On a morning early in the spring of last year, two men stood leaning against the mantelpiece of a room in one of the Government offices. The taller of the two--he who was at home in the room--was a slim, well-dressed man, wearing his hair parted in the middle, and a diamond pin in the sailor knot of his tie. He had his frock-coat open, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. The attitude denoted complacency, and the man was complacent.
"Well, the funny part of it is," he said lightly, his shoulders pressed against the mantelpiece, "that I am dining at the Burton Smiths' this evening!"
"Ah?" his companion answered, looking at him with eyes of envy. "And so you will see her?"
"Of course. She is to come to them to-day. But they do not know of our engagement yet, and as she does not want to blurt it out the moment she arrives--why, for this evening, it is a secret. Still I thought I would tell you."
He stepped away as he spoke, to straighten a red morocco-covered despatch-box, which stood on the table behind him. It bore, in addition to the flaunting gilt capitals "I.O.," a modest plate with the name "Ernest Wibberley"--his name.
The other waited until he resumed his place. Then, holding out his hand, "Well, I am glad you told me, old boy," he said. "I congratulate you most heartily, believe me."
"Thank you, Jack," Wibberley replied. "I knew you would. I rather feel myself that 'Fate cannot harm me. I have dined to-day.'"
"Happy dog!" said Jack; and presently he took himself off.
The Burton Smiths, of whom we've heard them speak, are tolerably well known in London. Burton Smith himself is a barrister with money and many relations--Irish landlords, Scotch members, Indian judges, and the like. His wife is young, gracious, and fond of society. Their drawing-rooms, though on the topmost flat of Onslow Mansions--rooms with sloping ceilings and a dozen quaint nooks and corners--are seldom empty during the regulation hours.
This particular dinner-party had been planned with some care. "Lady Linacre will come, no doubt," Mrs. Burton Smith had said one day at breakfast, conning a list she held in her hand; "and Mr. May."
But Burton Smith objected to May. "He will talk about nothing but India," he protested, "and the superiority of Calcutta to London. A little of these Bombay ducks goes a long way, my dear."
"Well, James," Mrs. Burton Smith replied placidly--the Hon. Vereker May is a son of Lord Hawthorn--"he will take me in, and I do not mind. Only I must have Mr. Wibberley on the other side to make conversation and keep me alive. Let me see--that will be three. And Joanna Burton--she comes that afternoon--four. Do you know, James, when we were at Rothley for Christmas I thought there was something between your cousin and Mr. Wibberley?"
"Then, for goodness' sake, do not let them sit together!" Burton Smith cried, "or they will talk to one another and to no one else."
"Very well," Mrs. Smith assented. "They shall sit facing one another, and Mr. Wibberley shall take in Mrs. Galantine. She will be sure to flirt with him, and we can watch Joanna's face. I shall soon see if there is anything between them."
Mr. Wibberley was a young man of some importance, if only in his capacity of private secretary to a Minister. He had a thousand acquaintances, and two friends--perhaps three. He might be something some day--was bound to be. He dressed well, looked well, and talked well. He was a little presumptuous, perhaps a trifle conceited; but women like these things in young men, and he had tact. At any rate, he had never yet found himself in a place too strait for him.
This evening as he dressed for dinner--as he brushed his hair, or paused to smile at some reflection--his own, but not in the glass--he was in his happiest mood. Everything seemed to be going well with him. He had no presentiment of evil. He was going to a house where he was appreciated. Mrs. Burton Smith was a great ally of his. And then there would be, as we know, some one else. Happy man!
"Lady Linacre," said his hostess, as she introduced him to a stout personage with white hair, a double chin, and diamonds. Wibberley bowed, making up his mind that the dowager was one of those ladies with strong prejudices, who drag their skirts together if you prove to be a Home Ruler, and leave the room if you mention Sir Charles Dilke. "Mr. May, you have met before," Mrs. Smith continued; "and you know Miss Burton, I think?"
He murmured assent, while she--Joanna--shook hands with him frankly and with the ghost of a smile, perhaps. He played his part well, for a moment; but halted in his sentence as it flashed across his mind that this was their first meeting since she had said "Yes." He recovered from his momentary embarrassment, however, before even Mrs. Burton Smith could note it, and promptly offered Mrs. Galantine his arm.
She was an old friend of his--as friends go in society. He had taken her in to dinner half a dozen times. "Who is that girl?" she asked, when they were seated; and she raised her glasses and stared through them at hervis-à-vis. "I declare she would be pretty if her nose were not so short."
He seized the excuse to put up his glass too, and take a long look. "It is rather short," he admitted, gazing with a whimsical sense of propriety at the deficient organ. "But some people like short noses, you know, Mrs. Galantine."
"Ah! And theatres in August!" she replied incredulously. "And drawing-room games! But, seriously, she would be pretty if it were not for that."
"Would she?" he questioned. "Well, I think she would, do you know?"
And certainly Joanna was pretty, though her forehead was too large, and her nose too small, and her lips too full. For her eyes were bright and her complexion perfect, and her face told of wit, and good temper, and freshness. She had beautiful arms, too, for a chit of nineteen. Mrs. Galantine said nothing about the arms--not out of modesty, but because her own did not form one of her strong points. Wibberley, however, was thinking of them, and whether a bracelet he had by him would fit them. He saw Joanna wore a bracelet--a sketchy gold thing. He considered whether he should take it for a pattern, or whether it might not be more pleasant to measure the wrist for himself.
But Mrs. Galantine returned to the charge. "She is a cousin, is she not?" she asked, speaking so loudly that Joanna looked across and smiled. "I have never met her before. Tell me all about her."
Tell her all about her! Wibberley gasped. He saw a difficulty in telling "all about her," the more as the general conversation was not brisk, and Joanna must bear a part. For an instant, indeed, his presence of mind failed him, and he cast an appalled glance round the table. Then he bent to his task. "Mrs. Galantine," he murmured sweetly, "pray--pray beware of becoming a potato!"
The lady dropped her knife and fork with a clatter. "A potato, Mr. Wibberley? What do you mean?"
"What I say," he answered simply. "You see my plate? It is a picture. You have there the manly beef, and the feminine peas, so young, so tender! And the potato! The potato is the confidante. It is insipid. Do you not agree with me?"
"Bravo, Mr. Wibberley! But am I to apply your parable?" she spoke sharply, glancing across the table, with her fork uplifted, and a pea upon it. "Am I to be the potato?"
"The choice is with you," he replied gallantly. "Shall it be the potato? or the peas?"
Mrs. Burton Smith, seeing him absorbed in his companion, was puzzled. Look as she might at Joanna, she saw no sign of jealousy or self-consciousness. Joanna seemed to be getting on perfectly with her partner; to be enjoying herself to the full, and to be as much interested as any one at table. Mrs. Burton Smith sighed. She had the instinct of matchmaking. And she saw clearly now that there was nothing between the two; that if there had been any philandering at Rothley neither of the young people had put out a hand--or a heart--beyond recovery.
But this success of Wibberley's with Mrs. Galantine had its consequences. After the ladies had withdrawn he grew a trifle presumptuous. By ill-luck, the Hon. Vereker May had reached that period of the evening when India--as seen through the glasses of his memory--was accustomed to put on its rosiest tints; and the two facing one another fell to debating on a subject of which the returned Civilian had seen much and thought little, and the private secretary had read more and thought not at all. They were therefore on a par as to information, and what the younger man lacked in obstinacy he made up in readiness. It was in vain the Nabob blustered, asserted, contradicted--finally grew sulky, silent, stertorous. Wibberley pushed his triumph, and soon paid dearly for it.
It happened that he was the last to enter the drawing-room. The evening was chilly, and the ladies had grouped themselves about the fire, protected from assault, by a couple of gipsy-tables bearing shaded lamps. The incomers, one by one, passed through these outworks--all but Wibberley. He cast a glance of comic despair at Joanna, who was by the fireplace in the heart of the citadel; then, resigning himself to separation, he took a low chair by one of the tables, and began to turn over the books which lay on the latter. There were but half a dozen. He scanned them all, and then his eyes fell on a bracelet which lay beside them; a sketchy gold bracelet, with one big boss--Joanna's.
He looked at the party--himself sitting a little aside, as we have said. They were none of them facing his way. They were discussing a photograph on the overmantel, a photograph of children. He extended his hand and covered the bracelet. He would take it for a pattern, and to-morrow Joanna should ransom it. He tried, as his fingers closed on it, to catch her eye. He would fain have seen her face change and her colour rise. It would have added to the charm which the boyish, foolish act had for him, if she had been privy to it--yet unable to prevent it.
But she would not look; and he was obliged to be content with his plunder. He slid the gold trifle deftly under the fringe of the table, and clasped it round his arm--not a lusty arm--thrusting it as high as it would go that no movement of his shirt-cuff might disclose it. He had a keen sense of the ridiculous, and he would not for the world that any besides Joanna should see the act: that doddering old fossil May, for instance, who, however, was safe enough--standing on the rug with his back turned, and his slow mind forming an opinion on the photograph.
Then--or within a few minutes, at any rate--Wibberley began to find the party dull. He saw no chance of a private word with Joanna. Lady Linacre, his nearest neighbour, was prosing on to Mrs. Burton Smith, his next nearest. And he himself, after shining at dinner, had fallen into the background. Hang it, he would go! It was ten o'clock.
He rose, and was stooping across the table, murmuring his excuses to Mrs. Burton Smith, when Lady Linacre uttered an exclamation. He was leaning across her between her head and the lamp, and he fancied he had touched her head-dress. "Pray pardon me, Lady Linacre!" he cried gaily. "I am just going--I have to leave early. So the encroachment will be but for a moment."
"It is not that," the old lady replied. "But where is my bracelet?" She was feeling about the table as she spoke, shifting with her white, podgy hands the volumes that lay on it.
No one on the instant took in the situation. Mrs. Burton Smith had risen, and was listening to Wibberley. The others were talking. But Lady Linacre was used to attention; and when she spoke again her voice was shrill, and almost indecently loud. "Where is my bracelet?" she repeated. "The one with the Agra diamond that I was showing you, Mrs. Burton Smith. It was here a moment ago, and it is gone! It is gone!"
Wibberley was still speaking to his hostess. He heard the old lady's words, but did not at once apply them. He finished his leave-taking at his leisure, and only as he turned recollected himself, and said, with polite solicitude, "What is it, Lady Linacre? Have you dropped something? Can I find it for you?"
He stooped as he spoke; and she drew her skirt aside, and both peered at the floor, while there was a chorus from those sitting nearest of, "What is it, Lady Linacre? Dear Lady Linacre, what have you lost?"
"My Agra diamond!" she replied, her head quivering, her fingers groping about her dress.
"No?" some one said in surprise. "Why, it was here a moment ago. I saw it in your hand."
The old lady held up her wrists. "See!" she said fussily, "I have not got it!"
"But are you sure it is not in your lap?" Burton Smith suggested. Lady Linacre had rather an ample lap. By this time the attention of the whole party had been drawn to the loss, and one or two of the most prudent were looking uncomfortable.
"No," she answered; "I am quite sure that I placed it on the table by my side. I am sure I saw it there. I was going to put it on when the gentlemen came in, and I laid it down for a minute, and--it is gone!"
She was quite clear about it, and looked at Wibberley for confirmation. The table stood between them. She thought he must have seen it; Mrs. Burton Smith being the only other person close to the table.
Burton Smith saw the look. "I say, Wibberley," he said, appealing to him, half in fun, half in earnest, "you have not hidden it for a joke, have you?"
"I? Certainly not!"
To this day Ernest Wibberley wonders when he made the disagreeable discovery of what he had done--that he had taken the wrong bracelet! It was not at once. It was not until the aggrieved owner had twice proclaimed her loss that he felt himself redden, and awoke to the consciousness that the bracelet was on his arm. Even then, if he had had presence of mind, he might have extricated himself. He might have said, "By Jove! I think I slipped it on my wrist in pure absence of mind," or, he might have made some other excuse for his possession of it--an excuse which would have passed muster, though one or two might have thought him odd. But time was everything; and he hesitated. He hated to seem odd, even to one or two; he thought that presently he might find some chance of restoring the bracelet. So he hesitated, peering at the carpet, and the golden opportunity passed. Then each moment made the avowal more difficult, and less ordinary; until, when his host appealed to him--"If you have hidden it for a joke, old fellow, out with it!"--madness overcame him, and he answered as he did.
He looked up, indeed, with well acted surprise, and said his "I? Certainly not!" somewhat peremptorily.
Half a dozen of the guests were peering stupidly about as if they expected to find the lost article in a flower-vase, or within the globe of a lamp. Presently their hostess stayed these explorations. "Wait a moment!" she said abruptly, raising her head. "I have it!"
"Well?"
"John must have moved it when he brought in the tea. That must be it. Ring the bell, James, and we will ask him."
It was done. John came in, and the question was put to him.
"Yes, sir," he said readily; "I saw a bracelet. On the table by the lamp." He indicated the table near Lady Linacre.
"Did you move it?"
"Move it, sir?" the man repeated, surprised by the question, the silence, and the strained faces turned to him. "No, sir; certainly not. I saw it when I was handing the tea to--to Mr. Wibberley, I think it was."
"Ah, very well," his master answered. "That is all. You may go."
It was not possible to doubt the man's face and manner. But when he had left the room, an uncomfortable silence ensued. "It is very strange," Burton Smith said, looking from one to another, and then, for the twentieth time, he groped under the table.
"It is very strange," Wibberley murmured. He felt bound to say something. He could not free himself from an idea that the others, and particularly the Indian Civilian, were casting odd looks at him. He appeared calm enough, but he could not be sure of this. He felt as if he were each instant changing colour, and betraying himself. His very voice sounded forced to his ear as he repeated fussily, "It is very odd--very odd! Where can it be?"
"It cost," Lady Linacre quavered--irrelevantly, but by no means impertinently--"it cost fourteen thousand out there. Indeed it did. And that was before it was set."
A hush as of awe fell upon the room. "Fourteen thousand pounds!" Burton Smith said softly, his hair rising on end.
"No, no," said the old lady, who had not intended to mystify them. "Not pounds; rupees."
"I understand," he replied, rubbing, his head. "But that is a good sum."
"It is over a thousand pounds," the Indian Civilian put in stonily, "at the present rate of exchange."
"But, good gracious, James!" Mrs. Burton Smith said impatiently, "why are you valuing Lady Linacre's jewellery--instead of finding it for her? The question is, 'Where is it?' It must be here. It was on this table fifteen minutes ago. It cannot have been spirited away."
"If any one," her husband began seriously, "is doing this for a joke, I do hope----"
"For a joke!" the hostess cried sharply. "Impossible! No one would be so foolish!"
"I say, my dear," he persisted, "if any one is doing this for a joke, I hope he will own up. It seems to me that it has been carried far enough." There was a chorus of assent, half-indignant, half-exculpatory. But no one owned to the joke. No one produced the bracelet.
"Well!" Mrs. Burton Smith exclaimed. And as the company looked at one another, it seemed as if they also had never known anything quite so extraordinary as this.
"Really, Lady Linacre, I think that it must be somewhere about you," the host said at last. "Would you mind giving yourself a good shake?"
She rose, and was solemnly preparing to agitate her skirts, when a guest interfered. It was the Hon. Vereker May. "You need not trouble yourself, Lady Linacre," he said, with a curious dryness. He was still standing by the fireplace. "It is not about you."
"Then where in the world is it?" retorted Mrs. Galantine. "Do you know?"
"If you do, for goodness' sake speak out," Mrs. Burton Smith added indignantly. Every one turned and stared at the Civilian.
"You had better," he said, "ask Mr. Wibberley!"
That was all. But something in his tone produced an electrical effect. Joanna, in her corner--remote, like the Indian, from the centre of the disturbance--turned red and pale, and flashed angry glances round her. For the rest, they wished themselves away. It was impossible to overlook the insinuation. The words, simple as they were, in a moment put a graver complexion on the matter. Even Mrs. Burton Smith was silent, looking to her husband. He looked furtively at Wibberley.
And Wibberley? So far he had merely thought himself in an unpleasant fix, from which he must escape as best he could, at the expense of a little embarrassment and a slight loss of self-respect. Even the latter he might regain to-morrow, if he saw fit, by telling the truth to Mrs. Burton Smith; and in time the whole thing would become a subject for laughter, a stock dinner-party anecdote. But now, at the first sound of the Indian's voice, he recognised his danger; and saw in the hundredth part of a second that ruin, social damnation, perhaps worse, threatened him. His presence of mind seemed to fail him at sight of the pit opening at his feet. He felt himself reeling, choking, his head surcharged with blood. The room, the expectant faces all turned to him, all with that strange expression on them, swam round before him. He had to lay his hand on a chair to steady himself.
But he did steady himself; to such an extent that those who marked his agitation did not know whether it proceeded from anger or fear. He drew himself up and looked at his accuser, holding the chair suspended in his hands. "What do you mean?" he said hoarsely.
"I should not have spoken," the Civilian answered, returning his gaze, and speaking in measured accents, "if Mr. Burton Smith had not twice appealed to us to confess the joke, if a joke it was."
"Well?"
"Well, only this," the other replied. "I saw you take Lady Linacre's bracelet from that table a few moments before it was missed, Mr. Wibberley."
"You saw me?" Wibberley cried. This time there was the ring of honest defiance, of indignant innocence, in his tone. For if he felt certain of one thing it was that no one had been looking at him when the unlucky deed was done.
"I did," the Civilian replied dispassionately. "My back was towards you. But my eyes were on this mirror"--he touched an oval glass in a Venetian frame which stood on the mantelpiece--"and I saw quite clearly. I am bound to say that, judging from the expression of your face, I was assured that it was a trick you were playing."
Ernest Wibberley tried to frame the words, "And now?"--tried to force a smile. But he could not. The perspiration stood in great beads on his face. He shook all over. He felt himself--and this time it was no fancy--growing livid.
"To the best of my belief," the Civilian added quietly, "the bracelet is on your left arm now."
Wibberley tried to master, but could not, the impulse--the traitor impulse?--which urged him to glance at his wrist. The idea that the bracelet might be visible--that the damning evidence might be plain to every eye--overcame him. He looked down. Of course there was nothing to be seen; he might have known it, for he felt the hot grip of the horrible thing burning his arm inches higher. But when he looked up again--fleeting as had been his glance--he found that something had happened. He faltered, and the chair dropped from his hands. He read in every face save one suspicion or condemnation. Thief and liar! He read the words in their eyes. Yet he would, he must, brazen it out. And though he could not utter a word he looked from them to--Joanna.
The girl's face was pale. But her eyes answered his eagerly, and they were ablaze with indignation. They held doubt, no suspicion. The moment his look fell on her, she spoke. "Show them your arm!" she cried impulsively. "Show them that you have not got it, Ernest!" she repeated with such scorn, such generous passion that it did not need the tell-tale name which fell from her lips to betray the secret to every woman in the room.
"Show them your arm!" Ah, but that was just what he could not do! And as he comprehended this he gnashed his teeth. He saw himself entrapped, and his misery was so plainly written in his face that the best and most merciful of those about him turned from him in pity. Even the girl who loved him shrank back, clutching the mantelpiece in the first spasm of doubt, and fear, and anguish. Her words, her suggestion, had taken from him his last chance. He saw that it was so. He felt the Nemesis the more bitterly on that account; and with a wild gesture, and some reckless word of defiance, he turned blindly and hurried from the room, seized his hat, and went down to the street.
His feelings when he found himself outside were such as it is impossible to describe in passionless sentences. He had wrecked his honour and happiness in an hour. He had lost his place among men through a thoughtless word. We talk and read of a thunderbolt from the blue; still the thing is to us unnatural. Some law-abiding citizen whom a moment's passion has made a murderer, some strong man whom a stunning blow has left writhing on the ground, a twisted cripple--only these could fitly describe his misery and despair as he passed through the streets. It was misery he had brought on himself; and yet how far the punishment exceeded the offence! How immensely the shame exceeded the guilt! He had lied in careless will, with no evil intent; and the lie had made him a thief!
He went up to his rooms like one in a dream, and, scarcely knowing what he did, he tore the bauble from his arm and flung it on the mantel-shelf. By his last act--by bringing it away--he had made his position a hundred times more serious. But he did not at once remember this. After he had sat a while, however, with his head between his hands, wondering if this really were himself--if this really had happened to himself, this irrevocable thing!--he began to see things more clearly. But he could not at once make up his mind what to do. Beyond a hazy idea of returning the bracelet by the first post, and going on the Continent--of course, he must resign his employment--he had settled nothing, when a step mounting the staircase made him start to his feet. Some one knocked at the door of his chambers. He stood pallid and listened, struck by a sudden fear.
"The police!" he said to himself.
A moment's thought satisfied him that it was improbable, if not impossible, that they could be on his track so soon; and he went to the door listlessly and threw it open. On the mat stood Burton Smith, in a soft slouched hat, his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat. Wibberley glanced at him, and saw that he was alone; then leaving him to shut the door, he returned to his chair, and sat down in his old attitude, with his head between his hands. He looked already a broken man.
Burton Smith followed him in, and stood a moment looking at him uncomfortably enough. It is bad to have had such a scene as has been described in your house; it is worse, if a man be a man, to face a fellow-creature in his hour of shame. At any rate, Burton Smith felt it so. "Look here, Wibberley," he said at length, as much embarrassed as if he had been the thief. "Look here, it will be better to hush this up. Give me the d----d bracelet to hand back to Lady Linacre, and the thing shall go no farther."
His tone was suggestive both of old friendship and of present pity. But when he had to repeat his question, when Wibberley gave him no answer, his voice grew more harsh. Even then the man with the hidden face did not speak, but pointed with an impatient gesture to the mantel-shelf.
Burton Smith stepped to the fire-place and looked. He was anxious to spare the culprit as far as possible. Yes, there was the bracelet. He took possession of it, anxious to escape from the place with all speed. But he laid it down the next instant as quickly as he had taken it up; and his brows came together as he turned upon his companion.
"This is not the bracelet!" he said. There was no smack of affection in his tone now; it was wholly hostile. His patience was exhausted. "Lady Linacre's was a diamond bracelet of great value, as you know," he said. "This is a plain gold thing worth two or three pounds. For Heaven's sake, man!" he added with sudden vehemence, "for your own sake, don't play the fool now! Where is the bracelet?"
Doubtless despair had benumbed Wibberley's mind, for he did not reply, and Burton Smith had to put his question more than once before he got an answer. When Wibberley at last looked up it was with a dazed face. "What is it?" he muttered, avoiding the other's eyes.
"This is not Lady Linacre's bracelet."
"That's not?"
"No; certainly not."
Still confused, still shunning the other's look, Wibberley rose, took the bracelet in his hand, and frowned at it. Burton Smith saw him start.
"It is of the same shape," the barrister repeated, ice in his voice--he thought the exchange a foolish, transparent artifice--worse than the theft. "But Lady Linacre's has a large brilliant where that has a plain boss. That is not the bracelet."
Wibberley turned away, the thing in his hand, and went to the window, and stood there a long moment looking out into the darkness. The curtains were not drawn. As he stood, otherwise motionless, his shoulders trembled so violently that a dreadful suspicion seized his late host, who desisted from watching him and looked about, but in vain, for a phial or a glass.
At the end of the minute Wibberley turned. For the first time he confronted his visitor. His eyes were bright, his face very pale; but his mouth was set and firm. "I never said it was!" he answered.
"Was what?" the other cried impatiently.
"I never said it was Lady Linacre's. It was you who said that," he continued, his head high, a change in his demeanour, an incisiveness almost harsh in his tone. "It was you--you who suspected me! I could not show you my arm because I had that bracelet on it."
"And whose bracelet is it?" Burton Smith murmured, shaken as much by the sudden change in the man's demeanour as by his denial.
"It is your cousin's--Miss Burton's. We are engaged," Wibberley continued sternly--so entirely had the two changed places. "She intended to tell you to-morrow. I saw it on the table, and secreted it when I thought that no one was looking. I needed a pattern--for a bracelet I am giving her."
"And it was Joanna's bracelet that Vereker May saw you take?"
"Precisely."
Burton Smith said a word about the Civilian which we need not repeat. Then, "But why on earth, old fellow, did you not explain?" he asked.
"First," Wibberley replied with force, "because I should have had to proclaim my engagement to all those fools; and I had not Joanna's permission to do that. Secondly--well, I did not wish to confess to being such an idiot as I was."
"Ah!" said Burton Smith, slowly, an odd light in his eyes. "I think you were a fool, but--I suppose you will shake hands?"
"Certainly, old man." And they did so, warmly.
"Now," continued the barrister, his face becoming serious again, "the question is, where is Lady Linacre's bracelet?"
"I don't care a d----n," Wibberley answered. "I am sure you will excuse me saying so. I have had trouble enough with it--I know that--and, if you do not mind, I am going to bed."
But though his friend left him, Wibberley did not go to bed at once. Burton Smith hurrying homeward--to find when he reached Onslow Mansions that Lady Linacre's bracelet had been discovered in a flounce of her dress--would have been surprised, very much surprised indeed, could he have looked into Wibberley's chambers a minute after his departure. He would have seen his friend down on his knees before a great chair, his face hidden, his form shaken by hysterical sobbing. For Wibberley was moved to the inmost depths of his nature. It is not given to many men to awake and find their doom a dream. Only in dreams, indeed, does the cripple get his strength again, and the murderer his old place among his fellow-men. Wibberley was fortunate.
And the lesson? Did he take it to heart? Well, lessons and morals are out of fashion in these days. Or stay--ask Joanna. She should know.
"Eighty-eight when he died! That is a great age," I said.
"Yes, indeed. But he was a very clever man, was Robert Evans Court, and brewed good beer," my companion answered. "His home-brewed was known, I am certain, for more than ten miles. You will have heard of his body-birds, sir?"
"His body-birds?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, to be sure. Robert Evans Court's body-birds!" With which he looked at me, quick to suspect that his English was deficient. He had learned it in part from books; hence the curious mixture I presently noted of Welsh idioms and formal English phrases. It was his light trap in which I was being helped on my journey, and his genial chat that was lightening that journey; which lay through a part of Carnarvonshire usually traversed only by wool-merchants and cattle-dealers--a country of upland farms swept by the sea-breezes, where English is not spoken at this day by one person in a hundred, and even at inns and post-offices you get only "Dim Sassenach" for your answer. "Do you not say," he went on, "body-birds in English? Oh, but to be sure, it is in the Bible!" with a sudden recovery of his self-esteem.
"To be sure!" I replied hurriedly. "Of course it is! But as to Mr. Robert Evans, cannot you tell me the story?"
"I'll be bound there is no man in North or South Wales, or Carnarvonshire, that could tell it better, for Gwen Madoc, of whom you shall hear presently, was aunt to me. You see Robert Evans"--and my friend settled himself in his seat and prepared to go slowly up the long steep hill of Rhiw which rose before us--"Robert Evans lived in an old house called Court, near the sea, very windy and lonesome. He was a warm man. He had Court from his father, and he had mortgages, and as many as four lawsuits. But he was unlucky in his family. He had years back three sons who helped on the farm, or at times fished; for there is a cove at Court and good boats. Of these sons only one was married--to a Scotchwoman from Bristol, I have heard, who had had a husband before, a merchant captain; and she brought with her to Court a daughter, Peggy, ready-made as we say. Well, of those three fine men there was not one left in a year. They were out fishing in a boat together, and Evan--that was the married one--was steering as they came into the cove on a spring tide running very high with a south wind. He steered a little to one side--not more than six inches, upon my honour--and pah! in an hour their bodies were thrown up on Robert Evans' land just bits of seaweed. But that was not all. Evan's wife was on the beach at the time, so near she could have thrown a stone into the boat. They do say that before that she was pining at Court--it was bleak, and lonesome, and cold in the winters, and she had been used to live in the towns. But, however, she never held up her head after Evan was drowned. She took to her bed, and died in the short month. And then, of all at Court, there were left only Robert Evans and the child, Peggy."
"How old was the child then?" I asked. He had paused, and was looking to the front, thoughtfully, striving, it would seem, to make the situation clear to himself.
"She was twelve, and the old man eighty and more. She was in no way related to him, you will remember, but he had her stop, and let her want for nothing that did not cost money. He was very careful of money, as was right; it was that made him the man he was. But there were some who would have given money to be rid of her. Year in and year out they never let the old man rest but that he should send her to service at least--though her father had been the captain of a big ship; and if Robert Evans had not been a stiff man of his years, they would have had their will."
"But who----"
By a gesture he stopped the words on my lips; and then there rose mysteriously out of the silence about us the sound of wings, a chorus of shrill cries. A hundred white forms swept overhead, and fell a white cluster about something in a distant field. They were seagulls. "Just those same!" he said proudly, jerking his whip in their direction--"body-birds. When the news that Robert Evans' sons were drowned got about, there was a pretty uprising in Carnarvonshire. There seemed to be Evanses where there had never been Evanses before. As many as twenty walked in the funeral, and you may be sure that afterwards they did not leave the old man to himself. The Llewellyn Evanses were foremost. They had had a lawsuit with Court, but made it up now, to be sure. Besides, there were Mr. and Mrs. Evan Bevan, and the three Evanses of Nant, and Owen Evans, and the Evanses of Sarn, and many more who were all forward to visit Court, and be friendly with old Gwen Madoc, Robert's housekeeper. I am told they could look black at one another, but in this they were all in one tale, that the foreign child should be sent away; and at times one and another would give her the rough word."
"She must have had a bad time," I observed.
"You may say that. But she stayed, and it was wonderful how strong and handsome she grew up, where her mother had just pined away. The sailors said it was her love of the sea; and I have heard that people who live inland about here come to think of nothing but the land--it is certain that they are good at a bargain--while the fishermen who live with a great space before them are finer men, I have heard, in their minds as well as their bodies; and Peggybachgrew up like them, free and open and up-standing, though she lived on land. When she was in trouble she would run down to the sea, where the salt spray washed away her tears and the wind blew her hair, that was of the colour of seaweed, into a tangle. She was never so happy as when she was climbing the rocks among the seagulls, or else sitting with her books in the cove where the farm-people would not go for fear of hearing the church bells that bring bad luck. Books? Oh yes, indeed next to the sea she was fond of books. There were many volumes, I have been told, that were her mother's; and Robert Evans, though he was a Wesleyan, went to church because there was no Wesleyan chapel, the Calvinistic Methodists being in strength here; and the minister lent her many English books and befriended her. And I have heard that once, when the Llewellyn Evanses had been about the girl, he spoke to them so that they were afraid to drive down Rhiw hill that night, but led the horse; and I think it may be true, for they were Calvinists. Still, he was a good man, and I know that many Calvinists walked in his funeral."
"Requiescat in pace," said I.
"Eh! Well, I don't know how that may be," he replied, "but you must understand that all this time the Llewellyn Evanses, and the Evanses of Nant, and the others would be at Court once or twice a week, so that all the neighbourhood called them Robert Evans' body-birds; and when they were there Peggy McNeill would be having an ill time, since even the old man would be hard to her; and more so as he grew older. But, however, there was a better time coming, or so it seemed at first, the beginning of which was through Peter Rees's lobster-pots. He was a great friend of hers. She would go out with him to take up his pots--oh, it might be two or three times a week. So it happened one day, when they had pushed off from the beach, and Peggy was steering, that old Rees stopped rowing on a sudden.
"'Why don't you go on, Peter?' said Peggy.
"'Bide a bit,' said old Rees.
"'What have you forgotten?' said she, looking about in the bottom of the boat. For she knew what he used very well.
"'Nought,' said he. But all the same he began to put the boat about in a stupid fashion, afraid of offending her, and yet loth to lose a shilling. And so, when Peggy looked up, what should she see but a gentleman--whom Rees had perceived, you will understand--stepping into the boat, and Peter Rees not daring to look her in the face because he knew well that she would never go out with strangers.
"Of course the young gentleman thought no harm, but said gaily, 'Thank you! I am just in time.' And what should he do, but go aft and sit down on the seat by her, and begin to talk to Rees about the weather and the pots. And presently he said to her, 'I suppose you are used to steering, my girl?'
"'Yes,' Peggy answered, but very grave and quiet-like, so that if he had not determined that she was old Rees's daughter he would have taken notice of it. But she was wearing a short frock that she used for the fishing, and was wet with getting into the boat moreover.
"'Will you please to hold my hat a minute,' he said; and with that he put it in her lap while he looked for a piece of string with which to fasten it to his button. Well, she said nothing, but her cheeks were scarlet, and by-and-by, when he had called her 'my girl' two or three times more--not roughly, but just offhand, taking her for a fisher-girl--Peter Rees could stand it no longer, shilling or no shilling.
"'You mustn't be speaking that fashion to her,' he said gruffly.
"'What?' said the gentleman looking up. He was surprised, and no wonder, at the tone of the man.
"'You mustn't speak like that to Miss McNeill Court,' repeated old Rees more roughly than before. 'You are to understand she is not a common girl, but like yourself.'
"The young gentleman turned and looked at her just once, short and sharp, and I am told that his face was as red as hers when their eyes met. 'I beg Miss McNeill's pardon,' he said, taking off his hat grandly, yet as if he meant it too; 'I was under a great misapprehension.'
"After that you may believe they did not enjoy the row much. There was scarcely a word said by any one until they came ashore again. The visitor, to the great joy of Peter, who was looking for a sixpence, gave him half a crown; and then walked away with the young lady, side by side with her, but very stiff and silent. However, just as they were parting, Peter could see that he said something, having his hat in his hand the while, and that Miss Peggy, after standing and listening, bowed as grand as might be. Upon which they separated for that time.
"But two things came of this; first, that every one began to call her Miss McNeill Court which was not at all to the pleasure of the Llewellyn Evanses. And then, that whenever the gentleman, who was a painter lodging at Mrs. Campbell's of the shop, would meet her, he would stop and say a few words, and more as the time went on. Presently there came some wet weather; and Mrs. Campbell borrowed for his use books from her, which had her name within; and later he sent for a box of books from London, and then the lending was on the other side. So it was not long before people began to see how things were, and to smile when the gentleman treated old Robert Evans at the Newydd Inn. The fishermen, when he was out with them, would tack so that he might see the smoke of Court over the cliffs; and there was no more Peggybachto be met, either rowing with Peter Rees or running wild among the rocks, but a very sedate young lady who, to be sure, did not seem to be unhappy.
"The old man was ailing in his limbs at this time, but his mind was as clear as ever, and his grip of the land as tight. He could not bear, now that his sons were dead, that any one should come after him. I am thinking that he would be taking every one for a body-bird. Still the family were forward with presents and such-like, and helped him perhaps about the farm; so that, though there was talk in the village, no one could say what will he would make.
"However, one day towards winter Miss Peggy came in late from a walk, and found the old man very cross. 'Where have you been?' he cried angrily. Then, without any warning, 'You have been courting,' he said, 'with that fine gentleman from the shop?'
"'Well,' my lady replied, putting a brave face upon it, as was her way, 'and what then, grandfather? I am not ashamed of it.'
"'You ought to be!' he cried, banging his stick upon the floor. 'Do you think that he will marry you?'
"'Yes, I do,' she replied stoutly. 'He has told you so to-day, I know.'
"Robert Evans laughed, but his laugh was not a pleasant one. 'You are right,' he said. 'He has told me. He was very forward to tell me. He thought I was going to leave you my money. But I am not! Mind you that, my girl.'
"'Very well,' she answered, white and red by turns.
"'You will remember that you are no relation of mine!' he went on viciously, for he had grown very crabbed of late. 'No relation! And I am not going to leave you money. He is after my money. He is nothing but a fortune-catcher!'
"'He is not!' she exclaimed, as hot as fire, and began to put on her hat again.
"'Very well! We shall see!' answered Robert Evans. 'Do you tell him what I say, and see if he will marry you. Go! Go now, girl, and you need not come back! You will get nothing by staying here!' he cried, for what with his jealousy and the mention of money, he was furious--'not a penny! You had better be off at once!'
"She did not answer for a minute or so, but she seemed to change her mind about going, for she laid down her hat, and went about the house-place getting tea ready--and no doubt her fingers trembled a little--until the old man cried, 'Well, why don't you go? You will get nothing by staying.'
"'I shall stay to take care of you all the same,' she answered quietly. 'You need not leave me anything, and then--and then I shall know whether you are right.'
"'Do you mean it?' he asked sharply, after looking at her in silence for a time.
"'Yes,' said she.
"'Then it's a bargain!' cried Robert Evans--'it's a bargain!' And he said not a word more about it, but took his tea from her and talked of the Llewellyn Evanses who had been to pay him a visit that day. It seemed, however, as if the matter had upset him, for he had to be helped to bed, and complained a good deal, neither of which things were usual with him.
"Well, it is not unlikely that the young lady promised herself to tell her lover all about it next day, and looked to hear many times over from his lips that it was not her money he wanted. But this was not to be, for early the next morning Gwen Madoc was at her door.
"'You are to get up, miss,' she said. 'The master wants you to go to London by the first train.'
"'To London!' cried Peggy, very much astonished. 'Is he ill? Is anything the matter, Gwen?'
"'No,' the old woman answered very short. 'It is just that.'
"And when the girl, having dressed hastily, came down to Robert Evans' room, she found that this was pretty nearly all they would tell her. 'You will go to Mrs. Richard Evans, who lives at Islington,' he said, as if he had been thinking about it. 'She is my second cousin, and will find house-room for you, and make no charge whatever. To-morrow you will take this packet to the address upon it, and the next day a packet will be returned to you, which you will bring back to me. I am not well to-day, and I want to have the matter settled, yes, indeed.'
"'But could not some one else go, if you are not well?' she objected, 'and I will stop and take care of you.'
"He grew very angry at that. 'Do as you are bidden, girl,' he said. 'I shall see the doctor to-day, and for the rest, Gwen can do for me. I am well enough. Do you look to the papers. Richard Evans owes me money, and will make no charge for your living.'
"So Miss Peggy had her breakfast, and in a wonderfully short time, as it seemed to her, she was on the way to London, with plenty of leisure for thinking--very likely for doubting and fearing as well. She had not seen her sweetheart, that was one thing. She had been despatched in a hurry, that was another. And then, to be sure, the big town was strange to her.
"However, nothing happened there, I may tell you. But on the third morning she received a short note from Gwen Madoc, and suddenly rose from breakfast with Mrs. Richard, her face very white. There was news in the letter--news of which all the neighborhood for miles round Court was full. Robert Evans, if you will believe it, was dead. After ailing for a few hours he had died, with only Gwen Madoc to smooth his pillow.
"It was late when she reached the nearest station to Court on her way back, and found a pony trap waiting. She was stepping into it when Mr. Griffith Hughes, the lawyer, saw her, and came up to speak.
"'I am sorry to have bad news for you, Miss McNeill,' he said, and he spoke nicely, for he was a kind man, and, what with the shock and the long journey, she was looking very pale.
"Oh, yes,' she answered, with a sort of weary surprise; 'I know it already. That is why I am come home--to Court, I mean.'
"He saw that she was thinking only of Robert Evans' death, which was not what was in his mind. 'It is about the will,' he said in a whisper, though he need not have been so careful, for every one in the neighbourhood had learned about it from Gwen Madoc. 'It is a cruel will. I would not have made it for him, my dear. He has left Court to the Llewellyn Evanses, and the money between the Evanses of Nant and the Evan Bevans.'
"'It is quite right,' she answered, so calmly that he stared. 'My grandfather explained it to me. I understood that I was not to be in the will.'
"Mr. Hughes looked more and more puzzled. 'Oh, but,' he replied, 'it is not so bad as that. Your name is in the will. He has laid it upon those who get the land and money to provide for you--to settle a proper income upon you. And you may depend upon me for doing my best to have his wishes carried out.'
"The young lady turned very red, and her voice was hard.
"'Who are to provide for me?' she asked. "'The three families who divide the estate,' he said.
"'And are they obliged to do so?'
"'Well--no,' he allowed. 'I am not sure that they are exactly obliged. But no doubt----"
'"I doubt very much,' she answered, taking him up with a smile. And then she shook hands with him and drove away, leaving him wondering at her courage.
"Well, you may suppose it was a dreary house to which she came home. Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was executor, had been before the Llewellyn Evanses in taking possession, and besides a lad or two in the kitchen there were only Gwen Madoc and the servant there, and it was little they seemed to have to tell her about the death. When she had heard what they had to say, and they were all on their way to bed, 'Gwen,' she said softly, 'I think I should like to see him.'
"'So you shall, to-morrow, honey,' answered the old woman. 'But do you know,bach, that he has left you nothing?' and she held up her candle suddenly, so as to throw the light on the girl's tired face.
"'Oh!' she answered with a shudder, 'how can you talk about that now?' But presently she had another question ready. 'Have you seen Mr. Venmore since--since my grandfather's death, Gwen?' she asked timidly.
"'Yes, indeed,bach,' answered the housekeeper. 'I met him at the door of the shop this morning. I told him where you were, and that you would be back to-night. And about the will moreover.'
"The girl stopped at her own door and snuffed her candle. Gwen Madoc went slowly up the next flight, groaning over the steepness of the stairs. When she turned to say good night, the girl was at her side, her eyes shining in the light of the two candles.
"'Oh, Gwen,' she whispered, 'didn't he say anything?'
"'Not a word,bach,' answered the old woman, stroking her hair tenderly. 'He just went into the house in a hurry.'
"Miss Peggy, I am believing, went into her room much in the same way. No doubt she would be telling herself a great many times over before she slept that he would come and see her in the morning: and in the morning she would be saying, 'He will come in the afternoon'; and in the afternoon, 'He will come in the evening.' But evening came, and darkness, and still he did not appear. Then she could endure it no longer. She let herself out of the front door, which there was no one now to use but herself, and with a shawl over her head she ran all the way to the shop. There was no light in the window upstairs; but at the back door stood Mrs. Campbell, looking after some one who had just left her.
"The girl came, shrinking at the last moment, into the ring of light about the door. 'Why, Miss McNeill!' cried the other, starting at sight of her. 'Is it you, honey? And are you alone?'
"'Yes; and I cannot stop. But oh, Mrs. Campbell, where is Mr. Venmore?'
"'I know no more than yourself, my dear,' the good woman said reluctantly. 'He went from here yesterday on a sudden--to take the train, I am supposing.'
"'Yesterday? At what time, please?' the young lady asked. There was a fear, which she had been putting from her all day. It was getting a footing now.
"'Well, it would be about midday. I know it was just after Gwen Madoc called in about the----'
"'But the girl was gone. It was not to Mrs. Campbell she could make a moan. It was only the night-wind that caught the 'Oh, cruel!' which broke from her as she went up the hill. Whether she slept that night at all I am not able to say. Only when it was dawn she was out upon the cliffs, her face very white and sad-looking. The fishermen who were up early going out with the ebb saw her at times walking fast, and then again standing still and looking seaward. But I do not know what she was thinking, only I should fancy that the gulls had a different cry for her now, and it is certain that when she returned and came down into the parlour at Court for the funeral, there were none of the Evanses could look her in the face with comfort.
"They were all there, of course. Mr. Llewellyn Evans--he was an elderly man, with a grey beard like a bird's nest, and thick lips--was sitting with his wife on the horse-hair sofa. The Evanses of Nant, who were young men with lank faces and black hair combed upwards, were by the door. The Evan Bevans were at the table; and there were others, besides Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was undoing some papers when she entered.
"He rose and shook hands with her, marking the dark hollows under her eyes, and fixing it in his mind to get her a settlement. Then he hesitated, looking doubtfully at the others. 'We are going to read the will before the funeral instead of afterwards,' he said.
"'Oh!' she answered, taken aback--for she had forgotten all about the will. 'I did not know. I will go, and come later.'
"'No, indeed!' cried Mrs. Llewellyn Evans, 'you will be doing well, whatever, to hear the will--though no relation, to be sure.'
"But at that Gwen Madoc came in, and peered round with an air of importance. 'Maybe some one,' she said in a low voice, 'would like to take a last look at the master?'
"But no one moved. They sighed and shook their heads at one another as if they would like to do so--but no one moved. They were anxious, you see, to hear the will. Only Peggy, who had turned to go out, said, 'Yes, Gwen, I should,' and slipped out with the old woman.
"'There is nothing to keep us now?' said Mr. Hughes, briskly, when the door was closed again. And every one nodding assent the lawyer went on to read the will, which was not a long one. It was received with a murmur of satisfaction, and much use of pocket-handkerchiefs.
"'Very fair,' said Mr. Llewellyn Evans. 'He was a very clever man, our old friend.' All the legatees murmured after him 'Very fair!' and a word went round about the home-brewed, and Robert Evans' recipe for it. Then Llewellyn, who thought he ought to be taking the lead at Court now, said it was time to be going to church.
"'There is one matter,' put in Mr. Griffith Hughes, 'which I think ought to be settled while we are all together. You see that there is a--what I may call a charge on the three portions of the property in favour of Miss McNeill.'
"'Indeed, but what is that you are saying?' Llewellyn cried sharply. 'Do you mean that there is a rent charge?'
"'Not exactly a rent charge,' said the lawyer.
"'No!' cried Llewellyn with a twinkle in his eyes. 'Nor any obligation in law whatever?'
"'Well, no,' Mr. Hughes assented grudgingly.
"'Then,' said Llewellyn Evans, getting up and putting his hands in his pockets, while he winked at the others, 'we will talk of that another time.'
"But Mr. Hughes said, 'No!' He was a kind man, and anxious to do the best for the girl, but he somewhat lost his temper. 'No!' he said, growing red. 'You will observe, if you please, Mr. Evans, that the testator says, "Forthwith--forthwith," so that, as sole executor, it is my duty to ask you to state your intentions now.'
"'Well, indeed, then,' said Llewellyn, changing his face to a kind of blank, 'I have no intentions. I think that the family has done more than enough for the girl already.'
"And he would say no other. Nor was it to any purpose that the lawyer looked at Mrs. Llewellyn. She was examining the furniture, and feeling the stuffing of the sofa, and did not seem to hear. He could make nothing of the three Evanses, Nant. They all cried, 'Yes, indeed!' to what Llewellyn said. Only the Evan Bevans remained, and he turned to them.
"'I am sure,' he said, addressing himself to them, 'that you will do something to carry out the testator's wishes? Your share under the will, Mr. Bevan, will amount to three hundred a year. This young lady has nothing--no relations, no home. May I take it that you will settle--say fifty pounds a year upon her? It need only be for her life.'
"Mr. Bevan fidgeted, but his wife answered the lawyer as bold as brass. 'Certainly not, Mr. Hughes,' she said. 'If it were twenty pounds now, once for all, or even twenty-five--and Llewellyn and my nephews would say the same--I think we might manage that?'
"But Llewellyn shook his head obstinately. 'I have said I have no intentions, and I am a man of my word, whatever!' he answered. 'Let the girl go to service. It is what we have wanted her to do. Here are my nephews. They will be liking a young housekeeper.'
"Well, they all laughed at this except Mr. Hughes, who gathered up his papers, looking very black, and not thinking of future clients. Llewellyn, however, did not care a penny for that, but walked to the bell, masterful-like, and rang it. 'Tell the undertaker,' he said to the servant, 'that we are ready.'
"It was as if the words had been a signal, for they were followed by an outcry overhead and quick running upon the stairs. The legatees looked uncomfortably at the carpet; the lawyer was blacker than before. He said to himself, 'It is that poor child that has fainted!' The confusion seemed to last some minutes. Then the door was opened, not by the undertaker, but by Gwen Madoc. The mourners rose, they were thankful to see her; to their surprise she passed by Llewellyn, and with a frightened face walked across to the lawyer. She whispered something in his ear.
"'What!' he cried starting back a pace, and speaking so that the wine-glasses on the table rattled again. 'Do you know what you are saying, woman?'
"'It is true,' she answered, half-crying, 'and no fault of mine neither.' Gwen added more in short sentences, which the family, strain their ears as they might, could not overhear.
"'I will come!' cried the lawyer. He waved his hand to them to make room for her to pass out. Then he turned to them, a queer look upon his face; it was not triumph altogether, for there was some doubt and some alarm in it as well. 'You will believe me,' he said, 'that I am as much taken aback as yourselves--that till this moment I have been as much in the dark as any one. It seems--so I am told--that our old friend is not dead.'
"'What are you meaning!' cried Llewellyn in his turn. 'It is not possible!' and he raised his black-gloved hands.
"'What I say,' Mr. Hughes replied patiently. 'I hear--wonderful as it sounds--that he is not dead. Something about a trance, I believe--a mistake discovered in time. I tell you all I know; and however it comes about, it is clear we ought to be glad that Mr. Robert Evans is spared to us.'
"With that he was glad to escape from the room. When he was gone, I am told that their faces were very strange to see. There was a long silence. Llewellyn was the first to speak. He swore a big oath and banged his great hand upon the table. 'I do not believe it!' he cried. 'I do not believe it! It is a trick!'
"But as he spoke the door opened behind him, and they all turned to see what they had never thought to see, I am sure. They had come to walk in Robert Evans' funeral; and here was the gaunt form of Robert Evans himself coming in, with an arm of Gwen Madoc on one side and of Miss Peggy on the other--Robert Evans beyond doubt alive. Behind him were the lawyer and Dr. Jones, a smile on their lips, and three or four women, half frightened, half wondering.
"The old man was pale, and seemed to totter a little, but when the doctor would have placed a chair for him, he declined it, and stood gazing about him, wonderfully composed for a man just risen from his coffin. He had all his old aspect as he looked upon the family. Llewellyn's declaration was still in their ears, and they could find not a word to say either of joy or grief.
"'Well, indeed,' said Robert, with a dry chuckle, 'have none of you a word to throw at me? I am a ghost, I suppose? Ho, ho!' he exclaimed, as his eye fell on the papers which Mr. Hughes had left upon the table. 'That is why you are not overjoyed at seeing me. You have been reading my will. Well, Llewellyn! Have not you a word to say to me now you know for what I had got you down?'
"At that Llewellyn found his tongue, and the others chimed in finely. Only there was something in the old man's manner that they did not like; and presently, when they had all told him how glad they were to see him again--just for all the world as if he had been ill for a few days--Robert Evans turned again to Llewellyn.
"'You had fixed what you would do for my girl here, I'm thinking?' he said, patting her shoulder gently, at which the family winced. 'It was a hundred a year you promised to settle, you know. You will have arranged, whatever.'
"Llewellyn looked stealthily at Mr. Hughes, who was standing at Robert Evans' elbow, and muttered that they had not reached that stage.
"'What!' the old man cried sharply. 'How was that?'
"'I was intending,' Llewellyn began lamely, 'to settle----'
"'You were intending!' Robert Evans burst forth in a voice so changed that they all started back. 'You are a liar! You were intending to settle nothing! I know it well! I knew it long ago! Nothing, I say! As for you,' he went on, wheeling furiously round upon the Evanses of Nant, 'you knew my wishes. What were you going to do for her? What, I say? Speak, you hobbledehoys!'
"But they were backing from him in absolute fear of his passion, looking at one another or at the sullen face of Llewellyn Evans, or anywhere save at him. At length the eldest blurted out, 'Whatever Llewellyn meant to do, we were going to do, sir.'
"'You speak the truth there,' cried old Robert, bitterly; 'for that was nothing. Very well! I promise you that what Llewellyn Evans gets of my property you shall get too--and it will be nothing! You, Bevan,' and he turned himself towards the Evan Bevans who were shaking in their shoes, 'I am told, did offer to do something for my girl.'
"'Yes, dear Robert,' cried Mrs. Bevan, eagerly, 'we did indeed.'
"'So I hear. Well, when I make my next will, I will set you down for just so much as you proposed to give her! Peggy,bach,' he continued, turning from the lady, who was looking very queer, and putting into the girl's hands the will which the lawyer had given him, 'tear up this rubbish! Tear it up! Now let us have something to eat in the other room. What, Llewellyn Evans, no appetite!'
"But the family did not stay even to partake of the home-brewed. They were out of the house, I am told, before the coffin and the undertaker's men. There was big talking amongst them, as they went, of a conspiracy and a lunatic asylum. But though, to be sure, it was a wonderful recovery, and the doctor and Mr. Hughes as they drove away after dinner were very merry together--which may have been only the home-brewed--at any rate all that came of Llewellyn's talking and inquiries was that every one laughed very much, and Robert Evans' name for a clever man was known beyond Carnarvon.
"Of course it would be open house at Court that day, with plenty of eating and drinking and coming and going. But towards five o'clock the place grew quiet. The visitors had gone home, and Gwen Madoc was upstairs. The old man was sleeping in his chair opposite the settle, and Miss Peggy was sitting on the window-seat watching him, her hands in her lap, and her thoughts far away. Maybe she was trying to be really glad that the home, about which the cows lowed and the gulls screamed in the afternoon stillness that made it seem home each minute, was hers still; that she was not quite alone, nor friendless, nor poor. Maybe she was striving not to think of the thing which had been taken from her and could not be given back. Whatever her thoughts, she was roused by some sound to find her eyes full of hot tears, through which she could see that the old man was awake and looking at her with a strange expression which disappeared as she became aware of it.
"He began to speak. 'Providence has been very good to us, Peggy,' he said with grim meaning. 'It is well for you, my girl, that your eyes are open to see our kind friends as they are. There is one besides those who were here this morning that will wish he had not been so hasty.'
"She rose quickly and looked out of the window. 'Please don't speak of him,' she pleaded in a low tone. 'Let us forget him.'
"But Robert Evans seemed to take a delight in the--well, the goodness of Providence. 'If he had come to see you only once, when you were in trouble,' he said, as if he were summing up the case in his own mind, and she were but a stick or a stone, 'we could have forgiven him, and I would have said you were right. Or even if he had written.'
"'Oh, yes, yes!' the girl sobbed, her tears raining down her averted face. 'Don't torture me! You were right and I was wrong--all wrong!'
"'Yes, indeed! Just so. But come here, my girl,' said the old man. 'Come!' he repeated, as, surprised in the midst of her grief, she wavered and hesitated, 'sit here;' and he pointed to the settle opposite to him. 'Now, suppose I were to tell you he had written, and that the letter had been--mislaid, shall we say? and come somehow to my hands? Now don't get excited, girl!'
"'Oh!' Peggy cried, her lips parted, her eyes wide and frightened, her whole form stiff with a question.
"'Just suppose that, my dear,' continued Robert, 'and that the letter were now before us--would you stand by it? Remember, he must have much to explain. Would you be guided by me, my girl?'