When people have been very happy one day, they naturally wish to be happy another. John Temple and May Churchill had been very happy collecting the ferns in the Dene, and before they parted John expressed a wish that this pleasure might be repeated.
“We have had a charming afternoon, have we not, Miss Churchill?” he said, when May stopped at a short distance from her home and suggested that here they had better part.
“Yes, I think we have,” answered May, half-demurely, half-coquettishly.
“I don’t think, I’m sure,” smiled John. “And an idea has just struck me, how lovely that place, Fern Dene, would be in the early morning, when the dew is on the grass?”
“How romantic you are, Mr. Temple!”
“I was, but the weight of my years has crushed it all out of me.”
“You do not look very old. How old are you, really?”
“I am thirty, but I feel forty.”
“Thirty,” repeated May, with a little laugh. “Just ten years older than I am!”
“Oh, that decade, what I would give to forget it,” said John Temple, half-seriously. “To go back to my lost youth; to be like you—”
May shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“But I shall get old, too,” she smiled.
“And cease to be the Mayflower,” said John, with a genuine sigh. “Ah, that is very sad.”
Again May Churchill laughed. She stood there a picture of youth and beauty; a girl in the prime of her girlhood, and conscious perhaps that John Temple’s gray eyes were fixed admiringly on her lovely face.
“Yes,” he repeated, “that will really be very sad. Age makes no matter to ordinary-looking people, you know, but to a flower—”
“When shall I begin to wither?” asked May, archly.
“Oh! do not speak of it! And yet,” he continued more seriously, still looking at May, “there are some faces that must always be beautiful; some eyes that can never grow dim.”
“I plainly perceive that age has still left you romantic, Mr. Temple.”
“You inspire me, I was going to remark, to say foolish things. But on reflection I perceive the speech lacks politeness. But how about the dew on the grass! Will it lie till ten o’clock? Do let us meet in Fern Dene to-morrow morning, Miss Churchill, at ten o’clock to see?”
“How can you be there so early?” smiled May.
“I would rise with the lark, I would soar, I would do anything, if you will go.”
“It would be fun, certainly. Very well, if you will be there by ten, I will, but I do not expect to find you.”
“We shall see,” said John Temple, fervently.
“Yes, we shall see,” answered May, with a gay little laugh. “And now good-by, Mr. Temple.”
They shook hands and each went their separate way, thinking of the other. May Churchill was amused, excited, and flattered. How much more agreeable was this well-bred man, she was thinking, than country-bred young Henderson. In truth the Mayflower had never taken very kindly to this admirer of hers. But her father often invited Henderson to Woodside Farm, and his shrewd eyes were not blind to the young man’s love for his pretty daughter. The squire of Stourton Grange was a good match for May, Mr. Churchill had decided in his practical way, and certain ulterior views of his own made him wish to see May married.
May, however, was very happy at her home, and her father had never mentioned anything of Henderson’s attentions to her. Her young brothers sometimes rallied her about the young squire, but May took it all very good-naturedly. But if Henderson ever had had any chance of winning her affections, the time was past after she had met John Temple.
She went home smiling and happy after parting with him, but as she was entering the pleasant garden at Woodside, to her consternation she met Mrs. Layton coming out of the gate. The vicar’s wife did not approve of the Mayflower, nor of her pet name, but this did not prevent her asking small favors from her, when it suited Mrs. Layton’s convenience to do so.
“Oh, here you are, Miss Margaret,” she said, holding out a thin, meager hand; “I’m very glad I’ve met you, as I’ve had a long walk, and the servant said you were out. I wanted to see your father, but I dare say you will do as well. It is our school feast on Thursday, though, as you do not attend now, of course you do not know. But still I hope Mr. Churchill will supply the milk and cream gratis, as he kindly did last year?”
“I’ve no doubt that he will,” answered May, smiling.
“Thank you, then I may look on that as settled. Any little thing helps, you know; fruit or eggs, or anything. Indeed, speaking of eggs, could I have half a dozen fresh-laid ones to take away with me now, as the vicar is very fond of a fresh-laid egg?”
May Churchill blushed. Mrs. Layton knew perfectly well that May had nothing to do with the selling of eggs, nor the management of the poultry-yard. But she simply chose to ignore this; she liked “to keep people in their proper stations,” she used to say, and as she considered a farmer’s daughter ought to know about the selling of eggs, she was determined to let May Churchill know this.
“Of course I mean to purchase them,” Mrs. Layton added, as May hesitated.
“I will inquire if we have any to spare,” replied May, just a little haughtily; and as she spoke she turned andwent in the direction of the dairy, and a few minutes later reappeared, carrying a small basketful of fresh eggs.
“I have brought you a few eggs, Mrs. Layton,” she said, “and I trust you will accept them.”
“Oh, dear, no; please tell me how much they are?” replied Mrs. Layton, fumbling for her purse.
“We do not sell eggs,” answered May, coldly.
“Not sell eggs! Dear me, I thought all farmer’s daughters sold eggs. But as you are so kind, I will accept them; and you’ll not forget to tell your father about the milk and cream? Well, good-afternoon, Miss Margaret; I think I must steal one of your roses, though, before I go.”
It must be admitted that May Churchill entered the house after this interview feeling a little ruffled. She had felt so happy before, and had enjoyed her afternoon so much, and then to be snubbed in this fashion!
“She’s a vulgar old woman,” she consoled herself by thinking, and tried to forget her annoyance in arranging the table prettily for her father’s tea.
This meal was of a very substantial order. The farmer dined early, but between seven and eight partook of a heavy meat tea. Cold lamb, a fowl, and a home-cured ham, and various other good things awaited him, to which he presently did ample justice. He was a very sober man, and healthful, and he laughed heartily about Mrs. Layton asking for the milk and cream.
“She’s not troubled with modesty, the parson’s wife, is she?” he said. But somehow May did not tell her father what Mrs. Layton had said about the selling of eggs.
May’s two young brothers were spending some days with a neighboring farmer’s son, and the father and daughter were thus alone. And after tea was over Mr. Churchill, having lit his pipe, looked more than once reflectively at his pretty girl.
“I’ve got something to say to you, May,” he said, at last.
“Yes, father,” answered May, looking up. She wasnot afraid of anything her father might have to say to her. He was always kind and generous in the matter of household expenses, and there had never been any squabbles between them regarding weekly bills.
“I’m thinking of marrying again, May,” continued Mr. Churchill, somewhat abruptly. “You see you’re sure to marry, and the boys are young, and will want someone to look after them—and so shall I,” added the farmer, with an uneasy laugh.
May did not speak for a moment, for she was completely astonished. Her lovely wild-rose color deepened, her eyes fell, and her hands played nervously with some embroidery she held in her dainty fingers.
“It’s Mrs. Bradshaw of Castle Hill,” proceeded Mr. Churchill; “you see she’s a handy woman, and has a nice bit of money, and there’s some very good grass land at Castle Hill.”
“Mrs. Bradshaw!” repeated May in dismay. She knew the buxom widow her father spoke of, both personally and by repute, and had never considered her a person fit to associate with. Her own mother had been a lady, the daughter of a clergyman, and May had certainly hoped that if her father married again he would not marry a woman like Mrs. Bradshaw, who had first been the wife of a country shopkeeper, and then of Mr. Bradshaw, a farmer at Castle Hill. Altogether it was a great blow to May Churchill, and she did not attempt to offer any congratulations to her father.
“I would not have thought of it,” continued Mr. Churchill, glancing at his young daughter’s changing face, “but that you are certain to marry soon, May. There’s young Henderson of Stourton; anyone can see what he wants.”
“I do not care for Mr. Henderson,” replied May, hastily, and without another word she rose quickly and left the room, leaving Mr. Churchill much disappointed by the conversation that had passed between them.
Then May went to her own room, and sat down to think, with a galling sense of annoyance in her heart. First Mrs. Layton and now her father had made her feelher social inferiority to the man of whom she had thought so pleasantly during the earlier part of the day.
“It’s absurd, my going to meet Mr. Temple,” she reflected, not a little bitterly. “No doubt he regards me as a milkmaid, a pretty milkmaid.”
She rose a few moments later, and stood looking at her own likeness in the mirror. No milkmaid type this, but a lovely young Englishwoman, with refined, delicate features, and the most charming expression in the world. May unconsciously smiled as she looked at herself in the glass. It was very trying certainly to have a stepmother like Mrs. Bradshaw thrust upon her, and to be reproached for not selling eggs by Mrs. Layton, but these things did not make her less fair.
She therefore decided that she would go and meet Mr. Temple the next morning. And she did. She said nothing to her father at breakfast about this early expedition, but started as early as half-past nine o’clock for Fern Dene, without telling anyone in the house where she was going.
She walked quickly and her spirits rose as she passed through the fields in the fresh morning air. Yes, the dew was still on the grass, she thought, smilingly, as she glanced at the herbage growing beneath the hedge-rows. Then presently she came to the little bridge across the brook that led to the Dene. How the water sparkled in the sunshine! Everything looked so bright; the blue sky, the wavering boughs of the green trees dappling the grass.
May walked on with a sense of exhilaration and pleasure pervading her whole being. She walked on until where the Dene narrows, stopped for a moment and glanced up at the steep-wooded declivity at its side. What made her suddenly start and turn pale? A little cry broke from her lips; a ghastly sight met her horror-stricken eyes.
A woman’s body, with head hanging downward and dark hair unbound, was suspended from a branch of one of the largest trees. May made a step nearer with shrinking dread. She thought first the poor creaturehad hanged herself, but a second glance told her this was not so.
There was a red stain of curdled blood around the drooped throat, from which the handkerchief had fallen, and the face, with its sightless, half-open eyes, nearly touched the ground. May went closer—then she saw the wound in the throat—the broken branches above; she recognized the face! It was the handsome girl from the Wayside Inn, the landlord’s daughter, and with a cry of horror May turned and fled from the spot.
She ran until she came in sight of the little bridge at the entrance of the Dene. On this, as he was in the very act of crossing it, John Temple saw her come hurrying on, evidently in a state of the greatest excitement and agitation. Instead of the pretty smiling girl he expected to meet, here was a woman who came toward him with outstretched hand and a white, shocked face.
“Oh! Mr. Temple,” she gasped out, as they met, “something so dreadful has happened!”
“My dear Miss Churchill,” he answered, taking both her hands, “what has happened?”
“A poor girl, a poor woman, is lying I think murdered farther up the Dene—”
“Murdered?” repeated John Temple.
“I think so, I fear so,” continued May, who was trembling in every limb. “She is hanging from a tree—she may have fallen—”
“Are you sure she is dead?” asked John Temple, gravely. “This has given you a great shock, I fear; but I had better go at once and see if I can do anything.”
“Yes,” answered May, with a shudder. “Oh! her face is so awful, awful, Mr. Temple! I think I know who it is; a poor girl I knew by sight. What shall we do?”
“We must see at once if help can be given. Are you afraid to show me where she is?”
“No,” said May, in a low tone, and again she shuddered.
“You need not go all the way, you know,” said JohnTemple, kindly and gently. “Come, lean on me; you are trembling so that you can scarcely stand.”
He drew her hand through his arm and spoke soothingly to her, and May felt thankful that he was there. His presence seemed to give her courage, and presently she was able to show him where the poor girl’s body was hanging from the tree. John Temple left her for a few minutes and went on. Then he, too, saw the terrible sight that had filled May’s heart with horror. He went up and touched one of the poor girl’s hands; he felt for the stilled pulse. But he knew too well it was useless. The ghastly face told its own tale. The woman was dead; had probably been murdered, and the miserable affair must, of course, at once be investigated.
He returned, therefore, to May and asked her if she were afraid to go home as quickly as possible and give the alarm.
“I do not like leaving the poor woman’s body quite alone,” he said, “but if you are afraid—”
“Oh, no,” answered May; “I will run home. Father will most likely be about the place, and he will come at once. I will go now.”
She hurried away, while John Temple kept his dreary watch. Presently she reached the homestead, and met her father almost at the gate. Almost breathless and panting she told the dreadful news, and Mr. Churchill listened, surprised and shocked.
“But are you sure it is Wray’s daughter, my dear?” he said.
“I am almost sure,” answered May. “Oh, father, it is such a dreadful, dreadful sight!”
“In that case I had better ride over and break it to poor Wray. Why, she was a fine, handsome, merry girl; how ever can such a thing have happened?”
While the father and daughter were speaking, and Mr. Churchill was considering what it would be best to do, to their surprise and pain James Wray, the landlord of the Wayside Inn, was seen approaching in a small dog-cart in great haste toward the house. He pulledup when he recognized the Churchills, and they saw that his face was pale and agitated.
“You’ve not seen or heard anything of my girl, have ye?” he asked, excitedly, addressing Mr. Churchill, whose eyes fell uneasily as he spoke. “She left home last night, and has never come back. I’m on my way to the station, and if I hear nothing of her there I must get the police.”
“Come into the house a few minutes, Mr. Wray,” answered Mr. Churchill, feelingly; “perhaps I may have some news for you.”
James Wray sprang from the dog-cart and grasped the farmer’s hand.
“Not bad!” he cried, “don’t say bad news about my girl! What is it, man? What do you know?”
“You had better come into the house,” again urged Mr. Churchill; “my daughter here may have something to tell you.”
Then James Wray looked eagerly at May, whose face grew very pale.
“I fear there has been an accident,” she faltered.
“Not to Elsie? Not to my girl!” cried James Wray.
“I—saw someone lying in Fern Dene—as if she had fallen,” said May in a trembling voice; “I am not sure—who it was—not sure it was Miss Wray—I ran to tell father—”
“Fallen!” repeated Wray, aghast. “Where could she have fallen from? How could my girl be in Fern Dene?”
“Suppose I send one of the men to bring Doctor Graham, he’s the nearest,” suggested Mr. Churchill. “I will go with you to Fern Dene if you like, Mr. Wray.”
“It can’t be my girl there!” said Wray, in violent excitement. “She went out about half-past eight o’clock, the barmaid says—how could she be there?”
“It’s better to ascertain at any rate, and I’ll send for Doctor Graham at once. This poor young woman in Fern Dene, whoever it be, may require some assistance,” answered Mr. Churchill, quietly.
He therefore at once dispatched one of the farm servants for the doctor, who only lived a quarter of a mile distant, and he whispered a word in May’s ear.
“Are you well enough to go with us, May?” he said. “And tell some of the women to bring brandy and blankets; the poor soul may not be dead, you know.”
May made no reply. She had looked at the landlord’s agitated face, and great pity for him was in her heart. But she was not quite sure of the dead woman’s identity. She thought it was Elsie Wray, but the face was so awfully changed she could not be certain.
“It may not be your daughter, Mr. Wray,” she said, tremulously, “who is lying injured—but we had better see.”
“It can not be my daughter,” affirmed Wray, “but we can see, we can see.”
“I will drive May to Fern Dene,” said Mr. Churchill. “It will take less time, and then we can take with us what is necessary, and will you drive the doctor, Mr. Wray?”
“Why wait for the doctor? Let us go at once,” answered the landlord, with nervous, eager impatience. “It can’t be my girl there, and I must find her.”
“Very well; he can follow. My horse will be harnessed in a minute, and then we can start,” said Mr. Churchill; and very shortly afterward they did start. Mr. Churchill’s horse was a young and powerful one, and they quickly drew in sight of the wooded dell that hid so drear a sight. Here Mr. Churchill assisted May out of the high dog-cart, and then fastened his horse to a tree, and took out the brandy and blankets they had brought. By this time Wray, who had been urging his pony to its utmost speed, overtook them, and the threetogether—May, her father, and the landlord—crossed the little bridge and found themselves in the shady Dene.
May went on, naturally with shrinking dread, and the landlord with trembling footsteps. They had not gone far when they met John Temple; he had heard their voices in the silence around, and now advanced to meet them, and as he did so his face was very grave.
“This is a sad affair, Mr. Churchill,” he said.
“I hope nothing very bad, Mr. Temple?” answered the farmer.
“It looks very black, at least,” continued Temple; “there is a revolver lying near the body among the undergrowth, but I thought it best not to touch it until the police arrive.”
“The body!” gasped the landlord, with staring eyes fixed on John Temple’s face, who did not know he was the father of the unhappy Elsie.
“Yes, the poor woman is quite dead, has been dead apparently for hours,” answered Temple, and as he spoke a sort of cry escaped the landlord’s lips.
“Where is she?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “It’s not my girl, but still—”
“She is suspended from a tree a little farther up the Dene,” said John. “I can show you the spot.”
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Wray!” now cried May, laying her hand on the landlord’s arm. “Let father and me go first—it’s no sight for you—”
But the landlord pushed aside her detaining hand.
“Let me go,” he said, hoarsely, and he ran forward, followed by the rest. Then when he beheld the ghastly sight, the streaming black hair, the half-open eyes, a great cry escaped his lips.
“My girl, my girl!”
His words rang through the woods. He flung himself on his knees; he raised the head; he looked wildly in the face. Yes, it was his girl—his Elsie—lying foully murdered in this lone spot!
“Elsie, who has done this?” he asked in passionate grief.
“Father, help me to disentangle her; to lift her down,” now said May, with streaming eyes. “Oh! help us, Mr. Temple!”
“Yes,” answered John Temple, “I will climb the tree and disentangle her dress. You help to hold her head and body, Mr. Churchill, while I go up.”
He was slight and active, and soon the poor still form was loose from the branch which had caught and held it in its fall. They laid her gently on the grass. May Churchill knelt down and covered the ghastly face and the blue-edged wound on the shapely throat, and she tried also to draw away the landlord from his dead daughter’s side.
“Oh, come away, come away, Mr. Wray,” she said, pitifully; “this is no place for you—I will stay with her—you go with father.”
But the unhappy man took no heed of her words. He knelt there holding one of Elsie’s cold hands; his eyes were staring from his head with sorrow.
“Who killed thee, my lass?” he asked again and again; “thee who had wronged none.”
“It may have been an accident,” suggested May, tearfully and soothingly.
But at this moment the doctor and some others arrived on the spot, and the doctor at once knelt down and removed the handkerchief from the face and throat.
“This looks like murder,” he said, in a low tone, carefully examining the wound.
“There is a revolver lying there among the undergrowth,” pointed out John Temple.
Mr. Churchill went forward at these words to the spot John indicated, and picked up the revolver and looked at it attentively.
“Why, Mr. Wray,” he said, “this is your revolver—here is your name engraved on it.”
Then James Wray raised his stony, grief-stricken face, and looked at the revolver in the farmer’s hand.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s mine—how did it come here?”
“It looks as if she—”
“She never brought it—she has been lured here andshot. Oh! my girl, my girl, that I should have lived to see this day!”
Nothing could exceed his heartrending grief. Elsie had been his only child, and for her he had worked and saved. He was well off, and for long had nourished a secret hope that his daughter would marry the young squire of Stourton Grange. And now it was all over; she lay dead before him—had died a tragic death—and a dark suspicion crossed his mind as he looked at her motionless form.
“Whoever’s done it, I’ll hunt him down!” he swore, inwardly. “I’ll ha’ his life for thine!”
It is useless to write of the painful details that followed. The police arrived and Elsie Wray’s body was carried away, followed by her heart-broken father; May Churchill also walked close to the bearers of the dead, as they bore her down the Dene. But before this was done, with gentle, womanly hands May had again covered the face, and rolled up the long hair, and arranged the dress in seemly fashion. And John Temple stood by and watched her do this, with strange emotion.
“She is not a mere pretty girl, then,” he was thinking, and he turned away with a restless sigh.
Then, when the sad procession had crossed the little bridge at the commencement of the Dene, May and her father returned to Woodside, and Elsie’s body was carried on to the Wayside Inn, for the inquest which was necessary to be held on it. May was very much overcome as she stood and watched them bear away the poor girl whose tragic end she had been the first to discover. She wished even to follow the dead the whole way, but Mr. Churchill would not hear of this, and John Temple also advised her not to do so.
“Let your father drive you home,” he whispered; “you look quite done up as it is.”
So May was handed into her father’s dog-cart, but just as they were starting Mr. Churchill asked John Temple to go with them.
“Can’t I give you a lift, Mr. Temple?” he said.
“Thanks, very much,” answered John, with alacrity, stepping up into the back seat of the dog-cart, and when they reached the nearest road to Woodlea Hall, he made no offer to descend, but accompanied Mr. Churchill and May the whole way to Woodside Farm.
When they arrived there Mr. Churchill insisted that he should remain to lunch.
“It’s our early dinner, you know, Mr. Temple, but we can offer you a fair slice of mutton.”
John Temple accepted this invitation also, and then judiciously began talking to the farmer of his horses.
“My uncle has given me a good allowance,” he said, “and I want a good horse. Have you anything you think would suit me?”
Mr. Churchill, who was a man with a keen eye to a bargain, immediately led John away to inspect his stables and paddocks. And it ended by John buying a valuable riding-horse and the farmer feeling that he had done an excellent morning’s work. Then came the early dinner, at which May presided, looking in John’s eyes more lovely still from the light pallor of her smooth cheeks, and the faint violet rim round her beautiful eyes. The tragic affair of the morning was scarcely mentioned, but the meal was hardly over when a summons was served at the farm for May and her father both to attend the inquest on poor Elsie Wray’s body, which had to be held on the following morning.
Then some one came to see Mr. Churchill on business, and John Temple and May were left alone.
“Let us go into the garden for a little while,” he said.
So the two went out together and walked side by side on the trim gravel walks, between the blooming flower-beds, which were May’s especial care. May made some allusion to Elsie Wray’s death, but after a word or two on the subject John Temple changed the conversation.
“She probably committed suicide, poor girl,” he said; “her appearance indicated that she was a woman of strong and passionate emotions.”
“In any case it is so terribly sad.”
“Yes, but do not think of it; we all must do so to-morrow; let us put off the evil day.”
Then he began talking to her of a little tour he had had in Normandy at this very time last year, telling her of the quaint old French towns that he had sojourned in, with their wide ramparts, spreading orchards, and rosy pippins. He spoke well and graphically, and somehow both forgot the time. Suddenly, however, John glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation.
“Why, the day has flown!” he cried. “Do you know it is actually five o’clock, and I left Woodlea at half-past eight. My good uncle will naturally think I have run away.”
“You must tell them—” began May, and then she paused embarrassed.
“I will tell them I went out for an early walk, and by accident met you, who had just made the sad discovery which you did. There is no need to say anything else.”
“No, of course not,” answered May, relieved.
“And I will add that I went back with you to Fern Dene, and saw the poor girl and remained there while you ran home for assistance to your father. This affair is sure to be greatly talked of.”
“Yes, it is most painful to be mixed up in it, and I feel so dreadfully sorry for her poor father.”
“The whole thing is painful—but I must go. Good-by, Miss Churchill—I wonder if you would give me a rose?”
“Oh, yes,” answered May; and she stooped down and plucked a crimson bud. “Will you have this one?”
“A thousand thanks—once more good-by.”
Then their hands met, and for a moment May looked up in John Temple’s face, and she blushed softly as she did so.
It was a dark night when Henderson slunk home after his accursed deed; dark and late, yet his mother was waiting up for him and anxiously listening for his return. She heard him turn the latch-key in the door, and went out into the hall to meet him.
“You are late, Tom,” she said.
He started violently when he saw her.
“You up!” he said, hoarsely.
“Yes, I waited to say good-night. Why, Tom,” she added the next minute, lifting her lighted candle higher, “whatever is the matter with your coat? Where did you get that stain?”
A shudder ran through his strong stalwart frame as she asked the question, and his guilty eyes fell on the red stain on his coat sleeve.
“I stumbled and fell; it is nothing,” he said, yet more hoarsely; “good-night, mother,” and without another word he turned and hurried up the unlighted staircase, leaving his mother looking after him in absolute astonishment.
He always smoked before he went to bed, and usually he drank some whisky, and therefore she could not account for his conduct. She grew anxious about him, and after she had retired to her own bedroom she thought she would go quietly to his room-door and see after him. As she approached it she thought she felt a faint smell of burning. She was afraid to go into his room, for he was spoilt and wayward and did not care to be interfered with, so she knelt quietly down and peered through the key-hole.
A strange sight met her startled gaze. Her son was standing by the fireplace, without his shirt on, and he was burning it by degrees in the grate! She saw him cut out one sleeve and then the other and burn them, adding matches to the flaming linen to make it consumemore quickly. The coat that he had worn during the evening—a light cloth summer one—was lying on a chair near. Presently he took this up, and shuddered as he did so. Then he cut off the lower part of one sleeve—and consigned this also to the flames. He watched it burn, and then rolled up the coat, and put it into the drawer of his wardrobe and locked the drawer. After this, he put on a dressing-gown and approached the door of the room from which his mother had scarcely time to fly, when he opened it and came out on the landing with a lighted candle in his hand.
Mrs. Henderson had hurried unseen into an empty room next door, and she now watched her son descend the staircase, and could see that he was ghastly pale, his whole appearance denoting great agitation. A great terror crept over the poor woman’s heart, and a nameless dread took possession of her mind. She dare not follow him, but stood hidden in the shadow, and in a few minutes she heard him returning up the stairs. This time he was carrying a bottle of whisky and a glass, and Mrs. Henderson saw his hands were trembling as he did so.
He entered his bedroom and at once began drinking the whisky. He drank glass after glass, though he was by no means in the habit of doing so, and at last flung himself, half-undressed, stupefied, on the bed, and speedily fell into a heavy slumber.
But Mrs. Henderson herself could not sleep for thinking of him. Something had happened, at all events, greatly to disturb him, and Mrs. Henderson felt ill at ease.
The next morning he did not come down to breakfast at the usual time, and finally his mother went up to his room-door and rapped.
“It’s late, Tom; are you not well?” she called.
“I’ve a beastly headache. I’ll be down directly,” he answered, and when he did appear Mrs. Henderson was quite shocked at his appearance. He looked ill, haggard, and nervous, and ate nothing, drinking his tea, in sullen silence.
All the rest of the morning it was the same thing. He did not go out, but seemed in a state of restless excitement that he could not suppress. Then about twelve o’clock a rumor reached Stourton Grange that a murder had been committed in Fern Dene. The gardener heard it outside and hurried into the kitchen to tell his news. It was not known at first who it was. A woman’s body had been found in the Dene, that was all, and when Mrs. Henderson went into her larder to inspect its contents and order the dinner, her cook followed her and told her mistress what she had heard.
Mrs. Henderson turned actually faint as she listened. Tom’s strange conduct instantly recurred to her mind. But no, what folly, she told herself the next minute. But, nevertheless, she went into the breakfast-room where Tom was sitting pretending to read the newspapers, with trembling footsteps.
“Tom,” she said, “they say something dreadful has happened in Fern Dene—”
She was looking at her son’s face as she spoke, and the ghastly pallor that at once spread over it filled her own heart with terror.
“What has happened?” he asked, hoarsely.
“They—say a murder,” answered Mrs. Henderson in a faltering voice.
“A murder! What folly!” repeated Tom, and he rose hastily and flung the newspaper on the floor as he did so. His whole manner indicated extreme agitation, and his mother grew pale as she watched him.
“What cock-and-bull story have you got hold of now, I wonder?” he went on harshly, a few moments later.
“They say a woman’s body has been found in the Dene,” answered Mrs. Henderson, slowly, and Tom Henderson visibly started as she spoke.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, abruptly, and a moment later he hastily left the room, leaving his mother greatly agitated.
Henderson had not left the house the whole morning, but after pacing up and down his own bedroom forsome minutes an extreme restlessness came over him, and he went toward the stables, and in the stable yard he found Jack Reid, the groom, rubbing down a horse.
The man did not look around as his master approached him, but went on with his task, while Henderson stood a moment or two looking on without speaking.
“Billy looks very fresh this morning,” he said, presently, with affected carelessness, and the groom, still without looking around, only nodded his head in answer to his master’s remark.
Henderson moved uneasily, and then, after another pause and in an uneven voice, he said:
“What’s this story, Jack, my mother’s been telling me about some woman or other being found in Fern Dene?”
Then Jack did look around, and Henderson’s eyes shifted and fell as he did so.
“It’s Miss Wray,” he said, in a sullen tone; “she’s been found dead in the Dene.”
“Miss Wray! Dead!—impossible!” exclaimed Henderson.
“It’s true enough, though,” answered Jack, roughly.
“How do you know? Who found her?” queried Henderson.
“Miss Churchill, from Woodside Farm, they say, and she ran and met the young squire from the Hall. Anyhow, she’s dead—she’s been shot, and they say an inquest will be held on her to-morrow.”
Henderson turned absolutely livid as he listened to Jack’s information. He took two or three hasty strides down the stable yard, and then he once more returned to the groom’s side.
“Jack,” he began, and then hesitated.
“Well,” asked Jack, not over-respectfully.
“You remember,” went on Henderson, forcing himself to speak, “taking a note to her from me?”
Jack laconically nodded his head.
“That note,” went on Henderson, desperately, “was to ask her to meet me in Fern Dene, but I changed mymind and did not go. She had got some folly into her head about marrying me, and so I thought afterward it was better not to go. But she may have gone—do you see, Jack? Yes, to be sure she may have gone,” continued Henderson, wiping his dark brow.
“And, Jack, about that note? Did anyone see you give it to her?” he went on.
“Yes, there were some fellows sitting at the bar saw me,” answered Jack, coolly.
“That’s a pity—but it can’t be helped,” said Henderson, in increasing agitation. “But—did anyone hear the answer she sent me?”
“Yes, she walked straight back into the bar with your letter in her hand after she had read it, and her eyes were just blazing in her head. ‘Tell him I will be there,’ she said, and the fellows heard it as well as me.”
Again Henderson wiped his brow.
“She may have gone—I can’t say anything about it, you know. I never went near, but that note may get me into some trouble. Jack, I’ll make it worth your while to hold your tongue—to say nothing about the note, as only you knew it was from me.”
“I knew,” answered Jack, doggedly.
“Yes, of course you knew, but you must not mention this to anyone. I’ll give you as much as five pounds—”
“Ten would suit me better.”
“Well, I’ll make it ten, then. If anyone asks who gave you the note, say a stranger you met on the road gave you a shilling to deliver it to Miss Wray. Do you understand? Put it on a stranger, and you shall have ten pounds, for I do not wish to be mixed up in this matter at all.”
“I can well understand that.”
“You see, Jack, she may have gone to meet me, and when she found I was not there she may have shot herself. She is shot, you say?”
“Yes, dead as a herring.”
“It’s a shocking affair; really a shocking affair,” continued Henderson, hastily; “poor girl!”
“Ay, poor lass!”
“It might have happened so—in her disappointment, you know, she may have shot herself, that is if she had anything to shoot herself with?”
“They say her father’s revolver was lying nigh her.”
“Then I fear it has happened so. Don’t you think so, Jack? How lucky for me that I did not go near.”
“Quite a close shave.”
“Yes, quite a close shave indeed. Well, Jack, now we’ve arranged it, I’ll go into the house and get you the ten pounds—but remember you were to say a stranger—that a stranger gave you the note.”
Jack nodded and Henderson hastily returned to the house, and speedily reappeared with two crisp five-pound bank notes in his pocket, which he soon placed in Jack’s horny hand, who at once deposited them in his corduroys. But when they were safely there, he looked up with his shrewd brown eyes in his master’s face.
“About that note,” he said. “Maybe the poor lass left it behind her, and it was in yer writing.”
Henderson’s face fell.
“The devil it was!” he muttered.
“And maybe she’s other letters, put by that ye wrote? I’ve taken other letters, perhaps, signed by yer name. No, master, the story about the stranger giving it to me won’t wash. It would only make me out a big liar, and not help ye. You’ll ha’ to face the letters, and stick to the story that you did not go to meet the poor lass when she met her death.”
“Of course, I did not go. After I wrote the letter, I got afraid to meet her,” said Henderson, in great agitation.
“Stick to that; ye got afraid to go, and the poor lass must ha’ shot herself because ye broke yer word; ye may make them believe that, not the other, for lots o’ folks knew what was between ye and poor Elsie.”
Henderson’s teeth almost chattered in his head.
“You think so?” he said, tremblingly.
“I’m sure; Alice the barmaid knew and others. Stick to the story that ye did not go.”
Jack’s manner as he said this was very determined, and Henderson begun to see the prudence of his advice.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said, after thinking a moment or two. “The letter I sent yesterday was not signed in full—only my initials—but I have sent letters signed in full, and she may have kept them. It’s a confounded business altogether, and I wish I had never seen her.”
“It’s too late to wish that,” replied Jack, significantly; and then he resumed grooming the horse, while with a moody brow and an uneasy heart Henderson returned to the house, feeling that he would be almost sure to be called to account for the letter he had written the day before to poor Elsie Wray.
And he was. The afternoon had not passed when a police-constable arrived at Stourton Grange and asked to see Mr. Henderson. With a sinking heart he went to this interview, and the policeman informed him that he was the bearer of a summons for him to be present at the inquiry to be held on the death of Elsie Wray during the following morning.
“And I’ve one for your groom, Jack Reid, Mr. Henderson,” continued the policeman, with his eyes fixed searchingly on Henderson’s changing face; “he delivered a letter it seems to Miss Wray on the day of her death.”
“Yes,” faltered Henderson; “but I did not go near.”
“You must reserve your evidence until you are before the coroner, and you had better give it carefully,” and with these warning words the policeman took his departure, leaving Henderson a prey to the most morbid dread.
And scarcely had the constable gone when Mrs. Henderson crept into the room with an almost colorless face.
“Tom,” she said, in trembling accents, “what has that man been here for?”
“I’ve to attend the inquest on that girl found in Fern Dene to-morrow morning,” answered Henderson, huskily, turning away his head.
“They say it’s the girl from the Wayside Inn. Oh, Tom, did you go and meet her?” asked Mrs. Henderson, piteously.
“I never went near her; but, mother, a confounded thing has happened. I was ass enough to write to her to ask her to meet me; I wanted to buy her off, in fact. When I was almost a boy I got entangled with her, and she was always urging some claims or other that she thought she had against me, and I wanted to pay her a big sum and be done with it. Well, I asked her to meet me last night, but I did not go. I went out for a short time, as you remember, and then I turned back and came home. If you are questioned you must say I was home early, or never out. Do you understand? They will want to throw suspicion on me on account of the confounded letter I wrote. The girl must have gone, I suppose, and shot herself because I did not go, for her father’s revolver was lying beside her.”
Mrs. Henderson had turned absolutely white during this garbled narrative. From this hour she never doubted her son’s guilt. She looked at him with terror-stricken eyes, but no word came from her trembling lips.
“You must say I was home early; only out a few minutes,” repeated Henderson, doggedly, and almost with a gasp Mrs. Henderson whispered out a few words.
“You were—at home early,” she said.
“That’s it; you mayn’t be asked, but that’s your answer, and now I’ll go out for a walk, for I’ve a disgusting headache still.”
He turned and went out of the room as he spoke, and Mrs. Henderson leaned against the table for support.
“Oh! my unhappy boy,” she murmured with her white lips; “my miserable boy!”
In a few minutes she saw him go down the avenue smoking, and then with feeble, trembling footsteps, as though suddenly aged, she proceeded to her son’s bedroom. She locked the door, and then drew out her housewifely bunch of keys. With these, one after the other, she tried to unlock the drawer in Henderson’swardrobe, where she had seen him hide the coat he had worn the night before, and from which he had cut the stained sleeve. At last one of her keys opened the drawer, and with shaking fingers Mrs. Henderson drew out the coat she had seen him roll up and place there. With a sickening dread she now unrolled it. Half of one of the sleeves was gone as she knew, but a faint stain—a smudge, as it were, on the breast—quickly attracted her attention.
She shuddered as she looked at it; shuddered and turned faint, but with an heroic effort she conquered this failing of her bodily powers. She relocked the drawer, and wrapped her son’s mutilated coat in some brown paper she found lying on the table. She carried this parcel to her own room, after carefully brushing out the grate in Henderson’s; and wrapping the burnt fragments it contained in paper, she carried these away also.
When she reached her bedroom she concealed these two parcels, and then rang for her housemaid. She bade this maid make up and light the fire, for, as it was summer time, there were no coals in the room.
“I feel so chilly, Jane,” she said; “I must have got cold, and will be all the better for a fire.”
The fire was soon lit, and when it had burnt up and the servant was gone, Mrs. Henderson at once commenced to cut her son’s coat to pieces, and burnt it gradually. She was afraid to make a smell of burning by doing it altogether. But every shred of it was at last consumed, and Mrs. Henderson watched it disappear with a miserable heart.
In the meanwhile Henderson had once more strolled toward the stables, and there, as he expected to find, was Jack Reid. The groom looked up and nodded when he saw his master approaching.
“I wanted a word wi’ ye, sir,” he said; “I’ve been hanging about, and all the country-side’s up about the murder.”
“I know nothing about it,” said Henderson, doggedly, “but—you were right, Jack, about the letter; the policemanwho served the summons about the inquest said something about you having taken one.”
“I knew I was right; folks saw me gi’ it to her, and there’s a great talk over it. And the police ha’ been examining where she was found all the day, and they say she must ha’ shot herself, or been shot, on the high ridge above the Dene. There’s blood there, and she must either ha’ fallen into the Dene or been thrown, as the branches are broke all the way down from the top to where she was found.”
Henderson’s face grew literally ghastly as he listened to these words, and his groom watched him with a certain grim humor in his expression.
“I never went near,” said Henderson, huskily.
“Ay, stick to that; ye never went near; ye only asked her to go; and one good job is that the old man’s pistol was found beside her.”
“She must have shot herself. My mother will tell them I was in the house all night; I never was out.”
The groom made no answer to this, and after a few moments’ silence Henderson turned sullenly away. There was something in the groom’s manner that frightened him; a suppressed insolence and unbelief in the man’s tone.
And later in the day, as he sat moodily smoking after dinner, he received a message by one of the maids that Jack Reid wished to speak to him. He rose and went to the hall door, where he found the groom.
“May I ha’ a word wi’ ye, sir, about one of the horses?” he said, with a significant look, and Henderson followed him out as he spoke.
“It’s not about the horses, sir,” he continued, as soon as they were a little distance from the house, “but I didn’t want any o’ the women folk to hear what I have got to say. But the missus mustn’t say ye were never out last night. Ben Wood, the carter, saw ye out about half-past eight, and is ready to swear it. But I’ve sent for ye to say that ye’d best say ye were down at the stables then, and I’ll back ye out. Say ye were on yer way to the stables when Ben met ye.”
“Very well, Jack, you must swear this, or there’ll be no end of trouble,” answered Henderson.
“Ay, trouble enough, anyhow; for, master, I’ve another word for ye—ye’re watched. The police ha’ their eye on ye, and ye’ll not go in or out of the house now unless they know.”
Tom Henderson returned to the house after this last interview with his groom in a truly pitiable state of terror and alarm. And a man, a stranger, passed him in the avenue. This was no doubt one of his watchers; his footsteps were dogged; he was a free agent no more.
He turned cold and shuddered when he thought of it. Dread visions rose before him, and the terrible penalty of his crime grimly haunted his mind.
As he entered the house he suddenly remembered the coat he had worn the day before, when he had gone to meet the hapless Elsie. He had cut out and burnt the stained sleeve, but what if the house was searched and the coat discovered in its—as he supposed—present condition? No, it must be destroyed entirely, he told himself.
But how to do this? If he burnt it the smell of the burning cloth would spread through the house. He would bury it in the garden somewhere, he finally decided; but he must wait to do this; must be sure that no one was loitering about, spying his actions.
He waited until midnight. Mrs. Henderson had not come down-stairs to dinner, nor during the whole evening. She had sent a message to her son that she had a cold, and was unable to appear. Henderson, therefore, had only his own miserable company. And to sustain his courage he kept drinking glass after glass ofwhisky, and by twelve o’clock had certainly had more than enough.
When the clock pointed to this hour he rose, and quietly as possible stole upstairs for the purpose of bringing down the coat that he intended to conceal. He unlocked the drawer in the wardrobe where he knew he had placed it, and started back with sudden astonishment and dismay, to find it was gone! He absolutely shook with fear. Where and how had it disappeared? He turned everything over in the drawer twenty times with trembling hands, but did so, as he knew, in vain.
He never thought of his mother about the matter for a moment. Either it had been taken as evidence against him, or—and his guilty soul shivered within him at the idea—some supernatural agency had been at work, and the restless spirit of the dead Elsie had carried away the blood-stained garment.
This thought filled him with absolute horror. He glanced furtively at the dark corners of the room; he fancied that unseen things were near, and at last, unable to endure the strain any longer, he once more hurried down-stairs, and spent the night as best he could on the dining-room couch, after first stupefying himself with whisky.
In the morning he felt in a wretched state alike of mind and body. The inquest on the unfortunate Elsie Wray was to be held at eleven o’clock at the Wayside Inn, and thither Henderson knew he must go. He had to face this ordeal, however ill he was prepared for it, and Jack Reid, the groom, drove him over in the dog-cart at the appointed hour. Henderson was conscious that the people who met him in the country lanes glanced at him with suspicious and lowering looks. His connection with the unhappy Elsie had been whispered about, and many were ready to take the blackest view of the case.
Jack Reid did not fail to impress on his young master during this drive that he must give his evidence with the greatest caution; telling him again and again thatit was useless to deny sending the letters that lured Elsie to her untimely end. They agreed between them, in fact, what each had to say, and with this understanding they at length arrived at the Wayside Inn.
May Churchill and her father were there before them, and after the jury had viewed the body, May was the first witness called. She gave her evidence clearly and simply, and her remarkable beauty as she did so excited great admiration. When he first heard her sweet low-toned voice a thrill passed through Henderson’s whole frame, and for some moments he could not find courage to look in her face, as she spoke of her ghastly discovery in Fern Dene. Not so John Temple! He could not take his eyes away from this fair girlish witness, and once May looked at him when she described meeting him after she found poor Elsie.
John Temple corroborated her words, and then her father. After this James Wray, the landlord, gave his evidence with deep emotion, and then Alice, the barmaid. She had waited up for her young mistress, who had never returned, and she had waited for Elsie on previous occasions.
“Did you know who she went to meet?” one of the jurymen asked.
The barmaid hesitated, and then glanced at Henderson’s changing face.
“I understood it was Mr. Henderson,” she answered.
“Did she ever tell you so?”
“No,” replied the girl, and then she detailed how the groom from Stourton Grange had brought a letter for Miss Wray in the afternoon, and how her mistress had seemed greatly upset at receiving it, and how she had gone into the bar and said to Reid, the groom, “Tell him I will be there.”
Reid then gave his evidence, saying that his master had given him this letter to take to Miss Wray and that he had delivered it into her own hands.
“Have you ever taken other letters to Miss Wray?” he was asked.
“Yes, once or twice,” replied the groom.
“From your master, Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes.”
“Did Miss Wray seem upset when she gave you the message for your master?”
“She seemed a bit flurried like, I thought,” answered Jack.
After this Henderson himself was called, and every eye in the room was fixed on his tall, stalwart form and handsome face as he went forward. He was cautioned in the usual manner, but with a great mental effort he said calmly enough:
“I do not wish to conceal anything.”
“You wrote the letter that your groom delivered to Miss Wray, and which was found in her room after her death?”
“I did.”
The letter was then handed to the jury, and after they had read it Henderson’s examination was continued.
“You asked her to go and meet you on the ridge above Fern Dene?”
“I did, but afterward I made up my mind not to go. I got frightened,” answered Henderson, in a low tone, and with downcast eyes. “There had been some talk of a marriage between us, as you may see by what I wrote to her, and I wished to be done with it, that was why I wrote. But I thought afterward I would write again the next day instead of going—I was afraid to meet her.”
“Were you out during the evening of Miss Wray’s death?”
“Yes, for a short time; I went down to the stables.”
“And you never went near Fern Dene?”
“Never; I was in early; my mother and Jack Reid were the only persons I spoke to during the whole evening.”
Jack Reid was recalled, and confirmed this statement.
His master came down to the stables about half-past eight, he said, “and stayed a good bit;” and then he saw him walk toward the house.
Then came the medical evidence. The wound in thethroat might have been self-inflicted, or it might not, the doctor deposed. That the fatal shot had been fired quite close to the dead woman there was abundant evidence to prove, but whether inflicted by her own hand it was impossible positively to say. She had been shot on the ridge above Fern Dene, and had either staggered back and fallen over the declivity to the Dene below, or been thrown down. The evidence altogether was of so unsatisfactory a nature, that the inquest was adjourned to enable the police to endeavor to obtain some more positive information. James Wray swore that the revolver found near his daughter’s body was his property, and this was a fact that naturally pointed to suicide. No one else could have obtained this weapon, as Wray deposed he had seen it in its usual place on the morning of Elsie’s death. In her despair at her false lover not keeping his appointment she had probably shot herself, many were inclined to believe, while others did not give credence to Henderson’s statement that he had not been to Fern Dene on the night of her death. At all events neither the coroner nor the jury were satisfied, and the adjourned inquest was appointed to take place in a week. Henderson heard this in sullen silence, and then, after beckoning to Reid, he left the house, without attempting to exchange a word with any of those present. Once he looked at May Churchill as he passed her, but the girl’s eyes fell as they met his. She did not believe that he had shot poor Elsie, but she believed that he had broken her heart, and a strong feeling of womanly indignation filled May’s breast.
In silence still, Henderson mounted his dog-cart, and in silence also his groom commenced to drive him homeward. They had gone quite a quarter of a mile before either of the men spoke. Then Henderson said uneasily:
“How do you think it went off, Jack?”
“Fairly well,” replied Jack, laconically.
After this there was very little said between them until they reached the Grange. But as Henderson was descending from the dog-cart, Jack Reid suddenly addressed him:
“After ye’ve had a drink, sir,” he said, “will ye come down to the stables?”
“Why?” answered Henderson, testily. “I’ve got a beastly headache, and I don’t want to talk of this hateful affair any more to-day.”
“But I do,” answered Jack Reid, doggedly.
“It’s a nuisance—” began Henderson.
“I must see ye, sir,” interrupted the groom, determinedly, and Henderson, after glancing at him, seeing the expression of his face, nodded and went into the house.
“I’ll come down presently,” he said, and this apparently satisfied Reid, as he drove the horse at once on toward the stables.
Henderson then proceeded to the dining-room, where he found his mother sitting pale and trembling.
“Tom,” she said, tremulously, and then she paused.
“It’s adjourned,” he answered briefly, and then he went to the sideboard and poured out some spirit, which he eagerly drank, and his mother had not courage to ask him any further questions. She kept looking at him fugitively, her heart filled with the direst apprehensions. She saw him drink more spirit, and then he left the room, going toward the stables with a lowering brow and an angry heart.
“Confound the fellow,” he muttered, thinking of his groom. He believed that Reid wished him to pay for the evidence he had given at the inquest, and Henderson considered the ten pounds that Reid had already received ample reward.
When he reached the stables he found the groom smoking in the yard. Reid went on with his pipe as his master approached him, and this increased Henderson’s feeling of anger against him.
“Well,” he said, addressing the groom sharply, “what do you want?”
Then Reid took his pipe out of his mouth and looked straight in Henderson’s face.
“That was good evidence I gave for ye to-day,” he said.
“Yes, yes, I am quite ready to acknowledge that,” answered Henderson somewhat impatiently.
“For a word of mine might have hanged ye, may hang ye yet,” continued the groom.
“What do you mean?” asked Henderson, turning pale to the very lips.
“This,” said Reid, emphatically, “that yer hand, and yer hand alone, spilt that poor lass’ blood. I’ve held my tongue, but I saw ye shoot her, and then fling her down the bank.”
“It’s a lie!” faltered Henderson, with his white lips.
“It’s no lie, but God’s truth. I watched ye that night, and followed ye to the ridge above Fern Dene, and heard every word ye spoke, and what the lass said to ye.”
“I—I was not there.”
“Yes, ye were there sure enough, master,” answered Reid with a scornful laugh. “Poor Elsie carried her father’s pistol wi’ her to make yer promise to keep yer word, and make her yer lawful wife. She threatened ye, and ye did promise, and then snatched the pistol frae the poor lass’s hand. And when she said she wad tell her father and Miss Churchill, yer shot her. It’s no good denying it, for I can prove each word I say, and hang ye as easy as hold up my hand.”
Henderson’s tall form absolutely tottered, and he leaned back against the yard pump for support.
“You—can prove nothing,” he faltered.
“Can’t I? I saw the moon come out and shine on her dead face, and I heard her curse ye before she died. I saw her blood run over yer hand and stain yer shirt and the coat ye wore. Where is that coat now, master; ye have not worn it since?” And again the groom laughed.
Henderson shuddered; this man had stolen the coat then, he thought, and was thus able to produce this damning evidence against him.
“How much—?” he began.
“How much will I take to hold my tongue?” continued Reid, as Henderson hesitated and paused.
“Why, a man should pay a long price for his life anyhow? I heard ye offer poor Elsie two thousand pounds to settle yer debt to her, and I’ll take not a penny less.”
Henderson did not speak. Great drops of dew broke out on his forehead; he felt powerless in his servant’s hands. He looked in the groom’s sharp face, and the man knew he could make his own terms.
“I call it cheap,” he said, “dirt cheap; two thousand pounds for yer life. Well, master, think it over, and if yer wise ye’ll not think long—I’ve told ye my price.”
Henderson made no answer; he turned away and went staggering to the house like a drunken man. He knew now what his position would be, and that this man was his master for his whole life.