I am, be sure I’ll let you know it, +Dick,’ answers the other, laughing. ‘You’re the +best company in the world to me, for you’re a +kind of second self. I can talk to you as I talk +to no one else. You know all my secrets.’</p> + +<p>‘All of them?’ asks Dick, gravely.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, Dick, all—or if there is a vague, undeveloped +thought or dream I have not shared with +you, it has not been for want of confidence in your +fidelity.’</p> + +<p>‘I believe that,’ replies Dick, deeply moved. ‘But +I must go home all the same. This kind of life is +all very well for a short time, but it can’t go on—it +would spoil me for the rough work-a-day world.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span></p> + +<p>‘Let it spoil you, Dick. Why should you ever +go back to the work-a-day world? You are my +adopted brother, as dear to me as if we had slept +in the same cradle, or lain in the same mother’s arms. +My home is yours, my income yours, and if Fate +cuts me off untimely you will not find yourself +unprovided for. Your mother is happy with her +lodgers and her housekeeping, to say nothing of +the fernery, which she tells you has flourished under +her care. Why talk of leaving me, Dick?’</p> + +<p>‘You are too good; and I am more grateful +than any words of mine can tell. But I must go +all the same.’</p> + +<p>‘You are not happy with me, Dick?’</p> + +<p>‘I have been most happy with you.’</p> + +<p>‘Have been. That means you are not happy +now. It is you who are tired of my company. +That long illness of mine wore you out. You had +too much of me at Dorley Mill.’</p> + +<p>At the name of Dorley Mill a spasm of pain +passes across Richard Plowden’s face—so faint that +it might have escaped a less watchful observer than +Alexis. But Alexis is sorely puzzled by Dick’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>desire to leave him, and is watchful of his friend’s +countenance.</p> + +<p>‘Too much of your company—no, Alexis. You +know that your company is like the wine of life for +me.’</p> + +<p>‘And yet you persist in leaving me. There must +be some reason.’</p> + +<p>‘There is a reason—one that I can never tell +you. A foolish reason. But strong enough to send +me away from Cheswold.’</p> + +<p>‘And the roses, and the ferns, and all those +bright things of summer you love so well—you to +whom the hills and woods and wandering streams +are new. You would exchange all the pleasures of +the country for the Brompton Road and the ever-flowing +stream of many-coloured omnibuses, the cry +of the hawker, the reek of the ham and beef shop, +the glare of the gin-palace? The reason must be a +strong one, Dick.’</p> + +<p>‘It is as strong as Fate.’</p> + +<p>‘And you will not trust me with it?’</p> + +<p>‘I cannot tell you my reasons. You would +laugh at me, despise me.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span></p> + +<p>‘Try me, Dick. Suppose I can guess your +secret.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no, no!’ cries Dick, with alarm.</p> + +<p>‘Those days at Dorley Mill, when my broken +ribs were slowly knitting themselves together again—peaceful, +happy days, were they not, Dick? That +quaint Elizabethan homestead seemed more like +home to both of us than this good old house of +mine. It had the atmosphere of home, which this +has not. There is no such thing as home without +the presence of a woman. We were very happy—in +a tranquil, sleepy fashion—at Dorley, weren’t we, +Dick?’</p> + +<p>‘Very happy,’ answers Dick, looking down at +an open book, the leaves of which he turns over +restlessly, as if looking for some particular +passage.</p> + +<p>‘And now I begin to fear that Dorley Mill was +an unlucky place for both of us. Neither of us +came away heart-whole.’</p> + +<p>‘Alex,’ cries Dick, looking up.</p> + +<p>‘No half-confidences, old friend. You see I am +not afraid to trust <em>you</em>. Such a confession comes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>amiss from me, you think—from me who am bound +fast by an old tie—which, if the marriage tie could +be broken by a wife’s unkindness, might well have +been cancelled for me last December, when I stood +before that mercenary wife of mine and pleaded the +cause of love against money. Do not be alarmed, +Dick, I am not going to sophisticate. The old tie +is binding, and the old bond shall be honoured, +though it should keep me a lonely man for the rest +of my days. But I may be forgiven if I have had +my dream of what might have been—if I have +thought how fair and perfect my life might be made +in this good old home of mine, were I but free to +seek Linda Challice for my wife.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ murmurs Dick, ‘I thought so.’</p> + +<p>‘You thought that I was human, Dick, and that +it was not easy for me to feel all the sweetness of +Linda’s society—to be sheltered and cherished by +her kindness—to know that I owed my life to her +patient tenderness, and withhold my heart from her +altogether. My heart went out to her, Dick, unawares, +but by not so much as a word or look did I +ever betray my secret. I woke one day to a full +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>knowledge of my peril, and the next day I left +Dorley Mill.’</p> + +<p>‘You acted nobly,’ cries Dick, clasping his +friend’s hand. ‘Yes, I suspected the truth, and it +made my own thoughts all the more bitter. How +could she think of me? What a worm I must seem +to her beside you!’</p> + +<p>‘She shall think of you, Dick. She shall learn +to know your noble heart—your talents—your love +of all that is lofty and lovely in life. She shall +learn to understand you and appreciate you as I do. +Trust to time, Dick, and me. It shall be my task to +win her for you.’</p> + +<p>‘Impossible,’ sighs Dick. ‘She is won already, +and not by me.’</p> + +<p>‘Silence, Dick. There is treason against her in +such an insinuation. She knew that I was married.’</p> + +<p>‘She must have known it at the last, but I am +not quite sure that she knew it at first, unless anything +you said when you awoke from your delirium +may have enlightened her. I don’t think, somehow, +that she did know it. Remember, you were a perfect +stranger to her. You came to Dorley Mill as if you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>had dropped from the clouds. How should she +know anything of your domestic history, which has +only been whispered amongst your neighbours?’</p> + +<p>‘You might have told her my painful story, +Dick.’</p> + +<p>‘It was not my business. It would have been +an impertinence in me to gabble about your affairs. +I felt assured that you would tell her.’</p> + +<p>‘Why should I do so, Dick? I am not a coxcomb. +I foresaw no peril to myself in my association +with that sweet girl, still less did I imagine +danger to her. I accepted all her bounties as if she +had been verily a ministering angel lent to this +lower world for a little while to be my comfort. +Upon my word, Dick, I think there is a spice of +folly—or unconscious jealousy, perhaps—in your +notion that I am any more to Miss Challice than the +traveller who fell by the wayside.’</p> + +<p>‘I can read her face,’ answers Dick, sorrowfully, +‘and it has told me her secret.’</p> + +<p>Alexis is moved by this conviction of Richard +Plowden’s. For so little he could be glad. He sees +the fair young face, the bended brow, the soft eyes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>which have so often avoided his own. Dare he interpret +those signs—those little looks which he remembers +so well—as the tokens of a hidden passion? +Dare he suffer himself to believe that while Linda +Challice ministered to him pity grew to love in +her heart, as gratitude widened into love in his? +The thought that it is so can bring him nothing but +sorrow; yet he finds himself encouraging the fancy +notwithstanding.</p> + +<p>‘I am a weak fool, Dick,’ he cries at last, after +pacing the firelit library for some time; ‘and you +ought not to say these things to me. Linda Challice +does know that I have a wife. She learned it +directly from my own lips; but only on the morning +before I left Dorley. But she shall know all my +wretched story. She shall know that I deserve her +pity, though I dare not ask for her love. I am +bound to pay one more visit to Dorley Mill, if it is +only to repeat my thanks for all her goodness to me. +I will go to-morrow. I have ordered a little present +for her from London which I think she will like.’</p> + +<p>‘She is not a girl to care for presents,’ says +Dick.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> + +<p>‘You sulky old bear! women love souvenirs +and keepsakes.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, when they love the giver.’</p> + +<p>‘You know that shabby silver watch she wears.’</p> + +<p>‘It was her father’s,’ growls Dick; ‘he wore it +to the day of his death, or had it under his pillow +on his death-bed. He died in Rome, you know, in +something like impoverished circumstances. I +dare say he had a fine gold hunter when his pictures +were the fashion.’</p> + +<p>‘Poor fellow! it was his watch, was it? Then +I’m afraid Lin⁠——Miss Challice won’t care for +the one I’ve bought her.’</p> + +<p>Alexis takes a neat little morocco case out of a +drawer in the library table, a dainty case lined with +white velvet, on which reposes the most fascinating +of watches—about the size of a florin. The case is +dark purple enamel, with Linda’s monogram in +pearls, and round the watch is coiled a slender gold +chain set with pearls.</p> + +<p>‘Rather too pretty for a miller’s granddaughter,’ +says Dick. ‘But I’ve no doubt she’ll be pleased. +Did you buy anything for Mr. Benfield?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, Dick, I didn’t forget the miller;’ and from +another drawer Alexis produces a splendid meerschaum +pipe. ‘The old gentleman can smoke his +tobacco in that when he sits by the fire after +supper.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t suppose it will draw as well as his clay,’ +murmurs Dick.</p> + +<p>The drawing-room at the Grange seems more +than usually empty that evening when the two +young men leave the dining-table. It is a wet +night, and they lack the amusement which the +gardens and stable yard afford them in fine weather. +Alexis has read all the magazines and newspapers, +and is hardly in the humour for serious literature, +although all his favourite authors, newly bound and +newly arranged upon the shelves in the library, +invite him to study. His mind is disturbed, he +knows not why. He takes up a volume of Tennyson +from the table and turns the leaves idly till he +comes to that exquisite poem called ‘Love and +Duty.’ This he reads aloud, Richard Plowden +listening intently.</p> + +<p>‘That was written by a <span class="allsmcap">MAN</span>, Dick,’ he says +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>when he has finished. ‘Byron-worshipper as I am, +I confess that there is more stamina in that than in +all Childe Harold’s wailing against destiny. But +then Byron died in the flower of his manhood. We +know not what noble fruit the tree might have +borne had it grown to maturity. Byron never came +to the age at which Scott began to be a poet, or at +which Goethe wrote his masterpiece. What would +have been the aftermath of Byron and Shelley had +inexorable death spared so much genius?’</p> + +<p>After this Alexis and his friend talk of their +favourite poets, and both brighten a little as their +thoughts drift away from their own individual +sorrows.</p> + +<p>Soon after breakfast next morning, Alexis +mounts Titmouse and rides down to Dorley, through +the perfumed lanes where the dog-roses and woodbine +make a tangle of flowers among the young +oak saplings and the sturdy hawthorn bushes. +Dorley Mill is looking its prettiest as he rides +along the winding track that leads to it. Trot is +sitting in the porch playing with a very fat black +and white puppy with a round stupid-looking head, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>a puppy that has not long been added to the population +of Dorley.</p> + +<p>At the sight of Alexis, Trot lets fall his pinafore, +and gives the puppy a sudden drop in the world. +It is the youthful animal’s first experience of the +uncertainty of friendship, and he yelps out his +remonstrance against life’s delusions.</p> + +<p>‘Mammie!’ yells Trot, ‘mammie, come out, it’s +the genlamum.’ In spite of their familiarity, Trot +has never learnt to call Alexis anything but the +‘genlamum.’</p> + +<p>Linda is not forthcoming, and Trot remembers +presently that mammie has gone down to the +village.</p> + +<p>‘She not be long,’ says Trot. ‘I’ll show oo my +noo puppy;’ and he introduces that animal, held +firmly by the tail.</p> + +<p>‘Daddie says he grow big—ever so big—bigger +than Trot,’ says the boy, opening his eyes tremendously +wide. They are hazel eyes, with lashes of +gold, which time will darken to brown.</p> + +<p>‘I’ll come in and wait, Trot,’ says Alexis, dismounting, +and tying Titmouse to the gatepost. She +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>is a lazy animal, and has no objection to stand there +nibbling the grass by the wayside.</p> + +<p>He goes in at the familiar porch, beneath which +he was carried unconscious on the day of his +accident, and seats himself by Linda’s work-table. +How pleasant the room is to his sight! how homelike! +There are the books Linda read to him—the +books that seemed to breathe a deeper pathos and +holier tenderness when she read. There is her +drawing-board with an unfinished landscape, a wind +of the river overshadowed by willows. There are +the flowers her hand has arranged; there the sofa on +which he passed so many reposeful hours of unthinking +happiness.</p> + +<p>‘Why did I permit myself to be so happy?’ he +thinks, in self-reproach. ‘It was a pleasant dream, +but the return to life’s dull reality is a little hard to +bear.’</p> + +<p>He rouses himself from his musing mood, and +begins to talk to Trot, taking Trot and the puppy on +his knee together. Trot stops tolerably quiet; but +the puppy begins a perambulation—a voyage of +discovery up and down Mr. Secretan’s coat sleeves +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>and collar, and even on to his head, which is more +familiar than agreeable.</p> + +<p>‘Well, Trot, you haven’t forgotten me, I hope?’</p> + +<p>‘I not forgotten oo, but I don’t love oo no more,’ +replies Trot, decisively.</p> + +<p>‘Not love me any more? Oh, Trot, that is cruel. +Why not?’</p> + +<p>‘Why oo go ’way and make mammie cry?’ +demands Trot, facing the accused with magisterial +severity.</p> + +<p>Alexis crimsons at the interrogation.</p> + +<p>‘I never made mammie cry,’ he falters.</p> + +<p>‘That’s a tory. Oo did. She cried the day oo +went,—she cried a little every day, she said it was a +headache,—Trot knows better, she not such a coward +as to cry for a headache. Trot doesn’t cry when his +head aches, he’s a man!’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, but mammie’s only a woman, Trot, and a +headache might make her cry if it was a very bad +one. Mammie wouldn’t tell a story.’</p> + +<p>‘She says <em>I</em> mustn’t,’ responds Trot, ‘but I think +she did. Grown-up people may do anything. +Mayn’t they tell tories?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span></p> + +<p>‘No, Trot, not good people. Only wicked people +tell stories.’</p> + +<p>A shadow flits across the threshold, and the +subject of their conversation enters. Trot scrambles +off Mr. Secretan’s knee and runs to his adopted +mother.</p> + +<p>‘I told him he was naughty to go away +and make oo cry,’ says Trot, ‘and he says he +didn’t.’</p> + +<p>‘Foolish Trot. What silly notions you get into +your head!’ says Linda, bending over the child and +blushing deeply.</p> + +<p>Alexis sees the blush, and he sees something +more than that. He sees that Linda has changed +within the ten days that have gone by since he left +Dorley Mill. A settled pallor succeeds that fleeting +red. Her eyes are sunken, and there is a dark line +beneath them, which deepens their colour, and gives +a pathetic expression that touches him to the heart. +She has cared for him, she has been sorry for him, +and he, poor fettered wretch, dare say no word of his +care or his sorrow for her. She must drink the cup +of humiliation to the dregs, and know that the man +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>to whom her innocent heart has gone forth is the +property of another.</p> + +<p>‘I have been anxious to come and tell you once +more how gratefully I shall ever remember your +goodness to me,’ says Alexis, after they have talked +about Trot and Trot’s puppy for a few minutes. +The puppy is to grow up into a Newfoundland if it +realizes the expectations of its friends, but there is +an element of uncertainty in these things, and Alexis +has a lurking conviction that this puppy will +develop into the most mongrel of mongrels.</p> + +<p>‘Believe me, neither my grandfather nor I consider +our care of you a matter for gratitude, +Mr. Secretan,’ replies Linda. ‘Providence brought +you to our door. We should have been very unchristian-like +if we had not cared for you. I think +you must know that if you had been the poorest +tramp that ever dropped down on the road-side we +should have done the same.’</p> + +<p>‘I am quite sure of that,’ replies Alexis, ‘and that +is why I have never ventured to speak about the expense +that my illness must have entailed upon you.’</p> + +<p>‘Pray relieve your mind upon that score. Your +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>housekeeper sent all the broths and jellies, hothouse +fruits, poultry, game, and wines from the Grange. I +think you only cost us a few new-laid eggs and a +little milk. Mrs. Bodlow kept our larder almost too +well supplied in her anxiety that you should have +nourishing diet.’</p> + +<p>‘Mrs. Bodlow only did her duty. But lightly as +you regard the obligation, Miss Challice, it is one +which I shall carry to my dying day. If ever I am +inclined to make a bad use of this life of mine, I will +remember how hard you strove to win it back from +the grave. I have ventured to bring you something—a +little gold watch, with your initials on the back, +which I hope you will wear sometimes in remembrance +of the many weary hours you spent by the +stranger’s sick bed.’</p> + +<p>‘I will wear it always,’ replies Linda, with tears +in her eyes.</p> + +<p>‘Oo can’t wear two wathes,’ exclaims Trot. ‘Oo +wear oor fazer’s wath.’</p> + +<p>‘I shall keep that among my treasures, Trot; but +it is nearly worn out, poor old watch, and I am sure +this will keep better time.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> + +<p>‘Oo like this best ’cause the genlamum give it +oo,’ cries the far-seeing Trot.</p> + +<p>Alexis pretends not to hear this last observation, +and produces the meerschaum pipe, which Linda +admires amazingly, and which Trot wants to have in +his mouth and to make believe to smoke, as he does +sometimes with daddie’s homelier clay.</p> + +<p>‘Dear little Trot,’ exclaims Alexis, ‘how your +small voice would enliven us at Cheswold Grange. +You cannot imagine how dull it is there, Miss +Challice, in the long summer evenings.’</p> + +<p>‘No? And yet I think I know how long the +summer evenings can be. But Trot would not do +much to enliven them. He is worn out by seven +o’clock. Oh, by the way, talking of Trot, I have +made one little discovery since you left us.’</p> + +<p>‘What is that?’ cries Alexis, eagerly.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t let me raise false expectations. It is such +a trifle, scarcely worth mentioning, but you seemed +anxious to find out our little darling’s parentage, and +this seems a clue, however small.’</p> + +<p>‘What is it? Pray tell me. I am most +anxious, more anxious than I can explain.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> + +<p>‘Pray do not excite yourself, Mr. Secretan. I +was looking over some papers in my desk, the other +day, when I came upon the blank sheet of note-paper +which contained that last remittance for Trot,—I +remember it on account of the peculiar way in which +it was folded,—and I noticed for the first time that +there was a name stamped upon it in the corner, +the name of the stationer who supplied it, no doubt.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, of course.’</p> + +<p>‘I have saved the sheet of paper to show you. +The name is Morgan, Redcastle.’</p> + +<p>Alexis starts from his chair and seizes Trot as if +he would take possession of him on the instant. He +is speechless with surprise.</p> + +<p>‘You know the name of that place.’</p> + +<p>‘Know it? yes. I have reason, bitter reason, to +know it. A small town in Yorkshire. And that +money, obviously sent by the child’s mother, was +sent from Redcastle?’</p> + +<p>‘One would suppose so.’</p> + +<p>‘There can be no doubt of it. Tell me, Miss +Challice, if I were to show you a photograph of the +woman you sheltered, the mother of this boy, would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>you recognise her? The picture I shall show you +was taken in the bloom of her beauty. You saw her—should +it indeed be the same woman—faded, worn +by care and deprivation. Should you know the face +under such altered conditions?’</p> + +<p>‘I should know it anywhere. But why should +you be so agitated? Why should the mere name of +this place excite you so much?’</p> + +<p>‘Ask me no questions till I come back to you +with the photograph,’ says Alexis. ‘I shall go and +return as fast as my horse will carry me.’</p> + +<p>‘Pray be careful. Remember⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘That I have been thrown! Trust me, dear +Miss Challice. I will run no risks. I am too +anxious to settle the question of Trot’s parentage.’</p> + +<p>He takes the child in his arms, kisses him as he +has never kissed him yet in all their friendly companionship, +gives him back to Linda, and runs out +at the gate.</p> + +<p>He has mounted Titmouse and is out of sight +before Linda has recovered from her astonishment at +his agitation.</p> + +<p>‘Genlamum’s in a hurry!’ exclaims Trot.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_V"> + CHAPTER V. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">A FATHER’S CLAIM</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Alexis scarcely knows what he is doing during that +scamper back to Cheswold Grange.</p> + +<p>Titmouse, inspirited by the knowledge that she +is going home to her stable and two o’clock feed, +throws her shoulders forward and sends out her feet, +trotting as if for a wager.</p> + +<p>‘Take off her bridle and give her some corn,’ +says Alexis to the groom who receives him. ‘I +shall want her again in ten minutes.’</p> + +<p>He goes to the library, unlocks a despatch box, +and takes out an oblong velvet case, containing his +wife’s portrait—a picture taken by a famous photographer +during their bright Parisian honeymoon,—the +portrait of a girl-bride, lovely, elegantly dressed, +smiling at the unknown future, and unconscious that +these happy, idle honeymoon hours were eating up +the capital that should have served to start husband +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>and wife in the business of life. It is a photograph +of Sibyl at her best—before secret cares and hypocrisies +had wrought their lines on her fair young +face.</p> + +<p>Alexis contemplates the picture regretfully for a +few moments before he puts it in his pocket.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, she was very lovely then,’ he tells himself. +‘And there is nothing in this face that bespeaks a +heart capable of treachery or deceit. It was +poverty’s bitter school that spoiled her. Some +noble spirits grow strong by treading the rough +ways of life—hers was too weak to survive the +ordeal of misfortune. Poor child, she must have +suffered!’</p> + +<p>He is on Titmouse again and returning to Dorley +in a few minutes, very much against the mare’s +inclination. She indulges in a stubborn crawl, or, +being touched up with the whip, jogs and jolts her +rider in an irregular trot, expressive of supreme ill-temper. +Urged out of this, she sets off in a furious +canter, as if to inform him that she has some ‘go’ +left in her yet, in spite of ill-usage, and may contrive +to pitch him over her head if he is too aggravating.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p> + +<p>These devices finally bring Alexis to Dorley, +where he finds Linda and Trot in the front garden, +evidently on the watch for him.</p> + +<p>‘I am so glad you have returned,’ cries Linda. +‘You have made me quite miserable.’</p> + +<p>‘Forgive me, dear Miss Challice, but if you +knew what hopes that one little word Redcastle +have raised in my mind! See here’—he takes the +case from his pocket and shows her Sibyl’s photograph,—‘does +that face remind you of any face you +have ever seen before?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ she answers, pale to the lips, but without +an instant’s hesitation, ‘it is the portrait of Trot’s +mother. She was not so beautiful as that. She was +thin and worn and haggard, but I should recognise +the eyes and mouth anywhere. It is she.’</p> + +<p>‘This is the portrait of my wife, Linda; and +Trot, the helpless baby you adopted in order to save +him from the hazards of his mother’s distraction or +despair, is my son.’</p> + +<p>‘You told me your son was dead.’</p> + +<p>‘I was taught to believe so. My wife, for some +mysterious reason, told me that cruel lie. She was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>ashamed, perhaps, of having abandoned our child +to the care of another, and feared to tell me the +truth.’</p> + +<p>‘Are you sure?’ falters Linda. ‘You are not +deceiving yourself and me?’</p> + +<p>‘If you are sure that this picture is the portrait +of Trot’s mother, there can be no doubt that Trot +is my son.’</p> + +<p>‘And you will take him away from me,’ says +Linda, piteously; ‘just when he has grown most +dear. After all I have suffered—all I have borne +patiently for his sake—I am to lose him. That is +hard.’</p> + +<p>‘If you knew how I have pined for a son, +Linda—what day-dreams I have woven about my +little one’s image—how bitter a grief I felt when I +was told that wicked lie about his death—you +would understand my rapture at finding him, my +eagerness to claim him for my own—my darling, +my hope, my precious care, heir to the fortune that +Providence has dropped into my lap—poorly +deserved on my part Heaven knows. He shall be +better worthy of it.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ murmurs Linda, faintly, ‘I can understand. +It is only natural. He is your son; your +rights are sacred.’</p> + +<p>‘And you have suffered for his sake, Linda. +Your generosity has been rewarded by the world’s +injustice. But I can set all right. I shall claim +him for my own, and every one round and about +Cheswold and Dorley shall know all his story. Yes, +I will not blush to tell the whole bitter truth. How +my wife left me in poverty, and how my son was +born in a workhouse.’</p> + +<p>They are standing in the parlour, Trot watching +their excited countenances, with wonder depicted +upon his own.</p> + +<p>‘You have a right to take him away,’ says +Linda, sadly, ‘but I think you will take all the +sunshine of our lives with him. My grandfather +is almost as fond of him as I am.’</p> + +<p>‘I am not going to dissever old links, Linda. +He shall come often to see you. He shall be +taught to know you as the guardian angel of +his infancy; he shall always remember his first +home.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, but it will be his home no longer,’ replies +Linda, with a sigh.</p> + +<p>Alexis is silent. He feels that he must seem a +wretch, a destroyer, entering this happy household +only to ruin its joy. But how can he forego his +claim? How can he relinquish the delight of +watching his son’s infancy develop into boyhood—guiding +the baby mind, making the boy at once +pupil and plaything, source of all his pleasures in +the present and all his hopes in the future?</p> + +<p>At this juncture Trot, who has listened intently, +arrives at the comprehension that he has a personal +interest in the conversation. He catches at the idea +that he is to be taken away—transferred from +mammie to the genlamum, and he suddenly bursts in +upon the conversation with a dismal howl.</p> + +<p>‘Me won’t be took away; me stay with mammie,’ +cries the boy, and he clambers up into Linda’s arms, +and clings there as if resolved to resist any attempt +at dislodging him.</p> + +<p>‘What, Trot,’ cries Alexis, smiling at the little +one’s excitement, ‘won’t you come and live with me, +and have a dear little Shetland pony to ride, and a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>big garden to play in, and a rocking-horse,—and a—lots +of plum cakes and picture-books?’ Here +Alexis’s knowledge of juvenile weaknesses fails him, +and he knows not what further temptation to offer.</p> + +<p>‘Me won’t have pony, me not want oor garden, +me got nice big garden, me want mammie,’ cries +Trot, and he clings still tighter to Linda.</p> + +<p>‘Trot, shall I tell you a secret?’</p> + +<p>‘’Ess,’ says Trot, who thinks that a secret must +needs be something worth hearing.</p> + +<p>‘You must come and live with me, Trot, my +darling. God meant you and me to live together. +I’m your father!’</p> + +<p>‘No, you not,’ screams the boy, ‘you’re the genlamum +with the broken arm. Me never have no +fazer.’</p> + +<p>‘And you won’t come to live at the Grange? +Such a large garden, six times as big as the garden +here, and a Shetland pony with a long tail.’</p> + +<p>‘Me won’t,’ cries Trot, emphatically. ‘Bozer de +pony!’</p> + +<p>‘Trot has decided, Miss Challice,’ says Alexis, +gravely. ‘If I were ungrateful enough, selfish +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>enough, to wish to take him from you, his childish +heart is true and fast. He shall stay with you, since +you wish it, for the next few years at any rate. +This shall be his home, and he shall come to Cheswold +only as a visitor. You will let me have him +sometimes?’</p> + +<p>‘Let you have him! Oh, Mr. Secretan, are you +not too generous in consenting to leave him with +me?’</p> + +<p>‘I should be an ungrateful hound if I could +refuse. You have made my son’s infancy bright and +happy. You have saved him from the evils of +poverty—from his mother’s selfishness. How can I +be grateful enough to you?’</p> + +<p>‘Only let me keep my darling a little longer, and +I am more than recompensed. I must be proud and +happy too, when I have recovered a little from this +surprise, to know that he is your son—that his +future will be bright and prosperous—his worldly +position honourable,—to think that my little waif +and stray should be the future squire of Cheswold. +My grandfather will be so pleased. It is a triumph +for me over him, dear old man, for he said that I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>was very foolish to adopt a nameless child, and now +my dearest has name and fortune, home and father.’</p> + +<p>‘We will make a good man of him between us, +Miss Challice,’ says Alexis, more elated by this +discovery than he was by the inheritance of Miss +Secretan’s estate. He has no doubt as to Trot’s +identity—there seems to him no room for doubt, yet +he is anxious to make things as certain as possible—to +secure independent evidence in case his claim +to his son should ever be disputed.</p> + +<p>He goes back to the Grange only to get a fresh +horse, and then rides into the quiet old cathedral +town to talk the matter over with Mr. Scrodgers. +He does not consider the provincial solicitor a +Mansfield or a Cockburn; but Mr. Scrodgers’s is the +best legal intellect available on the spot, and to +Mr. Scrodgers he goes.</p> + +<p>The family solicitor listens to all Alexis has to +tell with the gravity of a learned owl that has <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'lived century'" id="tn-72">lived +a century</ins> or so in the same ivy bush. He contracts +his eyebrows, he purses up his lips, and looks as if +he had known the whole story before, but, for some +wise reason he had kept his knowledge to himself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> + +<p>‘A curious case, Mr. Secretan,’ he says at last, ‘a +very curious case. It’s lucky your estate is not +entailed.’</p> + +<p>‘Why so?’</p> + +<p>‘There might have been difficulties in the way of +succession. It might not be easy to identify this +infant—born in such a very irregular manner—as +your son and heir. There might be suspicions. +The heir-at-law might file a bill in Chancery. I +should consider it a very hazardous business were +your estate entailed; but you as an independent +man, fettered by no entail, may leave your real property +to Tom, Dick, or Harry. I should recommend +you to take this infant into your house at once, let +him bear your name, let him be recognised by all +your acquaintances as your son.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I shall take care of that. I shall tell +everybody. But there is a difficulty about bringing +him into my house. The lady who brought him up—who +rescued him from I know not what misery—has +a claim upon his affection, the strongest, and as +strong a claim on my gratitude. To take him away +from her would be almost to break her heart.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> + +<p>‘Almost, but not quite. There’s a long distance +between the two adverbs,’ replies the cynical Scrodgers. +‘Most women have their hearts almost +broken once in their lives. Give her a new +bonnet.’</p> + +<p>‘You do not know the lady, sir. She is not +a woman to be solaced by a bonnet.’</p> + +<p>‘Hasn’t she a head?’ asks Mr. Scrodgers. ‘I +never knew a woman, with a head, that a bonnet +wouldn’t pacify. Half the cases at the assizes, in +which the female is a plaintiff, might be settled out +of court if the defendant knew when and how to +offer the <i lang="la">solatium</i> of a bonnet.’</p> + +<p>‘I see, Mr. Scrodgers, you are a bachelor and a +misogynist,’ says Alexis, smilingly.</p> + +<p>‘No, sir,’ replies the lawyer, ‘I am a misogynist, +and a married man.’</p> + +<p>‘The first thing I have to do is to alter +my will,’ says Alexis, returning to the business +question.</p> + +<p>‘Decidedly. If you are convinced that this +infant—hereinbefore named—is your son, you had +better make a will in his favour.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span></p> + +<p>‘Prepare one as fast as you can, Mr. Scrodgers, +leaving the bequest to my good friend Plowden just +as it stands.’</p> + +<p>‘You must have trustees in case of your dying +before the child attains his majority.’</p> + +<p>‘Make Plowden trustee.’</p> + +<p>‘You should have a second, in the event of Mr. +Plowden’s death.’</p> + +<p>‘How you lawyers remind us of our mortality! +Well, make Miss Challice the second trustee and +guardian of the boy in case of my death. Nobody +will ever love him better than she does.’</p> + +<p>‘And in the event of her marriage⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Marriage would make no difference in her. She +would always love my boy.’</p> + +<p>Mr. Scrodgers relieves his doubtful mind by a +faint smile. His idea of marriage is that it makes a +very great difference. To his legal mind marriage +transforms a man. Even the will he made as a +bachelor is no longer valid, proving that in the eye +of the law the married man and the bachelor are +two distinct personages.</p> + +<p>‘Then you would recommend me to get together +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>all the evidence I can bearing upon my boy’s birth +says Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘I think it would be wise to do so. The fact of +your parentage may never be disputed. You can +dispose of the Cheswold estate as you choose, but +still it might be well to have all necessary documents—an +attested copy of your marriage certificate, and +so on.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I was a reckless fellow when I married. +Heaven knows what became of the certificate. My +wife may have kept it. Certainly I didn’t take any +care of it. The parson had made her my wife. +That was all I thought about on that bewildering +day.’</p> + +<p>‘Then you had better get a copy of the register +without delay.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, and I will go to the woman with whom +my wife and I lodged. She will remember that +my wife was expecting to become a mother when +she left me. If that woman is to be found I will +get from her a written declaration of that fact.’</p> + +<p>‘It would be as well to do so,’ says Mr. Scrodgers, +approvingly, and Alexis leaves him to prepare the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>new will, which he is to bring to the Grange early +next morning.</p> + +<p>‘Stay,’ says the lawyer, on the threshold. ‘You +haven’t told me the infant’s Christian name.’</p> + +<p>‘He was christened William.’</p> + +<p>‘No other name?’</p> + +<p>‘I believe not. But you can fill in the names +to-morrow. I will ask that question in the meantime.’</p> + +<p>Alexis goes back to Cheswold pondering on the +lawyer’s advice about his son. Mr. Scrodgers has +distinctly said that it is for the child’s welfare, for +the security of his future position, that he should +be domiciled with his father; and Alexis longs to +have the little one under the same roof with him, +to see him daily, hourly, to watch over him sleeping +and waking, to make him his plaything and companion. +Against this natural desire there is the +promise he has made to Linda Challice—the debt of +gratitude he owes her. Hard to break that promise—hard +to ignore that debt.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_VI"> + CHAPTER VI. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">A WEDDING EVE</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">The days pass with a frightful rapidity as it seems +to Sibyl after that Tuesday night on which Joel +Pilgrim came back from York with the marriage +licence.</p> + +<p>Stephen Trenchard is ailing, and keeps his room +for the greater part of the time, but Dr. Mitsand, a +most careful man in all critical cases, comes to Lancaster +Lodge only once a day, and there is no hint +of danger. The doctor’s manner has that pleasant +vivacity which suits a trifling derangement of the +patient’s system. He sits by the bedside and discourses +upon local topics—the water company, +sewage, and other agreeable subjects. On Thursday +morning Sibyl lies in wait for him on the landing +outside Mr. Trenchard’s room.</p> + +<p>‘You do not think my uncle very ill, do you, Dr. +Mitsand?’ she asks, with evident anxiety, a solicitude +which the kindly old doctor thinks highly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>creditable to her, and which he remembers afterwards—to +her disadvantage.</p> + +<p>‘Certainly not, my dear Miss Faunthorpe,’ he +replies, cheerily, ‘there is a little prostration; our +dear patient is very feeble; that is only to be +expected at his time of life. There is a wonderful +reserve of vigour about his constitution, exceptional +recuperative power; he is all muscle and sinew—no +superfluous flesh; and this, taken in conjunction +with his temperate habits, would lead one to anticipate +a long life. I fear his mind has been a little +troubled lately. Very foolish. A man in his +position should worry himself about nothing. But +no doubt wealth has its responsibilities.’</p> + +<p>‘Then there is no reason for alarm?’</p> + +<p>‘Not the slightest. If there were I should call +in my friend Dr. Wilmot, of Krampston, for a consultation. +Your uncle’s is not a life to be trifled +with,’ adds Dr. Mitsand, solemnly, as if the life +of a millionaire were a much bigger thing in +creation than the existences of the vulgar herd. +‘Pray don’t be uneasy, my dear young lady. And +now I look at you I fear you have been fretting. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>You are looking pale and fatigued. And this little +hand,’ as he shakes hands with her, ‘is very +feverish.’ He lays his finger on her wrist. ‘Good +gracious, what a pulse! This won’t do, my dear +Miss Faunthorpe. Mental disturbance has been +going on here. I’ll send you a composing draught. +You must keep yourself quiet for the next day or +two, especially as you are so soon to start upon a +long voyage. Your dear uncle has told me of the +interesting event which is to take place next Saturday. +Very sudden! On account of Mr. Pilgrim’s +recall to Calcutta, yes,—yes, I understand, and a +very quiet wedding, your uncle’s health not allowing—of +course, of course. I shall take the liberty to be +present in the church, in order to have the pleasure +of congratulating you. I used to think our young +friend Stormont was to be the happy man; and then +there was some talk of your becoming mistress of +the How; but you have managed to deceive us +all, you see.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ falters Sibyl, with a sickly smile.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t forget to take the composing draught. +Good-bye.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p> + +<p>Distinctly does Dr. Mitsand remember the +anxious look she turns upon him as he leaves +her.</p> + +<p>‘That’s not a happy marriage,’ he tells his +daughters at luncheon, ‘it’s a case of hands, not +hearts, my dears. All money, money, money! with +these self-made men that question swallows up +every other consideration.’</p> + +<p>It is long since Redcastle has had such a +delightful subject for gossip as this suddenly +arranged wedding. Mrs. Chasubel has made a round +of morning calls in order to tell her dear friends +the startling news, and the marriage has been +discussed from every point of view, the general idea +being that Mr. Trenchard is a tyrant, and Sibyl the +victim of his mercenary views. Mrs. Stormont’s +particular idea—which she imparts in confidence +to everybody—is that Sibyl was devotedly attached +to her dear Frederick, and that it is to prevent her +eloping with Fred that Mr. Trenchard has hurried +on her espousals with Joel Pilgrim.</p> + +<p>Inexorable time, like death, advances with +measured tread. It is Friday, the eve of that ill-omened +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>bridal, and Sibyl sits alone in her pretty +morning-room—the room in which Joel found her +on his return from York. She has made all her +arrangements for her journey, packed her trunks, +and labelled them for the steamer <i>Ganges</i>. Her +own firm hand has written those labels—Mrs. Pilgrim, +passenger to Calcutta, Joel looking on all the +time with that ugly smile of his. One small leather +bag is unlabelled, and in that Sibyl has put her +little stock of trinkets, a small supply of under +linen, and the marble-paper covered book containing +the diary she kept at Mrs. Hazleton’s. She +has kept no diary at Lancaster Lodge. She is +alone now, exhausted by a long morning devoted +to the task of packing. Marion has been with +her, pretending to help, full of exclamations and +congratulations, wonderment and curiosity.</p> + +<p>‘It doesn’t seem so much of a match after all,’ +Marion has observed candidly. ‘But I suppose this +Mr. Pilgrim is awfully rich, and money is what +you like, Sibyl. However, I must say if I had +been you I should have tried to lead Sir Wilford +Cardonnel on a little further. He did seem very +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>much taken with you, and every one was surprised +that it only ended in a flirtation. But men are +such deceivers, as some one says in an old song—one +foot on somewhere, and one on somewhere +else, to one thing constant never.’</p> + +<p>Sibyl has contrived to get rid of her sister a +little before dinner-time. Marion is to be at the +wedding, and is to officiate as sole bridesmaid, but +there has not been time for her to get a new +dress made, a fact which she does not omit to +bewail with much lamentation.</p> + +<p>‘It’s the worst apology for a wedding <em>I</em> ever +heard of,’ she remarks, ‘but I suppose you’ll +recompense yourself for all this with balls and +parties when you get to Calcutta.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ answers Sibyl, with a faint smile. ‘I shall +enjoy myself immensely in Calcutta.’</p> + +<p>It is seven o’clock, a lovely summer evening, +and Sibyl sits by the disordered table, scattered +with books and papers. She is very pale, and +there is a look of apathy in her face and attitude, +as if she had abandoned all effort and surrendered +herself to fate.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p> + +<p>She is startled from this blank listlessness by +the announcement of Sir Wilford Cardonnel. No +visit could surprise her more than this at such +a time.</p> + +<p>‘Sir Wilford told me to say that he wishes +most particularly to see you alone, ma’am,’ says +the servant, ‘he will not detain you long.’</p> + +<p>‘You had better bring him up here. Mr. Pilgrim +is in the drawing-room, I suppose?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, ma’am.’</p> + +<p>‘There is not much to attract him now in this +white wretched face,’ thinks Sibyl, with a hurried +look at the glass, which reflects the shadow of a +vanished beauty.</p> + +<p>Sir Wilford enters breathless, and evidently +strongly agitated.</p> + +<p>‘My dear Miss Faunthorpe,’ he says hurriedly, +‘I only came home from the north this afternoon, +and heard of this intended marriage. I rode over +at once. Can I be of any use? You honoured +me with your confidence, and I told you that if +ever the hour should come when you would need +a friend, you might command me. Let me be your +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>friend to-day. Let me stand between you and the +tyranny that is being practised—let me save you +from⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘A crime! You are all that is good and generous, +Sir Wilford; and if I needed help I would +ask for yours. But I need none.’</p> + +<p>‘What do you mean? Your marriage is appointed +for to-morrow morning. You, the wife +of another man, are to be married to this Mr. +Pilgrim.’</p> + +<p>‘The marriage is appointed for to-morrow, but +no such marriage will take place.’</p> + +<p>‘How will you prevent it?’</p> + +<p>‘In a very simple manner. The bride will be +missing.’</p> + +<p>‘You are going away?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. I am left with but one resource—flight! +I shall be far away from Redcastle at eleven +o’clock to-morrow.’</p> + +<p>‘You are sure of being able to escape—sure +that no coercion will be used?’</p> + +<p>‘I think not. I have acted my part carefully +during the last few days, and Mr. Pilgrim believes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>that I am resigned to the inevitable. My +trunks are all packed for India. I have labelled +them with my own hands.’</p> + +<p>‘And you have made every arrangement for +going away?’ asks Sir Wilford, anxiously. ‘You +have friends to whom you can go?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I have made all arrangements. I have +decided where to go,’ replies Sibyl after a pause.</p> + +<p>‘Pray trust me,’ pleads Sir Wilford, earnestly. +‘Think of me no longer as your lover, but your +friend only. You must need friendly counsel. +Do not take any step unadvisedly. You have +played a desperate game for your uncle’s fortune, +and, as it now turns out, a losing game. Would +it not be wiser—better in every way, even at this +last moment, to confess the truth to your uncle? +He might forgive you. You might even retain +your hold upon his affection.’</p> + +<p>‘Impossible. You do not know my uncle +Trenchard as I do. I thank you for your friendship, +Sir Wilford, but this is a case in which +advice is useless. There is but one course open +to me. It is one that I ought to have taken long +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>ago, perhaps—the only straight and womanly +course. But I have stubbornly pursued my own +plan, and the end is failure.’</p> + +<p>‘If you would only confide in me—if you +would only tell me where you are going—to +whom?’</p> + +<p>‘I am going to my husband.’</p> + +<p>‘Then I can say no more. I feel that you are +taking the right course. If—if⁠——’ here Sir Wilford +hesitates and blushes—‘if you should be in +want of ready money for your travelling expenses, +or for any emergency which you may not now +foresee, pray suffer me to be your banker. I +cashed a cheque at the bank as I came up the +town,’ taking out a well-filled pocket-book. ‘Let +me lend you fifty or a hundred in small notes.’</p> + +<p>‘You are too good,’ exclaims Sibyl, touched +by his thoughtfulness. ‘But I have money, and +money’s worth which will serve me abundantly. +I promise that if ever I am in desperate need of +help—in such need as my husband and I have +known in the past—I will apply to you. I will +not be too proud to be a petitioner.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p> + +<p>‘Thanks for that promise. And now good-bye. +I will not intrude upon you any longer; but if +anything should happen within the next few +hours—if there should be any attempt at constraint +on the part of your uncle, or Mr. Pilgrim, +send a messenger to me, and I will be at your +side as soon as my horse can carry me; or I will +stay in Redcastle to-night, if you like, at the +“Coach and Horses,” so as to be nearer at hand +in case I am wanted.’</p> + +<p>‘Believe me, there is no occasion. If the worst +comes I have but to declare my marriage.’</p> + +<p>‘Then good-bye. I will not wish that we may +meet under happier circumstances, for it will be +happier for me not to see you. But I do most +heartily wish you every happiness Providence can +bestow.’</p> + +<p>‘I am not very hopeful,’ answers Sibyl, with a +sigh. ‘I begin to think that I flung away my +chance of happiness when I tried to win fortune.’</p> + +<p>And thus they part, Sir Wilford honestly anxious +for the welfare of the woman he has loved, Sibyl +touched by his devotion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span></p> + +<p>She goes down to the drawing-room presently, +and finds Joel Pilgrim walking up and down in the +twilight, with by no means a radiant brow.</p> + +<p>‘You have had a visitor,’ he says, frowning upon +her as she enters.</p> + +<p>‘Only Sir Wilford Cardonnel, to offer me his +congratulations,’ she answers, lightly.</p> + +<p>‘Only your former admirer,’ sneers Joel. ‘I +should hardly have thought he would have considered +your marriage a subject for his congratulations.’</p> + +<p>‘He is more generous than you give him credit +for being.’</p> + +<p>‘So it seems. I don’t, as a rule, credit my acquaintance +with an unlimited amount of generosity.’</p> + +<p>They dine together <i lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i>, and Sibyl seems at +her brightest throughout the meal, which is conducted +with the strictest ceremony, and lasts a long +time. Gladly would she have escaped the weariness +of Mr. Pilgrim’s detested society for these last +few hours, but she wishes to disarm suspicion by +every means in her power, so as to leave herself free +and unfettered at the last.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span></p> + +<p>Her fascinations, which have stood her in such +good stead with the rest of the world, seem to be +wasted on Joel Pilgrim. He is gloomy and absent-minded +all dinner-time, eats little, but drinks a good +deal, and when Sibyl leaves him to return to the +drawing-room he does not follow her with lover-like +haste, but sits brooding over his wine for half an +hour, and then goes straight upstairs to Stephen +Trenchard’s room.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trenchard is lying on the sofa, wrapped in +his dressing-gown, with all the apparatus of invalidism +around him, medicine bottles, hothouse +grapes, soda water on the table by his side, a fire +burning on the hearth, though it is nearly midsummer, +for ill-health has made the Anglo-Indian +inclined to chilliness and shiverings.</p> + +<p>He looks up with a frown as Joel enters.</p> + +<p>‘I thought you were never coming near me any +more,’ he says fretfully.</p> + +<p>‘I have been devoting myself to my intended +bride. Such affection as she lavishes upon me +deserves some return.’</p> + +<p>‘Spare that poor child your sneers. She +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>is much too good for you. Have you succeeded?’</p> + +<p>‘Entirely. The bank consents to discount my +bills for the required amount. I have told them +that I am buying an estate in this neighbourhood, +and have to complete the purchase to-morrow.’</p> + +<p>‘Have they sent you the money?’ asks Mr. +Trenchard, eagerly.</p> + +<p>‘No. But I shall have it to-morrow morning. +I have telegraphed them that the purchase is to be +completed to-morrow at eleven o’clock, and so it is, +only it is another kind of purchase—the purchase of +a lovely wife—which is to be concluded at that hour. +I shall have the money—ten notes for a thousand +each—by the first post to-morrow morning.’</p> + +<p>‘I’m glad of that.’</p> + +<p>‘You are drawing the life-blood out of the concern, +remember. There is very little hope of the +business surviving such a withdrawal of capital.’</p> + +<p>‘Then, my dear Joel, it must go. If it were a +question of capital you might have some occasion to +look unhappy about it, but as I am only absorbing +your superfluous credit⁠——’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p> + +<p>‘Superfluous,’ echoes Joel, derisively.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, my dear Joel, a man of your abilities +should be able to extend his credit to an almost +illimitable measure. The more he owes, the more +reason his creditors have for upholding his credit. +Debt is the most solid foundation a commercial +house can be planted upon, for its pillars have +their bases in other people’s pockets. You’re sure +the bank will send the money?’</p> + +<p>‘As sure as one can be of anything in this +world.’</p> + +<p>‘Remember, no money no marriage. And a +telegram to my Calcutta lawyer to make short work +of Pilgrim and Company.’</p> + +<p>‘I understand. No quarter. Don’t be uneasy. +Your demands shall be met and fully satisfied.’</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It is midnight, and Lancaster Lodge is at rest. +A light still burns, as it burns all night in Mr. +Trenchard’s room, brighter than the ordinary lamps +of a sick chamber, a light by which the invalid can +read if he pleases; for Mr. Trenchard’s slumbers are +often disturbed, and in every night he has some +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>wakeful hours. Podmore, the butler, who sleeps in +the room over his master’s, comes down at stated +intervals to give the invalid his medicine. A +secondary door near the head of the bed in Mr. +Trenchard’s room opens on to a small landing on the +back staircase leading to the servants’ quarters. By +this servants’ staircase Podmore descends and +ascends; through this door, almost hidden by the +ample draperies of the tall Arabian bed, he enters +and departs, noiseless as a ghost in the silent watches +of the night.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trenchard has protested more than once +that he is quite well enough to look after his own +medicine, and wakeful enough to take it at the +appointed hours; but Dr. Mitsand has laid a stress +upon the matter, and has insisted upon Podmore +being responsible for the regular administration of +those gentle tonics, not strong enough to hurt a baby +and too mild to take effect upon the constitution of a +healthy rabbit. Whereby Podmore’s nights are made +a burden to him from the necessity of arousing himself +at certain intervals, and the ticking of his big +silver watch under his pillow is as the stroke of doom.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> + +<p>Sibyl spends the quiet hour between midnight +and one o’clock in writing to her uncle Stephen. +That which she dares not tell him she finds courage +to write, knowing that her letter can only reach his +hands after she has left Redcastle, in all probability +for ever. If he is desperately angry, as she believes +he will be, she will not see his anger. If it is in +his nature to forgive her, severance may help to +soften his feelings and touch his heart. After all it +is just possible that the hold she has obtained upon +his affections is too strong to be loosened, and that +love may extinguish wrath. She would have been +more ready to hope this before the coming of Joel +Pilgrim, but she fancies that his presence under that +roof has changed her uncle’s feelings towards her, +that as Joel’s influence has increased hers has grown +less.</p> + +<p>In that letter she tells Stephen Trenchard the +true story of her marriage—tells how from utter +destitution, with starvation staring her in the face +she fled to him for shelter and comfort. Of her hope +of inheriting his fortune she says nothing, but her +story in all other respects is fully and truthfully told.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p> + +<blockquote class="p1t"> +<p>‘When I first came beneath your roof,’ she +writes, ‘I hoped to be able some day to tell you of +my marriage, to win your pity and regard for my +husband; but when I discovered your rooted hatred +of his name and race, when I found how deeply the +old wound still rankled, I lost courage and kept my +secret, at the hazard of seeming the worst of +deceivers should you ever discover the truth.</p> + +<p>‘The hour has come when I can keep my secret +no longer. I go out into the world to seek my +husband, to share his home, however humble or +however wretched. If you can bring yourself to +forgive me, if you can believe that I have been +grateful for all your goodness, as Heaven knows I +have been, if you can take the more generous view +of all past wrongs and extend your kindness to the +guiltless son of your enemy, it shall need but one +word to bring me back to you.</p> + +<p class="right p1b"> + <span class="p3r">‘Your grateful and dutiful niece,</span><br> + <span class="smcap p1r">‘Sibyl Secretan.’</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>She feels a thrill of joy and pride as she signs +her own rightful name for the first time since she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>left her husband. Even in this hour of uncertainty—the +wide world, so cruel to unprotected poverty, +all before her—she is glad that the mask has been +thrown aside, and that she is her honest self once +more.</p> + +<p>She addresses the letter to Stephen Trenchard in +a bold, firm hand, and places it conspicuously on the +mantelpiece of her little sitting-room, where it must +be seen by the first person who enters the room next +morning.</p> + +<p>‘I have played my game and lost!’ she thinks, +as she lies down for a few hours, if possible to rest, +sleep she knows to be impossible. ‘If I had won I +wonder whether success would ever have recompensed +me for all I have suffered from the bitterness +of an acted lie—for the many hours in which I +have pretended to be happy with a gnawing pain at +my heart?’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_VII"> + CHAPTER VII. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">THE PASSING-BELL</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">About half-past nine o’clock on that Saturday +morning which has been talked of as Sibyl Faunthorpe’s +wedding day, Redcastle is disturbed by a +sound of ill omen. No blithe marriage peal rings +out on the soft summer air, but the slow and solemn +passing-bell tolls dismally from the minster tower, +and strikes on every heart with its grim reminder of +mortality. Let that bell sound as often as it will, it +carries always the same message, and something less +or more than mortal must be the ear which can hear +its direful note with indifference. Before the day is +old, Redcastle has subject-matter for the talk of a +year. Wonder, curiosity, and an atmosphere of +excitement pervade the town. Business, if not +suspended, is performed in an absent-minded, perfunctory +manner. People group themselves in doorways, +hang over counters, lounge in public-house +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>bars, gather at the street corners, and there is but +one name in every mouth, and that name is +Trenchard.</p> + +<p>A name worn no more upon earth—a name +that is a name, and nothing more henceforward. +It is no longer the docket of humanity, but a +mere collection of letters to be engraven on a +tombstone.</p> + +<p>Stephen Trenchard is dead. He was found +dead in his bed, at nine o’clock this morning, by +the expectant bridegroom, who went to his room +at that hour to wake him, and found him locked +in a slumber for which earth has no key.</p> + +<p>‘Very sudden!’ exclaims Redcastle. ‘We +knew that the dear old gentleman was ailing, but +we did not expect this. At his age, though, of +course, life is precarious, the thread worn to attenuation, +easily snapped. How about the old +gentleman’s will? And is Miss Faunthorpe sole +heiress?’</p> + +<p>‘That will not be known till after the funeral,’ +says Redcastle, ‘and we must languish for some +days in suspense.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p> + +<p>‘How does Miss Faunthorpe take it?’ asks +Redcastle, ‘and Mr. Pilgrim? The match between +those two will be off now, most likely. A +sad loss for the gentleman, a happy escape for the +lady. She will marry Sir Wilford Cardonnel after +all, perhaps, and take a leading position in the +county. How uncertain is life! How wonderful +are the ways of Providence!’</p> + +<p>Mrs. Stormont and Mrs. Groshen send out +their pages for black-edged note-paper of superfine +quality, and rather deeper than the usual complimentary +mourning, and pen elaborate letters of +condolence, interlarded with appropriate quotations +from the Scriptures. The silver cord and the +golden bowl are brought out, with various other +similes, which, by much use or misuse, have been, +as it were, dragged in the gutter of commonplace +composition.</p> + +<p>‘I will venture to call to-morrow, my sweet +friend,’ concludes Mrs. Stormont, ‘to mingle my +tears with yours. I hope you will feel equal to +seeing me. Poor Fred is broken down with grief +at the thought of what you must suffer.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> + +<p>Inside Lancaster Lodge there is confusion worse +than death. Dr. Mitsand has been summoned +to the death-chamber, not at Joel Pilgrim’s +bidding. What can a doctor do for the dead? Mr. +Pilgrim has asked contemptuously. The best of them +can do little enough for the living. It is Mrs. +Skinner, the housekeeper, who has sent for Dr. +Mitsand. Podmore is helpless and useless on this +awful morning. He sits in his pantry stricken, +as if the blow had stupefied him.</p> + +<p>The blinds are down in Stephen Trenchard’s +room as they are throughout the darkened house, +but Joel, who has wandered in and out of the +room while the last offices have been performed +for the dead, has flung the windows wide open to +the warm June morning, and the scent of the roses +floats in from the garden below, mingled with the +more subtle perfume of blossoming limes.</p> + +<p>Dr. Mitsand had started on his morning rounds +when the messenger was sent for him, and it is noon +when he calls at Lancaster Lodge.</p> + +<p>Joel receives him in the study, grave, sorrowful +of countenance, but tranquil.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p> + +<p>‘This is a sad event, Dr. Mitsand,’ he says.</p> + +<p>‘Not more sad than it is unintelligible, Mr. +Pilgrim,’ answers the doctor. ‘There was not the +slightest indication of a fatal termination to Mr. +Trenchard’s illness when I saw him yesterday—nothing +to alarm the most anxious of medical men.’</p> + +<p>‘Something wrong about the heart, I suppose,’ +suggests Joel.</p> + +<p>‘We shall see if it was that.’</p> + +<p>‘You mean⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘I mean that this is a case which calls for an +inquest. You would have no objection, I suppose? +As Mr. Trenchard’s intended son-in-law, I naturally +regard you as in some manner a member of his +family.’</p> + +<p>‘Why should I object? But it is rather out of +the usual course, is it not, to hold an inquest upon a +man who has been in failing health for a long time, +and whose death, although sudden, may be taken as +the natural termination of his illness?’</p> + +<p>‘I beg your pardon. Death comes too soon and +too suddenly to be taken as a natural termination +here. I am as much surprised at Mr. Trenchard’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>death as if I had left him yesterday in robust health. +I gave Miss Faunthorpe my positive assurance that +there was no danger, or likelihood of danger in her +uncle’s condition. Poor young lady! The blow +will be a terrible one for her. How does she bear +it?’</p> + +<p>‘That is a question I cannot answer, for I have +not seen her to-day. She went out this morning +before breakfast—indeed, before any of the servants +were up—and has not come in yet.’</p> + +<p>‘That is very strange. This was to have been +her wedding day.’</p> + +<p>‘It was.’</p> + +<p>‘And she leaves the house before the servants +are up, and does not appear again? It is now between +twelve and one.’</p> + +<p>‘It is strange, but true.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Mitsand is evidently disturbed by this intelligence.</p> + +<p>‘Pardon me, Mr. Pilgrim, if I say something not +quite agreeable to you,’ he says after a pause, ‘but +was there no coercion used on the subject of this +marriage? It was arranged rather suddenly, and we +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>in Redcastle had an idea that Miss Faunthorpe’s +affections were engaged in another direction. When +I spoke to this poor young lady the day before +yesterday, I certainly perceived indications of mental +disturbance. She was feverish, unduly excited, +her appearance haggard, her eyes sunken. Did she +freely consent to this marriage, Mr. Pilgrim? Were +you and she on good terms?’</p> + +<p>‘On the best possible terms. Ask Podmore, who +waited upon us at dinner yesterday when we dined +<i lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i>.’</p> + +<p>‘Then you can imagine no reason for what I +may call Miss Faunthorpe’s disappearance?’</p> + +<p>‘None whatever. Her trunks are packed for our +Indian journey. She directed them with her own +hands. I do not say that the alliance was a love +match on her part, as it was on mine. But she +knew that I was devoted to her, that her uncle had +set his heart upon our marriage, and she was quite +reconciled to the idea.’</p> + +<p>‘I am glad to hear that; for I was inclined to +fear that her wandering away at such an early hour +this morning might be the result of mental disturbance—the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>mind thrown off its balance by extreme +distress. She left the house before any one knew of +her uncle’s death, you say?’</p> + +<p>‘She certainly left the house before I knew of +it,’ answers Joel, gravely.</p> + +<p>‘And before it was known to any of the household?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. She was gone when the servants went +downstairs to open the house. They found the +chain and bolts of the front door unfastened.’</p> + +<p>‘The lodgekeeper must have let her out.’</p> + +<p>‘No; she must have gone out by a door in the +garden wall which opens into the lane that divides +Sir John Boldero’s grounds from these. The door is +locked on the inside, and the key hangs on a nail +beside the door. This door was found to be unlocked +and the key left in the lock.’</p> + +<p>‘Very deliberate,’ says Dr. Mitsand; ‘but lunatics +and sleep-walkers are wonderfully deliberate in +their actions. The mind travels in a certain groove, +but it goes steadily enough in that groove.’</p> + +<p>The doctor’s impression is that Sibyl, urged into +an uncongenial marriage, has been goaded into a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>state of temporary derangement. That is the theory +by which he explains her extraordinary absence.</p> + +<p>‘This poor girl may be wandering about the +country,’ he exclaims, ‘and may come to harm. +Have you made no attempt to find her?’</p> + +<p>‘No. I have had enough to think about in the +awful event of this morning. Until an hour or so +ago I thought it possible that Miss Faunthorpe had +gone to her uncle Robert’s. She might have something +to say to her sisters, I thought, on so eventful +a morning. It was only when Marion came here at +ten o’clock, expecting to find Sibyl, that I began to +take alarm. And even then my mind was too much +occupied to realize⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘I understand. I sympathize with you, my dear +sir,’ cries the good-natured doctor. ‘But I feel really +concerned for this poor girl. For the dead we can +do but little. Science will enable us to establish the +cause of death, but beyond that last duty there is, +alas! nothing. But for the living we must be active. +I should recommend you to send in every direction +you can think of to search for Miss Faunthorpe, and +to communicate with the police. With a mind +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>thrown off its balance, one knows not what may +happen. There is always the fear of a suicidal +tendency.’</p> + +<p>‘True,’ says Joel Pilgrim, with a gloomy look +which may mean fear, love, anxiety, or anything else, +but which certainly indicates a mind ill at ease. +‘I will go down to the police office at once. I will +send some of the servants to look for her.’</p> + +<p>‘One word before you go. Tell me how and +when you discovered our poor friend’s decease.’</p> + +<p>‘At nine o’clock in the morning. Podmore had +gone to him at four to give him his medicine, and +had left him sleeping tranquilly. I came down to +breakfast at eight, breakfasted alone, and at nine +went upstairs to take my friend his letters, and to +ask his advice about a business letter which the +post had brought me. I knocked at his door—no +answer; knocked again, and louder—the same result. +This alarmed me at once, for I knew him to be a +light sleeper. I ran downstairs to the hall, called +Podmore, and went up the back stairs with him to +the other door of Mr. Trenchard’s room, a door +always left unlocked to admit Podmore, who, as you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>know, has valeted his master of late. We went in, +and found Mr. Trenchard lying to all appearance in +a quiet sleep, but it was the sleep of death.’</p> + +<p>‘No sign of a struggle, no disturbance of the +features?’</p> + +<p>‘None.’</p> + +<p>‘Very mysterious. There was nothing amiss +with the heart; no organic disease of any kind. I +have used the stethoscope frequently since the +bronchial tubes have been a little irritated. There +never was a sounder organization.’</p> + +<p>‘You would like to see him?’ says Joel, interrogatively.</p> + +<p>‘Immediately.’</p> + +<p>The doctor goes upstairs to that darkened room +where the master of Lancaster Lodge takes his last +rest amidst the warm breath of roses and limes. +Every chair and table has been set in its place; +every fold of drapery straightened by methodical +hands; every species of litter—newspapers, medicine +bottles, forgotten flowers left to wither in their +vases—all the familiar rubbish of every-day existence +has been cleared away—the chamber is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>funereal as death itself—mathematically exact as +the tomb.</p> + +<p>Dr. Mitsand goes in alone, and remains there for +about ten minutes. He comes out again looking +very grave—nay, even troubled, like a man who has +something on his mind—something heavier than +that professional burden of a patient’s death which +a family doctor is called upon to carry so often that +he acquires the knack of supporting his load easily. +He finds Joel Pilgrim waiting for him on the broad +landing outside—landing glorified by the bust of +somebody with a sunken nose, and no pupils to his +eyes, staring steadily into space.</p> + +<p>‘He looks very peaceful, doesn’t he?’ asks Joel, +in a subdued voice.</p> + +<p>‘Very.’</p> + +<p>‘His end must have been painless, I should +think.’</p> + +<p>‘It must have been instantaneous, Mr. Pilgrim. +I am sure of that.’</p> + +<p>‘The heart,’ suggests Joel.</p> + +<p>‘No, sir. The heart was as sound as mine—or +sounder. It is not a case of heart disease.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></p> + +<p>‘Of what then?’</p> + +<p>‘The inquest will tell us that.’</p> + +<p>‘You still hold to the necessity of an inquest.’</p> + +<p>‘More than ever.’</p> + +<p>‘Will you tell me why?’ Joel inquires thoughtfully, +smoothing down his silky moustache with +a plump tawny hand.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, when the inquest is over.’</p> + +<p>Joel looks searchingly at the doctor’s face, but +it tells him nothing. The Greek philosopher—Truth’s +first martyr—on the landing does not present +a more complete blankness of expression than +Dr. Mitsand offers to Joel’s observation.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, by the way,’ says Dr. Mitsand, ‘that is the +door of Miss Faunthorpe’s sitting-room, is it not?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. That is the room she generally uses of a +morning.’</p> + +<p>‘I should like to look round before we go downstairs. +There might be something which would +suggest the motive of her absence—a letter perhaps. +You have not been in that room this morning?’</p> + +<p>‘No.’</p> + +<p>‘Nor the servants?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, some one must have been in to draw down +the blinds.’</p> + +<p>‘True. Unless the blinds were down last night. +They would be most likely. But I suppose the +housemaid would arrange the room this morning +in the common course of things?’</p> + +<p>‘Naturally.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Mitsand opens the door and goes in, followed +by Joel. The room has been dusted and arranged +by the housemaid, but the table near the window, +covered with books, workboxes and feminine trifles +of various kinds, remains just as Sibyl left it the +night before. It is one of Sibyl’s laws that this +table shall not be touched. There is to be no tidying +or arranging of the trifles she values—her books, +her writing materials, her fancy work.</p> + +<p>The doctor’s eye surveys the pretty little room. +The sunshine is shut out by the lowered venetians, +but there is light enough for him to see everything.</p> + +<p>‘I thought she might have left a letter somewhere,’ +says Dr. Mitsand. ‘That is what young +ladies generally do when they run away from +home.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span></p> + +<p>‘We have no right to suppose that she has run +away,’ observes Joel.</p> + +<p>‘True. Yet it looks rather like it.’</p> + +<p>He has looked at the mantelpiece, at the cabinet +with its upholsterer’s collection of pink and blue +Sèvres teacups, the inevitable Marie Antoinette,—the +eternal De Maintenon, the everlasting Pompadour, +smirking behind plate-glass panels. No, there is no +letter on cabinet or mantelpiece. He goes to the +table, glances at the books, the dainty basket lined +with rose-coloured satin, the shreds of lace, and +ivory needle-cases and filigree thimble-boxes. Still +no letter. How intently he examines all these +trifles, peers into the basket, raises the lid of the +workbox, always looking for that letter!</p> + +<p>He comes upon something presently that engages +his particular attention, but it is not a letter, only +a glass phial corked and empty, nestling in the +satin-lined basket among needle-cases and reels of +cotton.</p> + +<p>‘Dilute prussic acid,’ he says, sniffing at the +cork cautiously. ‘That’s curious.’</p> + +<p>Joel watches him closely.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span></p> + +<p>‘Very curious,’ echoes Joel, ‘but I believe young +women sometimes use it for their complexions, don’t +they?’</p> + +<p>‘No. I’ve heard of their using arsenic, never +prussic acid in any form. Miss Faunthorpe may +have been taking the dilute acid as a sedative. I’ll +take care of the bottle. She ought not to leave such +things about.’</p> + +<p>‘But an empty bottle can do no harm,’ says +Joel.</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps not, but I may as well keep it. You’ll +remember where we found this bottle, Mr. Pilgrim,’ +says Dr. Mitsand, as he drops the empty phial into +his pocket.</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps you will kindly call at the Registrar’s +and certify my poor friend’s death,’ says Mr. +Pilgrim. ‘Podmore tells me there is some kind of +certificate necessary in these cases.’</p> + +<p>‘It is just that certificate which I do not feel +myself at liberty to give until after the inquest,’ +replies the doctor.</p> + +<p>‘Why not?’</p> + +<p>‘Because I do not know the cause of death.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span></p> + +<p>‘But the arrangements for the funeral⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Must remain in abeyance till after the inquest.’</p> + +<p>‘Very unpleasant,’ says Joel.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, death is apt to be unpleasant for the +survivors, especially under certain circumstances,’ +replies Dr. Mitsand, gravely.</p> + +<p>He leaves Joel, and goes straight to the coroner, his +old friend and ally, a medical man who has retired +from practice, and the two talk together gravely of +the event that has darkened the windows of Lancaster +Lodge. It is decided between them that the post-mortem +examination shall take place immediately, +and that, if possible, Mr. Pollintory, of Krampston, +shall be ready to give evidence to-morrow at the +inquest. The coroner gives an order for the <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'post-mortem examintaion'" id="tn-113">post-mortem +examination</ins>, and Dr. Mitsand writes a +telegram to Mr. Pollintory, one of the medical +staff of the Krampston Infirmary, a skilled chemist +and analyst, and a man of some distinction in his +own particular line.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_VIII"> + CHAPTER VIII. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">DARK SURMISES</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">In the old house at the lower end of the town there +is surprise and agitation, and a flutter of excitement +which throws all the machinery of life out of gear. +Hester leaves her dishes unwashed, and sits down in +her disorderly kitchen to talk over Mr. Trenchard’s +death with the charwoman. They talk immensely, +though they know hardly anything about the dread +event, save such jetsam and flotsam of intelligence, +chiefly false, as has been cast up on the shore of the +High Street. But they evolve a great deal out of +their inner consciousness. They speculate upon that +ever-interesting subject, the will, and argue for and +against Sibyl’s appointment as sole heiress.</p> + +<p>‘It will be an unjust will if he’s left everything +to her,’ says Hester, vindictively.</p> + +<p>‘Ah, but she was the favourite, you see,’ pleads +the charwoman, tilting her bonnet on to her eyebrows +in her animation, ‘and so pretty, and such winning +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>ways with her. I shouldn’t wonder if all the money +was left to her.’</p> + +<p>‘Then I hope she’ll remember my poor old +master, and all he’s done for her and her sisters,’ +says Hester. ‘They might all have gone to the +workhouse if it hadn’t been for him. Mr. Trenchard +was across the seas and couldn’t help ’em, and many +a good meal Dr. Faunthorpe’s gone without to bring +up three hearty-eating girls.’</p> + +<p>‘I dare say Miss Faunthorpe will take her uncle +to live with her at Lancaster Lodge,’ says the charwoman. +‘Such a lovely place! I went in one +evening that there was a dinner party, to help the +kitchenmaid wash up. Why, the very scullery’s +ekal to some people’s drawring-rooms!’</p> + +<p>‘Dr. Faunthorpe ain’t going to live there, you +may depend,’ replies Hester, decisively. ‘He don’t +want none of your finery. He likes his own house +and his independence, and his water cake and bit +of smoked bacon for breakfast.’</p> + +<p>‘It’s odd Miss Faunthorpe being out this +morning, when her sister went up,’ speculates the +charwoman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes, that’s odd. It’s my belief she was always +against this Mr. Pilgrim, and her uncle had forced +the marriage upon her, and she went off this +morning to some of her fine friends to get out of +the way. Them Cardonnels, perhaps, that she and +Miss Marion was visiting at Christmas.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah, they do say she might have married Sir +Wilford Cardonnel if she’d liked,’ says the charwoman.</p> + +<p>‘Of course she could,’ answers Hester, glad to +exalt the family she has served so faithfully. ‘Only +she’s as full of fancies as an egg’s full of meat, and +she wouldn’t have him.’</p> + +<p>While this discussion goes on in the kitchen, +Marion and Jenny sit in the parlour, occupied by +all-absorbing thoughts of the dead man’s will and +their own mourning. They have not liked Stephen +Trenchard well enough to feel any regret for his +loss; nay, his death is an event to which they have +looked forward as a turning-point—the beginning of +brighter days—in their own lives. He is dead, and +a painful interval of suspense must be endured +before they can know what he has done for them. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>They are hopeful meanwhile, and wildly speculative—especially +Jenny, whose ideas ramble among +thousands and tens of thousands as they have never +rambled before, save in the agreeable mazes of an +arithmetic book.</p> + +<p>‘You see he had such oceans of money,’ +argues Jenny. ‘He could afford to make Sibyl a +great heiress, and to leave us twenty thousand +apiece quite easily. And the interest of twenty +thousand pounds is a thousand a year. Uncle Robert +told me so. Fancy you and me with a thousand +a year each! No stocking-darning, no turning and +twisting our winter dresses to make them do for +spring. I shall go into long skirts immediately.’</p> + +<p>‘That will be a boon to the rest of humanity, +for they’ll hide your legs,’ replies Marion.</p> + +<p>‘Shall you have crape tucks or flounces on your +black silk?’ inquires Jenny, recurring to that inexhaustible +topic, the mourning.</p> + +<p>‘Whichever is the last fashion. Miss Eylett +shall make our mourning, and she always has the +newest style.’</p> + +<p>‘But we ought to have dresses ready for the day +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>of the funeral,’ says Jenny. ‘And how can we get +them before the will is read? We don’t know +whether we’re heiresses or beggars.’</p> + +<p>‘Carmichael’s people will let us have anything +we want,’ replies Marion. ‘Depend upon it they’ll +give us any amount of credit now uncle Trenchard +is dead. They know we must come in for some +of his money.’</p> + +<p>As the day goes on the fever of curiosity and +wonder which has seized upon Redcastle is intensified, +for the flame is fed by new revelations of a +startling character. First there is the news of +Sibyl’s disappearance; and then it becomes known +somehow that there is to be a post-mortem examination, +followed by a coroner’s inquest. This +is really interesting, and would distinguish the +deceased from the common ruck even if he had not +been a millionaire. The two local papers are in a +flutter of excitement, and rival reporters hang about +Lancaster Lodge and question the respectable +Podmore, whose large pale face—in shape and expression +somewhat resembling the station clock—assumes +a troubled and bewildered look.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span></p> + +<p>From the coroner’s house Dr. Mitsand goes on +to his brother practitioner, Dr. Faunthorpe. That +meek little man has just returned from a long +round in his dilapidated chaise, and has ‘run in,’ as +he calls it, to get a little bit of dinner. Regularly +to dine is a luxury unknown to the parish doctor. +The cloth is laid in the homely parlour, the remains +of joint or stew are kept in the oven, with a potato +or two simmering in greasy gravy, and the doctor +takes his repast hurriedly and alone an hour or two +after the appointed dinner-hour.</p> + +<p>He has just seated himself at his savoury mess, +when Hester enters mysteriously and announces +Dr. Mitsand.</p> + +<p>‘I’ve shown him into the best parlour,’ she says, +whereupon Dr. Faunthorpe, faint with hunger, reluctantly +lays down his knife and fork, and goes to +receive his guest.</p> + +<p>‘What can he want with me?’ he thinks.</p> + +<p>Dr. Mitsand explains himself briefly.</p> + +<p>‘The coroner has ordered me to make a post-mortem +examination, assisted by Mr. Pollintory—you +know Pollintory, of course; and I thought you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>ought to be present, as a near connection of the +deceased,’ he concludes.</p> + +<p>‘I am surprised that a post-mortem should be +thought necessary,’ says Dr. Faunthorpe, fluttered +by this intelligence. ‘There was nothing mysterious +in my brother-in-law’s death, I hope. He +had been ailing for some time.’</p> + +<p>‘He had; but his death was not the less unexpected. +It is always best to err on the side of +caution. By the way, may I ask if you use much +prussic acid in your practice?’</p> + +<p>The question startles the meek little doctor, and +he looks at the inquirer with a perplexed expression +of countenance.</p> + +<p>‘I have used it occasionally, but not often.’</p> + +<p>‘You keep some in your surgery, no doubt?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I have a little of the diluted acid.’</p> + +<p>‘You are careful to keep it out of harm’s way, +I suppose. It is not within any one’s reach?’ inquires +Dr. Mitsand.</p> + +<p>‘I keep that and all poisons on a top shelf, in +blue bottles. They could not possibly be used in +mistake for anything else, if that is what you mean.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span></p> + +<p>‘I am glad of that.’</p> + +<p>‘But what has this to do with Mr. Trenchard’s +death?’ asks Dr. Faunthorpe, with a troubled look.</p> + +<p>‘Only this much. From the indications presented +by the body after death—a livid hue—the +nails purple—the hands so firmly clenched that the +women who laid out the dead have not been able to +place them in a peaceful attitude—and from the +odour of the room where he lies, I have too much +reason to fear that Mr. Trenchard died poisoned by +prussic acid. This calls for immediate investigation.’</p> + +<p>‘Great Heaven, yes!’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, +white with horror. ‘But how do you imagine the +poison administered? Whom can you suspect?’</p> + +<p>‘I suspect no one as yet. The least painful +supposition is that he took the poison himself.’</p> + +<p>‘Why should he do that? What motive had he +for committing suicide? Or what motive could +any one have had for murdering him?’</p> + +<p>‘Hard to imagine a motive in either case. Unless +it were possible that some one who expected +to profit by his death was tempted to hasten that +death by poison.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span></p> + +<p>‘Dr. Mitsand,’ exclaims Robert Faunthorpe, +tremulous with indignant horror, ‘are you aware +that my eldest niece is the person who had most +expectation to be a gainer by her uncle Trenchard’s +death?’</p> + +<p>‘I know that.’</p> + +<p>‘And you come to ask me whether I keep any +form of prussic acid in my surgery—you suspect +that the poison by which Mr. Trenchard died—or +by which you suppose him to have died—was taken +from this house?’</p> + +<p>‘I tell you that I suspect nothing, Dr. Faunthorpe. +But until the law has taken this painful +business into its own hands, it is my duty to act in +the interests of law and right. Mr. Trenchard was +in my care. He dies, as I believe, foully murdered. +Your niece disappears on the day of his death.’</p> + +<p>‘She runs away to escape a marriage which we +may fairly suppose had been forced upon her by +Mr. Trenchard.’</p> + +<p>‘That is one view of the case—and I hope the +right one. Yet her absence cannot fail to prejudice +the minds of those who have to investigate this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>matter. If you have any idea where she is, I +should recommend you to communicate with her, +and urge her immediate return.’</p> + +<p>‘I have no idea. She had no friends before she +was adopted by her rich uncle. She may have gone +to some of her new friends, but they are unknown +to me. I don’t know where to look for her, or how +to communicate with her.’</p> + +<p>‘It is a most unhappy case, Dr. Faunthorpe, +but you and I must do our duty.’</p> + +<p>‘My poor Sibyl—my poor unhappy girl—to be +the subject of such a horrible suspicion!’ cries Dr. +Faunthorpe, helplessly.</p> + +<p>He sits alone for some time after Dr. Mitsand has +left him, sits hopeless and stricken. It is not that +he believes his niece guilty of this hideous crime—this +almost impossible wickedness,—but that the +mere suspicion should have fallen upon her is a +calamity that bows him to the dust.</p> + +<p>At four o’clock that bright summer afternoon the +three medical men meet at Lancaster Lodge for their +dismal work. Podmore, with his large round face, +still white and horror-stricken, admits them into the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>dusky silence of the hall. Joel Pilgrim comes out +of the study to receive them, very calm and business-like +in manner, and leads the way to the room +where the dead man lies. At the door he leaves +them, and goes quietly downstairs to his retreat in +the study, where he sits reading the paper—or +making believe to read it.</p> + +<p>In the room upstairs the dismal work is performed +in silence.</p> + +<p>To Mr. Pollintory, the skilful analyst, it is no +more than an every-day matter of business. A jar +is sealed in the presence of the three medical men, +and this vessel Mr. Pollintory is to take back to +Krampston with him, there to perform his analysis, +and apply tests scientific and physiological, in the +retirement of his own laboratory.</p> + +<p>But in the minds of those three men analysis +is hardly needed to establish the one fatal fact that +Stephen Trenchard has been poisoned by prussic +acid. In the appearances which add to the awfulness +of death, in the odour which exhales from that +lifeless form, there is evidence enough of a technical +kind to convince a whole college of physicians.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> + +<p>The doctors go quietly downstairs when their +work is done, and again Mr. Pilgrim appears at the +study door.</p> + +<p>‘Well, gentlemen?’ he exclaims interrogatively, +‘What is your verdict? Do you find the cause of +death in the heart or brain?’</p> + +<p>‘In neither,’ replies Dr. Mitsand.</p> + +<p>‘What then?’</p> + +<p>‘I had rather not state my opinion till I am +called upon at the inquest to-morrow.’</p> + +<p>‘Humph,’ mutters Joel. ‘You doctors like to be +mysterious. It is a trick of the trade. But pray +walk in, gentlemen, you will take some refreshment +after your painful task, I hope.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Mitsand and his colleagues decline this +proffered entertainment.</p> + +<p>‘I should like to ask a few questions of the +butler before we go,’ says Dr. Mitsand. ‘I believe it +was he who last saw Mr. Trenchard alive.’</p> + +<p>‘To the best of my knowledge it was so,’ +answers Joel, scraping his smooth chin thoughtfully, +‘But Podmore is a very stupid fellow, and this sad +event seems to have thrown him quite off his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>balance. The man has no self-possession whatever. +You’ll not get a succinct account from him.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t want an account. I only want an +answer to a question or two,’ replies Dr. Mitsand. +‘Be kind enough to ring for him, Mr. Pilgrim.’</p> + +<p>Joel obeys. Poor little Dr. Faunthorpe sits in a +corner meanwhile, pale as a sheet of letter-paper, +and full of vague apprehensions. That Stephen +Trenchard has either destroyed himself or been +foully murdered there can be no doubt. Which is +it? And why is Sibyl absent?</p> + +<p>Podmore appears in answer to the bell, and by +his aspect fully justifies Joel’s account of him. He +looks from one of the doctors to the other with a +countenance full of apprehension.</p> + +<p>‘You gave Mr. Trenchard his medicine at four +o’clock this morning?’ inquires Dr. Mitsand.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘Did you find him in his usual health?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘You noticed nothing particular in his manner?’</p> + +<p>‘No, sir—unless⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Speak out, pray.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p> + +<p>‘He might have been a little more irritable than +usual, perhaps. He had been rather irritable for some +time past. Mr. Pilgrim may have noticed it.’</p> + +<p>Joel nods acquiescence.</p> + +<p>‘As if he had something on his mind,’ suggests +Dr. Mitsand.</p> + +<p>‘Well, yes, sir. You might take it that way.’</p> + +<p>‘Who removed the glasses and bottles from Mr. +Trenchard’s room this morning? Was it one of the +women-servants?’</p> + +<p>‘No, sir. Mr. Pilgrim told me to see to clearing +the room. The women-servants were timid about +going in.’</p> + +<p>‘What did you do with the glass in which your +master was in the habit of taking potash water?’</p> + +<p>‘I took it down to the pantry with the rest of +the things, sir, and washed it with my other glasses.’</p> + +<p>‘You are sure you washed it?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you think you could find me that particular +glass?’</p> + +<p>‘I might perhaps, sir. It was a large soda water +glass. There’s a dozen of the same pattern in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>pantry. They’re kept on the same shelf; but I +think I should know the one Mr. Trenchard used +last from the position of it.’</p> + +<p>‘Bring it then,’ says Joel, authoritatively.</p> + +<p>Podmore shuffles out, and returns presently with +the glass. Dr. Mitsand takes it to the window, and +examines it with his back to Joel and the rest.</p> + +<p>‘You wash your glasses in very hot water, I +think,’ he says to Podmore.</p> + +<p>‘Pretty hot, sir. And I use a bit of soda to +keep them bright.’</p> + +<p>‘I see. Was there a table with glasses and +bottles on it within reach of your master’s hand as +he lay in bed?’</p> + +<p>‘No, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘Nonsense, Podmore!’ cries Joel, quickly. ‘You +forget the little table which Mr. Trenchard had +placed close to his bed a few days ago, in order that +he might help himself to a bottle of potash water if +he wanted it without ringing for you.’</p> + +<p>‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ stammers Podmore. +‘Yes, I forgot the little table; my master had +it put handy to his hand, as you may say. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>But it didn’t use to be there, and it slipped my +memory.’</p> + +<p>‘And was it from that table you took this soda water +glass?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘That will do,’ says Dr. Mitsand, and Podmore +shuffles out again, escaping gladly as a soul released +from torment.</p> + +<p>‘If I could understand any motive for such an +act,’ says Dr. Mitsand, as he and his colleagues go +along the shrubberied drive between Lancaster +Lodge and its gates, ‘I should be inclined to believe +that that man poisoned his master. I never saw a +more craven hound. We shall see if he comes in for +an annuity, or a handsome legacy, under his master’s +will.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_IX"> + CHAPTER IX. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">IN THE SURGERY</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">That speech of Dr. Mitsand’s about Podmore +awakens hope in Robert Faunthorpe’s breast. If +there has been murder done, if Stephen Trenchard +has not been in some distracted hour his own +destroyer, this man is surely more likely to have +been the murderer than any one else under that +roof. He has had access to his master at all hours +of the night—in those silent hours when the rest +of the household has been locked in sleep. He +may have stolen the plate, made away with the +valuables committed to his charge, and may have +been tempted to make away with his master in +order to escape the punishment of his dishonesty. +Or he may have known himself to be a legatee +under his master’s will, and may have done this +foul deed to expedite fortune. So Dr. Faunthorpe +reasons with himself during his dismal homeward +walk.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> + +<p>Marion and Jenny are sitting in the parlour +at work when he goes in. The tea-tray still adorns +the table.</p> + +<p>‘How white and tired you look, uncle!’ exclaims +Marion. ‘You’d like some tea, wouldn’t you? +I’ve saved the teapot.’</p> + +<p>‘Thank you, my dear. I’ll take a cup of tea,’ +says the doctor faintly. He sinks into a chair with +a weary sigh. His parish patients have been neglected +to-day, and conscience pricks him. They +will be coming presently, poor things, with their +burns and scalds, and boils, and whitlows, and +festers, and all that variety of thorns in the flesh to +which poverty is subject, and he will have to brace +his nerves and attend to them. But for the moment +he feels prostrate.</p> + +<p>Marion shakes the teapot vigorously, and pours +out a liquid not very unlike that infusion of +senna which the parish patients consume by the +pailful.</p> + +<p>‘There, uncle, that’ll do you good. Run to the +kitchen, Jenny, and get the hot cake we saved for +uncle Robert;’ and Jenny rushes off and returns +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>swiftly with a crisp and greasy bannock, which +the doctor is wont to enjoy above all other delicacies.</p> + +<p>‘Any news of Sibyl?’ asks Marion.</p> + +<p>‘No, my dear,’ sighs the doctor.</p> + +<p>‘Strange, isn’t it?’ exclaims Marion.</p> + +<p>‘Very strange, my dear. I begin to feel very +uneasy about your poor sister. What could have +induced her to take such a step? At such a time +too!’</p> + +<p>‘Just at the time when she ought to have +been thinking about her mourning,’ says Marion.</p> + +<p>‘I hope she hasn’t committed suicide,’ cries +Jenny, with a strangled sob.</p> + +<p>‘Jane,’ exclaims the doctor, severely, ‘I am +shocked at your suggesting anything so dreadful. +Your sister is a Christian, I hope.’</p> + +<p>‘Of course, but she might have been unhappy, +poor thing. I dare say she detested that horrid +Mr. Pilgrim, and uncle Trenchard tried to force her +into marrying him, and then perhaps she got +frightened and miserable, and was driven to p—p—poison +herself,’ concludes Jenny with a burst of +sobs.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> + +<p>The little doctor starts in his chair as if he +had been shot, and puts down his cup and saucer +with a trembling hand.</p> + +<p>‘How dare you say such things, Jane?’ he +demands, severely. He is very angry when he +calls his youngest niece Jane. ‘How dare you +mention such a thing as poison in connection with +your sister’s name? Where should she get poison, +I should like to know? How should she get +it?’</p> + +<p>‘If—if she wanted it very badly she might get +it in the surgery,’ whimpers Jenny.</p> + +<p>‘Not without my knowledge. I have forbidden +every one in this house to touch a single bottle in +my surgery.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, uncle,’ falters Jenny, recalling the many +half-hours in which she has diverted herself with +those very bottles; ‘but if Sibyl wanted anything +very badly, some laudanum for the toothache, for +instance, and you happened to be out at the time, +she might not stand upon—what’s its name?’</p> + +<p>‘What is the girl driving at?’ cries Marion, in +a disgusted tone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p> + +<p>‘What do you mean, Jenny?’ says Dr. Faunthorpe, +nervously. ‘If there is anything in your +knowledge that I ought to be told, speak out, +and for God’s sake speak only the truth to me, and +hold your tongue to all the rest of the world about +it,—and you too, Marion. This is more serious than +either of you can imagine.’</p> + +<p>‘Sibyl had the toothache one afternoon when +she was here—about a fortnight or three weeks ago, +perhaps,—or she had been having the toothache +very badly, she said, and couldn’t get any sleep, +and she wanted some laudanum.’</p> + +<p>‘Laudanum?’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, relieved. +‘Is that all?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, but laudanum’s poison, isn’t it, uncle +Robert, if you take enough of it? I told her where +the laudanum was kept, and she got up on <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'thestep-ladder'" id="tn-134">the step-ladder</ins> +and took some in a little bottle out of one of +your drawers. But there was one thing that struck +me as very mysterious.’</p> + +<p>‘What was that?’</p> + +<p>‘Does laudanum ever smell of bitter almonds?’</p> + +<p>‘No, child!’ cries the doctor, with a start.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span></p> + +<p>‘Well, then, this did, ever so strong. The smell +of it made me feel quite queer. But Sibyl declared +it was laudanum, and that my smell must be all +wrong.’</p> + +<p>‘But you would know opium, surely, a dark +brown liquid?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, but I didn’t see this. Sibyl had her back +towards me while she was filling the little bottle. I +only smelt it. When I asked her to show me the +bottle, she refused, and called me a stupid. But I’m +positive it smelt of bitter almonds; and Sibyl looked +quite pale and faint afterwards, as if the smell had +upset her too.’</p> + +<p>‘Can this be true?’ cries the doctor, profoundly +agitated.</p> + +<p>‘Pray don’t put yourself out of the way about it, +uncle,’ exclaims Marion, soothingly. ‘Sibyl might +have taken all the poisons in the surgery, and no +harm need come of it. She’s a great deal too fond +of herself and her pretty looks to commit suicide. +I dare say she’s with her grand friends at the How, +flirting with Sir Wilford Cardonnel, and enjoying +herself ever so.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span></p> + +<p>‘But if she were at the How she would have +heard of Mr. Trenchard’s death by this time.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know about that.’</p> + +<p>‘I must send to the How. I must send to +every place where is a chance of finding her. It is +most vital that she should return without delay.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ says Marion. ‘She ought to see about her +mourning; and if she is to be uncle Trenchard’s +chief heiress it certainly looks queer for her to be +out of the way at such a time.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Faunthorpe sighs and says no more. The +bell rings at this moment, and he goes to his surgery +to see a parish patient, who has brought the latest +variety in scalds for his inspection. A whitlow +drops in five minutes afterwards, followed by an +interesting case of enlarged glands wrapped in +flannel, after which comes a promising whooping-cough, +and on the heels of that a very fair specimen +of incipient measles. These occupy Dr. Faunthorpe +till nine o’clock, and he has but just dismissed the +measles with a comforting dose of senna when a bell +rings sharply—not the surgery bell this time. He +is standing in the passage when it rings, and he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>opens the door himself, and admits a respectable-looking +stranger, of business-like aspect and middle +age.</p> + +<p>‘Dr. Faunthorpe, I believe?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I am Dr. Faunthorpe.’</p> + +<p>‘Can I have a few words with you in your +surgery?’</p> + +<p>‘A patient,’ thinks the doctor, as he ushers the +visitor into his stuffy den, heated like an oven by +the gas, and odorous with senna and peppermint.</p> + +<p>‘I may as well come straight to business, Dr. +Faunthorpe,’ says the stranger directly the door is +shut. ‘You were present at the post-mortem this +afternoon, and you know that Mr. Trenchard has +been poisoned with prussic acid. My name is +Judbury, and I belong to the Krampston police +force. I am sent here by our chief to look into this +business. My duty is to find out where that prussic +acid was bought. Now, before I go to the chemists +shops, Dr. Faunthorpe, I want to know if it came out +of your surgery, as there is reason to suppose it did.’</p> + +<p>‘What reason can there be to suppose any such +thing?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span></p> + +<p>‘Never you mind that. You’ll be summoned to +appear at the inquest to-morrow, and you’ll be asked +certain questions, I dare say. I want to see your +bottle of dilute prussic acid.’</p> + +<p>‘Suppose I tell you that I keep no such thing in +my surgery?’</p> + +<p>‘Then I should have to look for myself. I’ve +got authority to search your surgery. You’d better +let me see the bottle. It’ll come to the same thing +in the end.’</p> + +<p>Very pale, and with a sinking of his heart which +he has never felt before in all his patient life, +Robert Faunthorpe drags the step-ladder to the +recess of the fireplace, and mounts to look for the +dark blue bottle.</p> + +<p>Mr. Judbury follows him to the steps, and eyes +him as a cat eyes a mouse during the operation.</p> + +<p>Poor Dr. Faunthorpe’s hand <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'trembles alittle'" id="tn-138">trembles a little</ins> as +he takes down the fatal bottle, and before he can +examine it Mr. Judbury’s firm fingers have taken it +from him.</p> + +<p>‘How much acid do you suppose you had in the +bottle, sir?’ asks Judbury.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p> + +<p>‘I really can’t say to a nicety—it’s a drug I +rarely use—perhaps a matter of two ounces.’</p> + +<p>‘And there isn’t an ounce here.’</p> + +<p>‘But I can’t be positive,’ exclaims the doctor, +profoundly agitated. ‘I tell you it’s ever so long +since I used any. I can’t be called upon to state the +quantity. It may have evaporated.’</p> + +<p>‘I understand. But your impression is that you +had two ounces. The bottle doesn’t look as if it had +been disturbed lately; the dust’s pretty thick upon +it,’ says Mr. Judbury, taking it to the gas burner and +examining it closely.</p> + +<p>‘Do you see this, Dr. Faunthorpe?’ he asks, +pointing to the side of the dark blue bottle.</p> + +<p>‘This’ is the impression of two slim fingers on +the dust-whitened glass. Two streaks of blue show +where two fingers have grasped the bottle.</p> + +<p>‘That’s the mark of a hand, sir,’ says the detective +decisively, ‘a woman’s or a child’s.’</p> + +<p>‘Jenny, my youngest niece, may have tampered +with the bottle,’ stammers the doctor, beside himself +with fear and trouble. ‘She has been forbidden to +touch anything, but she’s a tiresome child, and may⁠——’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p> + +<p>‘Send for Miss Jenny, sir, and let us ask her all +about it,’ says Mr. Judbury.</p> + +<p>Robert Faunthorpe could cut out his tongue for +having uttered the girl’s name. Jenny will come, +and under this horrible man’s cross-questioning will +say something to implicate Sibyl. Horrors are +thickening round this miserable house. Is this the +hour they have all hoped and waited for, the hour +which was to bring Stephen Trenchard’s days to an +end, and be the beginning of his kindred’s prosperity?</p> + +<p>Seeing the doctor hesitate, Mr. Judbury makes +bold to ring the bell for himself. It is answered by +Hester, looking daggers. She hates to be disturbed +at her supper. It may be only bread and cheese, or +the scrapings of some bone or pie dish, or the greasy +remnants of hashed mutton, washed down with a +mug of table beer, but she likes to eat her meal in +peace.</p> + +<p>‘What is it, sir?’ she asks, snappishly.</p> + +<p>‘Send Miss Jane here,’ falters the doctor.</p> + +<p>Jane comes and is questioned about the blue +bottle. She fences with her questioner at first, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>looks as if the rack itself would not twist an admission +of any kind out of her; but subjected to Mr. +Judbury’s insidious process of interrogation, she +finally tells the whole story of Sibyl’s coming into +the surgery to get some laudanum, and the mysterious +smell of bitter almonds, and the bottle which +Sibyl filled and would not let her see.</p> + +<p>‘Thank you, miss,’ says Judbury, approvingly. +‘I think we must get you to appear before the +coroner to-morrow.’</p> + +<p>‘Jane,’ exclaims the doctor when Mr. Judbury +had made his bow and departed, ‘you have put a +rope round your sister’s neck.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_X"> + CHAPTER X. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">STEPHEN TRENCHARD SURPRISES HIS FRIENDS</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Redcastle is profoundly excited next morning by +the inquest which is held in the large room—a ballroom +or a dining hall on festive occasions—at the +‘Coach and Horses’ Hotel. Whispers of foul play +have floated in the air since the <i lang="la">post-mortem</i> examination +at Lancaster Lodge. Sibyl’s disappearance +has become known, and people look at one another +ominously as they mention her name. Mr. Pilgrim’s +behaviour in this time of trial is the admiration of +everybody, the enthusiasm beginning with the firm +of upholsterers and undertakers whom he entrusts +with the conduct of Mr. Trenchard’s obsequies, and +gradually permeating the town till every one is loud +in his praise. His coolness, his clearness of head, +his decent grief for his departed friend, his thoughtful +consideration for Sibyl, in quest of whom he has +sent far and wide,—all these things entitle him to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>the admiration of the town, and Redcastle does not +stint its praise.</p> + +<p>Never has the coroner sat in so crowded a court +as this which he gravely contemplates to-day. Mrs. +Stormont has borrowed her cook’s bonnet, and put +on her thickest veil, fondly feeling herself disguised +by these means, when every turn of her head and +every angle of her figure are as well known in +Redcastle as the town pump. Mrs. Groshen is also +present and thickly veiled. The two matrons have +been accommodated with chairs in a quiet corner near +the reporters’ table, and they put their heads +together, and sigh dismally, and talk of the awfulness +of life and death, and the mysterious depths of +wickedness in the human heart, pending the commencement +of the proceedings.</p> + +<p>The first evidence is entirely medical. Dr. +Mitsand describes those appearances in the corpse +which led him to conclude that Stephen Trenchard +had been poisoned. Mr. Pollintory deposes to +the finding of the poison in his analysis of the +contents of the stomach. Dr. Mitsand describes the +discovery of a phial which has contained the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>diluted acid in a basket in the room usually +occupied by Sibyl Faunthorpe.</p> + +<p>Joel Pilgrim is examined as to the discovery +of the death at nine o’clock on the previous morning. +He is questioned as to those appearances +which at once impressed Dr. Mitsand, and he +owns that in the agitation consequent on the sad +event he had overlooked these indications.</p> + +<p>‘You saw nothing particular in the appearance +of the corpse?’ inquires the coroner.</p> + +<p>‘I was too agitated to observe.’</p> + +<p>‘Yet you must have perceived the livid hue +which struck Dr. Mitsand.’</p> + +<p>‘I may have perceived that. My impression was +that death had been caused by an apoplectic stroke.’</p> + +<p>‘And that, in your mind, would account for the +livid tinge?’</p> + +<p>‘It would.’</p> + +<p>‘Did you observe the eyes?’</p> + +<p>‘I was too agitated to observe details.’</p> + +<p>‘But you must have seen the expression of +the eyes. Were they bright and glassy—staring—the +pupils dilated?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span></p> + +<p>‘I cannot say. I sent for the women to lay +out the corpse immediately. The whole thing was +too painful, too sudden, to allow of my observing +particulars.’</p> + +<p>He is questioned as to Sibyl’s disappearance.</p> + +<p>‘Can you give any reason for the young lady +being absent at such a time?’</p> + +<p>‘I cannot.’</p> + +<p>‘She was to have been married to you yesterday +morning?’</p> + +<p>‘She was.’</p> + +<p>‘Had she given her free consent to the marriage?’</p> + +<p>‘She had.’</p> + +<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ interposes a gentleman +sitting at the table. ‘I think these questions are +quite irrelevant to the object of the inquest. The +jury have only to determine the cause of death. +Miss Faunthorpe’s conduct is outside the question.’</p> + +<p>Robert Faunthorpe has engaged a Krampston +solicitor to watch the proceedings in his niece’s +interest. He has done his utmost for her in +this, having an idea that the genius of Krampston +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>is infinitely superior to that of Redcastle, and that +a Krampston lawyer must be a man of much +experience and acumen.</p> + +<p>Podmore, the butler, is examined as to his last +visit to his master’s room, and the state in which +he left the deceased. His answers to the coroner’s +questions closely resemble those he made to Dr. +Mitsand yesterday afternoon, but there is a thickness +in his speech which offends that functionary.</p> + +<p>‘That will do, sir. This is very shameful, sir, +positively disgusting. You are intoxicated.’</p> + +<p>‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ falters Podmore, dissolving +in tears. ‘You blas’ my ch—ck—ar—racter, +sir. I haven’t touched—drop—spiriss this +morr’ng. It’s my feelings.’</p> + +<p>‘Go away, sir. You are drunk. I won’t hear +another word.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Faunthorpe is now examined as to the +abstraction of a portion of prussic acid contained +in the bottle in his surgery, but the coroner can +obtain no positive statement from him as to the +quantity which ought to have been in the bottle.</p> + +<p>‘Come, Dr. Faunthorpe, you must have some +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>approximate idea as to the quantity of acid in your +possession. Your books would show you when +you last bought any. If your memory is so much +at fault we shall have to ask to see your books.’</p> + +<p>‘It is three years at least since I bought any. +I may not have kept the wholesale chemist’s bill. +I have no record.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, come, you must remember something about +it. If you so rarely employ the acid in your +medicines you must have the quantity you purchased +nearly intact. Now what is the smallest +quantity you have ever bought?’</p> + +<p>‘I think, about two ounces.’</p> + +<p>‘You have never bought above two ounces?’</p> + +<p>‘I do not think so.’</p> + +<p>‘Come, Dr. Faunthorpe, you are too scientific a +man to think about a fact. You must know.’</p> + +<p>And finally the coroner wrings from the reluctant +witness the admission that he ordered two +ounces of the diluted acid with other drugs three +years ago. That he used it once as a sedative in +a case of violent sickness, that he cannot remember +having used it since. He admits the finding +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>of a bottle in his surgery last night, with only +one ounce or less than one ounce of the poison. +The bottle is now in the possession of the authorities.</p> + +<p>The Krampston solicitor objects to these questions, +as having no bearing on the main issue, +which is simply to ascertain the cause of death, +but his objections are not entertained. The +coroner of Redcastle conducts his inquest with a +lofty hand, and is as arbitrary as any of his +mediæval predecessors.</p> + +<p>Jane Faunthorpe is not called, much to the +doctor’s relief. Yet he feels that even as matters +stand there is a dark cloud hanging over the head +of the absent Sibyl.</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps it would be better for her never to +return,’ he thinks.</p> + +<p>He has sent a messenger to The How, and has +sent in other directions without avail. He can discover +no trace of Sibyl. Yet Mr. Judbury is already +in possession of some information upon this subject. +He knows the hour at which she left Redcastle, the +train by which she went, the clothes she wore, the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>bag she carried. His next duty will be to discover +whither she has gone.</p> + +<p>The jury go to Lancaster Lodge to view the +body. The medical evidence having settled the +cause of death, this is little more than a formula, +which it is indeed in many cases where investigation +should be thorough.</p> + +<p>After this, although the cause of death is sufficiently +clear, the coroner suggests the adjournment +of the inquiry until further evidence can be brought +forward.</p> + +<p>There is some little discussion between the +coroner and one of the jury as to a convenient +date for the adjourned inquiry, and Mr. Judbury, +who has been present throughout the proceedings, +has a few words to say upon this subject. Finally +the inquest is adjourned to this day week. The +funeral arrangements meanwhile may proceed.</p> + +<p>‘And the will may be read,’ thinks Dr. Faunthorpe, +‘and we shall know if Sibyl is the heiress. +God grant she may appear without delay, and make +her innocence manifest to every one.’</p> + +<p>He goes back to his daily round of duty sorely +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>dejected in spirit. There is none of his parish +patients, hard as may be their struggle for existence, +who carries so heavy a heart this day as he who +ministers to their wants. There is no rheumatism +or sciatica that gripes its victim with a sharper +pang than the agony which tears Robert Faunthorpe’s +breast when he thinks that in the minds of all his +townsfolk Sibyl lies under suspicion of murder.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Messrs. Kabriole, the upholsterers +and undertakers, are in their glory. The massive +oaken coffin, glittering with brazen furniture, is in +hand,—merrily rings the joiner’s hammer on the +stout oak. The best velvet pall is brought forth +from its resting-place, aired and brushed. The big +Flemish horses have their manes combed and their +fetlocks clipped, and receive all the embellishment +that skilful grooming can bestow. The sable plumes +are shaken out, the inky cloaks unfolded, and +there is quite an agreeable excitement in Messrs. +Kabriole’s back shop.</p> + +<p>‘I shan’t be sorry to get our account in,’ says +Kabriole the elder to his Son and Co. ‘There’s a +heavy amount outstanding. Mr. Trenchard was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>like many of your millionaires, slow in parting +with his money.’</p> + +<p>‘I should have asked him for it, father, if I was +you,’ suggests the son.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, and have lost a first-rate customer,’ +replies the senior, severely. ‘Gentlemen in that +position mustn’t be pressed for money. The +most one can do is to send in one’s account at +Christmas.’</p> + +<p>‘You might have had a bill to make up, or something.’</p> + +<p>‘I does that with my pettifogging customers, +Joe, never with a man of Mr. Trenchard’s standing. +It’s too ’ollow.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, the money will come handy in a lump,’ +remarks the son.</p> + +<p>‘Of course it will, Joe; and you must bear in +mind that I charges five per cent. interest all along—and +the interest gets posted up every quarter, and +carries interest on the back of it. It’s like putting +one’s money in the bank—and safer.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, you’re a good ’un, father. There’s no +getting the right side of you.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span></p> + +<p>‘I’ve got an ’ed for business, Joe,’ answers the +parent, complacently. ‘I was born so.’</p> + +<p>The days go by, but bring no tidings of Sibyl. +The day of the funeral comes, a quiet funeral, but +splendid. All that wealth can do to disguise the +awfulness of death—or to add to it—with funeral +pomp, has been done here. Mr. Kabriole watches +the sable train leave his premises with a thrill of +pride. Every item of that gorgeous <i lang="fr">cortége</i> is +already entered in his ledger. He feels that the +metropolis could hardly beat this display.</p> + +<p>‘Drat your reformed funerals—with their rubbishing +open cars, reminding folks of Lord Mayor’s +Day, or Ashley’s Theayter!’ exclaims the upholsterer, +who has served his time to a London firm. ‘Give +me the good old style—the legitimate, as your +playgoers say of the draymer.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Faunthorpe, Mr. Pilgrim, Dr. Mitsand, and +Colonel Stormont are the only mourners, and occupy +two mourning coaches. Poor Dr. Faunthorpe weeps +silently behind his handkerchief—not for the dead, +for whom he cares but little, but for the living, over +whom clouds lower so heavily. He feels very much +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>as if he were going in solemn state to his own +execution. Except these tears there is but little +show of grief. Dr. Mitsand and Colonel Stormont +talk of the mystery of the dead man’s end, but do +not commit themselves to any opinion on the subject. +Joel Pilgrim is silent as death itself.</p> + +<p>A good many private carriages testify to the +respect in which Stephen Trenchard has been held +by his fellow-townsmen. Sir Wilford Cardonnel’s +family chariot follows with high stepping bays, and +the coachman and footman in their last new +liveries.</p> + +<p>Solemnly toll the minster bells as the procession +wends its slow and pompous way down the street. +Shutters are up before almost all the shop windows—blinds +are down in many places—a respectful +crowd gazes in reverential silence at the spectacle.</p> + +<p>The town of Redcastle bears witness that it has +lost a benefactor.</p> + +<p>However solemnly performed, that service of the +Church which remits dust to dust is not a long one, +nor is Stephen Trenchard’s funeral protracted by +any desperate burst of grief from the mourners. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>Decently, reverently, are all ceremonies performed. +The mourners linger for a moment or so looking +down at the coffin, rather as if they expected to +see the departed spread his wings and soar visibly +to a better world. Finding his ashes quiescent they +sigh, shake their heads despondently, and move +away, scrape the clay off their boots upon an adjacent +plebeian tombstone, and walk slowly back to +their carriages.</p> + +<p>‘Now for the will,’ says Colonel Stormont, +cheerily, as they drive away from the churchyard.</p> + +<p>There is something of the nature of a lottery in +that will. There may be small prizes even for +outsiders. Mourning rings, silver tankards, lapis-lazuli +snuff-boxes, carved ivory, or other spoil of +Ind.</p> + +<p>‘Most mysterious disappearance of that girl,’ +exclaims the colonel, after a pause. ‘What motive +could she have for running away, unless⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Unless she had poisoned her uncle,’ says Dr. +Mitsand, interpreting the colonel’s awful look. +‘If she were guilty of that crime I think she would +be here to-day. If she were capable of such an act +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>she would be capable of holding her ground afterwards.’</p> + +<p>‘They can’t always stand it, you know,’ argues +Colonel Stormont, speaking of the murderous profession +generally. ‘They lose their heads and bolt +after the thing is done. I suppose it looks so much +worse to them when it is done than it did from the +other side. They are a pluckless set for the most +part, I think.’</p> + +<p>‘It was not in that girl to commit a murder,’ +says Dr. Mitsand, with conviction. ‘The circumstantial +evidence is strong against her, I admit—her +disappearance—the poison taken from her uncle’s +surgery—her expectation of Mr. Trenchard’s fortune. +But if she had poisoned him in order to get possession +of his money, it stands to reason she would +have stayed to receive her inheritance. She would +have known that to fly was almost to admit her +guilt.’</p> + +<p>‘She may have been seized with a panic when +the thing was done.’</p> + +<p>‘She would have stayed, colonel,’ persists the +doctor. ‘She might have been stricken with fear, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>but she would have held her ground. She is too +clever to commit such a blunder as flight if she had +been guilty.’</p> + +<p>‘How do you account for her absence, then?’</p> + +<p>‘Easily enough. Her uncle was forcing her into +a hateful marriage, and she had not moral courage +enough to oppose her will to his, so she let matters +go on to the very last, and then ran away. A +foolish thing to do, no doubt, but human.’</p> + +<p>‘But why should she have taken that prussic +acid from her uncle’s surgery, as it is pretty +evident she did take it, though the fact hasn’t come +out yet?’</p> + +<p>‘She may have armed herself with that as the +means of suicide—a last resource if all other modes +of escape failed her. We have no evidence that the +prussic acid which killed Stephen Trenchard was +the poison taken from Dr. Faunthorpe’s surgery.’</p> + +<p>‘You have the evidence of the empty bottle?’</p> + +<p>‘She may have thrown the stuff away, fearing to +keep anything so dangerous in her possession. If +she were guilty, she would hardly have left that +bottle in her work-basket.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p> + +<p>‘Humph,’ mutters the colonel. ‘You take an +indulgent view of the case.’</p> + +<p>‘I admit that at the first I was staggered by the +facts, and inclined to suspect Miss Faunthorpe; but +reflection has led me to form another opinion.’</p> + +<p>‘Gad, sir, and I should be glad if I could believe +her innocent,’ says the colonel, energetically. ‘She +has eaten my <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'head and salt'" id="tn-157">bread and salt</ins>; I have liked and +admired her; and even’—with ineffable condescension—‘thought +of her as a wife for my eldest +son. I believe that poor boy adores her. It would +be horrid to think her guilty. But these things +ought to be looked straight in the face, Dr. Mitsand, +if we don’t want the whole fabric of society shaken. +We mustn’t be prussic-acid-ed into our graves in a +quiet little town like this, and the poisoner go scot +free. No, sir; I wish the good old law for the +punishment of poisoners was still in force. We +want our <i lang="fr">Chambre Ardente</i>, sir, for these scoundrels.’</p> + +<p>They are at the gates of Lancaster Lodge by +this time. The mourning coaches drive up to the +hall door, where stands Podmore, quite sober on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>this occasion, and fully awake to the dignity of his +position. He ushers the mourners to the drawing-room, +where the sunlight is subdued by half-closed +venetian shutters, through which shines the sunny +vista of lawn and flower-beds. The crimson satin +couches and ottomans are ranged in solemn order. +A silver tray of decanters and glasses is placed +unobtrusively on a side table. There is a small +writing-table in front of an open window, with a +chair set beside it, evidently prepared for the family +lawyer, thinks Colonel Stormont, as he takes a glass +of old Madeira from the obsequious Podmore.</p> + +<p>No family lawyer appears, however. The four +gentlemen refresh themselves gravely at the side +table, assisted by Podmore. Very bitter is the taste +of the Amontillado to Dr. Faunthorpe, but his +parched lips need to be moistened in some wise. +The moment is at hand when the dealings of the +dead to the living will be known. Will justice have +been done to all his nieces, or will favours be +heaped upon that one of them whom in secret he, +Robert Faunthorpe, has loved the best?</p> + +<p>Joel Pilgrim takes a second glass of sherry, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>clears his throat, and goes to the little table by the +window.</p> + +<p>‘I believe, gentlemen,’ he begins, and the three +mourners turn towards him, full of eager curiosity, +‘that in cases where there is a will to be read this +is about the time at which the ceremonial is gone +through. Now my good friend Stephen Trenchard +has left no will.’</p> + +<p>There is a look of amazement in the countenances +of his three hearers. Dr. Faunthorpe feels +the room going round bewilderingly, and tries +feebly to remember how the law of inheritance +stands in the case of nieces whose uncle dies +intestate.</p> + +<p>‘Do you mean to say that Mr. Trenchard, a man +of business, has died intestate?’ exclaims Colonel +Stormont, with indignant incredulity.</p> + +<p>‘He has died intestate for the best of all +reasons,’ answers Joel, coolly, as he unlocks a drawer +in the writing-table. ‘He had nothing to bequeath!’</p> + +<p>‘Come, sir, you are laughing at us,’ cries the +colonel.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span></p> + +<p>‘He was too sincere to indulge in the mockery of +a will, and, in that self-restraint, was a model to +mankind in general, who seem to take delight in +disposing of imaginary effects,’ replies Joel, in an +easy conversational tone. ‘He made no will, but +during his late illness he entrusted me with a little +paper which it was his wish that I should read to +any of his friends and relatives who should be +present on this sad occasion. With your permission, +gentlemen, I shall proceed to do so.’</p> + +<p>‘Make haste about it, sir,’ cries the colonel. ‘I +can see that we have all been outrageously humbugged.’</p> + +<p>‘You are not the first, colonel, who has taken +the appearance for the reality,’ replies Joel, politely.</p> + +<p>He unfolds a sheet of letter-paper covered with +Stephen Trenchard’s neat penmanship, and reads +thus:—</p> + +<blockquote class="p1t"> +<p>‘Having reason to believe that I may die insolvent, +I refrain from the empty formula of a last will +and testament. I have nothing to bequeath except +those accommodation bills drawn upon Providence, +which good men call blessings.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span></p> + +<p>‘The business which I conducted for thirty years +in India was on the verge of insolvency when I +retired from it, though the house of Trenchard and +Co. stood high in the opinion of the commercial +world, and its paper was as easily negotiated as that +of the Bank of England. I had sunk my capital in +the business, and I consider that I was guilty of no +fraud in withdrawing from it about a third of the +amount of that original capital, although I knew +that in so doing I must precipitate the ultimate +failure. I transferred my speculative trade to a man +adroit enough to navigate the leaky vessel for a few +more voyages upon the commercial sea, and I was +enabled to make my retreat from India with ten +thousand pounds and high repute; for, although I +was known to have been engaged in some doubtful +adventures, and to have been somewhat unscrupulous +in my traffic, I was believed to be enormously rich.</p> + +<p>‘I was sixty-six years of age when I made up my +mind to retire from the excitements and agitations +of a hazardous trade, and to enjoy the lotus-eater’s +calm repose for the rest of my days. I calculated +that the ten thousand pounds that I was able to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>draw would, with a judicious use of my credit, last +out my life, and enable me to glide in comfort to +the grave. It pleased me to return to that native +town which I had left as a penniless lad, and which, +when I was honest and industrious, refused me +daily bread. With a few thousands at my banker’s, +and the reputation of unlimited resources, I was +able to command all that the town could give. +Redcastle laid its riches at my feet. I had but to +pay the rent of my house, the wages of my servants, +and to give a cheque on account now and then to +my tradespeople. Every year left me a little +deeper in their debt.</p> + +<p>‘I fear that I may have excited false hope in +the mind of my very dear niece, Sibyl Faunthorpe. +I regret the possibility of this, but I cannot be +blamed for any baseless ideas which she may have +entertained on the subject of my supposed fortune. +I have never made any statement calculated to mislead +her. I have neither directly nor indirectly +fostered expectations of an inheritance from me. +My dear Sibyl has been the companion and solace +of my retirement, and she has enjoyed all those +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>luxuries and comforts with which I have smoothed +the pathway of my declining years. Should there be +any balance, or residue of the money now in my +banker’s hands, at the time of my death, after the +payment of my just debts, I hereby give the same +to my friend and successor in commerce, Joel +Pilgrim; but as I apprehend that my moneys in +hand will hardly suffice to pay my outstanding +accounts, I have not taken the trouble to put this +bequest in the <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'form a will'" id="tn-163">form of a will</ins>.</p> + +<p class="right"> + ‘<span class="smcap p3r">Stephen Trenchard,</span><br> +<br> + <span class="p1r">‘May 20th. 187—.’</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_XI"> + CHAPTER XI. + <br> + ‘<span class="allsmcap">IT IS NOT NOW AS IT HAS BEEN OF YORE</span>.’ + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Alexis goes to Dorley Mill a few days after his +interview with Mr. Scrodgers the lawyer, and +tells Linda Challice all that the man of law has +said in relation to Trot, and the advisability of +that young gentleman’s being domiciled at the +Grange.</p> + +<p>‘You see I want to establish the fact of his being +my son,’ says Alexis. ‘People will hardly believe +in my paternity while the little fellow is here. He +ought to live with me—he ought to be seen in my +company. A few years hence it won’t so much +matter where he may live. His name and position +will be settled.’</p> + +<p>‘I understand,’ says Linda, sadly. ‘Yesterday +you gave me a promise which made me very happy; +to-day you take it back again.’</p> + +<p>‘Linda, forgive me,’ cries Alexis, deeply distressed. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>‘If you knew how it grieves me to rob +you of your darling! But it is for his good. Why +cannot we three be happy as we have been together? +The sweetest days of my life were those I spent +under this dear roof—with him—with you. Why +cannot those happy days come again, Linda? My +love, my darling, what is the world worth that it +should part us?’</p> + +<p>His arm is round her, he draws her to his breast, +looking down into those beseeching, agonized eyes, +which meet his in silent reproach that pierces deeper +than words. For one passionate moment he has +forgotten the fetters that hold him to another, forgotten +everything except that this girl has grown +inexpressibly dear to him.</p> + +<p>She releases herself from his arm, and he stands +before her with shame-bowed head, conscience-stricken.</p> + +<p>‘Forgive me, Linda,’ he pleads. ‘I was thinking +of what might have been. No, I will not be such a +wretch as to rob you of Trot—not yet awhile, at any +rate. What can I give him to replace his adopted +mother’s fond care? You shall keep him, Linda.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span></p> + +<p>‘Not if it is for his interest to be with you,’ +Linda answers gravely. ‘But you need not be in a +hurry to take him from me. A few days—a few +weeks even—can make little difference. Give me +time to get accustomed to the idea of parting with +him.’</p> + +<p>‘So be it. And you will let me come here very +often and see him, so that he may grow fonder of +me, and come to look upon me as his father?’</p> + +<p>‘No,’ she answers, with downcast eyes. ‘Let me +have him quite to myself for this time. He loves +you already, you have no need to win his affection. +Let me have him all to myself, and when the day +comes claim him from me, and I will give him to +you without a tear.’</p> + +<p>Alexis understands the motive of this denial, and +feels that he has merited to be thus denied.</p> + +<p>‘You have only to command me, Miss Challice,’ +he says, ‘and remember that this boy will be no son +of mine if his affection for you, or his remembrance +of your goodness, is ever lessened.’</p> + +<p>‘He is so young,’ replies Linda, with a sigh. ‘He +will have so much time in which to forget.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span></p> + +<p>And then they part with a friendly shake hands, +and a little commonplace talk about old Mr. Benfield +and the mill, and both try to forget, or seem to forget, +that fatal betrayal of feeling on the part of Alexis; +and when he has gone Linda creeps up to her +room,—the pretty girlish chamber, with its white +draperies and water-colour sketches, Linda’s own +work, on the paneled walls—and kneels beside the +little white bed, and sobs as if her heart were broken. +Happily, her life of simple duty affords little +leisure for the indulgence of grief, and she is obliged +to bathe her swollen eyelids presently and to go +downstairs to see about Trot’s custard pudding, +which delicacy, made with a new-laid egg, and baked +in a saucer, no other hands can be permitted to prepare. +Trot’s sharp eyes discover the traces of tears +in those heavy eyelids.</p> + +<p>‘What for you cry, mammie?’ he demands. +‘You not been naughty, has you?’</p> + +<p>Tears and naughtiness go together in Trot’s mind.</p> + +<p>‘I hope not, love.’</p> + +<p>‘And you not tumbled down ’tairs.’</p> + +<p>‘No, darling.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span></p> + +<p>‘Den oo got nosing to cry for,’ says Trot, decisively.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It is with the deepest shame that Alexis remembers +that unhappy outbreak of his. This is how +he has pleaded his friend’s cause. This is his allegiance +to Dick Plowden. He can hardly look that +faithful friend in the face without blushing, when he +gets back to the Grange.</p> + +<p>‘Did you see her?’ asks Dick.</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes, I saw her.’</p> + +<p>‘And was she looking well?’</p> + +<p>‘A little pale and worried, I thought. She doesn’t +like parting with Trot, you see.’</p> + +<p>‘No, of course not.’</p> + +<p>Alexis goes to London that afternoon and procures +a copy of the entry of his marriage in the register at +the little Gothic church in the Pimlico district, so +memorable to Sibyl and to him; the church they +entered so hopefully that bleak March morning, four +years ago, careless of the future, confident of happiness, +and knowing little more of life’s actualities than +if they had been the prince and princess of a fairy +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>tale. In that stony labyrinth of Pimlico Alexis is +within an easy walk of Dixon Street, Chelsea. He +goes by ways that were painfully familiar to him in +the days of his poverty. He seems to know every +shop-front in this water-side street, every stone, every +housetop, and chimney-stack, and street corner. +He leaves the prim dwelling-places of middle-class +respectability, and enters poverty’s Bohemia. There +flows the river beyond its muddy margin, rosy in the +evening sun. How the scene brings back the bygone +time, the heart-sinking and despair, the dread of to-morrow, +the vain hope, the crushing disappointment! +There is little use, perhaps, in this visit to his old +quarters. His will is made, his son’s heritage is +rendered as secure as the law of the land can make +it; there is little fear, one would suppose, of the +boy’s parentage being called into question in the +time to come; but Alexis has a fancy for seeing the +house which sheltered his poverty and care, which +was home in the days when he thought himself +secure of his wife’s love. Here is the dingy old +street, more dingy and dismal in the warm summer +twilight than in wintry obscurity. How sorely all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>the doors and window-sashes want painting! what +wisps of dirty straw and ragged scraps of paper have +drifted to this quiet haven from the busier ways +outside. Odd curtains drape the parlour windows, +grimy blinds droop hopelessly on their slackened +lines, like sails in a dead calm. Here and there a +few flower-pots testify to the love of the beautiful in +some struggling denizen; in one area there is a +family of rabbits, in another a collection of poultry; +in a third a cobbler has built his wooden workshop. +If it were possible for anything already so debased to +sink a little lower, Alexis would think that Dixon +Street has gone down since he last beheld it. But +the effect lies doubtless rather in his own eye, which +is a stranger to the place.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bonny has been endowed with an orderly +mind, and it has been her constant struggle to raise +her dwelling-place above the Dixon Street level. +She has eschewed rabbits and poultry. Her parlour +windows are shaded by clean though faded chintz, +and display the healthiest geraniums in the street. +Her door-steps are hearthstoned daily, and it grieveth +her to the heart when the ruthless feet of her lodgers +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>or their following sully the purity of the stone. It +must be confessed that this aspiration after the +beautiful, this struggle to maintain cleanliness in a +neighbourhood where blacks fall as the rain from +heaven, has exercised a deteriorating influence upon +Mrs. Bonny’s temper. The native sweetness of that +overworked woman’s disposition has been turned to +sour by the perpetual falling of smuts, the frequent +passage of muddy soles across newly hearthstoned +steps, the reckless disregard of scrapers and doormats, +which is idiosyncratic of the lodger family. +When she opens her door to a stranger, Mrs. Bonny +looks not at his face, but directs a furtive and angry +glance at his boots, and follows his progress into her +house with a smothered murmur of dissatisfaction. +Her life is an endless warfare, which her constancy +of spirit would render absolutely noble, were the +enemy wherewith she striveth a trifle more exalted; +but to fret and fume about the soiling of a doorstep, +to be miserable because a dirty boot sullieth +one’s stair carpet, hath in it something of pettishness +and folly; and these small and sordid cares have impressed +themselves upon Mrs. Bonny’s visage—they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>have drawn down the angles of her mouth, and +written a network of wrinkles upon her brow.</p> + +<p>She opens the door to Alexis this evening. The +rosy light on the river is deepening to a crimson +glow; the sky grows faint and opal-tinted; and a +young moon, which has been showing pale all the +afternoon, begins to brighten in the eastern gray. +Alexis had been prepared to observe some surprise +in his landlady’s countenance at this sudden reappearance +of his, after a lapse of three years and a +half, but to his astonishment she receives him with +perfect tranquillity of countenance, save for an +anxious downward glance at his boots, a look +which he remembers of old.</p> + +<p>‘I thought as much,’ she mutters. ‘You can +walk upstairs, Mr. Stanmore.’</p> + +<p>Stanmore was the adopted name of his poverty.</p> + +<p>‘I have called for a little chat with you, Mrs. +Bonny, if you can spare time,’ he begins politely, +remembering that his old landlady, like the Fates, +was a goddess who needed a good deal of propitiation.</p> + +<p>‘I ain’t got the time now,’ replies Mrs. Bonny, +snappishly, ‘for I was cooking my parlour’s supper +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>when you rang, and I dessay it’ll have stuck to the +bottom of the frying-pan when I get back. You +can walk upstairs, can’t you? You know your way, +I should think.’</p> + +<p>‘To the front room?’ inquires Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, of course. It happened to be empty when +the young woman called about it—not as I’m ever +long empty, thank Providence. It ain’t much reward +to get for slaving from morning till night, gracious +knows. Wipe your boots, if you please, Mr. Stanmore. +There’s a mat at the foot of the stairs.’</p> + +<p>The master of Cheswold Grange does not quite +understand the drift of these remarks, but he obeys +as meekly as the penniless waiter upon fortune was +wont to do in days gone by. Mrs. Bonny hurries +back to her frying-pan, and Alexis goes up the well-remembered +staircase, with its papered wall representing +a bewildering multiplication of Gothic archways +of a dingy brown hue, its narrow window with +a gaudy painted blind of ecclesiastical design, its +heavy old balusters, the remains of better days, +when Dixon Street was the abode of polite society, +and fine gentlemen and ladies may have roystered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>and gambled in these old rooms after an evening at +Ranelagh.</p> + +<p>Twilight has thickened, and Mrs. Bonny’s staircase +is wrapped in shadow when Alexis opens the +door of that one room which was once his home—a +single chamber which would then have been deemed +all-sufficient as a home could he but have found +the wherewithal to pay the rent thereof. How well +he remembers that miserable home-coming, when, +like Byron, he found his hearth deserted and his +household gods shattered. The memory saddens +him. He forgets his newly found son—forgets the +business that has brought him to Dixon Street. The +picture of that bitter day comes back, and shuts out +every other image.</p> + +<p>The room looks as if not one article of its furniture +had been removed or altered since he saw it last. +There stands the scarlet tea-tray on the table against +the wall—there the tea-caddy—there the leather-bound +family Bible. There are the old chintz-covered +arm-chairs, the tent bedstead, the trumpery crockery +images—awkward caricatures of old Chelsea ware—on +the high narrow mantelpiece; and yonder, seated +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>on the well-remembered sofa, in a despondent attitude, +with hands clasped listlessly and drooping head, appears +a figure at sight of which Alexis Secretan recoils +as if he had seen a ghost.</p> + +<p>He may well be startled, for this figure is the +image of his wife as he has seen her on many an +evening, at his home-coming, when she has grown +weary of waiting for his return, and has sunk into +despondency.</p> + +<p>For a moment his blood freezes, and he feels as if +a spirit were there; but in the next instant a cry of +surprise breaks from his lips, ‘Sibyl, can it be you?’</p> + +<p>She starts up from the sofa, looks at him in +bewilderment, and then throws herself upon his +breast.</p> + +<p>‘Alex, my best, my dearest, my only protector +and comfort,’ she cries, ‘how did you know—who +told you that I was here?’</p> + +<p>He puts her away from him gently but firmly. +The thought of her falsehood about his son’s death +comes between him and his wife; and it may be +that love for her, as he has often told himself, has +died out of his heart, murdered by her unkindness. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>There is something else too, perhaps, in this moment +that comes between him and the pale face lying on +his breast. The image of a sweeter and less selfish +woman, whose eyes looked up at him full of grief +and pain a few hours ago.</p> + +<p>‘Alex, how unkind you are, and how coldly you +look at me! But you came here in search of me, +did you not? You are not living here?’</p> + +<p>‘No, Sibyl, I am not living here, and I did not +come here to look for you. How was I to suppose +that I should find you here when I left you at Redcastle +in the house of Stephen Trenchard? I did +not think you would come back to such a place as +this of your own election.’</p> + +<p>‘It was the only place I could think of as a +refuge, Alex. I knew that I should be safe with +Mrs. Bonny, and I knew of no other lodgings in +London. Perhaps, too, I had a fancy for coming +back here. It was like returning to the past—to +the days when you loved me.’</p> + +<p>She says this shyly, standing before her husband +with downcast eyes, like a child who has offended +and anticipates reproof. There is all the old innocence +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>of manner, the almost childlike sweetness which +charmed Alexis when he first saw Sibyl Faunthorpe in +Mrs. Hazleton’s drawing-room, but there is a chilled +and deadened feeling at his heart, as of love that has +fallen asleep and can wake no more, or love that has +been stricken dumb, and can find its old familiar +speech never again.</p> + +<p>‘Say rather the days in which I thought you +worthy to be loved,’ he replies, gravely. ‘You made +your election when you left this room. You cannot +undo it by returning here, whatever may be the +caprice that moves you. When you chose to be your +uncle Trenchard’s toady instead of my wife, you cancelled +the bond between you and me. I gave you the +option of renewing that old bond, but, having your +sordid aim in view, and fancying yourself on the +threshold of success, you refused my offer. That +made an end of our union for ever. There is no +legal process, no decree of the Divorce Court, which +could separate us more utterly than we are parted +now.’</p> + +<p>‘Alex,’ she cries piteously, ‘you did once love +me. How can you be so unforgiving?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span></p> + +<p>‘I’ll tell you how and why. When we last met +and parted I asked you a question, a question that +involved the happiness of my manhood and the hope +of my age. You answered me with a deliberate lie.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t remember,’ falters Sibyl, deeply humiliated. +She had thought it so easy a matter to +reclaim this faithful heart. In her darkest hour she +had always counted upon her husband’s love as a +certainty, a treasure inalienable, despite her sins +against him, thinking of him somewhat after the +manner in which man is apt to think of God’s mercy +and forgiveness, as an inexhaustible fund, upon +which he can draw as largely as he likes, with no +fear of having his bills returned.</p> + +<p>‘You don’t remember that when I asked for my +son you told me he was dead,—looked me calmly in +the face and <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'told me black'" id="tn-178">told me a black</ins> and bitter lie. He +had only survived his birth by a few days, you +said. All the hopes I had built upon his existence +were baseless and delusive. You made me +believe this, Sibyl.’</p> + +<p>She looks at him intently in the twilight, with a +look that is half terror, half wonder.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span></p> + +<p>‘Why should you imagine that I was deceiving +you when I told you of your son’s death?’ she +asks.</p> + +<p>‘For the best possible reason. I have found my +son!’</p> + +<p>‘What? You have been to Dorley Mill?’</p> + +<p>‘I have been to the place where you left your +child, left him, glad to be released from a tie which +most women hold sacred; left him to play your part +at the feet of Stephen Trenchard, to pass for a +spinster, and captivate country gentlemen, and angle +for a fortune. You have won your game, I hope +after making such sacrifices,—if it can be called a +sacrifice to have abandoned husband and child. +Stephen Trenchard is dead, I suppose, and you have +inherited his fortune, or you would hardly have +deserted your post, even for the sentimental pleasure +of revisiting the scene of your married life.’</p> + +<p>‘My uncle Stephen is not dead. I have inherited +nothing. I stand before you a pauper, Alex, bankrupt +in everything; even in hope, since you have +ceased to love me.’</p> + +<p>‘Your uncle not dead! You have voluntarily +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>abandoned your chance of being his heiress? You +must have changed greatly since that night when +you and I talked together in Mr. Trenchard’s house.’</p> + +<p>‘I was surrounded with difficulties, Alexis. I +should have held my ground to the very last;—yes, +call me mercenary, despise me if you will, I will not +shrink from the truth;—I would have stopped with +my uncle till the day of his death if he had not +made that impossible by his tyranny.’</p> + +<p>She tells Alexis the story of the last few months +how she had been urged to marry Joel Pilgrim, and +how when matters grew desperate she had taken +flight.</p> + +<p>‘I wrote to that good girl, Jane Dimond, and +asked her to find me a lodging, here if possible. +Luckily for me this room was empty, and I came +straight from the railway station here.’</p> + +<p>‘A disappointing end to your schemes and hopes,’ +says Alexis, still unpitying. He cannot easily forgive +that heartless falsehood about his boy. His wrongs +as a husband he might pardon. The injury done +him as a father rankles deeper.</p> + +<p>‘It is a sorry end, Alexis, humiliating, shameful. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>For upwards of three years I have been my uncle’s +patient companion. I have borne all his caprices, +devoted myself to the task of making his life +pleasant to him. He has been very good to me. I +should be wickedly ungrateful if I were to deny or +to forget that. I think, too, that he loved me, in his +undemonstrative manner; and if I was deceived in +believing that he would make me his heiress, everybody +else in Redcastle laboured under the same +delusion. But this Mr. Pilgrim’s influence upon +him is stronger than mine. I do not believe that +my uncle really wished me to marry that man, or +even that Joel Pilgrim’s presence in his house made +him happy; but there was an influence of some kind—an +influence which I could never understand—exercised +by that East Indian upon my uncle Stephen.’</p> + +<p>‘I congratulate you upon having escaped that +unholy house,’ says Alexis. ‘I am glad you did not +carry your subservience to your uncle so far as to +marry the East Indian. I am very glad you drew +the line at that.’</p> + +<p>‘Had I been as free as my uncle thought me I +should have done the same,’ replies Sibyl.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span></p> + +<p>‘And may I ask what plan of existence you have +formed to replace your blighted hopes?’ says Alexis. +‘I suppose after this rebellious flight of yours there +is no chance of your inheriting your uncle’s fortune.’</p> + +<p>‘I gave up every idea of that when I left +his house. As for a plan of life, I have none. +The only hope I had has left me. I have a little +ready money, and a few trinkets which I can convert +into money. This will carry me on till I can get a +situation as a governess—if that is to be done +without a friend to speak for my character. I have +not neglected my education during the last three +years, and I can fall back upon the old drudgery.’</p> + +<p>She says all this despondently. Hope has died +within her breast. She had thought it so easy a +thing to cancel the past, and now it seems to her +that she and Alexis Secretan are as far apart as if +they had never loved each other, never sworn life-long +fidelity, never spent their careless honeymoon +together under the young leafage in the Bois de +Boulogne, among St. Germain’s forest walks, and on +the lamplit Boulevards, with all the joyous life of +Europe’s gayest city drifting by them like a stream +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>of folly—never suffered poverty’s cark and care +together—never shared hope and despair—never +wandered, side by side, on the chill border-land of +famine.</p> + +<p>So far Alexis has shown no sign of relenting. +His tone has expressed contempt rather than anger, +and has wounded more deeply than the stormiest +reproaches could wound. He now grows thoughtful, +and walks up and down the room in meditative +silence, as he has walked many a time in days gone +by when his meditations were of ways and means. +Sibyl watches him as he moves slowly to and fro +with bent head. The twilight hides his face, that +summer twilight in which they sat so often when +they first became inmates of this room, and when +poverty was a new thing to them.</p> + +<p>‘Why did you tell me that lie about our child?’ +he asks, after a long silence.</p> + +<p>‘Shall I tell you why, Alexis? It was because +I wanted to have some hold upon you; to have +some treasure to give you when the time came for +me to come back to you, your true and faithful wife +as I have been from first to last. You would scorn +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>my uncle Stephen’s fortune, you told me—repudiate +that as you would repudiate me. But I thought +you could not shut your heart against me if I came +to you with our son. He must have been a link +between us, a tie no unkindness of yours, no sin of +mine, could break.’</p> + +<p>‘And you thought to make that link the stronger +by telling me that my son, whom you had placidly +resigned to the care of a stranger, was dead.’</p> + +<p>‘If I had told you the truth you would have +claimed him. He would have been yours, and not +mine.’</p> + +<p>‘You are an accomplished schemer, Sibyl, but +Fate has a knack of spoiling your plans. Accident +brought me in the way of my boy; an accident, +which put my life in peril for some time, brought +me under the same roof with my son, and I loved +him before I knew that he had any claim to my love.’</p> + +<p>‘How did you discover his identity at last?’ asks +Sibyl faintly.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, in a very simple way. I need not trouble +you with details.’</p> + +<p>‘And he is well—happy?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p> + +<p>‘How good of you to inquire about him! Yes, +he has thriven admirably with strangers. So well +that he naturally rebels against being transferred to +his own flesh and blood.’</p> + +<p>‘Alexis,’ falters his wife, piteously, ‘I know I +must seem a heartless mother, a woman without +woman’s natural feeling, but starvation brings +humanity very low. When I came to Dorley Mill +I had been keeping fellowship with Hunger for a +long time. I had known what it was to be houseless +and ailing, to lie shivering under the cold +unpitying stars. It was vital to me to find a home +for my baby, a home far away from Redcastle. I +was obliged to disassociate myself from my child. +It was imperative for me to do that if I wanted to +win my uncle Trenchard’s fortune—and I did want +to be rich, Alex, for your sake, for our child’s sake, +as much as for my own. If it was your duty as a +man to try every honest means to conquer fortune, +was it a sin in me to try the only means I knew, to +snatch the only chance Fate ever offered to me? +Will you try and think of all this, Alex, and forgive +me, if you can?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p> + +<p>She rises once more from the sofa where she has +sat despondingly. She goes to her husband, and +lays her hand lightly on his shoulder—such a poor +little hand—such a feather’s weight, as it seems to +him, lying loosely there. That touch, faltering and +tremulous, moves him more than her arguments.</p> + +<p>‘Forgive you? yes, poor child,’ he says, gravely. +‘Perhaps, after all, it is foolishness rather than sin +that I have to pardon—and God pardons even sin. +What am I, weak offending man, that I should be +more unmerciful than Heaven? Yes, I forgive you, +Sibyl; but remember, my dear, that the past is an +unalterable quantity. We have to carry the burden +of our past deeds down to the grave. No man ever +shifts that load from his shoulders. You and I can +never be again what we were the day you left this +house to go in quest of fortune. You left something +behind you then that you can never reclaim.’</p> + +<p>‘You mean that I lost your love?’</p> + +<p>‘My affection, my compassion, you shall have to +the end of our lives; but the heart that trusted and +loved you is dead and gone.’</p> + +<p>‘I have no right to expect that it should be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>otherwise,’ answers Sibyl, in a voice broken by sobs; +‘I set too much value on money. I was blind to all +other loss that might befall me. I thought that +when I came to you with my uncle Trenchard’s +fortune in my hand you would forgive me, you +would take me back to your heart.’</p> + +<p>‘It is because you come to me without fortune +that I am able to forgive you, Sibyl. I thank +Providence for the failure of your plans. No good +could ever have come of Stephen Trenchard’s money +to me or my race.’</p> + +<p>‘And you will let me see my boy, Alex. I know +that I have been a heartless mother, but I have +suffered many a pang of remorse. You will let me +see him before⁠——’</p> + +<p>She breaks down here, and sobs upon her husband’s +shoulder.</p> + +<p>‘Before what, Sibyl?’ he asks, gently. ‘Don’t +cry, my dear. There are quiet days in store for both +of us, now that we have got rid of our evil genius, +Stephen Trenchard.’</p> + +<p>His tone is kinder than it has been yet. He has +felt a touch of remorse at remembering that he could +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>have given his erring wife a warmer welcome had +she but returned to him before his experience of +womanly tenderness and womanly unselfishness at +Dorley Mill. It was only when he learned to draw +comparisons between his wife and another woman +that love had perished.</p> + +<p>‘God bless you for those kind words, Alex, the +first you have spoken to me to-night; and you will +let me see my child—before I die.’</p> + +<p>‘Before you die! Yes, Sibyl, and through many +a year to come, if you will be true to your little one +and me, and put Stephen Trenchard’s money out of +your head. Who talks about dying?’</p> + +<p>‘I have suffered so much, Alex, and it has been +so hard a task to hide every pang—to be all smiles, +and gaiety, and thoughtfulness for others, with my +own hidden sorrow always gnawing at my heart. It +has been a bitter task. I feel as if the burden had +been too heavy for me—I feel quite worn out with +the long battle—physically as well as mentally. +Indeed, Alex, I do not think that I have long to live.’</p> + +<p>This is a plea for mercy <i>in formâ pauperis</i>, and +touches Alexis. He is growing very tender-hearted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>to this wife, for whom he had told himself that his +old love was dead and gone. The room in which +they had suffered poverty’s chilling apprenticeship +together seems to him to bring them closer to each +other than any less familiar place of meeting could +have done. And presently, when Sibyl has struck a +match and lighted a pair of sallow-looking candles, +which but dimly illuminate the scene, Alexis is +moved to deeper pity by seeing the change that the +last six months have wrought in his wife’s beauty. +That wan white face, those sunken cheeks and +hollow eyes, tell of a struggle that has been exhausting +alike to mind and body.</p> + +<p>‘My poor girl, how changed you are!’ he exclaims, +drawing her to him in the dim light, and +scrutinizing her altered face.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, there is no beauty to be proud of now, +Alex. I might sit in my corner in Mrs. Hazleton’s +drawing-room, and even your eye would not notice +me. The faded governess would come and go like a +shadow. I have lost my good looks—all the capital +Fortune gave me to start in life—and I have won +nothing—not even uncle Trenchard’s money.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span></p> + +<p>‘We can do without it, Sibyl. If you had come +to me with that ill-gotten wealth in your hand I +would have had nothing to say to you. I take you +back to-night because you come without it.’</p> + +<p>‘Back to your heart, Alex?’</p> + +<p>‘To my home and my affectionate regard, my +dear. Our hearts are not always to be commanded. +Don’t look so sad, Sibyl, our Hampshire breezes will +blow the colour back to your cheeks.’</p> + +<p>‘Hampshire? Ah, that is where our boy lives. +But what took you to that part of the country, +Alex?’</p> + +<p>‘I’ll answer that question when you have told +me what took you there, and how your child came to +be born in a Hampshire Union.’</p> + +<p>‘I’ll tell you, Alex. I have no need to hide +anything now. When I left you, with those ten +pounds which I extorted from you so cruelly, my +only thought was to hide myself somewhere till after +my baby’s birth. I went into a little country village +in Surrey—a quiet little place near Guildford—and +hired a room in a cottage, a tiny whitewashed bedroom +which cost me three and sixpence a week, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>there I lived for seven weeks, spending as little as +possible, living on bread and butter and tea, till at +last my landlady, who was only a farm labourer’s +wife, would bring me up a little plate of meat sometimes +out of charity. In seven weeks I had spent +only four pounds on myself, but I had spent three +more in buying clothes for my baby, and I had spent +almost all my time in making them—those long dull +days when I used to sit for hours together alone in +my little room listening to the ticking of the Dutch +clock, and the chirping of the crickets downstairs. +I think I must have gone mad in those monotonous +desolate days, if it had not been for my needlework. +I used to go out into the fields sometimes at dusk, +and wander about for an hour or so, and I felt as if +I belonged to nobody, and was quite the loneliest +creature in this wide world.’</p> + +<p>‘A sorry prologue to your dignified existence at +Lancaster Lodge.’</p> + +<p>‘As the time for my baby’s birth drew nearer, I +began to think with dread of his being born in that +poor little room among coarse labouring people. I +pined for a friend, any one of my own class who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>would be kind to me. I took a horror of that +stifling little room with its one small window, and +whitewashed walls, and patchwork coverlet, and all +the piggy and cabbagy smells that used to creep up +from the room below. So I tried to remember any +friend who would be likely to be kind to me if I +flung myself upon her benevolence. I could think +of only one person, Maggie Rawlings, a girl who had +been very fond of me at school, almost ridiculously +fond, giving me keepsakes, and insisting on wearing +some of my hair in a locket, and showing her affection +in all manner of foolish ways. She was the +daughter of a farmer in Hampshire, and as she had +huge hampers sent her twice in a quarter, and had +always plenty of money to spend, I concluded that +her people were rich. I knew that she was an impulsive, +warm-hearted little creature, and generous +as the light of day. So I thought that if I went to +her she would find me a shelter of some sort and be +kind to me and my baby. I went to Winchester by +rail, and from Winchester I went on foot to find +Hill-side Farm.’</p> + +<p>‘Poor child,’ murmurs Alexis, ‘poor foolish +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>child—our worst fortunes shared together were not +so bad as this.’</p> + +<p>‘Unfortunately, I had forgotten all but the name +of the farm, and that Winchester was the nearest +station, but how far that nearest station might be +from Maggie’s home I had no idea. The consequence +was that I wandered helplessly about from +village to village for three days, led astray by wrong +information—sent first to one farm and then to +another—and having to sleep at village inns, where +I paid dear for very poor accommodation. On the +fourth day I succeeded in finding Hill-side Farm, +nearly thirty miles from Winchester, and there a +cruel disappointment awaited me. My old schoolfellow +was married, and had gone to live in Lincolnshire. +Mrs. Rawlings was barely civil to me, and +gave me her daughter’s address with evident reluctance. +No doubt she thought me a very questionable +character. My shabby clothes denounced +me. If I had possessed money enough or strength +enough for the journey, I think I should have gone +down to Lincolnshire in search of Maggie, but I had +neither. I was ill and worn out by the fatigue of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>the last three days, and this disappointment at the +end of all completely crushed me. Two days afterwards +my baby was born in the workhouse. That +was the only refuge left open to me at the last. If +you have been to Dorley Mill you must know all +the rest. I left the workhouse penniless, and but +for Linda Challice’s goodness I could never have +made my way to Redcastle. Can you find it in your +heart to forgive me, Alex, now that you know all the +truth?’</p> + +<p>‘I forgive you, Sibyl, and pity you with all my +heart. You did yourself a deeper wrong than you +did me when you sacrificed all natural feeling to the +worship of your golden calf. You have paid a +heavy price for your mistake; it would be cruel to +add my upbraidings to the sum. And now let us +begin life afresh, little woman, and be happy if we +can. Fortune has been kinder to me—who have +wooed her somewhat carelessly—than to you who +have sought her with such mistaken diligence. +Poverty need never more afflict us. Your husband +is no longer Mr. Secretan, <i lang="la">alias</i> Stanmore, a humble +waiter upon the tide of luck, but Alexis Secretan, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>Esquire, of Cheswold Grange, in the county of Hants—able +to give his wife her carriage and her flower-garden, +her dairy, poultry-yard, and village school, +and to leave his son the modest heritage of a small +landowner.’</p> + +<p>‘Alexis! you are laughing at me.’</p> + +<p>‘No, Sibyl. When I stood before you at Lancaster +Lodge, last December, I was able to take you +to as fair a home as you could care to inhabit; but +I would not tempt you with the gifts of fortune. +I waited for your heart to speak.’</p> + +<p>‘And you were absolutely rich at that time? +You could have given me all I had to hope for from +my uncle Stephen?’</p> + +<p>‘I cannot presume to measure Mr. Trenchard’s +possessions. My fortune, I have told you, is a +modest one, but it is large enough to buy all things +needful to real happiness. The man of fabulous +wealth can only live. He cannot eat two dinners +in the same day, or ride two horses at once, or consume +more than a given quantity of fresh air, or get +more pleasure out of life than his mental capacity +for enjoyment will let him, be he king or kaiser.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span></p> + +<p>‘It seems that I have made a sorry mistake,’ +says Sibyl, with a sigh.</p> + +<p>‘A mistake which we will do our best to mend, +poor child,’ replies Alexis, kindly. ‘And now, +Sibyl, I don’t know whether you have dined to-day, +but I am quite sure I have not. So I think the +best thing I can do is to go out to our old haunts +and buy a rump-steak, which our faithful Bonny will +cook for our supper. Unless you had rather come +to an hotel and bid the faithful Bonny good-bye.’</p> + +<p>‘I had rather stay where I am for a day or two, +Alex; I don’t feel well enough to move.’</p> + +<p>‘We must call in a medical man, Sibyl, if you +are so ill as that.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t think a doctor would be of any use. +I am not so much ill as tired. I shall soon be +better, I dare say, now you are so kind to me.’</p> + +<p>‘And doesn’t it cheer you to know that we have +done with our old enemy, poverty; that our future is +to be bright and prosperous?’</p> + +<p>‘I am glad with all my heart, Alex, for your sake +and our boy’s; but I do not feel as if I had any +future to look forward to in this world.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p> + +<p>‘Nonsense, Sibyl! That is all the effect of +debility—a hypochondriacal view of life altogether. +You will see things differently after half a dozen +doses of quinine, and a daily mutton chop. I +shouldn’t wonder if Guinness’s stout were the best +antidote for these dark ideas. And now I’ll go and +see if Mrs. Bonny can send any one for that steak, +or if I must go out and forage for myself.’</p> + +<p>He goes to the door, opens it, and finds himself +face to face with an unknown individual in a gray +coat. Mrs. Bonny stands behind the stranger with +a brass candlestick uplifted, to show him the way +that he should go.</p> + +<p>‘Who the deuce are you, sir?’ asks Alexis, +rather savagely. ‘This room is not to be let.’</p> + +<p>His nerves have been too completely unstrung +by that unexpected meeting of the last hour to allow +of his being civil to an intrusive stranger.</p> + +<p>‘I am not looking for lodgings,’ answers the gray +man coolly. ‘I have come here to look for a young +lady. Ah! there she is, I see. I have a warrant +to arrest Miss Sibyl Faunthorpe—on suspicion of +murder.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span></p> + +<p>‘Suspicion of murder!’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, on suspicion of having murdered her uncle, +Stephen Trenchard, Esq., of Lancaster Lodge, Redcastle, +in the county of York, to be transferred in my +charge to Redcastle gaol, there to remain pending +the issue of the adjourned inquest held to inquire +into the death of the aforesaid Stephen Trenchard, +Esq.’</p> + +<p>‘The man must be mad,’ cries Sibyl, clinging to +Alexis. ‘I left my uncle alive—in no danger.’</p> + +<p>‘Anything you say now will be used against you +hereafter, miss,’ says the man in gray, in a warning +voice.</p> + +<p>‘Alexis, you don’t believe⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘I believe nothing so wildly improbable, my +dear. Let me see your warrant, sir.’</p> + +<p>It is shown him; a formal document, issued in +Redcastle, Yorkshire, and endorsed by a Middlesex +magistrate. Alexis knows just enough of the law to +know that the warrant is a genuine instrument, and +that resistance is likely to be useless. There is but +one loophole.</p> + +<p>‘Your warrant seems right enough,’ he says, ‘but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>it is issued against Sibyl Faunthorpe; this lady is +Mrs. Secretan, my wife.’</p> + +<p>‘The lady may have a dozen aliases, sir,’ replies +Mr. Judbury, with undisturbed equanimity; ‘but +she’s the lady we want, all the same; and with your +leave I’m going to take her back to Yorkshire by the +mail. There’s just about time to do it, I think, +Trivett,’ adds Mr. Judbury across his shoulder to a +man in the background.</p> + +<p>‘My wife is not well enough to travel,’ says +Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, come, she was well enough to travel to +London less than a week ago; she must be well +enough to go back. I’ll take the responsibility of +removing her. You’ve got a cab, Trivett?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘Come along, Miss Faunthorpe. If you come +quietly I shall say nothing about the handcuffs, +you know, but I’ve got ’em in my pocket.’</p> + +<p>‘What am I to do, Alexis?’ Sibyl asks, piteously.</p> + +<p>‘If you think you can bear the journey, go, dear. +I will go with you. Whatever hideous mistake has +arisen out of your uncle’s death can be best righted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>by your presence. Don’t be afraid, Sibyl, I will +stand by you.’</p> + +<p>‘And you do not believe⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘I believe that you are as innocent as a baby +of any wrong against Stephen Trenchard,’ answers +Alexis with conviction.</p> + +<p>‘That makes me strong,’ says Sibyl, quietly +putting on her hat and jacket. ‘I will come back +to Redcastle.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, I think, miss, under existing circumstances +you’d better,’ answers the officer, with suppressed +satire.</p> + +<p>‘When did my uncle die?’</p> + +<p>‘The morning you left, miss, strange to say. +Found dead in his bed. You left by the 6.20 train. +According to the medical evidence your departure +and Mr. Trenchard’s death must have been pretty +nearly simultaneous.’</p> + +<p>‘He died suddenly, then?’</p> + +<p>‘Uncommon.’</p> + +<p>‘And why do they suppose that he was murdered?’</p> + +<p>‘Because about an ounce of prussic acid was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>found in his inside. Please to bear in mind, miss, +that any remark of yours will be used against you +by-and-bye.’</p> + +<p>This warning is unheeded, nay, unheard by Sibyl.</p> + +<p>‘Prussic acid!’ she cries, with an awful look. +‘Oh, Alex, how dreadful! I had some prussic acid in +a bottle, enough to put an end to my life if there had +been no other way of escape left me from that horrid +man, and I left the bottle at Lancaster Lodge.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, miss, and it was found there empty.’</p> + +<p>They go down to the cab, Sibyl leaning on her +husband’s arm, and drive away from Dixon Street +in the summer dusk. Mrs. Bonny watches the +departing chariot with uplifted hands, and eyes +that ask the heavens to witness her astonishment.</p> + +<p>‘This beats all my experience of lodgers,’ she +exclaims. ‘That I should live to have my first +floor took prisoner for murder, and to see my door-steps +spiled by the muddy boots of a defective +perliceman!’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_XII"> + CHAPTER XII. + <br> + ‘’<span class="allsmcap">TIS HELD THAT SORROW MAKES US WISE</span>.’ + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Throughout the tedious journey by the night mail +Alexis supports and comforts Sibyl by his presence. +All bitterness of feeling has passed out of his mind. +He sees his wife the victim of a false accusation, and +he is ready to pity and defend her.</p> + +<p>‘You do not believe these men, Alex?’ she repeats +many times during that summer night as she clings +closer to her husband with a shiver as of cold, +though the midsummer air is mild and balmy. +‘You do not believe this horrible accusation, dear?’</p> + +<p>‘Not a word, not a breath,’ he answers, cheerily. +‘These mistakes are common enough, love. It will +be easily set right. You have only to keep up your +courage and trust in Providence and me.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, Alex, how good you are! and how little I deserve +your goodness!’ she answers, with a stifled sob.</p> + +<p>Mr. Judbury, though hardened by much travelling +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>on the stormy path of official life, shows some +delicacy of feeling. He sends his follower to a +second-class carriage, and takes his seat as far from +Mr. and Mrs. Secretan as the limits of a first-class +compartment will allow. Nay, he is benevolent +enough to refresh himself with occasional comfortable +naps, but is always wakeful and alert when +speed slackens and the train stops. He apparently +considers that an attempt to escape from the train +at full speed is an evil not to be apprehended.</p> + +<p>So the soft summer morning dawns gradually, +mysteriously, with a slow lightening of the landscape +and a faint breath of chiller air creeping +among the woods and across the hill-tops, and Aurora +sees Mr. Judbury reposing luxuriously in his padded +corner with a red silk handkerchief draped picturesquely +about his bald head, and his manly chest in +a manner doubled up into his shepherd’s plaid waistcoat. +The new-born day sheds but a sickly light +upon Sibyl’s worn face, as it leans against her +husband’s shoulder, and Alexis, scrutinizing it in +that clear light, sees how marked and deep is the +change that has been wrought there. Care has engraven +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>lines that happiness can never erase. This +pallid countenance, with sunken eyes, ringed with +purple shadow, is but the ghost of the fair face that +shone upon him in Mrs. Hazleton’s drawing-room. +Deepest pity moves him as he gazes on that altered +beauty, lovely still, for the lines have the perfection +of the sculptor’s marble—a beauty that neither age +nor death, sickness nor care can deface,—but the +glow and brightness of colouring are gone. Sibyl is +no longer a beauty for the vulgar eye to admire, no +longer the handsomest woman in Redcastle.</p> + +<p>That melancholy journey comes to an end at last. +They arrive at Krampston in the early morning, and +after waiting nearly an hour in a labyrinthine +terminus get a train to convey them to Redcastle, +which provincial shrine of the genius of quietude they +reach at an hour which Mr. Judbury picturesquely +describes as breakfast-time. From the Redcastle +station, naturally half a mile out of the town, they +drive to Redcastle Jail, a clean and modern building, +of Gothic architecture, occupying an important site +on the high road above Bar, an edifice which is +described in local handbooks as an ornament to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>town. Sibyl has ridden and driven past its +mediæval gateway many a time, and has glanced at +the lancet windows with a ladylike indifference to +the life going on behind them. It seems a curious +thing—a severance from all the outer world and the +common round of life—to be driven under that +stony arch, and along that smooth gravel drive, and +to hear the iron gate close behind her with a clang +that sounds like the snap of the shears of Atropos.</p> + +<p>They all go into a stone-flagged hall together, a +hall in which cleanliness and order reign supreme, +and in which the ticking of a large clock overpowers +all the sound of humanity. Here there is a brief +consultation held between Mr. Judbury and an +official, and, after a little humming and hawing, +Sibyl is conducted to a small plainly furnished room, +which is hardly to be called a cell. There is a bedchamber +adjoining, and both rooms are guarded with +substantial doors, ponderously locked and bolted, but +the place is not so bad as the dungeon she has +pictured to herself with a shudder during that long +journey. She has fancied herself crouching in a +stone cell, with a little straw in a corner, and a large +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>iron ring against the wall, to which she would perchance +be chained, while between massive iron bars, +high up in the wall, crept a faint gleam of light. +This is the only kind of dungeon with which +painters and poets have made her familiar.</p> + +<p>Alexis has not been allowed to accompany his +wife to the room allotted to her, but on his explaining +the case to the warder he is treated with considerable +civility, and taken straight to the governor +of the prison, a young man who has lately exchanged +a military career for the guardianship of +criminals. From this gentleman Alexis receives +every assurance of sympathy, and to this gentleman, +Captain Heathcote, he gives a brief history of his +married life, telling nothing that can throw discredit +upon Sibyl, but alleging her attachment to her uncle +Stephen Trenchard, as the reason of their separation +and her concealment of her marriage.</p> + +<p>‘It happened, unfortunately, that the Secretans +and Trenchards were, like the Montagues and +Capulets, foes to the death,’ he tells Captain Heathcote. +‘There was an old feud between my poor +father and Stephen Trenchard, the circumstances +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>of which I need not enter into. I believe my father +was the injured person in that quarrel; my wife +naturally believed her uncle in the right. We were +quietly married, in London, and my wife kept her +marriage a secret from her family. When Mr. +Trenchard came home from India he asked her to go +and live with him. My circumstances at that time +were at very low water, and I had no home to give +my wife. So she came to Redcastle, resumed her +maiden name, and lived under her uncle’s roof, until +his attempt to force her into a marriage with an East +Indian <i lang="fr">protégé</i> of his compelled her to leave his house.’</p> + +<p>Captain Heathcote listens, and is thoughtful. +The story sounds credible enough, and is in some +measure confirmed by the copy of the marriage +register, which Alexis shows the captain. Captain +Heathcote, upon whose military status Redcastle +society looks kindly, though inclined to be somewhat +supercilious about his official position, has met Sibyl +at Colonel Stormont’s, and it goes hard with him to +imagine that she can have been capable of this +hideous crime which is imputed to her. Yet it must +be confessed that there was never a more awkward +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>combination of circumstances. Her secret flight—coincident +with her uncle’s death; her possession of +the poison—or the same kind of poison—by which +he died; the finding of the empty bottle in her work-basket; +and now this revealment of her marriage, +so long concealed from those among whom she has +lived—her nearest friends and kindred—these things +suggest a capacity for deceit—a disposition in which +duplicity is second nature. These considerations +make Captain Heathcote grave and thoughtful, but +he is not the less courteous and obliging.</p> + +<p>‘You may be assured I shall do all in my power +to lessen the painfulness of Miss—I beg your pardon—Mrs. +Secretan’s position. We are never very +severe in our treatment of persons who are here only +under suspicion; and until Mrs. Secretan is committed +for trial—which I trust she will not be—we +shall contrive to relax our rules as much as possible +in her favour. Burton tells me he has given her +comfortable rooms.’</p> + +<p>‘You are very good. Please God she will not be +long under this horrible suspicion. I imagine that +directly the matter is investigated her innocence +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>must appear; but in the meanwhile I am most +grateful for your kindness. My wife is looking very +ill. I think she really requires medical attendance. +Her uncle is a medical man in this town, perhaps +it would be as well for him to see her, if it might +be allowed.’</p> + +<p>‘Certainly. Dr. Faunthorpe is not our official +surgeon, but he might see Mrs. Secretan.’</p> + +<p>‘Thanks. And may I be allowed to see her?’</p> + +<p>‘As often as you like; but not alone. I shall be obliged +to place a female warder in Mrs. Secretan’s room.’</p> + +<p>‘I am not likely to have anything to say which +the warder may not hear; and I shall be glad to +know that my wife is not alone. She is in a very +low state of health, and will be all the better for +companionship, however humble.’</p> + +<p>‘You would like to see her, perhaps, before you +leave?’</p> + +<p>‘Very much.’</p> + +<p>‘Then we’ll go to her.’</p> + +<p>Captain Heathcote leads the way to a clean and +airy corridor, beckons to a warder to unlock a door, +and admits Alexis into the prisoner’s room.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span></p> + +<p>Sibyl is sitting listlessly by the open window—a +closely barred window looking into the stone +quadrangle where the prisoners are solemnly tramping, +single file, in a circle, for their regulation hour of +air and exercise. A respectable young woman, in +a white muslin cap, has just brought a cup of tea +and a plate of bread and butter for the new arrival. +There is no question of jail fare yet awhile. Mrs. +Secretan could have ortolans or <i lang="fr">pâtés de foie gras</i>, +if she liked to import those delicacies from the +outside world.</p> + +<p>‘My dear Sibyl, Captain Heathcote has been +kind enough to promise that you shall have all +possible indulgence, so you must try to keep up your +spirits.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, Alexis,’ she answers, quietly, ‘I have very +little cause for unhappiness when you are so kind to +me. How do you do, Captain Heathcote?’ she says, +turning to the governor with a faint smile. ‘It +seems strange for us to meet like this, does it not? +I feel as if I had come to your house as an uninvited +guest.’</p> + +<p>‘I shall do all in my power to make your +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>visit agreeable, and shall be unhospitable enough +to wish that it may be brief,’ answers the captain.</p> + +<p>‘I am very anxious to know all about my uncle’s +death,’ says Sibyl. ‘It was a great shock to me to +hear that he was dead. Dr. Mitsand told me that he +was in no danger the very day before I left Redcastle. +Can it be true that he died from poison?’</p> + +<p>‘Unhappily there is no room to doubt that,’ +answers Captain Heathcote, gravely; ‘but do not let +us talk about this sad business, Mrs. Secretan. +Your husband will do all that can be done to protect +your interests—to clear your name. Be assured of +that, and give your mind as much repose as you can. +The inquest will be reopened to-morrow, and you +will have to appear.’</p> + +<p>‘As a criminal—in the dock?’ asks Sibyl, with +a shudder.</p> + +<p>‘There is no dock in the coroner’s court.’</p> + +<p>‘My dearest, what does it matter?’ says Alexis, +soothingly. ‘To-morrow’s examination will doubtless +clear you of this shameful charge. Be patient +and trust in God. I am going to call upon your +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>uncle, Dr. Faunthorpe. I thought perhaps you +would like him to come and see you.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, I should like to see him very much, if he +does not believe that I am⁠——I can’t say the +dreadful words, Alex. But no, I am sure uncle +Robert does not believe in this accusation. Dear +soul, he never thought evil of any one.’</p> + +<p>‘You shall see him, dear, and he shall prescribe +for you, unless there is any other medical man +whose advice you would rather have.’</p> + +<p>‘I do not think medicine can do me much good, +Alex; but I shall consult any one you wish. But +I want to see uncle Robert—to ask him about uncle +Stephen’s death,—he must know everything; and +about the will.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah, by the way,’ exclaims Alexis, ‘there was a +will, I suppose. And pray who is the gainer of +Mr. Trenchard’s wealth?’</p> + +<p>Captain Heathcote looks at the inquirer with a +grave smile.</p> + +<p>‘Have you heard nothing? Don’t you know the +particulars?’ he asks.</p> + +<p>‘We know nothing except that Mr. Trenchard is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>dead, and is supposed to have been poisoned. Has +his will been read yet?’</p> + +<p>‘His will—or rather, a final statement of his +circumstances, briefly set forth in a paper to be read +after his death, was made known to two or three +people yesterday. As generally happens in Redcastle, +what was known to three people in the +morning had become town talk in the evening. Mr. +Trenchard has not left sixpence to any one.’</p> + +<p>Sibyl’s eyes open to their widest. Faintly, +dimly during that wearisome night journey she had +seen herself cleared from the monstrous charge of +murder and possessed of Stephen Trenchard’s +fortune. His sudden death would have prevented +his disinheriting her. Death overtook him before +he could have known of her flight.</p> + +<p>‘Do you mean to say that he has left all his +money to hospitals?’ exclaimed Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘I mean to say that he has left no money whatever—or +hardly enough for the payment of five +shillings in the pound upon his debts. We are very +wise in Redcastle, but with all our wisdom are apt +to take outward show for reality. Mr. Trenchard +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>has contrived to impose upon us all. He has been +living upon a few thousands taken out of a business +on the verge of insolvency, and upon his credit in +Redcastle, which was large. Rather hard upon +Mrs. Secretan, whom everybody supposed to be his +heiress.’</p> + +<p>‘The policy of his old age is of a piece with the +treachery of his youth,’ replies Alexis, quietly. ‘My +wife can afford to do without his money.’</p> + +<p>Sibyl sits silent, in utter bewilderment. What +phantom has she followed in these years that are +gone? To what false idol has she sacrificed love +and truth, and duty to husband and child, all fair +things that are honourable in woman? Bad enough +to have worshipped a golden calf; but to find the +calf of basest metal is indeed the lowest depth of +humiliation and disgrace.</p> + +<p>‘Alexis,’ she says at last, looking piteously at +her husband, ‘there never was any one so foolish, so +deluded, as I have been. How you must despise me!’</p> + +<p>‘No, my dear, I am only sorry for you and our +mistaken lives, the lost years that can never come +back to us.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_XIII"> + CHAPTER XIII. + <br> + ‘<span class="allsmcap">BUT HERE IS ONE WHO LOVES YOU AS OF OLD</span>.’ + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Mr. Secretan is not sorry to get away from that +quiet orderly room in the prison, where never comes +any sound of outward things more human than the +creaking of the warder’s boots in the passage, or +the ticking of that inexorable clock in the hall—dismal +clock that checks off hours that are heavier +than lead, minutes whose every moment is a sigh.</p> + +<p>Alexis would willingly stay all day with his +wife, to lighten the burden of her solitude, to +strengthen the fainting heart with words of cheerfulness +and comfort, if he had not work to do elsewhere. +He has a task to perform, and a difficult +one, and he hardly knows how to set about it. He +has been careful to ask no questions of Captain +Heathcote, feeling that the governor’s position must +compel him to caution and reticence. He stands +as it were upon the opposite side in that game of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>life and death which has to be played out—the +rouge et noir of the criminal court. Not to him +can Alexis look for information or assistance.</p> + +<p>Mr. Secretan leaves the prison sorely perplexed +as to what his first step should be. At present he +knows nothing, save that Stephen Trenchard is +supposed to have died from prussic acid, and that +Sibyl has confessed to having had a bottle of prussic +acid in her possession at Lancaster Lodge.</p> + +<p>‘We must meet law with law, I suppose,’ thinks +Alexis. ‘As my wife is in the grip of the law, I +must get a lawyer to fight her battle.’</p> + +<p>He thinks of the names he has seen in connection +with the criminal courts—names that have +a sound of power,—and there is one that comes +uppermost in his mind, super-eminent and invincible, +a shield and buckler in the fight.</p> + +<p>This is the legal firm of Levison and Levison, +Parchment Street, Viaduct Hill.</p> + +<p>He goes straight to the telegraph office, and telegraphs +to Messrs. Levison and Levison, solicitors, +requesting that one of their firm may start for +Redcastle that afternoon, a most urgent case, money +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span>no object. He feels fortified against danger in some +measure when he has sent this message, and goes +from the station to Dr. Faunthorpe’s.</p> + +<p>The shabby old house looks a little shabbier and +more woebegone than usual to-day in the vivid sunshine +of midsummer. Hester, whose spirits generally +maintain an equable acidity, has drooped and given +way to absolute despair since the revelation of +Stephen Trenchard’s insolvency. It seems to her +as if the shattered fortunes of the house of Faunthorpe +had received the final blow that brings them +to the dust. Jerusalem besieged by Titus could +hardly have fallen lower. The idea of Stephen +Trenchard’s fortune—to be divided in some manner +among his nieces—had been the faithful servant’s +only day-dream. She had not set her hopes very +high. She had languished for no translation to a +loftier sphere, but she had believed that a little +money would find its way through his nieces to the +pockets of Robert Faunthorpe. She had fancied +that the dilapidated old house would be painted and +whitewashed, some of the worm-eaten flooring replaced +with sound wood—new deal—which would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>repay the labour of her scrubbing-brush. She had +pictured her master in a new coat. She had told +herself that a few pounds spent upon the pony +carriage would rehabilitate that vehicle, and that a +new set of harness would make the pony a gentleman. +Long arrears of wages due to herself in times +past, a sum that would have doubled itself by this +time at compound interest, might possibly be paid in +that flood tide of fortune; but this last item was one +of secondary consideration in the faithful Hester’s +mind. She wanted to see the family raise its head +from the dust. She wanted to feel that the house +of Faunthorpe had something of the phœnix in its +nature. The habits of this fabulous bird have been +made familiar to Hester, not in the pages of Herodotus, +but by the fire office which has taken it for +its device and emblem.</p> + +<p>The disappointment has been very bitter to the +doctor’s two younger nieces, and Marion lies on the +sofa and bewails her fate, and declares rebelliously +that she will never more try to deserve well of +Providence.</p> + +<p>‘What’s the use of being good?’ she demands, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span>with an injured air. ‘One couldn’t be used worse if +one was a forger or a murderer. I didn’t expect much. +Sibyl’s artfulness nipped <em>my</em> expectations in the bud, +but I did build upon getting something, if it was +only a paltry five thousand pounds.’</p> + +<p>Jenny is more philosophical, and more easily +reconciled to Fate.</p> + +<p>‘If he hadn’t any money to leave, he couldn’t +leave it to us,’ she argues, ‘but he must have been a +sly old fox to make believe to be a millionaire, and +take in all Redcastle.’</p> + +<p>‘A wicked old impostor,’ exclaims Marion, +wrathfully.</p> + +<p>‘Poor Sibyl’s disappointment will be worse than +ours,’ says Jane.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, that’s a comfort. She’ll find how she has +wasted all her scheming and artfulness on a Jesuitical +old pauper. She’ll feel small enough, I should +think.’</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps she knew the truth all along, and was +laughing in her sleeve at our expectations,’ suggests +Jenny.</p> + +<p>‘She’s deep enough for anything. However, I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>forgive her all her baseness now, and pity her with +all my heart,’ says Marion, with a magnanimous air. +‘She’ll find life a very different thing now she has +seen the last of Lancaster Lodge.’</p> + +<p>‘I hope she won’t get into trouble about that +prussic acid,’ says Jenny, thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>And Marion also grows grave. That question +about the prussic acid is serious. One might wish +one’s sister’s unholy pride in temporal blessings to +be chastised by Providence, for her own spiritual +chastening and benefit, but one would shrink appalled +from the idea of that erring sister lying under a +suspicion of having poisoned her uncle. In the first +place such an imputation would be too severe a +punishment for the offender, and in the second it +would cast discredit upon all her family.</p> + +<p>‘It’s my opinion that uncle Trenchard has spent +all his money, and knew he must be found out if he +let things go on any longer, and got out of the +difficulty by poisoning himself,’ says Jenny, sagely. +‘The only thing that’s hard to account for is how he +could have got hold of the prussic acid that Sibyl +took out of the surgery.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span></p> + +<p>‘It mightn’t have been that very prussic acid that +killed him, stupid,’ exclaims Marion, contemptuously.</p> + +<p>‘True,’ says Jenny.</p> + +<p>‘If you had only held that blabbing tongue of +yours nobody need have known that Sibyl had ever +taken anything out of the surgery,’ says Marion. +‘If we are all brought to disgrace it will be your +doing.’</p> + +<p>Whereat Jenny bursts into tears and weeps +dismally for the next half-hour. She has shed many +a tear about that fatal communicativeness of hers +within the last few days.</p> + +<p>They are sitting in the front parlour when this +conversation takes place, on the morning of Mr. +Secretan’s arrival in Redcastle, and when Jenny has +wept till her eyeballs ache, she wanders listlessly to +the window, and stares out at the small square +garden, where the bountiful cabbage roses and a few +ancient perennials bloom as well as the dust will +allow them. There is not much in the way of traffic +at this end of the town. A farmer’s cart jolts +by once in half an hour, or a labouring man passes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>on a plough horse, or a drove of oxen straggles by, +hunted by an abusive driver. Not often do the +<i lang="fr">élite</i> of Redcastle penetrate to this end of the town. +There is not much distraction of mind, therefore, to +be obtained from looking out of the window, and +Jenny contemplates external things from listlessness +rather than interest. But on a sudden, to the surprise +of her sister, who has buried herself in a +novel, Jenny ejaculates abruptly,—</p> + +<p>‘Good gracious! It’s him.’</p> + +<p>‘Whatever our family troubles are, you might +remember that the verb to be takes the same case +after as before it, Jane,’ remonstrates Marion with +dignity. ‘And pray whom do you mean by him?’</p> + +<p>‘The young man,’ cries Jane, incautious in her +surprise. ‘My brother-in-law.’</p> + +<p>‘What does the ridiculous child mean?’ exclaims +Marion, pulling herself up from the sofa with a +wrench, and looking out at the gate.</p> + +<p>Yes, there is a very good-looking and gentlemanlike +young man in the act of entering at that modest +green gate.</p> + +<p>‘Why, he’s a perfect stranger,’ says Marion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span></p> + +<p>‘Is he?’ remarks Jenny, who has recovered her +self-possession by this time, ‘ah, to be sure, now I +look at him, I see he is a stranger. I took him for +some one else.’</p> + +<p>‘It’s my belief you are demented, child,’ cries +Marion, crossly. ‘I suppose he’s a patient for +uncle.’</p> + +<p>Marion is confirmed in this belief when Mr. +Secretan inquires for Dr. Faunthorpe, and on being +told that he is out, asks permission to wait his +return. He looks respectable, nay, even superior +to some of the Redcastle gentry, so Hester shows +him into the surgery, and asks him to take a +seat.</p> + +<p>‘The doctor always runs home for his bit of +dinner when he can,’ she says, ‘and I don’t think he +was going very far to-day, so he’ll be in by half an +hour or so, I dare say.’</p> + +<p>Left in the surgery, Alexis thinks of that summer +day, nearly a year ago, when he came here in quest +of his truant wife, and allowed himself to be put on +a false scent by a schoolgirl’s deceitfulness. He is +very angry with Jane Faunthorpe to-day, when he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>thinks that all the evil that has befallen Sibyl +might have been prevented had that child told the +truth.</p> + +<p>‘But she had been taught her lesson by Sibyl, no +doubt,’ he reflects; ‘I do wrong to blame her.’</p> + +<p>He has more than an hour to wait for Dr. +Faunthorpe, a weary while, for he is burning with +impatience to know all that can be known about +Stephen Trenchard’s death. It is past two o’clock +when the doctor comes into the surgery looking tired +and anxious, and Alexis feels as if much precious +time had been lost.</p> + +<p>He hastens to introduce himself to Robert Faunthorpe, +and to give that bewildered practitioner the +history of Sibyl’s marriage.</p> + +<p>‘Sir, you petrify me,’ exclaims the meek little +doctor, wiping the perspiration from his bald forehead +with an ancient silk handkerchief. ‘Do you +mean to tell me that my niece, whom I have ever +considered the incarnation of candour, could be +capable of so deceiving me?’</p> + +<p>‘It was not your resentment she feared, Dr. +Faunthorpe, but her uncle Trenchard’s antipathy to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>my name. You are no doubt acquainted with the +family history.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, yes, my poor sister-in-law told me the story.’</p> + +<p>‘That family quarrel of the past was Sibyl’s +motive for concealing her marriage with me. And +now that you know who I am I have to speak of +something much more serious. Your niece has been +arrested on suspicion of being concerned in her +uncle’s murder, and is now in Redcastle gaol.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Faunthorpe sinks into a chair, speechless with +horror. For the last three days and nights he has +lived in the apprehension of something like this, but +the reality seems more dreadful than his fears.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t tell me so,’ he cries.</p> + +<p>‘It is unhappily the truth. I was with my wife +at the time of her arrest. I am here to protect and +defend her. And now tell me all you know about +Stephen Trenchard’s death.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Faunthorpe tells all that is to be told—disjointedly +at first, but on being closely questioned by +Alexis, plainly enough at the last. He tells Alexis +the unlucky facts connected with that blue bottle of +prussic acid; he tells Alexis the various opinions, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>conjectures, and rumours which obtain in Redcastle.</p> + +<p>‘Why should he not have poisoned himself?’ +asks Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘Ah, we might have supposed that; but then +comes the question of the bottle, or vessel from +which he took the poison. With so powerful a dose +death would have been instantaneous; he would +not have had time to throw the bottle from him; he +must have died clutching it. And the empty bottle +was found in Sibyl’s work-basket.’</p> + +<p>‘Where it might have been easily placed by any +one who wished to fix the guilt upon her.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, of course. If we could only prove that.’</p> + +<p>‘We must prove that, Dr. Faunthorpe. We +must find the poisoner, or show that Stephen +Trenchard took the poison of his own free will. +He may have felt that his game was played out, +and may have adopted suicide as a happy escape +out of his difficulties.’</p> + +<p>‘That might be.’</p> + +<p>Alexis has made notes of Dr. Faunthorpe’s +answers to his questions. He has made a list of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>the people in the house at the time of Stephen +Trenchard’s death.</p> + +<p>‘How about this Joel Pilgrim? Why should he +not be suspected rather than Sibyl?’</p> + +<p>‘There is that unfortunate circumstance of +Sibyl’s flight, and the prussic acid taken from this +surgery.’</p> + +<p>‘Both facts tell against her. Yet, if she had been +guilty she would have been too wise to excite suspicion +by that secret departure; and if she had +wanted to commit murder she would hardly have +chosen a poison which she must have known is of +all poisons the most easily detected.’</p> + +<p>Dr. Faunthorpe’s only answer is a hopeless sigh. +He is borne down, nay, crushed, by calamity. +Whatever elasticity of spirit Nature may have +endowed him with at the outset of life has been +worn out of him by a long career of self-abnegation +and endurance. He is so accustomed to trouble, +sorrow is such a common flavour in his cup, that he +cannot easily look beyond the darkness of the hour. +To-day he sees himself enclosed in an impenetrable +cloud of misery. Freely, gladly would he give his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span>life—such feeble remnant of life as he holds—to +save his niece, but he cannot devise any mode of +being helpful to her.</p> + +<p>‘This Pilgrim must be the man,’ says Alexis, +after reading over his notes meditatively.</p> + +<p>‘I cannot see any motive⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Can you not? He may have believed in Trenchard’s +wealth, and expected to inherit some of it. +He may have wanted money badly, and determined +on hastening his inheritance.’</p> + +<p>‘There is one little circumstance that I ought, perhaps, +to have told you,’ begins the doctor, falteringly.</p> + +<p>‘For God’s sake tell me everything.’</p> + +<p>‘It was after the post-mortem. Dr. Mitsand, +who has taken up this matter in a very energetic +spirit, asked a few questions of the butler at Lancaster +Lodge.’</p> + +<p>‘Well?’</p> + +<p>‘The questions themselves were of no particular +importance—touching the position of a table beside +the bed, the bottles and glasses, and so on. But +there was something in the man’s manner which +struck Dr. Mitsand and myself as remarkable. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>had been drinking, I believe, and may have been +muddled by drink. But he had, to my mind, and +Dr. Mitsand’s, the manner of a person labouring +under some kind of apprehension. He had a shifty +look, and answered the simplest questions reluctantly, +as if afraid to commit himself. At the +coroner’s inquest he appeared in the same muddled +state—worse indeed, and drew upon himself a +severe reprimand from the coroner.’</p> + +<p>‘Is the man still at Lancaster Lodge?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. I saw him go in at the lodge gate to-day +as I came past on my way home.’</p> + +<p>‘Then I’ll see him without delay, and see what +is to be made of him,’ says Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘In a case of such importance would it not be +better to employ a detective?’ suggests the doctor, +humbly.</p> + +<p>‘Dr. Faunthorpe, in a case that affects my wife’s +honour and her life there is no detective living +whose wits would be keener than mine,’ replies +Alexis. ‘I will trust no one with this work while +I have power to do it myself.’</p> + +<p>And thus they part.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_XIV"> + CHAPTER XIV. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">ALEXIS INVESTIGATES</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Before going to Lancaster Lodge, Alexis goes back +to the jail, and spends half an hour with his wife. +He feels that it would be cruel to leave her all +through the long lonely day. He finds her curiously +patient and quiet, resigned to the horror of her +position, and touchingly grateful for his interest in +her.</p> + +<p>‘It is a strange end to all my dreams, Alexis,’ +she says sadly. ‘I fancied that when our reconciliation +came life would be full of brightness for us. +I have comforted myself in many a lonely hour +with the thought of our reunion. We should be +fabulously rich, free as air, with all the world and +its pleasures before us. The reality is strikingly +different from the day-dream, is it not? No freedom, +no wealth. Our reconciliation finds me a prisoner +and a pauper.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></p> + +<p>‘The prison will not be for long, dear, and I have +fortune enough for both of us. So you need not +regret your day-dream about Stephen Trenchard’s +wealth, a factor which had no real existence in the +sum of our lives.’</p> + +<p>‘Why did I not learn wisdom from my spelling-book, +that dog’s-eared old spelling-book, with fables +for reading lessons?’ says Sibyl, with her faint smile. +‘I am like the dog in the fable, who dropped the +substance to snatch the shadow.’</p> + +<p>She asks no questions as to his morning’s occupation. +She seems in no manner to realize the peril of +her situation, and the urgency of prompt action. Perhaps +she is more womanly in this hour of trial than +she has been at any other crisis of her life. Alexis +has forgiven her. That is the one fact she dwells +upon most, and the danger and horror of her position +touch her lightly. That which she feels most +bitterly is to know herself the dupe of her own +avarice, fooled to the top of her bent by false appearances, +mocked at perhaps in secret by the insolvent +Belial of her worship.</p> + +<p>‘Love is better than gold or silver, Alexis,’ she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>says, resting her languid head upon her husband’s +shoulder.</p> + +<p>‘Poets, philosophers, and sages have been singing +that chorus ever since the world began, Sibyl. Yet +there are a good many people left who set their +affections on filthy lucre, and, however much we +may abuse it, that yellow ore which keeps the world +moving has some good uses as well as evil ones. +And now I must leave you for an hour or two. I +have some more business to get through in your +lively town. You will not be alone all the afternoon, +dear. Dr. Faunthorpe is coming to see you.’</p> + +<p>‘Dear uncle Robert! Oh, Alex! how I hate +myself when I remember my neglect of that dear +good man, while I paid my court to an impostor! +And yet, perhaps, I have no right to say that. I +have been thinking over the past as I sat here this +morning, and I see that I have been self-deceived +rather than the dupe of uncle Trenchard. He never +told me that he meant to make me his heiress. He +never told me that he had a great fortune to leave. +It was other people who deceived me. Those Stormonts +and their set, always harping upon one string, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>courting me and flattering me as the heiress elect. +I have little right to blame my uncle. He did not +know how much I had sacrificed for his sake. He +did not know how false and wicked a part I was +playing. He was anxious that I should make a rich +marriage, that I should profit by the false appearances +that surrounded me, and establish myself +before he died. He meant kindly by that at any +rate.’</p> + +<p>‘We will say no harm of the dead, my dear. +And now good-bye for a few hours.’</p> + +<p>Alexis meets Dr. Faunthorpe on his way out. +The good little man has only stopped to perform +some necessary duties in the dispensing line before +hastening to his niece.</p> + +<p>From Redcastle Jail to Lancaster Lodge is only +ten minutes’ walk. Alexis has no difficulty in finding +the mansion which he came to six months ago in the +winter dusk, for Lancaster Lodge has made itself unusually +conspicuous to-day, having put on a breastplate +of auctioneer’s bills, announcing that all the +elegant furniture, brass bedsteads, superior bedding, +German spring mattresses, best Brussels, Axminster, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>velvet pile, and other carpeting, glass, china, pictures, +electro-plated goods, valuable library of standard +authors, grand piano by Broadwood, patent lawn-mowing +machine, knife-cleaning apparatus, and other +household effects, together with the valuable lease of +the mansion, at a moderate rent, are to be disposed +of by public auction on Monday next, July 3rd, and +three following days, the whole to be on view on the +previous Saturday, admission by catalogue, price one +shilling.</p> + +<p>This is Thursday, and Alexis resolves to ask for +a private view of the mansion. The request may +be a little out of order perhaps, but a judicious +distribution of half-crowns will, in all probability, +remove difficulties. This man, Podmore, the late +Mr. Trenchard’s butler, is doubtless in charge of the +house.</p> + +<p>Alexis makes his application at the lodge gate, +where the lodgekeeper’s wife has taken prompt +advantage of Mr. Trenchard’s death to hang out her +family linen on the laurels and conifers in the +shrubbery.</p> + +<p>‘It’s a comfort to do a bit of washing in freedom,’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>this matron has remarked to her liege lord, the head +gardener. ‘Mr. Trenchard were so partikeller.’</p> + +<p>‘Partikeller,’ growls the husband. ‘He were a +man that allus wanted eighteenpennorth o’ work for +a shillin’. I don’t call that there partikeller. Seems +to me that there breed’s rayther common.’</p> + +<p>Mollified by half-a-crown, the guardians of the +gate are of opinion that Mr. Secretan can see the +house.</p> + +<p>‘It ain’t the day,’ says the gardener, scratching +his head doubtfully; ‘you’ll see wot’s wrote up on +they bills—Saturday. But if you’re only passin’ +through and wanted to see if there’s anythink you’d +like to bid for, I dessay as they might strain a pint +up at the house. There’s old Podmore, the butler, a +very pertikler old party, but still he’s ameliable to +reason.’</p> + +<p>Alexis, having passed the outer gate of the citadel, +goes straight to the hall door, where he finds Mr. +Podmore sunning himself on the threshold, cadaverous +and flaccid of aspect, as a man who has been +living for the last few days upon gin and water, and +slovenly in his apparel—as a man who, having +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span>retired from official life, feels that he has no occasion +to be punctilious in the use of soap and water. To +him Alexis makes his request.</p> + +<p>‘There are some pictures that I want to see,’ he +says, ‘and, as I am only passing through the town, I +shall be much obliged if you can let me see them to-day.’</p> + +<p>He accompanies the request with a dexterous +passage of half a sovereign from his fingers to Podmore’s +palm—quite a delicate feat in prestigiation.</p> + +<p>Podmore turns his gin-and-watery eyes upon the +applicant with a puzzled air, dimly recalling that +face and voice as in some wise familiar to him on +the blurred page of memory. But memory’s page +is so much blotted that he vainly strives to decipher +the imperfect record.</p> + +<p>‘Ain’t I seen you before somewhere?’ he asks, +feebly.</p> + +<p>‘Very possibly,’ replies Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘You ain’t been a visitor here in the old gentleman’s +time?’</p> + +<p>‘No.’</p> + +<p>‘Then it must have been in some former situation. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span>Yes, you can see the pictures. There’s no +harm in that. Not that the pictures are good for +much—reg’lar Wardour Street duffers supplied by +the upholsterer, old Kabriole, and now he’s served +an attachment on the goods as chief creditor. He’s +been let in nicely, has old Kabriole. The ’ousekeeper’ll +show you round. There’s only me and +her left in the ’ouse now, and it’s very lonesome. +In fack,’ adds Podmore, confidentially, ‘it’s undermining +my spirits. I feel that low, I could shed +tears by the pailful.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ replies Alexis, watchful of the butler’s +countenance. ‘It must be dreary work living in +a house where a foul crime has been committed—the +foulest of crimes, secret murder.’</p> + +<p>Podmore looks uncomfortable at this, but he +hardly realizes Mr. Secretan’s idea of a man stricken +with the sense of guilt. But then there are some +criminals so callous, some men with whom crime is, +as it were, a natural development; and from these the +agonies of remorse, the throes and convulsions of a +guilt-burdened soul, are not to be looked for. Had +not Nemesis overtaken William Palmer, in the person +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>of his latest victim’s stepfather, that practised plotter +against the lives of his friends and relatives would, +doubtless, have gone on driving his profitable trade, +and gone down to the grave jaunty and debonnaire, +liked and trusted by his comrades, the jolly good +fellow of his jovial circle. Be sure no tell-tale +muscle of Mr. Palmer’s face assisted the task of +detection, no quiver of that iron lip betrayed the +hand of the poisoner as he presented the fatal draught +to the lips of his friend. Phrenology has declared +that in that man’s brain the capacity for pity or +remorse was wanting.</p> + +<p>‘The ’ousekeeper’ll take you round,’ repeats +Podmore, slipping the half-sovereign into his pocket.</p> + +<p>Podmore’s eyes are dull and watery, and his +breath is flavoured with juniper berries, or it may be +turpentine; his limbs are heavy, and he is averse +from motion. He calls a thin and vinegar-faced +female, whose temper has been soured by a life-long +devotion to the kitchen stove, and an apparatus she +describes as a ‘bang Mary’—a large metal tray, containing +a family of stew-pans of various sizes, in +which sauces, glazes, and divers savoury compositions +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>simmer gently in a perpetual warm bath. The bain +Marie and the stove together have been too much for +Mrs. Skinner’s temper, which is disagreeably suggestive +of that fiery region she has so long inhabited.</p> + +<p>‘This gentleman wants to have a look round the +house,’ says Podmore, in those thick and hazy tones +which have become habitual to him.</p> + +<p>‘Then he must come on the proper day,’ replies +Mrs. Skinner, snappishly.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, but it’s all right; he’s got a horder. You’re +to show him everythink.’</p> + +<p>Mrs. Skinner looks doubtful; but on a solemn +wink from the hazy Podmore, yields the point, +expectant of largess.</p> + +<p>‘You can come this way,’ she says to Alexis, +with scant courtesy.</p> + +<p>‘I should like to see the room in which Mr. +Trenchard died,’ says Alexis, when he has surveyed +the drawing-room and dining-room, dismal tabernacles +of upholstery.</p> + +<p>‘I hope you haven’t come out of curiosity,’ says +Mrs. Skinner, reproachfully. ‘It’s the first time <em>I</em> +ever lived in a house where there was suspicion of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>murder, and it’s very trying to my feelings. My +father was a respectable tradesman. I wasn’t +brought up to this sort of thing.’</p> + +<p>‘Curiosity has not brought me here,’ replies +Alexis, ‘but I have a particular desire to see the +room in which Mr. Trenchard died.’</p> + +<p>He is about to say, ‘and to hear all you can tell +me about his death,’ but it strikes him that Mrs. +Skinner, despite her acid countenance, will talk +freely of her own accord presently, not for his gratification, +but for the relief of her own pent-up feelings. +He politely offers her half a sovereign, which +she takes with a curtsey, and as near an approach +to a smile as her features can shape.</p> + +<p>‘Thank you kindly, sir. I won’t deny that it is +acceptable, finding one’s self suddenly out of place, +and disappointed of any little legacy one had a right +to expect. I’m sure the pains I took with the old +gentleman’s curries was quite wearing to my nerves—scraped +cocoa-nuts, and prawns, and chutnee, and +oysters, and all manner of fiddle-faddle, and his +Bombay ducks, and his rubbish; but he’s gone to his +last account, and will have to answer for ’em all, I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>make no doubt, and for his deception towards his +servants.’</p> + +<p>‘And his favourite niece,’ suggests Alexis. ‘The +deception came hardest upon her.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah!’ sighs Mrs. Skinner, pursing up her lips. +‘When young folks hold their heads too high, +Providence is apt to lay snares and pitfalls for +them. We’ve king David’s word for that in the +Psalms.’</p> + +<p>Alexis remembers that ‘a favourite has no +friends.’</p> + +<p>The housekeeper, considerably mollified by the +stranger’s liberality, leads the way to Mr. Trenchard’s +bedchamber, where the furniture has a gloomy and +even shabby look since the auctioneer’s men have +overhauled it—everything pushed out of its place +and twisted the wrong way, defaced with lot numbers, +degraded from its pride and pomp. The bedstead +heaped with an untidy pile of bedding, bundles +of blankets, tumbled counterpane and sheeting. +Things that careful housewives think they ought +to get very cheaply under such conditions, but +which generally cost the feminine bargain-hunter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>more than if they came straight from a draper’s +shop.</p> + +<p>Alexis notices the door by the head of the bed.</p> + +<p>‘There is a second door to Mr. Trenchard’s room, +I see,’ he remarks.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘Was that always unlocked?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, that was kept unlocked for Podmore to +come down to give Mr. Trenchard his medicine.’</p> + +<p>Mrs. Skinner opens the door and shows Alexis +the landing on the back staircase, and the flight of +stairs leading to Podmore’s room. There are two +more doors that open on to this landing. Alexis +inquires about these.</p> + +<p>‘That one opens into Mr. Trenchard’s dressing-room,’ +replies Mrs. Skinner, ‘and this,’ indicating +the further door, ‘into Mr. Pilgrim’s room.’</p> + +<p>Alexis opens this last door and looks into Mr. +Pilgrim’s apartment, a comfortable bachelor’s room, +with another door opening into the gallery at the +top of the principal staircase. Lancaster Lodge +belongs to a period of domestic architecture in which +architects delighted in the multiplication of doors, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span>and if prevented by untoward conditions from putting +in real doors consoled themselves by filling in +their blank corners with ornamental dummies leading +to nowhere.</p> + +<p>‘Mr. Trenchard’s room was as easily accessible +to Mr. Pilgrim as to the butler,’ says Alexis. ‘And +now show me Miss Faunthorpe’s rooms.’</p> + +<p>Mrs. Skinner obeys, and Alexis finds that, taking +into consideration that Mr. Trenchard’s door of communication +with the gallery was locked on the +inside on the night of his death, Sibyl could only +have entered his apartment by going down the principal +staircase, opening a door which Mrs. Skinner +declares to have been always locked after ten o’clock +in the evening, and the key in her possession, +crossing a lobby, and ascending the servants’ staircase.</p> + +<p>Stay, there is another way; if Stephen Trenchard’s +dressing-room has a door opening on the gallery.</p> + +<p>He hastens to ascertain this. No, there are two +doors to the dressing-room, but neither communicates +with the gallery. One opens into the bedroom, +the other on to the landing before mentioned.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span></p> + +<p>This must surely make a strong point in Sibyl’s +favour. While all communication between her room +and her uncle’s was cut off in the night-time, Joel +Pilgrim and Podmore had easy access to the dead +man’s bedchamber.</p> + +<p>To this argument a counsel for the prosecution +might reply that the poison was possibly put ready +for the patient’s own hand, on the eve of the murder, +mixed with his drink or his medicine.</p> + +<p>Yet in the latter case, Podmore, who administered +the poison, must have seen its deadly effect; +unless the man were, as Alexis supposes, an habitual +drunkard, and too far gone on this occasion to take +notice of his master’s condition. This seems too +much to believe. Even stupid drunkenness would +have sense enough to perceive the effect of a deadly +and instantaneous poison.</p> + +<p>Alexis sees Sibyl’s boudoir, where the prussic +acid bottle was found in the work-basket. Might +it not, he asks himself, have been taken from that +basket full, and returned to it empty, by some +other hand than Sibyl’s? And yet how should any +one else have known of her possession of the poison?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span></p> + +<p>The housekeeper has been obligingly communicative. +She has entered into all the details of +Stephen Trenchard’s last illness and death, dwelling +on the gloomiest particulars with that ghoul-like +relish peculiar to women of her kind. She has +described the finding of the body—its awful appearance—Miss +Faunthorpe’s mysterious flight, +‘which naturally set folks against her.’</p> + +<p>‘You don’t surely believe her to have had anything +to do with her uncle’s death?’ cries Alexis.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Skinner shakes her head solemnly, till +the crape roses and jet ornaments in her cap—she +has brought out some dingy weeds laid by +from a previous time of mourning—tremble and +shiver.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t like to express an opinion as a Christian +woman,’ she says, ‘but the opinion in Redcastle +is that Miss Faunthorpe did it. She had the +poison—there’s no denying that—and she got it in +an underhand way, and then on the very morning +of her uncle’s death she runs away, secretly—and +no one knows where she’s gone.’</p> + +<p>‘A way to proclaim her guilt, which she would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>hardly have taken if she were guilty. She would +not be so short-sighted as that.’</p> + +<p>‘Murderers generally are short-sighted,’ replies +Mrs. Skinner, sagely. ‘It’s a merciful dispensation +of Providence by which they run their necks into +nooses. There’s not much good could be done by +the detective police if it wasn’t for the short-sightedness +of criminals.’</p> + +<p>‘That’s a very wise remark, Mrs. Skinner, and +I’m surprised that so sensible a woman as you +can imagine that poor girl guilty of a crime which +only a hardened sinner could conceive.’</p> + +<p>‘There’s no knowing where to look for hardened +sinners,’ replies the housekeeper. ‘Ministers +wouldn’t tell us about original sin in the pulpit if +wickedness wasn’t born with some of us. And +as to good looks, they’re no criterion. Black +thoughts may lie behind pretty faces as well as +ugly ones.’</p> + +<p>And Alexis foresees that, with the female community +in Redcastle, Sibyl’s beauty will be no +certificate of innocence. He pursues the subject +no further, seeing that loose conjectures of Mrs. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span>Skinner’s will in no wise help in the unravelling +of this tangled skein.</p> + +<p>‘I rather wonder,’ he says, thoughtfully, <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'stil moving about'" id="tn-247">still +moving about</ins> the empty rooms, and making believe +to examine the furniture, ‘that Mr. Trenchard +should have employed your fellow-servant as his +attendant in illness. I should have supposed from +his manner to-day that he was somewhat inclined +to drinking.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah,’ says Mrs. Skinner. ‘Well, you may think +so, for of all the sots that ever was, there never +was a stupider sot than Joseph Podmore has been +since his master’s death.’</p> + +<p>‘Since,’ cries Alexis. ‘Was he sober before +then?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir. Joseph and me has been fellow-servants +here since Mr. Trenchard took this house, +three and a half years ago, and I must say that +Joseph Podmore has never laid himself open to +reproach in all that time. Not but what he liked +his beer at dinner and supper, and his tumbler of +grog after supper, and a glass of dry sherry wine +with his mouthful of bread and cheese between +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span>breakfast and dinner, but was never the worse +for anything he took.’</p> + +<p>‘And since his master’s death⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘He has never been properly sober, muddling +himself with gin and beer—dog’s nose, he calls it, +and the very lowness of the name is enough to +set any decent person against the stuff, let alone +its being cold and comfortless to the inside, all day +long, and that low in his spirits, that it’s a misery +to be in his company.’</p> + +<p>‘Low-spirited?’ asks Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘Awful; and yet, according to his own account, +things have prospered with him, for he says he’s +going to take a public-house, and begin life as an +independent gentleman directly he leaves here; +though how he can have saved money to go into +business, seeing that he has a wife and two children +to keep out of his wages, and she an extravagant +drab into the bargain, flaunting about +after dark with a Paisley shawl down to her heels, +and a black lace bonnet with roses in it, and a +baby in one arm and a market basket over the +other, which I call out of keeping,—how Podmore +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span>can have saved money with such a drag upon him +is more than I can account for.’</p> + +<p>Again it flashes upon Alexis that this man is +the murderer. Every word of Mrs. Skinner’s tends +to confirm him in that idea. He pushes his inquiry +a stage further.</p> + +<p>‘By the way,’ he begins, ‘have you any idea +whether Mr. Trenchard had money about him at +time of his death? May he not have had a sum +of money in his possession at that time—sufficient +to offer a temptation to an assassin? Murders +have been inspired by very small temptations of +that kind.’</p> + +<p>‘I know that, sir. But I don’t see how Mr. +Trenchard can have had much ready money about +him. He had no call for it. He always paid +everything by cheque—even servants’ wages. And +it wasn’t often that he paid the tradesmen anything +except at Christmas-time. I don’t see what he +could have wanted with ready money in the house.’</p> + +<p>‘You never heard of his keeping money in his +room, or saw him open a box, desk, or drawer +containing money?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span></p> + +<p>‘Never.’</p> + +<p>‘Had he any valuable jewellery in his possession?’</p> + +<p>‘I never saw him wear so much as a diamond +ring. His watch was all the jewellery he ever +wore, and that was found under his pillow.’</p> + +<p>This seems a kind of no thoroughfare. If Mr. +Trenchard had no valuables to tempt Podmore’s +cupidity, why should the butler have murdered him, +and whence the talk about taking a public-house, +since it is clear from Mrs. Skinner’s account of +Podmore’s domestic responsibilities that he can +hardly have saved money. A slatternly wife in a +flaunting Paisley shawl, marketing after dark, is as +exhaustive a drain upon a husband’s finances as +the bottomless bucket of the Danaides.</p> + +<p>‘One thing about money I do remember,’ exclaims +Mrs. Skinner after a pause; ‘and I must +say it struck me as singular after I’d heard about +that paper in which Mr. Trenchard declared he +had only brought ten thousand pounds from +India.’</p> + +<p>‘What was that?’ asks Alexis, eagerly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span></p> + +<p>‘Well, it was the last night but one before his +death. I was going up to bed, after locking my +downstairs doors and seeing all the others up before +me—even to Podmore,—which was always my way, +and as I passed this door about ten minutes, or it +might have been a quarter of an hour after the +others had gone to bed—for I’d been hunting for +our tabby cat, which is a troublesome animal to +have prowling about at night, though a good mouser +and an affectionate disposition, and I was coming +up in the dark, the gas being turned off at the +main—when I saw master’s door ajar, the door +opening on our staircase, you understand. It was just +the least bit ajar, leaving a narrow streak of light, +and I heard Mr. Pilgrim’s voice speaking as I +came upstairs, and then I heard master say, “Now +understand clearly, Joel, I must have that money—ten +thousand in bank notes—before the wedding. +There must be no shilly-shallying. You don’t +marry my niece till that money is in my hands. +No money, no marriage, remember; and the telegram +to wind up the business goes to my Calcutta agents +on Saturday unless the money is forthcoming.” He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>had a very sharp, precise way of speaking, poor +old gentleman, and I heard every syllable.’</p> + +<p>A new light flashes on Alexis. This Pilgrim, +the odious persecutor of his wife, may not he be +the murderer? The idea has presented itself to him +before, but he has put it aside for want of any motive +to ascribe as the mainspring of the action. But +there is motive strong enough supplied in these +words of Stephen Trenchard’s. This threat to communicate +with an agent in Calcutta might mean ruin +to Joel Pilgrim. He must have been in some way +in Trenchard’s power. And to murder Trenchard +would be to cut the knot of the difficulty.</p> + +<p>Alexis Secretan’s heart beats loud and fast. He +feels as if he were now on the right track. That +there is something mysterious—nay, guilty—in the +butler’s conduct, he is assured; but the butler may +be an accessory before or after the fact, rather than a +principal. There is apparent, as yet, no sufficient +motive for the butler’s guilt; there is an obvious +motive if this Pilgrim be the murderer.</p> + +<p>‘The first thing now to be done is to find out all +about this man,’ thinks Alexis.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span></p> + +<p>‘Where is Mr. Pilgrim staying?’ he asks. ‘He +has not left the town, has he?’</p> + +<p>‘No, sir. He is residing at the “Coach and +Horses.” He was to have sailed for India directly +after his marriage. That’s why things were arranged +so sudden. But of course Mr. Trenchard’s death +altered all that.’</p> + +<p>‘At the “Coach and Horses,”’ says Alexis. ‘That +is where I mean to put up myself.’</p> + +<p>‘You couldn’t do better, sir. It’s the best hotel +in Redcastle.’</p> + +<p>And now, having accomplished all he can for +the time being, Alexis takes leave of Mrs. Skinner.</p> + +<p>‘I should like to have another look at the pictures +before I leave the town,’ he says. ‘Perhaps +you would not object to my looking round again to-morrow +morning?’</p> + +<p>‘You are freely welcome, sir, as often as you +like. When I see that a gentleman <em>is</em> a gentleman, +I’m very happy to oblige him.’</p> + +<p>Alexis goes from Lancaster Lodge to the ‘Coach +and Horses,’ whence he has addressed his telegram +to Messrs. Levison and Levison. He is delighted to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span>find a member of that firm waiting for him in the +coffee-room, an undersized gentleman, with a smooth +sallow face and keen black eyes, thin lips, compressed +and horizontal.</p> + +<p>‘A junior in the house,’ thinks Alexis, with a +look of disappointment. He would have desired +age and experience to guide and aid him in this +desperate strait. ‘He looks a <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'shrew dlittle'" id="tn-254">shrewd little</ins> fellow +though, and I dare say he knows his business.’</p> + +<p>He takes Mr. Levison off to a private room, +orders a bottle of dry sherry, and then proceeds +to state his case without delay or waste of +words.</p> + +<p>Mr. Levison listens with quiet intentness, and +makes no remark till the story is finished. Even +then he is provokingly slow to express himself. He +sits looking at Alexis like the head of Memnon, and +compels his client to ring his ideas out of him by +the closest questioning; and as he pauses for the +space of a minute, looking his stoniest, after each +question, this process is rather slow.</p> + +<p>‘Do you think Pilgrim is the man?’ asks Alexis.</p> + +<p>A long pause. Alexis repeats his question, no +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span>gleam of light in Mr. Levison’s countenance indicating +that the inquiry has been heard.</p> + +<p>‘If he were the man he could have got away by +this time.’</p> + +<p>Even when Mr. Levison does speak he drops out +his words charily through scarcely parted lips, as if +they were pearls and diamonds, and he did not like +to waste them.</p> + +<p>‘True. But he might wish to throw people off +the scent by remaining.’</p> + +<p>‘Dangerous that. He had ample excuse for +going. His Indian voyage was arranged before Mr. +Trenchard’s death. He only had to carry out the +arrangement. There would have been nothing suspicious +in that. He is in this house, you say?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes.’</p> + +<p>‘That’s convenient. We can keep an eye upon +him.’</p> + +<p>‘I can’t see how we are to do that,’ grumbles +Alexis, provoked by his solicitor’s phlegmatic tone, +‘unless we could see through doors or walls. He +may leave Redcastle while we are sitting here.’</p> + +<p>‘No, he won’t,’ replies Mr. Levison. ‘I brought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span>a clerk of mine down with me, and he has got the +office to look after Pilgrim.’</p> + +<p>‘But how could you know anything about him +till I told you⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Do you suppose I waited for you to tell me? +That’s not our way in Parchment Street. I had a +chat with the landlord—heard all about your wife’s +arrest, and guessed what I was wanted for, heard all +the particulars of the murder, or supposed murder, the +inquest held in this house, and so on, and gave my +man the office.’</p> + +<p>‘And you think that Pilgrim⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘I never think, Mr. Secretan; I wait for facts. +If I squandered my brains upon thought I should +have no brain power left to deal with evidence. We +shall hear what comes out at the inquest.’</p> + +<p>Alexis has to take this vague comfort for what it +is worth, and make the best of it. He and Mr. Levison +dine together, and then Alexis goes back to the +jail and spends another half-hour with Sibyl, who is +low-spirited, but not so anxious or fearful as she +might naturally be in so awful a position.</p> + +<p>‘Uncle Robert has been here, dear good man,’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>she tells Alexis, ‘and has been feeling my pulse, +and looking at my tongue, and prescribing tonics, +and port wine, and beef tea, and all manner of +tiresome things. He quite broke down when he +saw me here, and burst into tears—the first I ever +saw him shed. It gave me more pain to see him +than anything that has happened since last night, +when I thought you had shut me out of your heart +for ever.’</p> + +<p>‘I thought so too, Sibyl; but sorrow has opened +the door of my heart and let you in again.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah!’ she exclaims, with a little joyful cry, ‘I +thought you could not be long unkind. And you +have not forgotten those foolish early days when we +walked in Kensington Gardens, and you told the +children fairy tales.’</p> + +<p>‘No, love, I have forgotten nothing.’</p> + +<p>‘I will show you something some day, Alex, if +ever this dreadful suspicion passes away, and I am +free from the charge of murder.’</p> + +<p>She shudders at the word, and clings to him for +a moment like a frightened child.</p> + +<p>‘What will you show me, dear?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span></p> + +<p>‘A book—such a foolish old book—in which I +kept a journal when I first began to care for you. It +is all written there, every stupid thing I ever thought +about you.’</p> + +<p>‘The rise and fall, the ebb and flow, of love. +That must be a precious volume, Sibyl. I would +give a great deal to see it.’</p> + +<p>‘You will laugh⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘I am more likely to cry—remembering how +Fate has parted us since then.’</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_XV"> + CHAPTER XV. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">MR. LEVISON CROSS-EXAMINES</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">The inquest is resumed on the following day at +eleven, in a room closely packed with eager spectators, +among whom the <i lang="fr">élite</i> of Redcastle are to be +distinguished. The <i lang="fr">élite</i> are deeply interested in the +issue of this inquiry. Have they not taken Sibyl, +as it were, to their bosoms, admitted her to those +sacred hearths where never lowered the shadow of +evil, and is it not incumbent upon her, for their +sakes, for their untainted reputes, to clear herself of +this hideous charge? Her own shame, her own +guilt, her own undeserved agony, if innocent, are of +secondary consideration. ‘She has visited <em>us</em>!’ cry +the <i lang="fr">élite</i>. ‘How dreadful it will be for us if it turns +out that she has poisoned her uncle! People will +say they met her in <em>our</em> houses. Quite a disgrace +to happen to one, dear Mrs. Stormont,’ says Mrs. +Groshen. ‘Actually humiliating, my dear,’ replies +Mrs. Stormont.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span></p> + +<p>The prevailing opinion in Redcastle is that Sibyl +has done the deed. Perhaps had Stephen Trenchard +endowed her with a million of money popular +feeling might have leaned the other way. It is +difficult to suppose that the possessor of a million +can err. The property qualification, once necessary +to members of Parliament—so many hundred per +annum as a pledge of respectability—runs through +life. Qualified with a million, no one could have +imagined Sibyl a poisoner. But disappointed, +deluded, penniless, an abject failure—as much a +disappointment to her friends as to herself—Sibyl +now appears in the light of a base and insidious +schemer, who has well merited the disappointment +of her schemes.</p> + +<p>And what is this last revelation? asks Redcastle +indignantly, when the story of Mr. Secretan’s +arrival at the jail with his wife gets, no one knows +how, into active circulation,—what is this about a +husband? What! She has been deceiving us all +this time. She has been parading herself in fine +dresses, which may never be paid for, she has been +spreading her silken train like a peacock’s tail, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span>showing herself off in her false colours as an unmarried +woman to the detriment of <em>our</em> daughters. +She has been exercising her wicked fascinations +upon <em>our</em> sons. She has flirted with our husbands +even, and has taken us all in with her pretended +innocence and affected girlishness.</p> + +<p>‘The husband must be as bad as the wife,’ says +Redcastle, and various are the speculations and +statements as to Mr. Secretan’s character.</p> + +<p>The inquest begins, and here he is, standing +behind his wife’s chair as she sits in the place of +the accused, the focus of every pitiless eye, eyes +that have once looked kindly at her, eyes that have +admired. There is Fred Stormont, with his mouth +open, standing on tiptoe to look over his father’s +shoulder, as if he were at a play. Stay, there is one +face not quite unpitying. Dr. Mitsand sits yonder +near the coroner, grave, watchful, and with a look +which Sibyl takes for sympathy.</p> + +<p>‘Really, a handsome young man,’ whispers +Mrs. Stormont through that thick veil of hers to +Mrs. Groshen. ‘He looks like a gentleman, +too.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span></p> + +<p>‘Rather the air of an adventurer, I fancy,’ replies +Mrs. Groshen.</p> + +<p>The witnesses are examined, and there is much +repetition of evidence given on the previous examination. +Joel Pilgrim, calm, precise, and faultless of +intonation, relates the discovery of Mr. Trenchard’s +death.</p> + +<p>‘At what hour had you last seen him alive?’ +inquires the coroner.</p> + +<p>‘At ten o’clock on the previous evening, when I +bade him good night.’</p> + +<p>‘You had access to him at any hour of the night, +I believe?’ interposes Mr. Levison.</p> + +<p>Joel looks at the questioner somewhat insolently.</p> + +<p>‘Am I to answer this person’s questions?’ he +inquires of the coroner.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, so long as they are relevant to the case.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know what you mean by having access,’ +answers Joel. ‘Mr. Trenchard’s bedroom door was +locked. There was a second door, but that opened +on a back landing, and was only used by the +butler.’</p> + +<p>‘But it was equally convenient for you, had you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span>wanted to see Mr. Trenchard in the night, I think,’ +says Mr. Levison.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t see that,’ answers Joel, curtly.</p> + +<p>‘Don’t you? Allow me to make the fact clearer +to you. Here is a little plan of the landing on the +back staircase.’ He exhibits a sheet of cartridge +paper, with a ground plan in pen and ink. ‘Here +are doors numbered 1, 2, 3. No. 1, Mr. Trenchard’s +bedroom; No. 2, his dressing-room; No. 3, your +bedroom. You perceive that from the secondary +door of your bedroom to the secondary door of +Mr. Trenchard’s bedroom is but a step.’</p> + +<p>‘That is right enough, but I never entered Mr. +Trenchard’s room by that secondary door.’</p> + +<p>‘What, not upon the night but one <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'before the murler'" id="tn-263a">before the +murder</ins>, when you had an important conversation +with Mr. Trenchard upon financial matters,—a conversation +which was overheard by a witness I shall +produce by-and-bye—overheard in consequence of +your having left that secondary door ajar?’</p> + +<p>Mr. Levison looks fixedly at the witness as he +asks this question; Mr. Secretan’s eyes are also +<ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'urned upon that'" id="tn-263b">turned upon that</ins> tawny countenance, and every eye +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span>in the court follows those other eyes. A curious +change comes over that dusky complexion of Mr. +Pilgrim’s. It is not pallor, but rather a deeper tint +of olive, which makes him look like a sufferer +in an advanced stage of yellow jaundice.</p> + +<p>‘Did you make use of that secondary door?’ +asks Levison.</p> + +<p>‘Never!’ replies the witness, resolutely.</p> + +<p>‘And you have no recollection of that particular +conversation?’</p> + +<p>‘I can recall no particular conversation of the kind. +Mr. Trenchard and I had been in business together, +and had many conversations upon financial matters.’</p> + +<p>‘Was not some of Mr. Trenchard’s capital engaged +in your business at the time of his death?’</p> + +<p>‘Mr. Trenchard took all he could take out of the +business when he left Calcutta.’</p> + +<p>‘But he still retained a share in the business, and +had a claim to his share of profits arising therefrom?’</p> + +<p>‘What can my business relations have to do +with this inquiry?’ exclaims Joel, angrily. ‘These +questions are simply impertinent. We are here to +ascertain the cause of Mr. Trenchard’s death.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span></p> + +<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ replies Levison, sharply. +‘Medical evidence has established the cause of death. +We are here to find out who killed him,—and to get +at the murderer we have to discover the motive. I +venture to affirm that no motive can be ascribed to +the lady now under arrest.’</p> + +<p>The name of Levison is such a power in the +criminal court that the Redcastle coroner, who +might have restricted the inquiries of a lesser man, +allows Mr. Levison full licence. The coroner, being +a medical man, has not that affection for legal formulas +which distinguishes some of his brother officials, +and is content to let another man have his +share in the development of the case.</p> + +<p>Podmore is the next witness examined. He has +not forgotten the coroner’s reproof, and has brought +his mind to as near an approach to sobriety as it is +possible for a brain so steeped in alcohol to arrive at +on short notice. He gives pretty much the same +evidence as he gave on the previous occasion; and +of him Mr. Levison asks no questions.</p> + +<p>Next comes a witness whose appearance causes +a feeling of compunction even in those minds most +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>set against the accused. This is Jane Faunthorpe, +who stands before the assembly in her black frock +and black straw hat—cheap mourning provided by +the parish doctor’s scanty purse—with her face paler +than it has ever been seen before, and her eyelids +swollen with weeping.</p> + +<p>She has but one feeling, and that is the conviction +that Sibyl is to be hung, and that the hanging +will be in some measure her own work. She has +not forgotten that speech of her uncle’s about her +having put a rope round her sister’s neck.</p> + +<p>She looks at Sibyl piteously, her eyes brimming +with tears, and the corners of her mouth remorsefully +depressed.</p> + +<p>‘I can’t help it, Sibyl,’ she whispers. ‘It isn’t +my fault.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you know the nature of an oath, my dear?’ +asks the coroner.</p> + +<p>‘I know that it is very dreadful, and one mustn’t +do it,’ replies the tearful child.</p> + +<p>The question is explained to her, and the oath +administered, and then comes the ordeal. She is +made to tell everything, reluctantly and with many +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span>tears. She gives a detailed account of Sibyl’s visit +to the surgery, and her own remarks about the odour +of bitter almonds.</p> + +<p>‘But I know why she took that horrid stuff,’ +adds Jane. ‘It wasn’t to poison uncle Trenchard, +but to poison herself, poor dear thing, and I know +why she wanted to poison herself.’</p> + +<p>‘Really, Mr. Coroner,’ interposes Joel, ‘if these +childish speculations are to be admitted as evidence⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,”’ +says the coroner, gravely. ‘Let the little girl tell us +her opinion. It can do no harm.’</p> + +<p>‘I know that Sibyl was very unhappy,’ pursues +Jane, eagerly. ‘Uncle Trenchard wanted her to +marry him,’ pointing to Joel.</p> + +<p>‘You must not point at people,’ says the coroner. +‘You must tell us whom you mean.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, then, Mr. Pilgrim. Uncle Trenchard +wanted her to marry Mr. Pilgrim, and she didn’t +like him, and couldn’t have married him if she had +liked him, because she had a husband already, and +there he is,’ pointing to Alexis, ‘and how he can let +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span>his wife be taken up for murder is more than I can +understand,’ concludes Jane, indignantly.</p> + +<p>‘And you think your sister may have taken that +poison with an idea of destroying herself?’ inquires +the coroner.</p> + +<p>‘I’m almost sure she did.’</p> + +<p>‘When we have done with these expressions of +juvenile opinion I suppose we shall pass on to actual +evidence?’ says Joel, with a sneer.</p> + +<p>‘You and I are at one as to the object of this inquiry, +I hope, Mr. Pilgrim,’ replies the coroner, gravely.</p> + +<p>Mr. Levison asks more questions of Jenny, all +tending to show Sibyl’s distress of mind at the time +of her abstracting the poison, and that this distress +was occasioned by her uncle’s endeavour to force her +into a marriage with his friend.</p> + +<p>‘It was quite dreadful at the last,’ says Jane. +‘Things were to be huddled up anyhow. She was +to be married after a few days’ notice, without a +single bridesmaid, or a wedding dress, or anything, +and then to go out to India. And she had a husband +already, and so what could she do but poison herself +or run away?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span></p> + +<p>After this, Jenny is dismissed, and retires weeping. +On the whole she has made an impression in +Sibyl’s favour, except upon some of the feminine +members of the audience, Mrs. Stormont in particular, +who whispers to Mrs. Groshen,—</p> + +<p>‘That girl is a mass of deception;’ to which the +banker’s wife nods acquiescence, though not very +clear as to whether ‘that girl’ means Sibyl or Jenny.</p> + +<p>Sibyl keeps her seat meanwhile, pale but very +calm. She gives an upward look at her husband +now and then in the course of the proceedings, a +look that is full of trustful affection, and which goes +straight to the heart of Sir Wilford Cardonnel, who +surveys the scene from the back of the crowd at +the other side of the room. Sir Wilford would +give much to be in Mr. Secretan’s place, ay, +although that awful suspicion hung over his wife. +The possibility of Sibyl’s guilt has never entered +his mind, although Phœbe and Lavinia have been +loud in their denunciations, and have gone so +far as to say that they saw ‘secret poisoner’ written +upon Miss Faunthorpe’s countenance while she was +staying at the How. Loud will be their self-congratulations +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>and crowings by-and-bye when they hear +that this chosen of their brother’s was a married +woman all the while, and that poor Wilford has +been deluded by a designing adventuress. They are +not present at this examination. They would not +degrade themselves by being interested in this +business. It is all very well for the town to be in a +fever of curiosity. The county sits aloof amidst its +gardens and stables, and poor schools, and vested +interests, and can afford to let the topic of the day +go by.</p> + +<p>After Jenny’s examination the coroner adjourns +the inquiry, with a view to obtaining additional +evidence. But before this adjournment the coroner +and Mr. Levison talk confidentially together for some +minutes, and it is clear to every one present that the +additional evidence will be given by witnesses suggested +by Mr. Levison,—witnesses for the defence.</p> + +<p>The suspended inquiry closes somewhat abruptly +as it seems to the audience, and there is a sense of +disappointment at this unfinished condition of +things.</p> + +<p>Alexis leaves the court full of anxiety, yet more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span>hopeful than he had been before the inquest. He +has seen that curious change in Joel Pilgrim’s +countenance when pressed by Mr. Levison’s questions, +and he is convinced that Joel Pilgrim is in +some manner concerned in the murder.</p> + +<p>He accompanies Sibyl back to the jail, and then +returns to the hotel to meet his legal adviser, eager +to know what Mr. Levison has to say of the day’s +work.</p> + +<p>‘Well,’ he asks as soon as they are closeted +together, ‘what do you think of Joel Pilgrim?’</p> + +<p>‘I think he did the trick,’ replies Mr. Levison +after one of his long pauses, which are aggravating +to a man as anxious as Alexis, ‘and I think +he’ll bolt.’</p> + +<p>‘Bolt?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. Try to get out of the country. My questions +hit him hard. He sees the game is up. The +case is simple enough. The old man wanted to +wring money out of him, a lump of money, and he +was under the old man’s thumb in some way. The +old man could wind up his business—had a bill of +sale or partnership deed that gave him unlimited +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span>power, and threatened to crush Pilgrim unless the +money was forthcoming. And not being able to get +the money, Mr. Pilgrim took the easiest way out of +the difficulty by giving his partner a dose of prussic +acid.’</p> + +<p>‘He must have known that detection was inevitable.’</p> + +<p>‘I’m not so sure of that. There’s a great deal +of ignorance in this enlightened age of ours. This +man has been brought up in the East, where crime of +this kind is commoner and easier than it is here. +He may not be very well posted in English law or +English customs. He may have thought that in a +sleepy little town like this Redcastle no inquiry +would have been made as to the cause of an old +man’s death. He was ailing and he died, and there +an end; or he may have thought that the death +would have been put down to suicide; or, supposing +him to be a very bad lot, he may have intended from +the outset to lay the crime at your wife’s door. He +knew of her possession of that prussic acid.’</p> + +<p>‘How do you know that?’</p> + +<p>‘From her own lips, when I talked this matter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span>over with her half an hour before the inquest. She +had shown him the bottle of poison, and threatened +to kill herself if he molested her with such attentions +as he might have thought he had a right to pay to his +affianced wife. She let him know that she had the +poison in her possession, and then in the hurry of +her flight she forgot the existence of the bottle, and +left it, she does not remember where. It was found +in her work-basket, where no doubt he put it when +he had used its contents.’</p> + +<p>‘Might not just the same thing have been done +by Podmore?’</p> + +<p>‘How was Podmore to know that your wife had +that bottle in her possession? or granted that he did +know it, I don’t see his motive.’</p> + +<p>‘Servants have murdered their masters for the +sake of plunder, or to come into the possession of a +legacy.’</p> + +<p>‘True, but I don’t think Podmore is the man. I +have had the two men under my eye, and have taken +my measure of both.’</p> + +<p>‘What are we to do if Pilgrim makes a bolt?’</p> + +<p>‘Stop him. I’ve taken measures for that already. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span>I telegraphed to Scotland Yard for a man I can depend +upon. He came down by the first train this +morning, and Mr. Pilgrim is under that man’s surveillance. +He’ll play with him as a clever angler +plays with his fish, and if it’s to be done, he’ll land +him. But we want the bolt to be decided, we want +Pilgrim to throw up the sponge. An attempt to get +away may help us to fix him with the fact, for you +see the case is a very difficult one. We have to get +that prussic acid bottle, known to be in your wife’s +possession, transferred to the hands of Pilgrim. It’s +not enough for us to show that there was sufficient +motive for his putting the old man out of the way, +we must show that he actually did the deed.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t see how it is to be done,’ says Alexis +despondingly.</p> + +<p>‘No more do I, just at present.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you think the jury were favourably impressed +as regards my wife by to-day’s examination?’</p> + +<p>‘Well, yes; I should say rather favourably than +otherwise. Your wife is very handsome, you see, +and beauty has a great influence upon juries. Then +that little girl’s evidence, though it was awkward as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>to the possession of the poison, was good in some +points. Children are capital witnesses if you work +them carefully. They always excite sympathy. +The little girl suggested a motive for Mrs. Secretan’s +securing the poison—suicide—persecuted, unprotected, +and so on. That idea fits in with her +flight from Redcastle. Yes, I think on the whole +the little girl’s evidence was good.’</p> + +<p>It is seven o’clock by this time, and Mr. Levison +is ready for his dinner, a substantial fact in the day +which he is not inclined to ignore, even though a +client’s life and fair name tremble in the balance. +The two gentlemen dine together, Alexis too anxious +to eat, a condition of things which Mr. Levison +severely reproves.</p> + +<p>‘If you want to see your wife safely through +this business you must begin by taking care of +yourself, Mr. Secretan,’ says the lawyer, helping +himself to a second supply of fish. ‘This salmon +is the finest I have ever eaten in this part of England. +Try a little bit of the back.’</p> + +<p>But salmon cannot tempt Alexis, who is full of +anxieties this evening.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span></p> + +<p>The post has just brought a letter from Dick, +enclosing another from Linda Challice, and telling +him that the little boy has arrived at the +Grange.</p> + +<p>‘He’s a dear little fellow,’ writes Dick, ‘but he +frets a good deal about Miss Challice, and it’s as +much as the maid-servant and I can do to comfort +him. We’ve found a pony for him, and we are +teaching him to ride up and down the meadow, +which we find very consoling. He laughs and +enjoys himself very much during the ride, but when +it is all over he still cries for mammie. I am afraid +that in the process of consolation we have given +him rather more strawberries and other fruit than +may be quite advisable. I dare say when you come +back he will speedily reconcile himself to his new +home. He is to go and see grandpapa Benfield on +Sunday afternoon. Miss Challice has gone to the +south of France on a sketching tour. I dare say she +has told you all about it in her letter.’</p> + +<p>This is rather startling news to receive at such +a time. His boy at home, Linda gone. He hastens +to read her letter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="p1t"> + ‘<span class="smcap regindent">Dear Mr. Secretan</span>, +</p> + +<p class="bigindent">‘A little quiet reflection has convinced me that +you, and you alone, have a right to the custody of +my darling Trot. Providence brought him to our +home. Providence brought you there to claim your +own. What can I wish for him better than a happy +home and his father’s love? Parting with him is a +wrench that must almost break my heart, but the +pain would be just the same let the parting come +when it might. Knowing this, I have made up my +mind to give him up at once, and send him to you +this day.</p> + +<p>‘In order that I may not feel the loss of my +darling quite so keenly as I must feel it if I stayed +in the home that he has brightened, I have determined +to go abroad for a short time. I am going to +Cannes, to an old lady, an aunt of my father’s, who +keeps a boarding-house there. I shall be enabled to +practise my favourite art of landscape painting +among strange scenes, and the change will be altogether +an advantage to me. Of course you will +understand that I shall not stay too long away from +my dear old grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span></p> + +<p>‘Good-bye, dear Mr. Secretan; may my darling +Trot be as happy as I wish him, and a source of +unfailing happiness to you. I shall expect to see +him grown quite a big boy when I come back to +Dorley.</p> + +<p class="right p1b"> + <span class="p3r">‘Very sincerely yours,</span><br> + ‘<span class="smcap p1r">Linda Challice.’</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Alexis folds up the letter with a sigh. So ends +his brief romance of Dorley Mill. That Linda has +been dearer to him than she should have been he +knows but too well. That her heart has been +touched by some feeling warmer than pity for a +helpless invalid he more than half suspects; but he +has never harboured one dishonourable feeling, he has +never cherished one guilty wish, and he feels that in +thus leaving Dorley for a little while Linda has +shown herself as wise as she is good. Pity for his +wife’s most pitiable condition has strangled that +unpermitted love in its birth. He can think of +Linda now with a pathetic tenderness hardly akin to +pain, as of one he has loved and lost long ago.</p> + +<p>He answers Dick’s letter before he leaves the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span>hotel, and gives him a string of directions about +Trot. The things that are to be done, and the things +that are to be left undone. No mother writing +about her firstborn could be more careful. He posts +this letter himself on his way to the jail.</p> + +<p>He spends a quiet hour with Sibyl, but says not +a word about his boy. He cannot bring himself to +talk of Trot within those walls. It will be time +enough when Sibyl is free from this horrible suspicion, +and he can take her to Cheswold Grange.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_XVI"> + CHAPTER XVI. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">THE PODMORES THINK OF EMIGRATION</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">It is nine o’clock when Alexis leaves the prison, the +latest hour to which he can, by any stretch of +authority, be allowed to remain. It is a moonless +night, with a drizzling rain, and the road is wet and +muddy.</p> + +<p>In going back to the ‘Coach and Horses’ he has to +pass Lancaster Lodge, and here something arrests his +attention. It is a cab loaded with boxes standing +before the lodge gate. He sees this vehicle from a +little way off, and it has driven through the Bar +before he reaches the lodge door.</p> + +<p>He rings the bell sharply.</p> + +<p>‘Who is that just gone away in a cab?’ he +asks.</p> + +<p>‘Mr. Podmore, sir, the butler,’ answers the woman +at the lodge.</p> + +<p>‘Do you know where he is going?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span></p> + +<p>‘To the railway station, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, of course. But where afterwards?’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know for certain, sir, but I think I heard +Mrs. Podmore—she came to pack her husband’s +things—make mention of Liverpool. I believe it’s +his ’ome, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘But his wife and children lived in this town, +didn’t they? What do you mean by Liverpool being +his home?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir, they lived here, Podmore being in +service here, but they was only lodgers. I believe +Liverpool is his ’ome when he is at ’ome.’</p> + +<p>‘When does the train go?’</p> + +<p>‘At half-past nine, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘And where can I get a cab?’</p> + +<p>‘None nearer than the “Coach and Horses.”’</p> + +<p>‘Thanks.’</p> + +<p>Alexis looks at his watch. There is just time for +him to walk the distance at his fastest, and he +would rather trust his own legs than wait for a fly to +be got ready at the ‘Coach and Horses,’ always a slow +business. He is at the station just as the bell rings. +The platform is clear, no sign of Podmore or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span>Podmore’s family. Alexis runs along by the side of +the carriages, catches a glimpse of the Podmore +household, almost snowed up in bandboxes and +bundles, in a second-class compartment, and then +jumps into a carriage himself, calling to a porter to +get his ticket. There is no time to get a ticket, and +Alexis has to defer that operation till the next +station. He is hardly in the carriage when the +train starts. At Krampston he sees the Podmore +troop struggling on the platform, a slatternly woman +in a trailing shawl with a frowsy bonnet hanging to +the back of her head, two bare-legged children +hanging to the long shawl, Podmore, hurried and +excited, trying to do two things at once,—namely, to +look after his luggage, and to inquire what train he +is to take for Liverpool.</p> + +<p>‘Ten fifteen,’ gasps a guard, without looking at +the enquirer, ‘second platform on the right, change +at Wandlethorpe, change at Spilbury.’</p> + +<p>Alexis hears this, and follows the Podmore party +at a respectful distance. He waits to see Podmore +take tickets for Liverpool, sees him and his belongings +safely shipped in another second-class +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span>compartment, both children crying, and Mrs. +Podmore frantic about a missing bandbox, and then +he hurries to the telegraph office and sends the following +message to Mr. Levison at the ‘Coach and +Horses,’ Redcastle:—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="p1t p1b">‘Podmore is off to Liverpool with family. This +looks like a bolt. I am after him. Telegraph your +instructions to the Washington Hotel.’</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>This done, Mr. Secretan takes a second-class +ticket for Liverpool, and gets into the compartment +adjoining that occupied by the Podmores, whence +come sounds of infantine wailing and wifely remonstrance, +and the husky tones of Podmore as if in +pacification of these avenging spirits.</p> + +<p>Wandlethorpe Junction at midnight is about as +dismal a place as a student of the hideous need care +to behold. It is on the bank of an inky canal, and +coal barges and railway trucks seem to be mixed up +in hopeless entanglement. Huge cranes stand up in +iron ugliness against night’s purple sky. Sidings +run off at impossible angles, and unknown lines +dip under bridges as if they would take the traveller +into the bowels of the earth. Lights are sparsely +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span>sprinkled on the gloom, and what lamps there are +have a lurid glare, suggestive of the under world.</p> + +<p>Solitary engines block the anxious traveller’s +way, and snort defiance at him from their sonorous +throats, as he tries to cross the labyrinth of iron +rails. The soil is coal-dust, and the atmosphere +smoke. In the horrible deeps of that infernal world +which Dante saw in his midway of life, this last and +lowest horror of a railway junction in the coal +districts was wanting.</p> + +<p>Here, on a dark platform, Alexis is able to keep +pretty close to the Podmore family, who are too +much occupied with their own affairs to perceive +that they are watched. Podmore consoles himself +with a tumbler of hot gin and water at the refreshment +counter, and gives the same balm to his wife; +while the children, with solemn sleepy faces, +resolutely gnaw their way through buns of the most +indigestible order.</p> + +<p>There is half an hour to wait at Wandlethorpe, +and then a journey of an hour in the slowest of +trains, through a coaly district, on the border of a +canal, brings them to Spilbury, where they arrive in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span>a chilly hour on the edge of night, and where they +have again to wait for another train to take them on +to Liverpool. It is gray morning when they arrive +at that busy port, having wasted more time at +junctions than the actual journey has occupied, and +having spent more time altogether in the transit than +would have been required for a journey from +Liverpool to London.</p> + +<p>The Podmore family have a weary look as they +select their belongings from the heterogeneous contents +of the luggage van. The elder child reposes on +his father’s shoulder, the head of the younger infant +hangs helplessly across the mother’s arm.</p> + +<p>‘When does the <i>Horonoker</i> sail?’ asks Podmore +of a porter.</p> + +<p>‘’Merican steamer. Inquire at the office.’</p> + +<p>‘I hope we’re in time,’ says Mrs. Podmore to her +lord. ‘If we are to go, the sooner we sail the better. +We shan’t do no good dragging about here, spending +money in a strange place.’</p> + +<p>‘<i>Oronoko</i>,’ says a man of seafaring aspect, who +has just possessed himself of a huge green chest, +‘<i>Oronoko</i> for New York. You’d best look sharp if +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span>you’re going in her, mate; she sails at ten o’clock +this morning.’</p> + +<p>‘Ten o’clock?’ echoes Podmore, ‘then there’s +time enough to get a bit of breakfast, anyhow.’</p> + +<p>‘And I’m that faint I’m ready to drop,’ adds his +wife, plaintively. ‘Such dragging about as we’ve +gone through, I never did. I feel as if I’d been +travellin’ for a week at a stretch—and as dizzy in +my poor head⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Hold your jaw!’ says Podmore, sternly; ‘there +never was such a woman to whine. You’re wuss +than the childring.’</p> + +<p>Podmore arranges with a porter for the conveyance +of his boxes, inquires for a decent coffee-house +at which he may breakfast, and then leaves the +station, his wife straggling after him, clutching a +child with one arm and a bandbox with the other, +and trailing her gown through the Liverpudlian mud, +which is a compound <i lang="la">sui generis</i>, and a little worse +than anything to be found at the east end of +London.</p> + +<p>Alexis follows the family party to a side street +near the station, and into a coffee-house, in whose +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span>dusky window three empty breakfast-cups, a stale +muffin, two yellow-looking eggs, and a plate of watercress +are suggestive of the temperate refreshment to +be obtained within.</p> + +<p>Mr. Podmore is just seating himself at a table in +a corner, when Alexis taps him on the shoulder.</p> + +<p>‘I think you’d better have a private room, Mr. +Podmore,’ he says, ‘for I want a little chat with you +while you are eating your breakfast.’</p> + +<p>Podmore stares with a bewildered air.</p> + +<p>‘Did you ring, sir?’ he asks, and then recalling +his scattered senses, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, I +haven’t the honour of your acquaintance.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh yes, you have, Mr. Podmore, and you’ll +know more of me before we’ve done with each other. +Waiter, can we have a private room?’ asks Alexis, +appealing to a sleepy youth in a white apron, who is +making a good deal of unnecessary clatter with some +cups and saucers in the endeavour to keep himself +awake.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir, convenient room upstairs, families and +private parties. This way, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘Now then, Mr. Podmore,’ says Alexis.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span></p> + +<p>‘But really!’ remonstrates Podmore.</p> + +<p>Alexis half pushes him up the stairs, following +close upon his heels. The wife follows, dragging her +children after her. When they are all safe inside +the room, Alexis turns to the waiter and whispers,—</p> + +<p>‘Go and fetch the cleverest police officer in +Liverpool, and let him wait outside this door till I +want him. I’ll take care of you if you look sharp +about it.’</p> + +<p>‘I’m fly,’ answers the youth, brightening at the +prospect of excitement and remuneration. ‘Case of +’bezzlement, I suppose, sir? I’ll get you the right +kind of man in a quarter of an hour, if you can +keep your party quiet till then.’</p> + +<p>‘Ham and eggs and coffee for four,’ says Alexis, +aloud, as he enters the private room—a musty den +redolent of the meals that have been consumed within +the last month. The atmosphere without not +being much purer than the atmosphere within, opening +the window to admit fresh air is but a choice of +evils.</p> + +<p>‘Now, sir,’ says Podmore, plucking up his spirit, +and assuming a defiant air, ‘may I ask by what +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span>authority you take me and my family in hand, and +order us up to this here room⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘For which we shall have to pay hextra,’ interjects +Mrs. Podmore, shrill with indignation.</p> + +<p>‘And ordering of our breakfastes.’</p> + +<p>‘’Am and eggs is no choice of mine,’ protests +Mrs. Podmore. ‘If they’re in, I would rather have +a Yarmouth bloater.’</p> + +<p>‘Who are you, sir, may I ask, to take all this +upon yourself?’ inquires Podmore, finally.</p> + +<p>‘I’ll tell you, Mr. Podmore. I am the husband +of a lady you know something about; a lady you +have known as Miss Sibyl Faunthorpe. That lady +has been accused most unjustly of being concerned +in the murder of her uncle, and what I am here to +do is to find the murderer.’</p> + +<p>‘You won’t find him here,’ shrieks Mrs. Podmore; +at which maternal outburst the two children set up +their loudest wail, the youngest crying his hardest +with all his fingers in his mouth, and his innocent +nose streaming sympathetically.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know anything about the murderer,’ +says Podmore, doggedly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span></p> + +<p>‘Oh yes, you do,’ replies Alexis, resolutely. +‘You know so much that you are either a principal +or an accomplice. That is why you have left +Redcastle, stealthily, under cover of night, although +bound to appear as a witness at the adjourned +inquest. That is why you are on your way to +America. And let me tell you, Mr. Podmore, that +an accessory before the fact is a principal; and that +if you knew that this deed was to be done, and stood +by while it was done⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘I didn’t. I didn’t know it. I was as innocent +as that baby there.’</p> + +<p>‘Then why have you tried to get away? Come, +Mr. Podmore, if your share in this work is not that +of a principal, if you can clear yourself from actual +participation in the crime, or consent to it, the best +thing you can do is to make a clean breast of it. +Help me to prove my wife’s innocence, and I’ll +stand your friend through thick and thin.’</p> + +<p>‘I may have better friends than you,’ grumbles +Podmore, with a dogged air,—‘friends as willing to +help me, and better able to do it.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ cries Alexis at a venture, ‘such a friend as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span>Mr. Pilgrim, who gave you the money to go to New +York, who wants to get you out of the way, who +poisoned Stephen Trenchard with your knowledge +and consent.’</p> + +<p>The bow drawn at a venture has sent its shaft +home. Alexis can see that in the butler’s face. +Mrs. Podmore sits by open-eyed, open-mouthed, +horror depicted in her countenance. Whatever the +butler’s secret may be, it is evident that his wife has +not shared it.</p> + +<p>‘Not with my knowledge, nor yet with my consent,’ +cries Podmore, affrightedly.</p> + +<p>‘But he did it, and you knew that he did it,—after +the fact, perhaps, in which case you’d better +turn Queen’s evidence. Come, Mr. Podmore, your +only chance lies in candour. This attempt to get +away from the country is in itself enough to condemn +you. You had access to your master all +through the night. You gave him his medicine. +Who so likely as you to have given the fatal dose? +Come, I have a police officer waiting outside this +door with a warrant for your arrest.’</p> + +<p>‘Run and look outside, Liz; this here’s only +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span>bluster,’ says Podmore; but before his wife can reach +the door Alexis has turned the key and put it into +his pocket.</p> + +<p>‘Neither you nor your wife leave this room till +you’ve told me all you know about Stephen Trenchard’s +death.’</p> + +<p>‘Podmore,’ cries the wife, distractedly, ‘what +have you been and done? What disgrace and +trouble have you gone and brought on your innocent +wife and children? This is all along of drink, +Podmore. I always said you’d bring us to the +workhouse, but I didn’t suppose you’d bring yourself +to the scaffold.’</p> + +<p>‘Hold your noise, you lunatical idiot!’ roars Podmore. +‘I’ve done nothing to bring me to harm, but +I may know somethink about them that have.’</p> + +<p>‘Remember that to help or comfort a murderer, +or to conceal his crime, is to become an accessory +after the fact, Mr. Podmore,’ says Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘Tell what you know, Podmore, and clear yourself,’ +cries the wife, clasping her hands. ‘Clear +yourself, and clear your innocent wife and children. +I never did like the looks of this sudden scuffling +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span>of us off to New York. It’s all very well to +emigrant, but I like to emigrant at my leisure. +Not a thing fit to put on me or the children is +there in them boxes, and not so much as a bottle +of Daffy for baby. A nice thing to have this +blessed innocent in convulsions with his teeth on +board ship, and me that seasick I couldn’t do +nothink for him.’</p> + +<p>‘Hold your tongue, Liza,’ exclaims the ex-butler +testily. ‘Come now,’ he says, turning to Alexis, +‘if I tell what I’ve got to tell am I to be kept clear +of the law?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, if it’s in my power, or in the power of +Levison and Levison to clear you.’</p> + +<p>‘And what am I to get for standing by you +and helping you to clear your wife—Miss Sibyl +Faunthorpe that was.’</p> + +<p>‘Everything.’</p> + +<p>‘That ain’t definite enough for me. I want five +hundred pounds to set me up in the public line. +Hang New York! I ain’t going to be pitched and +tossed across the Atlantic if I can get myself +comfortably provided for at home. Give me a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span>written undertaking to pay me five hundred pounds +if I get your wife clear off. Take me round to a +lawyer’s office, and do it all in legal form, <i>scundem +hartem</i>, as a master of mine used to say, and I’ll +go back to Redcastle with you and bear the brunt +of having kept something back as I ought to have +told. I expect I shall get a twelvemonth for it, +but I shan’t so much mind that if I’ve got a snug +bit of capital to fall back upon.’</p> + +<p>‘Podmore!’ shrieks the wife.</p> + +<p>‘You shan’t go to prison if Levison and Levison +can get you off scot-free,’ says Alexis. ‘And now +we’d better get back to Redcastle as fast as we can, +and the agreement can be drawn up there by Mr. +Levison.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, come now, when you’ve got me back you +won’t care about the agreement. I’m not such a +fool as to walk into a trap of that sort.’</p> + +<p>‘If you don’t come of your own free will, you’ll +have to come in custody,’ replies Alexis, firmly. ‘It +wasn’t an empty threat of mine about the police +officer. He’s outside.’</p> + +<p>He has heard a firm foot on the stair. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span>turns the key, opens the door a little way, and +looks out. Yes, there stands the officer, steady as +a rock.</p> + +<p>‘The gentleman outside is ready to take you +into custody, Podmore,’ says Alexis, ‘unless you +accept my offer and come back quietly with me. +As a proof of good faith, I am prepared to hand +you fifty pounds, on account of the five hundred.’</p> + +<p>He produces his purse and takes out a bank +note for fifty pounds. He had written to his +bankers for a supply of ready cash on the day of +his arrival at Redcastle, knowing that the sinews of +war would be needed at this juncture.</p> + +<p>The sight of the crisp new note, and of the +officer waiting outside, has a wonderful effect upon +Podmore. He looks at his wife dubiously, contemplates +his children, whose tears have been dried by +their mother’s judicious administration of peppermint +rock, and who are now engaged in looking out of the +window, and printing impressions of their sticky +paws upon the dingy glass.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t want to go to New York, no more don’t +she,’ he says, with a jerk of his head towards his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span>wife; ‘but we’ve sent all our traps on board, and +it’ll be very awkward⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘All awkwardness can be got over by the expenditure +of a pound or two. Here are five +sovereigns for Mrs. Podmore. She can see to the +recovery of the luggage, and bring it back to Redcastle +by a later train. We had better catch the +next that starts.’</p> + +<p>The golden coin has a pacifying effect upon +Mrs. Podmore’s nerves. She takes the sovereigns +up one by one, and turns them over, rings them +on the table, and finally engulfs them in a greasy-looking +leather purse.</p> + +<p>Podmore is thoughtful, but consentient. Alexis +says a few words to the officer, and that functionary +accompanies Mr. Secretan and his charge to the +railway station, sees them comfortably into their +carriage, and there leaves them, satisfied with the +modest honorarium which Alexis slips into his +palm at the last moment.</p> + +<p>The train once started, Alexis feels quite capable +of dealing with Mr. Podmore single-handed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_XVII"> + CHAPTER XVII. + <br> + <span class="allsmcap">COMMITTED FOR TRIAL</span>. + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">The adjourned inquiry is again resumed before +the coroner, two days after the return of Alexis from +Liverpool, with his companion the butler, whom he +has contrived to keep snugly hidden under Robert +Faunthorpe’s roof, where Podmore, his wife and +children, have been boarded and lodged, and kept in +custody by the faithful Hester, who watches her +charges as a cat watches a mouse.</p> + +<p>‘Remember you are not one of you to put so +much as your noses out of doors till I come for you,’ +says Alexis, impressively; ‘not a creature in Redcastle +is to know of your return till the right moment!’</p> + +<p>‘As long as I have my meals regular I’m satisfied,’ +replies Podmore, ‘I never was a prowler about +the streets.’</p> + +<p>So the Podmore family occupy the kitchen at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span>Dr. Faunthorpe’s, and no one outside the doctor’s +house knows anything about these extra inmates.</p> + +<p>Alexis and Mr. Levison have crossed each other +on the railroad, and that gentleman has returned +from a bootless journey to the ‘Washington,’ considerably +out of temper. He has reconciled himself, +however, to this wasted expedition in finding what +his client has done.</p> + +<p>Joel Pilgrim is still at the ‘<ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'Coach and Ho rses'" id="tn-298">Coach and Horses</ins>’ +where he lives well, and seems to enjoy life. He +plays billiards and makes himself eminently agreeable +to the youth of Redcastle, Fred Stormont +included; but he complains loudly of his detention in +the town, on account of this sad business of his old +friend’s mysterious death, while his own affairs need +his presence in Calcutta.</p> + +<p>‘This dawdling old coroner may drag the inquiry +out for the next month,’ he says, ‘and at last arrive at +the conclusion that my poor friend was poisoned by +some person or persons unknown. I don’t see that +there’s evidence enough to bring the crime home to +that poor girl, and it seems a hard thing that a young +and lovely woman should be placed in such a position.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span></p> + +<p>Frederick sighs, and shakes his head, and shrugs +his shoulders.</p> + +<p>‘It is hard,’ he says, ‘and I’ve positively +worshipped that girl, you know—devoted myself to +her quite awfully. And now to find that there was +a husband in the background all the while. Shows +a want of candour, you know.’</p> + +<p>‘Proves an artful disposition certainly,’ replies +Mr. Pilgrim, ‘but if every artful young woman took +to disposing of people with prussic acid there’d be an +alarming decrease in the population.’</p> + +<p>‘True,’ says Fred. ‘Well, I’m sure I hope she +didn’t do it, poor thing. But I’m sorry to say the +opinion of the town is against her.’</p> + +<p>He says this with an air which implies that to be +condemned by public opinion in Redcastle is to have +received sentence from a supreme tribunal, and to +be found guilty at a bar from which there is no court +of appeal.</p> + +<p>‘I really feel for her, you know,’ says Fred, as he +prostrates himself upon the green cloth to aim at a +distant ball, ‘but the town thinks badly of the case. +She had the poison in her possession, you know, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span>she ran away, you know. It’s difficult to avoid +making four out of two such twos.’</p> + +<p>‘Looks suspicious, certainly,’ replies Mr. Pilgrim.</p> + +<p>‘As far as the running away goes, she might have +done that to avoid marrying you, certainly,’ says Fred, +reflectively.</p> + +<p>‘That would have been a very childish proceeding,’ +answers Joel; ‘she had only to tell me the +truth, and all question of marriage would have been +at an end.’</p> + +<p>‘But women do odd things sometimes, you know. +They’re apt to get wrong in their heads when they’re +frightened.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t think Sibyl is that sort of girl; she +must have been a very cool hand to come here to +her uncle—the wife of a man whose name he +detested, and pass herself off as a single woman, and +play her cards to inherit a fortune.’</p> + +<p>‘True,’ says Frederick, despondently, and his +opinion of Sibyl is a little worse than it was before +Mr. Pilgrim undertook her defence.</p> + +<p>It is just possible that Mr. Pilgrim would not +remain at Redcastle quite so patiently were it not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span>for a suspicion on his part that a certain shabby +little man in black, who hangs about the public +rooms of the hotel, and spends a good deal of his +time in the hall and porch, and contrives always to +be in the way when Mr. Pilgrim goes out, nay, even +happens to have business or pleasure that takes him +exactly the same way, has been set as a watch upon +somebody’s movements, and that any attempt to +hasten his intended journey to Calcutta might be +attended with unpleasant consequences. Whatever +perils may surround Mr. Pilgrim’s path will be best +overcome by a calm adherence to his present policy, +or at least so argues <ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'that gentlemen'" id="tn-301">that gentleman</ins>; and he quietly +awaits the conclusion of the examination in which +his evidence is required.</p> + +<p>On this bright summer morning the same crowd +is again gathered in the well-known assembly-room—a +room famous for town and county balls, for +concerts, and fancy fairs, and other local festivities, +but affording a scene of more absorbing interest +to-day than the most aristocratic of dances or +charity bazaars.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Stormont is there again, with her constant +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span>ally Mrs. Groshen, wearing the same veils and +bonnets, and seated in the same sheltered corner +near the reporter’s table. There is Mr. Levison +sitting near the Coroner, with that Memnon’s head of +his, stony and inexpressive, but certainly not given +to melodious breathings at sunrise or any other time. +There sits Sibyl, pale as marble, and calm as a +statue, her husband standing behind her chair.</p> + +<p>To-day there are fresh witnesses to be examined—so +runs the rumour, and there is an eager curiosity +about these new witnesses and the evidence they +may give.</p> + +<p>The first witness called is Bathsheba Skinner, +spinster, lately cook and housekeeper in the employment +of the deceased.</p> + +<p>‘What can that woman have to say about the +case?’ mutters Joel Pilgrim to Colonel Stormont, who +is standing next him.</p> + +<p>‘Not much, I should think, unless she poisoned +him in one of her curries,’ replies the colonel; +‘doocid good curries they were.’</p> + +<p>Bathsheba Skinner is sworn, and stands up +before the assembly, vinegar-faced, but eminently +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span>respectable, with black kid gloves, a trifle too long +in the fingers, on her industrious hands, and a +pictorial brooch a little smaller than a cheese-plate +clasping her rusty black lace shawl.</p> + +<p>‘You were in the habit of preparing all nourishment +that was taken up to Mr. Trenchard’s room;’ +says the coroner after a few preliminary questions, +‘broths, arrowroot, and so on.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir, I did it all with my own hands. There +was many things I might have left to the kitchenmaid, +but I felt it was my duty to see to it myself. +There was not a thing in the way of beef tea, or jelly, +or tapioca, or arrowroot, that went up to Mr. Trenchard +which was not prepared by my own hands.</p> + +<p>‘And are you sure that nothing of a poisonous +nature entered into any of these things?’</p> + +<p>‘As sure as I am that I’m alive, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘Come, you may have used essences to flavour +your jelly, or your tapioca. Essential oil of +almonds, or at any rate essence of almonds. That +is a favourite flavouring with cooks, and a dangerous +one. Didn’t you use essence of almonds +to flavour Mr. Trenchard’s jelly?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span></p> + +<p>‘I hadn’t a drop in the house, sir. I never +have held with such stuff. When I want almond +flavouring I use the best Jordans at two shillings +a pound, but I know my business better than to +use almond flavouring of any kind for an invalid. +Invalid cookery can’t be too simple.’</p> + +<p>‘You did not even use bitter almonds, or ratafia, +peach kernels, or anything of that kind?’</p> + +<p>‘No, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘You slept on the same floor as Podmore, the +butler, I believe?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, sir, my room was next to his.’</p> + +<p>‘Did you hear anything remarkable, any unusual +stir or movement,—in short, anything at all +out of the common course in Podmore’s room or on +the stairs leading to Podmore’s room during the +night of your master’s death?’</p> + +<p>‘Well, sir, I did hear something which struck +me at the time as curious, and yet it might mean +nothing. I mentioned it afterwards to Podmore, +and he put me down⁠——.’</p> + +<p>‘You mustn’t tell us what you said to Podmore, +or how he answered you. That isn’t evidence. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>We want to know what you heard on the night of +the 23rd of June.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, sir, I am a light sleeper at all times, +and perhaps I was extra wakeful on that night on +account of the wedding that was fixed for next day. +It was to be quite a quiet wedding, and there was +no breakfast ordered, but I’d cooked a tongue and +a pair of fowls, and made a jelly and a cream or +two, and boiled a bit of salmon for a mayonnaise, +and got everything in order to put a pretty little +luncheon on the table, and the fag and worry of +that had over-tired me, so that I got very little +sleep. It was broad daylight, and I was just +dropping off, when I heard Podmore get up and +go down stairs in his creaky slippers. “He’s gone +down to give master his medicine,” says I to myself; +“I won’t try to go to sleep no more till he +comes up again or else he’ll be startling me just as +I’m dropping off comfortable again. He won’t be +gone above five minutes.” Well, I waited and waited +but instead of being gone five minutes as usual, +it was a good half-hour before Podmore came +upstairs again.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span></p> + +<p>‘Did you look at your watch?’ asks a precise +juryman.</p> + +<p>‘Lor, no, sir, but I can guess a half-hour as +well as any one. I’ve got into the way of it over +my roasting; a good cook knows the value of +time. It was a full half-hour before Podmore +came up, and then he came up ever so slowly, +holding to the baluster, and his footstep was as +heavy as lead. And when he got into his room +he flung himself down on his bed, and gave a +groan. “What was the matter with you last +night?” I asked him at breakfast-time. At first +he didn’t seem as if he understood what I meant, +but when I told him I’d heard him groaning, he +said he’d had an attack of spasms, and he’d +been down to the pantry to look for some mustard +for a poultice. I didn’t think much more of +it after that, and an hour later the house was all +upset by my master’s death. But I’ve thought +of it since many times.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you know what time it was when Podmore +went down stairs?’</p> + +<p>‘It was a few minutes after five. I’d heard +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span>the stable clock strike a little before. And I took +particular notice on account of its being just an +hour late for Mr. Trenchard’s medicine, for four +o’clock was the hour at which he ought to have +took it.’</p> + +<p>‘There was nothing else you remarked that +night.’</p> + +<p>‘No sir.’</p> + +<p>‘I think that will do.’</p> + +<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ interposes Mr. Levison, ‘I +should like to ask the witness one or two questions.—Pray +will you be kind enough, Mrs. Skinner, +to tell the jury of a conversation which you +heard outside Mr. Trenchard’s door on the last +evening but one before his death?’</p> + +<p>‘I did certainly overhear a conversation, sir.’</p> + +<p>‘What can any such conversation, or any +eavesdropping whatever, have to do with the +question at issue,’ cries Joel Pilgrim, livid with +anger or fear. The change in his countenance is +noticed by every one, just as the less marked +change during the last examination was noticed +by a few.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span></p> + +<p>‘We shall see how far the conversation is +relevant, sir,’ replies the coroner, ‘when Mrs. +Skinner has answered Mr. Levison’s question.’</p> + +<p>‘I did hear a conversation, sir, between my +master and Mr. Pilgrim,’ says Mrs. Skinner, with +a vindictive look at Joel, ‘but I was not eavesdropping. +I’ve lived too long in the best of families +to be an eavesdropper, or to be suspected of +being such by any gentleman calling himself a +gentleman. What I heard that night I heard promiscuous, +and I stayed to hear no more than +reached my ears promiscuous as I went past Mr. +Trenchard’s door.’</p> + +<p>Mrs. Skinner goes on to relate the conversation +which she had described to Alexis on his visit to +Lancaster Lodge.</p> + +<p>‘Gentlemen,’ cries Joel, vehemently, ‘this is an +abominable fabrication, prompted by some hidden influence. +No such conversation took place. My⁠——Mr. +Trenchard held no such threat over me. Mrs. +Skinner must have been a long time crossing the +landing to hear all this, gentlemen of the jury. I tell +you that she could not have heard it in that time, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span>she did not hear it at any time; but she invented +it, or it has been invented for her⁠——’</p> + +<p>‘Mr. Pilgrim, I really cannot allow this,’ says +the coroner.</p> + +<p>‘You will better appreciate Mr. Pilgrim’s warmth +when you have heard the next witness,’ says Mr. +Levison.</p> + +<p>A faint flush of colour warms Sibyl’s marble +cheek. She feels as if light were coming swiftly +through the gloom. Her husband has told her +nothing, except to trust in Providence and in him. +She has so trusted, and those quiet monotonous days +in Redcastle jail are the most peaceful days she has +known since she fled from Dixon Street and poverty +more than three years ago.</p> + +<p>Joel Pilgrim looks intently to the other end of +the room, watching for the appearance of that +witness of whom Mr. Levison has spoken. He +starts, and the leaden hue of his countenance takes a +more death-like shade when some one calls ‘Joseph +Podmore!’</p> + +<p>Podmore advances to the little railed-off space +which has been made for the witnesses. He is very +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span>pale, and is evidently nervous; but he is perfectly +sober.</p> + +<p>‘Now, Mr. Podmore,’ says Levison, when a few +questions, chiefly repetitive, have been asked by the +coroner, ‘will you be good enough to state what +happened within your knowledge on the night of +Mr. Trenchard’s death?’</p> + +<p>The ex-butler rubs his hands nervously, looks +round the assembly, shifts his balance from one foot +to the other, coughs dubiously, and then begins,—</p> + +<p>‘Gentlemen of the jury, and your worship, I am +about to make a statement which I ought to have +made before. It has preyed upon my mind havin’ +kep’ it back; but I am a pore man, with a young +fambly dependent upon my exertions in service. I +was ackshally on my way to New York, gentlemen +of the jury and your honour, and had got as far on +my voyage as Liverpool, when the facks in question +preyed upon my mind to that degree that I felt I +must come back to this town to reveal them. I +hope this will plead in my faviour, your worship and +gentlemen of the jury, if there is any irregularity in +my not having made this revelation sooner.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span></p> + +<p>‘The man is drunk or mad!’ cries Joel, savagely.</p> + +<p>‘The man is sober to-day, Mr. Pilgrim,’ says the +coroner. ‘Go on, Mr. Podmore.’</p> + +<p>‘The statement I have to make relates to the +night of my master’s death, the night of June 23rd. +I was an hour late, gentlemen, on that night in +going downstairs to give my master his medicine. +I had slep’ extra heavy, and it was five o’clock +instead of four when I woke. I went down as +usual. The house was very quiet; but I took notice +that the door of Mr. Pilgrim’s bedroom—the secondary +door opening on to the landing—stood ajar. +So, thinks I, Mr. Pilgrim is with my master, perhaps +he has given the old gentleman his medicine. I +wasn’t so much surprised as I might have been at +Mr. Pilgrim being astir so early, for he always was +early. It was one of his Indian ways. Well, +gentlemen of the jury, I goes to my master’s door, +and when I puts my hand against it, the door opens +a little way, without any noise; for the locks at +Lancaster Lodge are old-fashioned box locks, and the +catches give way, so that half your time though a +door looks to be shut it’s not really fastened. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span>door gave way to my hand, and I looked in. Mr. +Trenchard was sitting up in bed, and Mr. Pilgrim +was opening a bottle of soda water on the dressing-table. +I saw him pour some of the soda water into +a tumbler, and then I saw him, quick as lightning, +pour something out of a bottle in his other hand. +As I live, gentlemen of the jury, it didn’t strike me +at that moment that there was any harm. I thought +it was some kind of medicine or drops, like choraldyne, +or choral, or some of those new-fangled oppiates, +and I didn’t feel myself called on to interfere. +There was no time for me to turn it over in my +mind, you see; there wasn’t a moment between +Mr. Pilgrim’s pouring the stuff into the glass and +his handing the glass to my master. Mr. Trenchard +drank it off at a draught. It weren’t above a third +of a bottle of soda water. He sat for an instant +bolt upright, his eyes straining out of his head and +glassy; then he gave one long gasp, and fell back on +his pillow purple in the face, as if you’d clutched +him by the throat and strangled him. I rushed +into the room, and lifted him up in my arms. I +thought at first he was in a fit; but when I stooped +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span>over him I smelt a sharp strong smell like bitter +almonds, and then I knew it was prussic acid. +“What have you given him?” I asked. But Mr. +Pilgrim made no answer. “You’ve killed him,” I +said, and then he told me that it was accident. He +had taken the wrong bottle. He had taken a bottle +of prussic acid which Mr. Trenchard kept in his +medicine-chest, among other drugs, instead of +choral. He seemed in a dreadful state of mind. +I couldn’t help feeling for him. Who could tell +whether it wasn’t accident? and, if it was, anybody +might have found theirselves in the same +position.’</p> + +<p>‘Spare us your reflections, if you please,’ says +the coroner. ‘Had your master any medicine-chest +in his room?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes, there was a small box, with about half a +dozen bottles in partitions.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you know one of these bottles to have contained +prussic acid in any form whatever?’</p> + +<p>‘I can’t say that I do, your worship. There was +hartshorn, and caddleput oil, and tincter of rhubub, +and such like.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span></p> + +<p>‘You have named three bottles out of the half-dozen,’ +says the coroner.</p> + +<p>Mr. Levison whispers into his ear.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, that would be best,’ says the coroner, and +he beckons one of the men in attendance and +despatches him on some errand.</p> + +<p>‘Did Mr. Pilgrim offer you money to hold your +tongue about what you had seen?’ asks the +coroner.</p> + +<p>Podmore fences with this question for a little, but +ends by confessing that Joel Pilgrim did offer him +money; that he gave him twenty pounds on the spot, +and promised to provide for him hereafter. He further +admits that Joel had instigated him to emigrate +to America, and had given him neither rest nor peace +till he had made all arrangements for his departure. +Mr. Pilgrim had paid his passage on board the <i>Oronoko</i>.</p> + +<p>By the time this question is settled the man who +has been sent out by the coroner returns, carrying a +small mahogany case, with brass plates at the corners, +an old-fashioned case divided into six compartments, +each containing a small square bottle of very thick +glass.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span></p> + +<p>These bottles the coroner takes out one by one, +examines them, and exhibits them to the jury. +The six bottles contain hartshorn, sal volatile, +opium, tincture of rhubarb, cajeput oil, and syrup +of squills.</p> + +<p>Each bottle is carefully labelled with a label in +Stephen Trenchard’s handwriting pasted on the +glass.</p> + +<p>‘Gentlemen,’ says the coroner, ‘I think we have +now arrived at a stage in this inquiry when a further +adjournment will be necessary. It will be as well to +give time for the inquiry which is going on before +the magistrate.’</p> + +<p>There is a little consultation, and the jury are +dismissed.</p> + +<p>White to the very lips, Joel Pilgrim turns to +Colonel Stormont with a contemptuous shrug of the +shoulders.</p> + +<p>‘Was there ever anything so absurd as the manner +of this inquiry?’ he asks. ‘There is actually +a premium offered for perjury! This man, Secretan, +has had ample time to bribe any number of false +witnesses. What more easy than for him to get up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span>this story, and pay the housekeeper and butler for +perjuring themselves?’</p> + +<p>Colonel Stormont makes no reply. He feels +rather uncomfortable in Mr. Pilgrim’s neighbourhood +after the butler’s evidence. The story may be a +tissue of lies, woven by Sibyl’s husband; but, on +the other hand, it is as likely to be true—and that +dark face of Joel Pilgrim’s tells strange tales.</p> + +<p>There is a general move towards the door. Mr. +Pilgrim is about to pass out with the rest, when a +hand is laid upon his shoulder, and Mr. Judbury, +the detective officer, takes possession of him.</p> + +<p>‘What do you mean by this?’ asks Joel, indignantly.</p> + +<p>‘Only that I have a warrant for your apprehension +under suspicion of being concerned in the +murder of Mr. Trenchard,’ replies Judbury, coolly. +‘I’ve had my eye upon you for a good time; but it’s +always foolish to hurry these things, and if we’d +hurried you we shouldn’t have had Podmore’s +attempt to get away to New York, which brought +matters to what I call a focus. Come along, sir, I’ve +got a fly outside. You may just as well come quietly.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span></p> + +<p>And Joel submits, knowing quite enough about +English law and English customs to be aware that +anything in the way of resistance would be worse +than useless. He shrugs his shoulders, and affects +to take the matter lightly, though those white lips +and haggard eyes of his give the lie to his assumed +carelessness.</p> + +<p>‘If your Redcastle magistrates choose to take +me into custody on a fabricated charge, they do it +at their own peril,’ he says, loud enough for those +round him to hear. ‘I shall make them pay as +heavily for their pig-headed folly as the law will +enable me.’</p> + +<p>‘Step inside, sir,’ says Mr. Judbury; ‘you shall +have plenty of law, free, gratis, for nothing.’</p> + +<p>The fly drives off, and Joel makes his entrance for +the first time under that mediæval archway whose +gates were opened just a week ago to admit Sibyl.</p> + +<p>There is a further examination before the magistrates +next day. The same witnesses repeat the +same evidence. Mr. Levison cross-questions, and is +unusually active. Joel Pilgrim sits in the seat of +the accused, side by side with Sibyl. He is defended—or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span>rather, the case is watched for him—by +a rival of Mr. Levison’s, a gentleman equal in renown +in the criminal courts. Further details are extorted +from Podmore under this cross-firing of interrogation; +but Joel Pilgrim’s solicitor strives in vain to +shake one iota of his testimony. If this be perjury, +there never was a more accomplished perjurer, or a +false witness that held more firmly to the lesson he +had learnt.</p> + +<p>When the examination of witnesses is concluded +Mr. Levison addresses the magistrates, and urges +that his client shall be dismissed without a stain +upon her character.</p> + +<p>The magistrates confer together, and agree that +there is not sufficient evidence to connect Sibyl +Secretan with the murder, and that she may therefore +be set at liberty.</p> + +<p>This being done, Mr. Levison suggests that she +shall be placed in the witness-box, and examined as +to her possession of the prussic acid.</p> + +<p>Pale, and trembling a little, Sibyl takes the +necessary oath upon the small black book, and +waits to answer the magistrate’s questions.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span></p> + +<p>‘You have heard your sister’s evidence as to +your abstraction of the prussic acid from the bottle +in your uncle’s surgery?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes.’</p> + +<p>‘Do you admit the truth of that statement?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. I was in great distress of mind at the +time, and I thought if there were no other way out +of my troubles I might destroy myself. I do not +say that I meant to do such a wicked thing. I only +considered it as a means of release from my difficulties—open +to me at the very last extremity.’</p> + +<p>‘And you took the prussic acid with that idea?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes.’</p> + +<p>‘You had no other design whatever in taking +it?’</p> + +<p>‘None whatever.’</p> + +<p>‘Did Mr. Pilgrim know that you had this +poison in your possession?’</p> + +<p>‘He did.’</p> + +<p>‘How did that happen?’</p> + +<p>‘Am I obliged to answer this question?’ +asks Sibyl.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, it is positively necessary for you to tell +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span><ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'ns everything relating'" id="tn-320">us everything relating</ins> to your possession of this +prussic acid.’</p> + +<p>‘It had been arranged by my uncle Trenchard +that Mr. Pilgrim and I were to be married. +My uncle did not know that I was married +already. He had a prejudice against my husband’s +family, and I had been so foolish as +to keep my marriage secret from him. Mr. +Pilgrim went to York to obtain the licence, and +we were to have been married on the Saturday, +the day on which I left Lancaster Lodge. I made +up my mind to run away at the last rather than to +tell Mr. Trenchard about my marriage. It was a +cowardly act, I dare say, but I had deceived him so +long that I feared his anger on hearing the truth.’</p> + +<p>‘How does this bear upon Mr. Joel Pilgrim’s +knowing about the prussic acid?’</p> + +<p>‘I am coming to that. It was on the night +of his return from York with the marriage licence. +He came up to my little sitting-room late that +night, between ten and eleven, and told me about +the licence. He had been dining, and he seemed +in very high spirits.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span></p> + +<p>‘Do you mean that he was intoxicated?’</p> + +<p>‘Oh no, he was only a little more excited +than usual. He talked a good deal about our +marriage, and for the first time in his life he +tried to kiss me. I showed him the prussic acid +bottle, and told him that I would sooner poison +myself than let him touch my lips. He was +very angry, and he told me that prussic acid +was a dangerous thing for a woman to carry +about her, and that I was playing with edged +tools.’</p> + +<p>‘Did he take the bottle from you?’</p> + +<p>‘No.’</p> + +<p>‘What became of the bottle after that?’</p> + +<p>‘I really can’t tell. My intention was to +put it back into my pocket, but I was very +much flurried at this time. I may have left it +on the table among the books and other things. +There were a great many things on the table.’</p> + +<p>‘When did you miss the bottle?’</p> + +<p>‘Not till I was in London, when it recurred +to my memory. I searched my pocket for it, +but it was not to be found.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span></p> + +<p>‘Were you wearing the same dress you had +on upon the evening when you showed Mr. +Pilgrim the bottle?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. It is the dress I am wearing now.’</p> + +<p>This is all. The inquiry is again adjourned.</p> + +<p>The inquiry before the coroner is concluded +next day, the verdict wilful murder against Joel +Pilgrim. The inquiry before the magistrates is +concluded the day after by Joel Pilgrim’s committal +for trial, on the capital charge.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"> + CHAPTER XVIII. + <br> + ‘<span class="allsmcap">A DARK TALE DARKLY FINISHED</span>.’ + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="noindent">Sibyl is free once more. She has been in durance +scarcely a fortnight, yet it is a new thing for her to +come out into the light of day, and feel that she is at +liberty to go where she pleases. It is a wondrous +and a strange relief to know that the awful suspicion +which has been hanging over her, separating her +from all the rest of the world, is removed. But +her first anxiety is to escape from Redcastle. The +place has become hateful to her. She knows +that the eyes of those who once flattered and +courted her have been turned upon her in cold +unpitying curiosity, that of all her summer +friends not one has remained true to her in the +hour of adversity, and she is eager to get beyond +ken of those cold hard faces, beyond the sound of +those false voices, which have spoken her fairly +in the day of prosperity, and kept silence when +she had need of comfort.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span></p> + +<p>‘I have no one but you, Alex,’ she says humbly; +‘no one but you and dear old uncle Robert. I +wonder that you are both so good to me.’</p> + +<p>She goes straight from the court to Dr. Faunthorpe’s +house, and is curiously gentle and affectionate +in her demeanour to her uncle and the +two girls. Marion plunges into vehement hysterics +at sight of her elder sister, and on recovering +from that attack embraces Sibyl warmly, and is +more demonstrative of sisterly affection than she +has been for a long time. She is far more kindly +disposed towards Sibyl, penniless, and the mark of +the world’s scorn, than she ever felt towards the +supposed heiress to Stephen Trenchard’s wealth. +As for Jenny, she goes fairly mad, hugs her sister +to desperation, is very proud of her own performance +in the witness box, and finally rushes out to +the kitchen to ask Hester to make hot cakes for +tea. No one who has not eaten Yorkshire cakes, +and seen them made and baked in a Yorkshire +kitchen, by a brisk and energetic Yorkshire housewife, +can have a just idea of the celerity with +which this operation can be performed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span></p> + +<p>But on this particular evening Sibyl is far +too languid to be tempted into injuring her digestion +by the consumption of hot buttered cakes. +She sits in a corner of the old parlour sofa and +takes her cup of tea in pensive silence, and the +anxious little doctor sees that the events of the +last few months have had a destroying influence +upon his favourite niece’s health and beauty. He +creeps close beside her and feels her pulse. It is +quick and irregular.</p> + +<p>‘You want rest, my love,’ he says, ‘you must +stay with us for a few weeks in your old room, +and let me doctor you, and Hester nurse you, +till you get strong again.’</p> + +<p>‘I like my old room, uncle Robert, and I +love to be with you, but I hate Redcastle. I +should never get well here. Let me go with my +husband to his new home, if he will have me.’</p> + +<p>She looks pleadingly at Alexis, and sees that she +has been forgiven.</p> + +<p>‘My home is yours, Sibyl, and I will take you +there as soon as you are free to go. But I think you +had better accept your uncle’s hospitality for a little +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span>while, as your evidence will be required for Mr. +Pilgrim’s trial.’</p> + +<p>‘What?’ asks Sibyl, ‘is it not all over?’</p> + +<p>‘No, my love, the trial has to come yet, and the +witnesses examined by the coroner and magistrate +will have to repeat their evidence.’</p> + +<p>‘How dreadful!’ sighs Sibyl.</p> + +<p>‘It is an ordeal to be gone through, my love, but +when that is over we shall be free to go to Cheswold +Grange, and all our troubles will be over, I hope. +And before the summer is ended your uncle and +your sisters must come and pay us a visit in +Hampshire.’</p> + +<p>‘That will be delightful!’ cries Jenny, rapturously; +‘Have you a nice garden?’</p> + +<p>‘A glorious old garden, Jenny, with about a mile +of wall fruit. Such plums and peaches!’</p> + +<p>‘A nursery for English cholera,’ says the doctor.</p> + +<p>‘And there’s a pony, Jane,—you’d like that, I +think,’ observes Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘Shouldn’t I just!’</p> + +<p>‘But before you come to Cheswold Grange I +should like you to cure yourself of one bad habit, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</span>Jane. I won’t mention it before company, but if +you recall to your mind a certain interview between +a gentleman and a young lady I dare say you will +understand what I mean.’</p> + +<p>Jenny blushes vehemently, remembering that +little romance about Mrs. Yokohama Gray.</p> + +<p>So all is forgiveness and peace in the shabby old +house at the end of the town, and Alexis, touched to +the heart by his wife’s contrition, and by those sad +eyes of hers which have a weary look that tells of +suffering borne and hidden, feels that his old love +for her is not quite dead, and that after all, faulty +though she has been, she is the woman he would +choose to sit by his fireside in the old house at +Cheswold.</p> + +<p>Alexis returns to his hotel that evening, where +there is much talk of Joel Pilgrim and his arrest. +No one has any doubt of his guilt, and many go so +far as to affirm that they have been convinced of it +from the first, and have declared their convictions to +their friends and acquaintance. These being called +upon to bear witness to this fact answer meanly +that they don’t exactly remember: that such +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</span>opinions may have been expressed: but that they fail +to recall them. In any case Joel is prejudged in +Redcastle, and there is a wonderful reaction about +Sibyl, who is exalted into a heroine and martyr, +as if to have been wrongfully suspected was +equivalent to having performed some great and +noble action. Mrs. Stormont calls for the first +time in her life at the shabby old house at the lower +end of the town, and leaves quite a packet of cards +for Dr. Faunthorpe and his nieces, and one of the +Colonel’s cards for the special benefit of Mr. Secretan; +for it has become known to Redcastle that Alexis +has a pretty little estate in Hampshire and is by no +means that fortuneless adventurer he was supposed to +be on his first appearance upon the Redcastle stage.</p> + +<p>Everybody is eager for the trial, and there is +a great deal of speculation as to the exact date +at which it will ‘come on,’ and who will be the +Crown lawyer, and who will defend the accused. +Before midnight there runs a rumour that Pilgrim +has secured the famous Vallentyne for his defender, +and there is an idea that he will get off.</p> + +<p>‘A clever counsel could shake the butler’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</span>evidence, make the jury disbelieve him altogether +perhaps; and without his evidence how are they +to bring the crime home to Pilgrim?’ ask the +knowing ones.</p> + +<p>Before noon next day it is known that Joel +Pilgrim has accepted his earthly defeat, and has +gone forth to meet the fiat of a more terrible Judge +than that sage and learned lawyer who would have +sat in judgment upon him at the forthcoming assizes. +Early on the morning following his arrest he +has found means to elude the vigilance of his +warder, and has opened a vein with a small penknife, +which he has contrived to keep hidden in the +silken lining of his coat-sleeve. Lying quietly on +his prison bed, the warder slumbering on a pallet by +his side, he has given himself his death-wound, and +let life ebb silently without a groan.</p> + +<p>He has occupied the earlier part of the night in +writing, and this is the result, which is speedily +devoured by the ravening maws of a thousand +different newspapers and given to the world. It +figures on the hoardings before newsvenders’ shops +in fat black capitals:—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</span></p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="p1t">‘Startling Revelation—The Redcastle Murder—Dying +Confession of Joel Pilgrim!’</p> + +<p>‘If it is any satisfaction to the world at large, +which never gave me anything that I did not obtain +by an appeal to its self-interest, to know the history +of a man whose hours are now numbered, I give it +in a few words.</p> + +<p>‘I am the son of Stephen Trenchard, the only +offspring of his marriage with a Hindoo dancing +girl, and that marriage about as legal an union as a +European of some social standing cares to contract +with a low caste Indian. My mother had, I believe, +little except her beauty to recommend her to an +Englishman’s notice; but she was inoffensive, and +she died young,—two merits which secured her husband’s +respect.</p> + +<p>‘My father never acknowledged this marriage, or +me as his son. But he took me into his office at an +early age, and finding that I was tolerably shrewd, +and of his own way of thinking in commercial matters, +had me well educated between the age of +eighteen and twenty-four, and at twenty-five took +me for his partner.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</span></p> + +<p>‘The fortunes of our house varied as years +went on. We made money very fast, but we had +the misfortune sometimes to lose it even faster. +Our gains generally tempted us to make losses, +and each successful transaction brought an unlucky +follower at its heels. Thus if we made a +hundred per cent. by indigo one year, we perhaps +lost a hundred and fifty per cent. by indigo the +next, being lured into some reckless speculation, +time bargains, and the rest of it. Our opium trade +brought us most money, and we trafficked in other +goods which proved profitable merchandise, but +somewhat damaged the character of our house. +In other words, rather than let our vessels ground +upon their beef-bones for want of a remunerative +cargo, we occasionally went in quietly for the slave +trade, supplied our Demerara friends with Coolies, +and shipped a good deal of live stock of this +kind at different ports. To put it briefly we were +general dealers on a large scale.</p> + +<p>‘The business had never been weaker than in +that year when my father suddenly took it into +his head that it was time for him to retire, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</span>drew ten thousand pounds out of the house, some +thousands beyond our real capital. It left me with +a crippled business, and I felt that my father had +done me a great wrong by this selfish retirement. +For the first year after his return to England +fortune favoured me, and the prospects of the +house brightened. I made one or two lucky hits +and began to pluck up spirit. But this state of +things did not last long. I lost a shipload of +coolies under somewhat painful circumstances. +The ship and supposed cargo, not the coolies, were +heavily insured. The underwriters refused to +pay, and there was some talk of scuttling. This +scandal, although strangled in the birth, did me +harm. A commercial man’s reputation is as delicate +a blossom as a hothouse flower, any chill wind +nips it. When I found things going to the +bad in Calcutta, I came home, thinking that my +father might help me out of my difficulties, or at +least enable me to float my unwieldy ship a little +while longer by the use of a few of those thousands +he had squeezed out of the business. This +he peremptorily refused, and had the injustice to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</span>accuse me of bad trading. We had bitter words +on the subject on many occasions; and not content +with refusing to help me, he urged me to raise +money to pay off the remaining ten thousand pounds +due to him by a deed of dissolution which he had +made me sign before he left Calcutta, he resigning +his share of the business in consideration of receiving +twenty thousand pounds, ten thousand +at the time of the execution of the deed, ten thousand +within three years from that date.</p> + +<p>‘The time had expired, and he urged me repeatedly +to raise the money. When he found +that I had set my heart upon marrying his niece—whom +I naturally supposed to be a single woman, +he made my payment of this ten thousand pounds +a condition of my marriage. No money, no wife, +he said—thus using my tenderest feelings as a +lever to wrench money out of me. I think this +plan of proceeding hardly comes under the head +of fatherly affection.</p> + +<p class="p1b">‘Of the tragedy which terminated the story of +my father’s existence I have nothing to say. Time +may perhaps make that mystery clear. I shall not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</span>gratify idle curiosity by any revelation, supposing +it to be in my power to reveal anything touching +this question, which I leave as a subject for speculation +to that new school which devotes its +labours to the study of psychological mysteries.’</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>This is all—disappointing perhaps to the world +in general, but giving Redcastle a new subject +for conversation.</p> + +<p>‘Imagine that horrid Indian being Mr. Trenchard’s +son after all!’ exclaims Mrs. Stormont, +when she and her dear Mrs. Groshen meet to +discuss the latest scandal over their harlequin +teacups. ‘I always thought there was a likeness.’</p> + +<p>‘I can’t say that I saw any resemblance. Such +a difference in complexion, you know. But what +a horribly disreputable set these Trenchards seem +to have been!’ says Mrs. Groshen, in a wholesale +way, as if there had been a regiment of them.</p> + +<p>‘Yes, selling slaves, and opium, and scuttling +ships, and doing everything horrid.’</p> + +<p>‘And to think that we should have asked them +to dinner!’ cries the banker’s wife, remembering +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</span>how often she has squandered her housekeeping +money upon hothouse fruit and flowers to decorate +the board at which Stephen Trenchard was to be +the chief guest.</p> + +<p>‘How lucky that dreadful Pilgrim never accepted +our invitations!’ exclaims Mrs. Stormont. +‘I have no doubt he was afraid to show himself +in society. He eats with chopsticks, I dare say.’</p> + +<p>‘I rather think that chopsticks are Chinese, my +dear,’ replies Mrs. Groshen, whose remembrance of +the Child’s Guide to Useful Knowledge has not +been weakened by the lapse of so many years as +have gone by since her elder friend left a fashionable +boarding school, carefully finished in all those +elegant accomplishments which take six years to +learn and can be comfortably forgotten in three.</p> + +<p>Thus runs town talk in quiet Redcastle. +There will be no trial, and among the general +public interest in Stephen Trenchard’s murder +languishes, and soon dies for want of nutriment.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak linespmore p1t" id="Epilogue"> + <span class="smcap">Epilogue.</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>All through the rest of the summer weather, till +the leaves change from green to red and yellow, +and the sturdy oaks, slow to bud and last to +succumb to Time the destroyer, have put on their +russet livery, Sibyl lies in the chief bedchamber at +Cheswold Grange sick nigh unto death. She has +broken down utterly now that the struggle is over, +now that all storms are ended and her frail bark +safe in harbour. There is no violent illness, no +raging fever of brain or body, only an extreme +prostration, which for a long time baffles the skill +of an intelligent physician and a careful family +doctor.</p> + +<p>She lies in the bright pretty bedroom, with its +<ins class="corr" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'old panelled walls'" id="tn-336">old paneled walls</ins> painted pale pink and cream +colour, its needlework pictures, its quaint furniture, +and many relics of a departed generation. +There is a wide window opposite her bed that extends +from ceiling to floor, and through this she +listlessly contemplates the fair landscape, the smiling +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</span>garden, the autumnal glory of the park. She +suffers little pain, except such weariness as attends +extreme prostration. She is at peace, and even +declares herself happy.</p> + +<p>‘I have lived long enough, Alex,’ she says one +day when her strength has ebbed to the lowest +point compatible with life, and the doctors have +begun to despair of the efficacy of the pharmacopeia +in this particular case. Alexis, deeply moved, sits +by her bed, and holds her feeble hand in the dim +autumn twilight. ‘I am content for my earthly +race to finish here. You have forgiven me. That +is enough.’</p> + +<p>‘But have you no thought of me, Sibyl? Is it +kind to talk like that?’</p> + +<p>‘Dear Alex, you have been more than good to +me, but I have not forgotten what you said that +evening of our meeting in the old room at Mrs. +Bonny’s. “Love is dead,” you told me.’</p> + +<p>‘That was said under the influence of anger, +Sibyl. I thought it was true, but sorrow soon +fastened the old knot again. Sorrow and peril +reunited us, Sibyl.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</span></p> + +<p>‘And do you really love me? I know that you +have forgiven me, but are you sure you love me +still?’</p> + +<p>‘Very sure,—as much and as truly as I ever +loved you in old Kensington Gardens, under the elms, +when I told the Hazleton children fairy tales, and +my life and yours seemed as sweet a fairy tale as +any of those old nursery stories, and as sure of a +blissful ending.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, Alex, is that the truth?’</p> + +<p>‘As I live, darling.’</p> + +<p>‘Then I think I shall make an effort and get +well,’ replies Sibyl, with a sigh of utter contentment. +‘I have been willing to glide gently out of +life, believing that, however good you were to me, I +could never hope to win more than your forgiveness; +but now I shall try very hard to get well.’</p> + +<p>She keeps her word. Whether her illness has +reached its natural turning-point—the tide of life +flowing back to its source,—or whether the ardent +desire of the patient to live helps the work of +recovery, the medical men can not say. But from +this time there is a change. Slowly but surely health +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</span>and youth come back to the pale wan face. The +lovely eyes lose their glassy lustre, and grow bright +with happy thoughts; faint gleams of carnation +flit like the shadow of a sunset cloud over the +marble pallor, then linger, and warm the pallid +cheek into life and beauty.</p> + +<p>‘Your love has won me back from the grave, +Alex,’ whispers Sibyl, four or five weeks after that +talk in the twilight, when the family doctor—that +very Mr. Skalpel who attended Alexis after his +accident—has declared that Mrs. Secretan’s recovery +is absolutely marvellous.</p> + +<p>When Sibyl is out of danger, Richard Plowden, +who has been a faithful friend and comforter +throughout this time of trouble, and has acted as +Trot’s chief nurse and playmate into the bargain, +departs somewhat abruptly upon a journey, the business +and destination whereof he does not reveal to +his dear friend Alexis.</p> + +<p>‘It’s a little bit of a trip I’ve been meditating for +a longish time,’ he says; ‘I’ll tell you all about it +when I come back. I think I shall start to-morrow.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</span></p> + +<p>‘You’ll write to us while you’re away, of course +Dick?’</p> + +<p>‘Well, yes, if I can manage it,’ replies Mr. +Plowden, with rather a sheepish air; ‘but you +mustn’t be alarmed if you don’t hear from me. I +shall be moving about from place to place, you see, +and I may be out of the way of post offices—off the +beaten track, you know.’</p> + +<p>‘Good gracious!’ exclaims Alexis, ‘are you +going to the centre of Africa? Is my modest +geographer coming out as a second Sir Samuel +Baker?’</p> + +<p>Alexis is too much occupied with his wife’s +recovery just now to be very curious about his +friend. He thinks Dick’s movements are somewhat +eccentric, and that is all.</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps he objects to my being here,’ says +Sibyl, who has learned to think very humbly of +herself of late.</p> + +<p>‘Object to you, Sibyl! Why you must know +that he is absolutely devoted to you, and has been +almost as anxious as I was during your illness. He +was prejudiced against you before he saw you, out +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</span>of affection for me, poor fellow, thinking that I had +been hardly used; but when once you came back to +love and duty he was your slave.’</p> + +<p>For about a month nothing is heard of Richard +Plowden, and Alexis is beginning to feel somewhat +uneasy about his friend’s fate, when he receives a +letter, in Dick’s neat hand, posted at Cannes.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="p1t">‘My dear friend,’ writes Richard, ‘when I left +you and Mrs. Secretan so abruptly I was departing +upon so daring and so wild an expedition, that I felt +too much ashamed of my own audacity to tell you +my errand. I came to the south of France to discover +whether there was any hope of my ever winning, +by long years of patient devotion, the dearest and +best, purest, and most unselfish of women. You +had told me to hope in the day of my despondency, +and I had hoped, although I scorned myself for +my foolishness in hoping. At last I told myself +that it was worse than foolish to go on hoping and +dreaming. I must “put it to the test, and win or +lose,” as the old song says. So I came here, found +my sweetest Linda working industriously at her art, +pensive, but not altogether unhappy. She was delighted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</span>to see me—not for my own sake, you may be +sure, but because I could tell her all about Trot. How +I have blessed that dear child! She was never tired +of hearing me talk of him. I spent all my evenings +at her aunt’s house—such a dear old lady, the aunt—talking +about Trot, and a little about art and +science, and literature, and my own small views and +ambitions. What happy evenings they were!</p> + +<p>‘Well, Alex, I am too proud of her—too ashamed +of my own unworthiness, to tell you much more. I +can only say that God has been very good to me—that +I am more blessed than ever I hoped to be—that +if I had been born in the dear old fairy times +which I have told Trot so much about that I have +grown almost to believe in them myself—if I had +been the special favourite of some omnipotent good +fairy, and had had a talking bird, and Fortunatus’s +purse, and an invisible cap, and a flying carpet, +and the princess with the golden locks for my +bride, I could not have been one whit happier than I +am, or more astonished at my own happiness.</p> + +<p>‘I am in such a state of surprise that I am +doubtful of my own identity, and hardly feel sure +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</span>that I have any right to sign myself—your faithful +friend, <span class="smcap">Dick Plowden</span>.’</p> +</blockquote> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Very happy are Alexis and his wife one sunny +morning early in December, when Sibyl, leaning on +her husband’s arm, and with Trot at her side, makes +her first round of the Cheswold domain.</p> + +<p>The hoar-frost whitens the lawn and meadows; +yet there are late roses still blooming on the wall. +Alexis insists upon his wife seeing everything—hothouses, +stables, piggeries even—and Sibyl inspects +and admires rapturously enough to content +an exacting lord of the manor.</p> + +<p>‘It is all lovely!’ she exclaims; ‘and what is +best of all, the place suits you, Alex, and you suit +the place to perfection. You seem to have been +made for a country squire. How strange it is to +know that Providence held <em>this</em> in store for you in +that bitter time at Mrs. Bonny’s! While I was +waiting for a dead man’s shoes, you, who never +cringed to any man, or courted any inheritance, have +been blest by Fortune.’</p> + + +<p class="center noindent p2t p2b fs90"> +THE END. +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center noindent fs70 linesp"> +LONDON:<br> +J. AND W. RIDER, PRINTERS,<br> +BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE. +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> +<div class="transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes"> + Transcriber’s Notes + </h2> + + +<p>Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been silently +corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the +three volumes of this work +and consultation of external sources. Some hyphens in words have +been silently removed when a predominant +preference was found in the original work. Except for those changes +noted below, original spellings in the text and inconsistent or archaic +usage have been retained.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Page <a href="#tn-13">13</a>: “need no recompence” replaced with “need no recompense”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-72">72</a>: “lived century” replaced with “lived a century”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-113">113</a>: “post-mortem examintaion” replaced with “post-mortem examination”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-134">134</a>: “thestep-ladder” replaced with “the step-ladder”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-138">138</a>: “trembles alittle” replaced with “trembles a little”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-157">157</a>: “head and salt” replaced with “bread and salt”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-163">163</a>: “form a will” replaced with “form of a will”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-178">178</a>: “told me black” replaced with “told me a black”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-247">247</a>: “stil moving about” replaced with “still moving about”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-254">254</a>: “shrew dlittle” replaced with “shrewd little”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-263a">263</a>: “before the murler” replaced with “before the murder”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-263b">263</a>: “urned upon that” replaced with “turned upon that”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-298">298</a>: “Coach and Ho rses” replaced with “Coach and Horses”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-301">301</a>: “that gentlemen” replaced with “that gentleman”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-320">320</a>: “ns everything relating” replaced with “us everything relating”.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#tn-336">336</a>: “old panelled walls” replaced with “old paneled walls”.</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the +public domain.</p> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78774 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78774-h/images/ch1_deco.jpg b/78774-h/images/ch1_deco.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..761879a --- /dev/null +++ b/78774-h/images/ch1_deco.jpg diff --git a/78774-h/images/colophon.jpg b/78774-h/images/colophon.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb251f8 --- /dev/null +++ b/78774-h/images/colophon.jpg diff --git a/78774-h/images/cover.jpg b/78774-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b6f550e --- /dev/null +++ b/78774-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78774-h/images/toc_deco.jpg b/78774-h/images/toc_deco.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fe87d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/78774-h/images/toc_deco.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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