CHAPTER II.
‘DUST AND AN ENDLESS DARKNESS.’
Thechurch clock struck twelve, and, as the last stroke died into silence, Little Yafford school-house discharged a torrent of children into the rainy street, boys in red comforters, girls in blue comforters, comforters of the three primary colours and all their secondaries. Overcoats and cloaks were scarce at Little Yafford, and the worsted comforter was the chief winter clothing.
‘Rain, rain, go away, come again another day,’ shrieked the children, making a choral appeal to the clerk of the weather.
And they went whooping down the street, spinning tops, flying shuttlecocks, as if the rain were rather agreeable than otherwise.
Cyril Culverhouse came out of the school-house, unfurling his well-worn umbrella. He had been holding an examination of the scholars at the endof the year, and was disheartened at finding some of them woefully ignorant, despite the pains he had taken with both pupils and teachers during the last twelve months. It was uphill work. He found the children’s minds fairly stored with a collection of hard facts. They knew all about the deluge, and the passage of the Red Sea. They could tell him the names of the prophets, and were as familiar with Daniel and Jonah as if the adventures of those holy men had been events of the last year; but of spiritual things, of the principles and meaning of their religion, they had hardly an idea. Here all was dark. They were Christians because they had been signed with the sign of the Cross, and sprinkled with holy water by the parson. Their catechisms told them all about that. But what Christianity meant, with its Divine law of love, justice, and mercy, they knew nothing.
Mr. Culverhouse sighed as he opened his umbrella and went out into the cold and rain. This Christmastide did not come upon him as a particularly happy season—save in its purely spiritual aspect. He was full of anxiety about Beatrix. It was hardto live so near her, and yet not dare to approach her. He had seen her in church every Sunday morning, and had seen her looking ill and worn. He knew that she was unhappy, and without a friend except Bella Scratchell. What a dismal season Christmas must seem for her, poor child! How cruel a mockery the joy-bells, and holly boughs, and outward semblance of festivity!
His business to-day took him the direction of the bridge. He could see the Water House on the other side of the river, its gray walls and ivy-covered entrance tower looming darkly through a mist of rain. Who was this approaching him along the muddy road, struggling manfully against wind and rain? Cyril could see nothing but a pair of pepper and salt legs under a gingham umbrella. The pepper and salt legs brought the umbrella nearer him. It was an umbrella with a slippery brass handle, and altogether an affliction to its possessor. A sudden gust blew it on one side, and revealed the countenance of Mr. Namby, pale and agitated.
‘How d’ye do, Namby?’ said Cyril, with nointention of saying more, for the village surgeon was a talkative little man, and the busy curate had no time to waste upon gossip. But Mr. Namby made a dead stop.
‘Oh, Mr. Culverhouse, I have just come from the Water House.’ This was enough to bring Cyril to a standstill also. ‘There is awful trouble there.’
‘Good heavens! What trouble? Is Miss Harefield ill?’
‘Poor child! She is in a dreadful state. Her father is dead.’
Cyril felt as if his heart had stopped beating. The rainy landscape rocked before his eyes, the muddy road reeled beneath his feet.
‘Dead!’ he gasped.
‘Dead, suddenly. And I’m afraid by poison.’
‘What!’ cried Cyril. ‘You must be mad to say such a thing.’
‘It will be for the coroner to decide; there will be an inquest, of course. But I have no doubt as to the cause of death. There are all the symptoms of poisoning by opium.’
‘Good God! Was he in the habit of taking opium?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘But he surely must have been. How else should he come by his death? It must have been an over dose of opium.’
‘I never heard him complain of acute pain. He had an iron constitution. He had no reason for taking opium that I can see.’
‘No reason! Look at the men who take it without reason, for the pleasure of taking it. Look at Coleridge—De Quincey. Mr. Harefield was just the kind of man to be an opium-eater. That would account for his hermit-like life existence—his seclusion from all the world. He had a world of his own—he had the opium-eater’s paradise.’
‘It is possible,’ said Mr. Namby, doubtfully. ‘But it is strange that I should never have perceived the symptoms. There are unmistakable indications in the appearance of the habitual opium-eater.’
‘How often did you see Mr. Harefield?’
‘Not very often, I confess.’
‘Not often enough for your observations of him to be worth much. Dead! It is very awful. When did it happen?’
Mr. Namby proceeded to relate all he had heard at the Water House; and for once in his life he found Cyril Culverhouse a patient listener.
‘And Miss Harefield? How does she bear the shock?’
‘She is very quiet. She seems stupefied. The whole thing was so sudden. She and Miss Scratchell dined with Mr. Harefield yesterday evening. There was nothing to show that he was ill or agitated, or in any way different from his usual self.’
‘Who is with Miss Harefield?’
‘Only Miss Scratchell and the servants. That excellent Miss Scales is away in Devonshire, with an ailing relation; but she is expected back daily.’
‘She ought to be summoned at once. I’ll call at the Vicarage and ask Mrs. Dulcimer to go to the Water House.’
He turned back with Mr. Namby, and they walked together towards the Vicarage, which was at the other end of the village street.
Mr. Namby turned into his own garden gate, and left Cyril to go on alone to the Vicarage. Mr. Culverhouse had no exalted opinion of Mrs. Dulcimer’s good sense, but he highly estimated her good nature, and he could think of no one better whose friendship he could appeal to on Beatrix Harefield’s behalf. Mrs. Dulcimer was warmly attached to Beatrix. She would be overflowing with kindliness and sympathy in this hour of trouble.
The Vicar was in his library, Mrs. Dulcimer in the dining-room with Rebecca, allotting little heaps of warm clothing as Christmas gifts for her poor parishioners. The dining-table was covered with neatly made flannels and linsey petticoats. Mrs. Dulcimer and Rebecca were folding and smoothing the little packages, and admiring their own work, for Rebecca’s needle was as busy as her mistress’s in this benevolent labour.
Rebecca withdrew respectfully, at the curate’sentrance, and Cyril told Mrs. Dulcimer what had happened at the Water House. She interrupted him continually with questions and exclamations; but he got through his story somehow.
‘Poor dear child!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, when she had heard all; ‘coming into that fine estate; poor Mr. Harefield’s mother was a Pynsent, you know, and all the Pynsent property goes with the Harefield estate, and under such shocking circumstances. What a pity she hasn’t a husband to protect her interests! I shouldn’t wonder if the property were thrown into Chancery. If your cousin Kenrick had only been wise now——’
‘What do you mean, Mrs. Dulcimer?’
‘He might have been owner of the finest property in the West Riding. He might have been Beatrix’s husband by this time.’
‘I think the lady would have been entitled to a voice in the matter,’ said Cyril, ‘however wise my cousin Kenrick might have been.’
‘Oh, nonsense, Cyril! Such a young man as Kenrick might choose for himself. And in poor Beatrix’s position she would naturally have reciprocatedhis affection, if it had only been warmly offered.’
‘I cannot agree with you there. But if you will go and see the poor girl——’
‘I’ll put on my bonnet this instant. Will you come with me, Cyril?’
‘I think not, I should be of no use.’
‘Well, a man certainly is apt to be in the way under such circumstances. He never knows what to say, or what to leave unsaid.’
‘And a woman never errs in leaving anything unsaid,’ remarked the Vicar, entering through the curtained archway.
While Mrs. Dulcimer was putting on her bonnet, Cyril told the Vicar what Mr. Namby had said about the cause of Christian Harefield’s death, a detail which he had not communicated to Mrs. Dulcimer.
‘This makes it a painful business,’ said Cyril.
‘Very,’ answered the Vicar. ‘But I should not be surprised at Mr. Harefield having deliberately taken the dose that killed him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because to my mind he was a likely subject for suicide. Look at the life he led. A man must sooner or later get tired of leading such a life. Some day he must say to himself, “Wherefore, to what end do I live?” And then, if he is half an infidel, if religion exercises no restraining influence over his acts, he will make up his mind, suddenly, perhaps, to end his existence. He has no love of his fellow-men to anchor him to earth, no hope of anything bright or good waiting for him in the coming years. He has a very faint belief—possibly none at all—in a tribunal beyond this world where he will have to answer for his deeds. It is very clear to me that for the last ten years Christian Harefield’s life has been burdened by some incurable sorrow. He may have grown weary of bearing the sorrow, as people grow weary of bearing pain.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Cyril; ‘yet I should rather believe his death accidental.’
Mrs. Dulcimer went to the Water House, knowing no more than the fact of Mr. Harefield’s sudden death and his daughter’s desolation. She went upto Beatrix’s room, expecting that the stricken girl would throw herself into her arms and pour out all her woes upon that friendly bosom. Mrs. Dulcimer’s frills and puffings and broad bonnet-strings were in a flutter with the importance of her mission. She felt as if she were the young heiress’s legal guardian.
‘My dearest girl,’ she cried, ‘how my heart bleeds for you!’
But Beatrix was in a curious mood. She seemed not to want other people’s bleeding hearts. Indeed, her own heart was too deeply wounded to receive comfort from such sympathetic bleeding.
Mrs. Dulcimer made all the customary speeches which are made and provided for such occasions.
‘You must come to the Vicarage with me, my love,’ she said. ‘You must not stop in this dreary house.’
But here Beatrix was firm. She would not leave the house in which her dead father was lying.
‘We were not happy together while he was living,’ she said, ‘but I will not desert him now he is dead.’
And then she relapsed into a state of seeming apathy, from which Mrs. Dulcimer found it impossible to rouse her. Bella was there, looking pale and scared, but ready to be useful if she were required.
By and by, failing in all attempts at consolation, Mrs. Dulcimer went downstairs to talk this sad business over with the housekeeper and Mr. Scratchell, who had appeared upon the scene as legal representative of the deceased, and had already busied himself in a semi-official manner in locking up papers and setting seals on desks and cabinets in the library.
From the butler and housekeeper Mrs. Dulcimer heard details which she had not heard from Cyril Culverhouse. She was told all about the mysterious visitor of the previous night.
‘I believe he was one of Mrs. Harefield’s Italian friends,’ said the butler. ‘There was something familiar about his face. I could as good as swear I’ve seen him times and often before last night.’
‘As good as swearing won’t do,’ said Mr.Scratchell, with professional severity. ‘Unless you are prepared to make a direct statement upon oath you had better say nothing, about your impressions and recollections before the coroner by and by.’
‘The coroner!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, with a look of horror. ‘What has the coroner to do with it?’
‘Why, my dear madam, as Mr. Harefield’s death is both sudden and mysterious, there will naturally be an inquest. The notices have been sent round to the jury already, I believe, and the inquiry will be held here this afternoon. To-morrow being Christmas Day, you see, allows of no time being lost.’
‘Oh, this is too dreadful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer; ‘that poor girl, without a single relation, in a house of death, under such fearful circumstances. I must get her away.’
‘I would strongly recommend you to do nothing of the kind. Miss Harefield had better stop here. She will be wanted as a witness, for it was she who discovered her father’s death. Her leaving thehouse might create a scandal. She need not be alone. Bella can stay with her.’
‘Poor girl,’ sighed Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘What a position!’
And then, the ruling passion still dominant in her mind, she thought of Sir Kenrick Culverhouse, and what an opportunity this time of trouble might afford for the ripening of friendship into love. It was a time in which a young woman would naturally lean upon a masculine mind for support and guidance, in which words of comfort would sound stronger from masculine lips.
‘If Kenrick were only here to-day,’ thought Mrs. Dulcimer.
And then she remembered that Sir Kenrick had given her a half-promise that he would come back to Yorkshire in time to eat his Christmas dinner at the Vicarage.