Between the time of Murbridge's funeral and his own arrival at Childerbridge, Jim had plenty of leisure to consider his position, and to make up his mind as to how much he should let Alice know of the other's story.
After mature consideration, he decided that he had better tell her everything. Yet it had been such a painful shock to himself that he could well understand how it would affect her.
It was mid-morning when he arrived at Childerbridge, and Alice had walked down to the gates to meet him. He alighted from the carriage on seeing her, and they strolled across the park together.
"I have been so anxious to hear from you," she said, linking her arm through her brother's. "What have you to tell me? Did you find that wretched man?"
"Yes, I found him," he answered, "and he was dying."
She paused for a moment before she put the next question.
"And did he confess?"
"No," said Jim. "I firmly believe I wronged him in suspecting him of—of what happened. But I made another discovery, and one, I fear, that will cause you some astonishment and not a little pain. I learnt from him that his name was not Murbridge, but McCalmont."
"McCalmont?" she echoed, as if she did not understand. "But that was our mother's maiden name."
"Exactly," said Jim, "and he was her brother!"
Alice looked at him in horrified surprise.
"Oh, Jim," she answered, "surely such a thing cannot be possible?"
"I am afraid it is only too true," Jim replied. "His story was most circumstantial. He was our mother's youngest brother, and was, I am very much afraid, a disgrace to the family."
"But if he had been our mother's brother, why did he entertain such a deadly hatred for our father?" she asked.
"For the simple reason that father had been successful, while he had been the reverse," Jim replied. "I rather fancy the poor old governor had helped him out of one or two of his worst scrapes, and such being the perverse nature of mankind, he hated him for the very benefits he had received from him."
They walked some distance in silence.
"Poor, wretched man," said Alice at last. "Oh, Jim, you don't know how thankful I am that he was not the author of that terrible crime. And now, before we say anything further, there's one thing I must talk to you about."
"What is that?" he enquired.
"It is about Helen," she answered. "I met her in the village this morning. I don't want to frighten you, but she is looking very ill. She seems to have come to look years older within the last few days. There is a frightened expression on her face that haunts me even now."
Jim was troubled. This was bad news indeed.
"Did she give you any reason for it?" he enquired.
"She tried to account for it by saying that her grandfather had not been at all well lately, and that she had had rather a trying time with him."
"Alice," said Jim, after the short pause that ensued, "I have come to the conclusion that old Bursfield is insane. Helen did not tell you, I suppose, that he uttered all sorts of threats against me the other day. For some reason or another he has taken an intense dislike to me."
"She said nothing about it," Alice answered. "I am sorry for her. What is best to be done, do you think?"
"It is difficult to say," Jim answered. "One thing is quite certain. She cannot go on living with him if he is to continue in this strain. Under such circumstances there is a limit even to a woman's fidelity. I must endeavour to see her as soon as possible."
"Would it do for me to go and see her, do you think?" asked Alice. "I should then be able to tell you something definite about Mr. Bursfield's condition."
Jim shook his head.
"No," he said, "such a thing would not be wise. I must think the matter over and see what is best to be done."
By the time he reached the house he had arrived at a conclusion.
"Do you remember, Alice," he said, "that clever young doctor that we met at the Caltrops on the evening that we dined with them, soon after our arrival in England? His name was Weston. Mrs. Caltrop declared that, before many years were past, he would be a recognised authority on mental diseases."
"I remember him quite well," Alice answered. "He took me in to dinner, and was so interested in Australia. He had a brother in Sydney, I think. What about him."
"Well, I have made up my mind to telegraph to Mrs. Caltrop for his address, and having got it, to wire and ask him to come down and see Mr. Bursfield. He would be able to tell me then whether or not it is safe for Helen to go on living with him. If he says not, then she must leave him at once."
"I should think it would be a very good plan, provided always that you can get Mr. Bursfield to see him. You will find that the difficulty."
"Not at all," Jim answered. "I have a scheme that I think will answer. At any rate we will try it."
A telegram was accordingly despatched to Mrs. Caltrop, asking her to forward the address of the doctor in question. This done, Jim sent for Terence.
"Well, Terence," he said, when the latter made his appearance, "any sign of the Black Dwarf during my absence?"
"Never a one, sir," Terence replied. "I kept my eyes and ears open all night, and waited about after dark, but there's not been so much as a mouse stirring."
"I am glad to hear it," Jim remarked, and then gave Terence a brief description of his visit to London, and of what he had discovered there.
"Then if it wasn't he as did it," said Terence, "who could it have been?"
Before he answered, Jim looked at the door, as if to make sure that it was closed.
"Terence," he said, "I am gradually coming to the conclusion that the Black Dwarf, whoever he may be, was responsible for it."
"I've thought of that myself, sir," Terence replied.
"In the first place, he was seen by one of the maid-servants in the gallery on the night that my father was murdered."
"Don't they say, sir, as how another gentleman was murdered in the same way in this house?"
"I believe there is some legend to that effect," said Jim, "but how true it is, I cannot say. I don't think, however, we need take that circumstance into consideration."
"Then what are we to do, sir?"
"Watch and wait until we catch him," Jim replied. "When we've done that we shall be satisfied whether he is flesh or blood or not, and if he is, by what right he dares to enter my house."
There was a lengthy pause, then with a diffidence that was somewhat unusual with him, Terence said:
"You'll excuse me, sir, I hope, for saying such a thing, but between you and me, sir, I cannot help thinking that we was happier at Mudrapilla."
Jim heaved a heavy sigh. A longing to be back in the old home, and to be engaged in the pursuits he had been brought up to from a boy, had been with him a great deal of late.
"Yes," he said. "I think we were happier at Gundawurra. I must go back there soon, Terence, if only for a whiff of Bush air. I am very much afraid that playing the fine gentleman in England does not suit me."
When the other had left the room, Jim lay back in his chair and fell into a reverie. He closed his eyes, and was transported back to the old home where he had been born, and where he had spent his happiest days. How sweet it would be to settle down there some day, with Helen as his wife. He tried hard to realise the day's work upon the run; the home-coming at night, to find Helen at the gate waiting for him; the evenings spent in the cool verandah, with the moon rising above the river timber. Then he came back to the very real anxieties of the present. An hour later a message came from Mrs. Caltrop. It was as follows:
"Doctor Weston, Harley Street."
"Doctor Weston, Harley Street."
Whereupon he took another telegraph form and wired to the doctor to the effect that he would be grateful if he could make it convenient to travel down to Childerbridge that afternoon. In order that the latter might understand from whom the message emanated, he added the words, "Met you at dinner at Mrs. Caltrop's." Luncheon was scarcely finished before a message arrived from the doctor saying that he would endeavour to be at Childerbridge at four o'clock. Accordingly at half-past three Jim drove to the railway station to await his coming. Punctual to the moment the train steamed into the station, and he looked about among the passengers for the man he wanted.
Presently he descried him coming along the platform—a tall, good-looking man, resembling a soldier more than a Harley Street physician.
"Mr. Standerton, I believe," he said as he approached Jim.
"And you are Doctor Weston, of course," the latter answered with a smile.
"Now," said the doctor, "I will commence, Mr. Standerton, by saying that it is absolutely necessary that I should catch the six o'clock train back to London."
"I will arrange that you do so," Jim replied, and then the doctor surrendered his ticket and they strolled out of the station. "Now, perhaps, I had better tell you my reasons for asking you to come down to-day. Shall we walk a little way along the road. I have no desire to be overheard. I will now make you acquainted with the facts of the case, in order that you may go direct to the house of the gentleman I want you to see."
"He is not a member of your own family, then?" the doctor enquired.
"No, he is no sort of relation. In fact, I had not seen him until a few months ago."
They paused beside a gate and faced each other.
"I gather that it is rather an unusual case?" the doctor remarked.
"A very unusual one," Jim replied. "The matter stands in this way. I am engaged to a young lady who is the adopted granddaughter of the gentleman in question."
The doctor nodded, but said nothing. He listened attentively, while Jim told his tale, explained his fears for Helen's safety, and described the threats the old gentleman had made use of concerning himself.
When he had finished Dr. Weston drew some lines on the ground with the point of his umbrella, as if he were working out a difficult calculation.
"This is certainly a singular case, Mr. Standerton," he said at last. "You are not connected with this gentleman in any way, and he, not approving of your marriage with his granddaughter, has forbidden you his house. The young lady's only reason for believing him to be a little weak in his intellect is his treatment of you. I really do not know whether, under the circumstances, I should be justified in seeing him."
Jim's heart sank. He had not looked at the matter from this point of view. Observing his disappointment, the doctor smiled.
"Nevertheless," he continued, "I will see him, provided you will give me your promise that my report shall be considered a purely confidential one."
"Am I to understand that I am not to acquaint Miss Decie or my sister with your decision?"
"Of course, I will allow you to tell them, and equally, of course, provided it goes no further."
"In that case I will give you my promise most willingly," said Jim.
"And now the question comes as to how I can obtain my interview with him."
"I have thought out a plan that should enable you to do that," Jim replied. "I happen to know that for a long time past he has been engaged in writing a history of the neighbourhood, and my house in particular which at one time was the property of his family."
"Quite so; and the ruins a mile or two back, what are they called?"
"Clevedon Castle," Jim answered. "I believe it was destroyed by Cromwell."
"That should answer my purpose. And now with your permission I will drive to his house—not in your carriage, but in a cab. I shall see you afterwards, I presume?"
"I will wait for you here, or at my own house, whichever you please," said Jim.
"Your house, I think, would be better," the doctor answered. "I will drive there directly I leave Mr.——. By-the-way, you have not told me his name or given me his address."
Jim furnished him with both, and then the doctor hailed a fly and drove away.
It was nearly half-past five before Jim was informed by Wilkins that Dr. Weston had called, and that he had been shown to the study.
He immediately proceeded thither, to find the doctor sitting before the fire.
"Well, Mr. Standerton," he began, "I have seen Mr. Bursfield, and have had rather a curious interview with him."
"And what decision have you come to?"
"Well, I think your supposition is correct. Not to be technical, I might say that he is not really responsible for his actions. While we discussed archæology, and the history of the neighbourhood, he was rational enough, but when I chanced to touch upon this house, and your connection with it, his whole demeanour changed. If I were in your place I should avoid him as much as possible, for there can be no doubt that he would do you a mischief if he could. As for Miss Decie, I would not advise you to persuade her to leave him, at least not at present. It would in all probability immediately produce unfavourable results, and in so doing might snap the frail link that still connects him with Sanity. The influence she exerts over him, where you are not concerned, is undoubtedly a beneficial one."
"Am I to consider that she is safe with him?"
"I should say so," the doctor replied. "Of course, if he has many more of these paroxysms of rage it might be necessary for her to leave him. But she must be the best judge of that. Doubtless you can arrange that with her. And now I must be getting back to the railway station; if I wish to catch my train I have not much time to lose."
"I am exceedingly obliged to you, Doctor Weston," said Jim gratefully. "I cannot say that you have made my mind easier, but you have at least let me know exactly how matters stand with Mr. Bursfield."
"I am glad to have been of service," said the doctor.
James handed him an envelope containing his fee, and escorted him to the door. When he had seen him depart he returned to the drawing-room and communicated his intelligence to his sister.
"Poor Helen," said Alice, "it is no wonder that she looks anxious. What will you do now, Jim?"
"I must take the night to think the matter over," he answered. "Since the old man is undoubtedly mad, and not only mad, but dangerously so, I cannot bear to contemplate her remaining with him, and yet I have no desire to hasten the crisis."
All the evening Jim brooded over the matter, imagining all sorts of dangers for the woman he loved. At last the time came for them to retire to rest. He was in the act of lighting Alice's candle in the hall, when the sound of steps on the gravel path outside attracted his attention.
"Good gracious!" cried Jim, "who on earth can it be at this time of the night?"
So saying, he hastened to the door. The lights from the hall shone on the steps, and showed him Helen Decie, standing, bareheaded, before him. For a moment the shock at seeing her there at such an hour, and in such a plight, deprived him of speech. Alice was the first to break the silence.
"Helen, my dear girl," she cried, "what does this mean?"
Then Helen stepped into the hall, and James closed the door behind her. He had scarcely done so, before she gave a little cry and fell to the floor in a dead faint. Picking her up, Jim carried her to the big settee in the centre.
"My poor girl," he cried, "what has he done to you?" Then, turning to Alice, he added, "What can have happened?"
She did not answer him, but sped upstairs to her bedroom, to presently return with a bottle of smelling salts. Under their restorative influence, consciousness very soon returned, and Helen looked about her in a dazed fashion, as if she could not realise where she was.
"Do you feel well enough to tell what has taken place, dear?" Jim asked, when she had so far recovered as to be able to sit up. "What has brought you here bareheaded at this time of night?"
"My grandfather has turned me out of his house," she answered falteringly.
"Turned you out of the house?" repeated both Jim and Alice together. Then Alice added: "Surely not? He ought to be turned out himself."
"You must not be angry with him," said Helen. "I really don't think he knows what he is doing."
"But this is an unheard-of thing," Jim said angrily. "He must have taken leave of his senses."
"He accused me of being in league with you to poison him, and bade me come to an instant decision as to whether I would give you up or leave the house."
"And my noble girl refused to give me up?" said James, kissing her hand.
"Helen acted nobly," said Alice. "Never mind, dear, you know where your real friends are, don't you?"
"But whatever shall I do?" the girl put in. "He bade me leave the house and never come back again."
"We will arrange all that to-morrow," Jim replied. "For to-night, Alice will take care of you. Do not worry, dear heart, all will come right in the end."
Then he proceeded to inform her of Dr. Weston's visit that afternoon, and of the report that gentleman had given of the old gentleman's mental condition.
"I cannot tell why," she said, "but I had some sort of suspicion that he came for that purpose. Poor grandfather, how sad it is to think of his being like this. Since he does not know what he is doing, we should not be angry with him for acting as he did."
At this juncture Alice departed to make arrangements for her friend's comfort for the night.
"Oh, Jim dear, what do you think will become of me?" Helen asked. "Think for me, for I cannot think for myself."
"I think I can hazard a very good guess what your fate will be," said Jim. "To-morrow morning I shall go up to London to obtain a special license, and the day after you shall become my wife."
Unexpected as the events of the evening had been, Jim Standerton, as he stood in his bedroom before retiring to rest, could not declare that he altogether regretted the turn they had taken. On the morrow he would go to London, and afterwards, armed with the Law's authority, he would make Helen Decie his wife without delay. From that moment Mr. Bursfield might do his worst. Before retiring to his room he had visited Terence, and had received from him a positive assurance that so far all was right for the night. Knowing that he might trust the latter implicitly, he had given him an account of what had happened that evening.
"The sooner, sir, they put that old man under lock and key the better it will be for everybody," said Terence. "Let him just come playing his little game round here, and he'll have me on his track like a Nyall blackfellow."
Half-an-hour later, Jim was in bed and asleep, dreaming that he was back in the Bush once more, and that he and Terence were chasing wild horses through a mountain range, and that, on the foremost horse, Helen was seated, clinging to his mane, as if for dear life. He was galloping after her as fast as his horse could carry him, when suddenly a hand clutched him by the throat, and tried to lift him out of the saddle.
At that moment, however, he woke to find that this was no dream, but the most horrible reality he had ever known in his life. Bony fingers were clutching tightly at his windpipe, rendering it impossible for him to breathe. He endeavoured to rise and to seize his assailant, whoever he might be, and throw him off. But his efforts were unavailing. Still those talon-like fingers retained their hold; try as he would he could not weaken their terrible grip. Little by little he felt himself sinking. The room was in such total darkness that it was impossible to discover whom his antagonist might be. In the last extremity of his agony he rolled from the bed and lay helpless upon the floor, entangled in the clothes. With the fall, his assailant lost his grip of his throat. Then something must have startled him, for a moment later the door opened, and he was gone. Disengaging himself as quickly as possible from the bed-clothes, Jim staggered to his feet, half stunned by the fall and the terrific conflict in which he had so lately been engaged. As soon as he recovered he lit a candle, hastened to the door, opened it and passed out into the gallery. No one was to be seen there, but he had not gone many paces before he heard the same clicking noise that had arrested his attention on the first occasion of his seeing the Black Dwarf. Making his way round the gallery, he reached the room occupied by Terence. The door stood ajar, and from the noises that proceeded from within, he gathered that his trusty servant was not only in bed, but fast asleep. He crossed and shook him by the shoulders.
"Get up, Terence," he whispered softly. "Get up at once."
"What's the matter?" asked the half-awakened man. "Why, it's you, sir. Is there anything wrong?"
"I should rather think so," Jim replied. "Look at my throat and see if you can detect any marks upon it."
The other held up the candle as he was directed. On either side of his throat were a number of bruises and scratches, and some of the latter were bleeding profusely.
"My gracious, sir!" said Terence; "it looks as if somebody had been trying to strangle you."
"You've hit it exactly," Jim replied. "Good heavens! Terence, I've been nearly murdered. You've no idea what a fight of it I've had in the dark. The man, whoever he was, finding that he couldn't finish me, bolted, and has gone down some secret passage in the gallery. Terence, we must catch him somehow."
Terence sprang out of bed, and while he was dressing, Jim hastened back to his room and also donned some clothes. This done, he returned to Terence's bedroom, to discover that worthy in the act of lacing his boots.
"It's a funny business this, sir!" Terence remarked. "I wish I had been behind that gentleman when he was trying to settle you. I'd have given him one for his precious nob, ghost or no ghost."
"I expect you would. Now be as quick as you can, for there is not a moment to lose if we want to catch him."
Terence immediately announced himself as ready, and then, taking their candles, they set off round the gallery towards the corridor where Jim felt sure his mysterious assailant had disappeared. Inspection showed them that the door of the stairs at the further end, leading down to the domestic offices, was securely fastened on the other side. Having made sure of this, they tried, as on a previous occasion, the various rooms along the corridor, searching each one most carefully. But no success attended their efforts.
"It is quite certain that he is not in any of these rooms," said Jim. "Now what we have to do is to discover the entrance to that secret passage. I shall not rest content until we have found that."
They accordingly returned to the corridor, where they set to work once more to over-haul the wainscotting. Beginning at one end, they worked to the other; their efforts, however, met with no more success than they had done in the searching of the rooms. Every panel of the wainscotting seemed as hollow as its fellow—each projection as firmly secured.
"And yet I am as certain that it is somewhere about here that he disappeared," said Jim.
At the entrance to the corridor from the gallery were two square pillars elaborately carved with fruit. Jim had explored his side, having pressed and pulled every pear and apple, with the usual result. Suddenly Terence touched him on the arm.
"Look here, sir," he whispered, "what's this? It seems to me that this grape is not very firm."
Jim turned to him and knelt down beside the bunch of fruit indicated. It certainly did seem as if the lowest grape of the bunch were loose. It shook under his finger, and yet showed no sign of coming off.
"I believe we've got it at last," he said, pressing upon the grape, as he spoke, with all his strength. Yet it did not move. He endeavoured to push it in the direction of the gallery, but still it remained immovable. He tried forcing it from him towards the corridor, when to his amazement it left its place and moved half an inch or so away. As it did so there was a heavy creaking noise, and a portion of the panelling of the corridor, some three feet in width and six feet high, swung inwards, disclosing a black cavity, which might either have been a well or a staircase. Both men drew back in astonishment, half expecting that Jim's assailant, if he were concealed within, would dash out upon them.
"We've found the place at last," said Jim. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, we shall be able to solve the mystery of the famous Childerbridge ghosts. Hold your candle aloft, Terence, so that we can see what we are doing, and we'll descend and discover where it leads to."
"Let me go first, sir," Terence returned. "After the fight you had upstairs, you may not be up to the mark, and I'm dying to have a turn with him, if he's as big as a church."
But Jim would not hear of this, and bade the other follow him. Holding their lights aloft, they descended the narrow stone steps. They were longer than they expected to find them, and when they reached the bottom Jim knew that they must be some distance beneath the level of the foundations of the house. They were then standing in a passage, some four feet wide by seven in height. The walls and ceiling were of brick, the floor composed of huge blocks of stone. Everything reeked with damp while the air was as close and musty as a vault. Being resolved to leave no part of it unexplored, Jim pushed on closely followed by Terence. For economy's sake they blew out one of the candles, not knowing how far they might have to travel, or what might happen to them by the way. They had not been more than three minutes in the passage before Jim stopped, and turning to his companion, held up his hand.
"What's up?" he asked.
A sound as of heavy blows upon stone reached them from above.
"I can tell you what it is, sir," said Terence, after a moment's reflection. "It's the horses, and it means that we're under the stables."
"In that case it must run the entire width of the house and burrow under the courtyard. It means also that the direction is due east. This is growing interesting. Come along."
After this discovery they pushed on with increased speed, but the passage showed no signs of coming to an end. The air was close, but now and again draughts poured in upon them to prove that though they could not see them, there must be vent holes somewhere.
"I wouldn't have believed such a place could have existed," said Jim. "It seems as if we have come miles. By Jove, what's that?"
As he spoke the light of his candle shone upon a dark mass huddled upon the floor. A second later it became apparent that it was the figure of a man.
"Take care, sir," said Terence, as Jim hastened towards the prostrate form, "it may be the man we want, and he's as like as not shamming."
"We'll soon find that out," answered Jim, and knelt down beside the prostrate figure.
While Terence held the candle, Jim rolled the figure over until they were able to see the face. Then he uttered a cry of horror.The man lying before them was none other than Abraham Bursfield!
"Good heavens, this is too terrible," said Jim, after the long pause which followed, during which he had assured himself that he had made no mistake as to the other's identity. "Is he dead, do you think, Terence?"
"Quite dead, sir," Terence replied, after he too had knelt down and examined him. "If he's the man who tried to kill you, he'll never do any more mischief to anybody again."
But Jim did not answer. A sickening feeling of giddiness was taking possession of him. If it were Abraham Bursfield who had done his best to murder him that night, it was only logical to conclude that he was also the man who had murdered his father. Doctor Weston had declared him to be a madman that afternoon. Now he had certainly proved himself to be one of the most dangerous type. If that were the case what a narrow escape Helen had had.
"What's to be done, Terence?—what's to be done?" Jim asked almost piteously. "We could not have made a more terrible discovery."
"There'll have to be an Inquest, sir," said Terence.
"When it will be found that he entered my house and endeavoured to murder me. Then it will be remembered how my father died. Two and two will be put together, and the terrible truth will come out. That would break Miss Decie's heart."
"Good heavens! sir, I see what you mean," said Terence. "I never thought of that."
"He was mad, Terence, hopelessly mad, and therefore not responsible for his actions. Poor Miss Decie!"
"Aye, poor young lady. If she was so fond of the old gentleman, it would break her heart to know what he has been trying to do."
"She must never know," said Jim, who by this time had made up his mind. "I can trust you, Terence."
"To the death, sir, and I think you know it. I've served you, sir, and I served your father before you, and I don't think you ever found me wanting. Tell me what you think of doing."
"We must get him back to his own house, if possible," said Jim, "and let him be found dead there. No one but our two selves will know the truth, and if we keep silence, no one need ever know that we found him here. I cannot let Miss Decie be made more unhappy than she is."
"I don't know but that you are right, sir," Terence answered. "But how are we going to get him to the Dower House?"
"We must go along the passage and see where it leads to. If I am not mistaken it will take us there. This place must have been made years ago, when the two properties were one. We will leave the body here, and, if I am right in my conjecture, we can come back for it."
They accordingly allowed the remains of Mr. Bursfield to lie where they had found them, and proceeded on their tour of exploration. As it transpired, they had still a considerable distance to go before they reached the end of the tunnel. At last, however, they found themselves at the foot of a flight of stone steps, similar to those by which they had descended at the Manor House.
"Tread very quietly," Jim whispered to his companion. "We must on no account rouse the servants."
They noiselessly ascended the stairs until they found themselves at the top, and confronted by a door.
"I'll get you to stay here, Terence," Jim whispered, "while I open this door and see where we are."
He soon discovered what appeared to be a spring in the middle of the door, and when he had pressed it, had the satisfaction of seeing the door swing inwards. Shading the candle with his hand, Jim stepped into the room he found before him. His surprise at finding himself in Mr. Bursfield's study, the same room in which he had his last unpleasant interview with the old gentleman, can be better imagined than described. The secret door, he observed, formed part of the panelling on one side of the fireplace, a fragment of carving in the setting of the chimney-piece being the means of opening it. The old man's papers and books were littered about the table just as he had left them; a grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the further right-hand corner, while a little mouse watched Jim from beneath the sofa, as if it were endeavouring to ascertain his errand there at such an hour.
Having made sure of his whereabouts, Jim returned to the passage, closing the door carefully behind him.
"We must lose no time," he whispered to Terence; "it is already a quarter to three. Heaven grant that Isaac, his man-servant, does not take it into his head to look in upon his master during the night. He would then find him absent, and that would make it rather difficult to explain the fact of his being found dead in his chair in the morning."
By this time their first candle had expired, and it became necessary to light that Terence was carrying.
"If we are not very careful we shall be compelled to make our way back in the dark, after we have carried him up here," said Jim. "This candle will scarcely see us through."
"Never mind that, sir, so long as we can get him in here safely," said Terence. "I have got a box of matches in my pocket, and we can fumble our way back somehow."
They accordingly set off, and in due course reached the place where they had left the old man's body.
"How are we to carry him?" asked Jim.
"Oh, you leave that to me, sir. I can manage it," answered Terence. "If you'll go ahead with the light, I'll follow you."
So saying, he picked up the frail body, as if its weight were a matter of no concern to him, and they set off on their return journey to the Dower House. If the distance had appeared a long one before, it was doubly so now. At last, however, they reached the steps, climbed them, and a few moments later were standing in the dead man's study once more. In spite of his assertions to the contrary, it was plain that his exertions had taxed Terence's strength to its utmost. Between them they placed the body in the chair before the table.
This done, they left the room as quietly as they had entered it, and made their way down the steps once more. Jim's prophecy that the return journey would have to be made in darkness was fulfilled, for they had scarcely reached the place where they had discovered the body ere the candle fluttered out and they found themselves in inky darkness.
Terence struck a match, but its feeble flicker was of little or no use to them. Fumbling their way along by the wall they continued to progress, until a muttered exclamation from Terence, who was leading, proclaimed the fact that they had reached the steps at the further end.
"Bad cess to 'em," said he, "I've barked my shins so that I shall have good cause to remember them to my dying day."
He thereupon lit another match, and by means of this modest illumination they climbed to the door in the corridor above.
"Heaven be thanked! we're safe home once more," said Jim, as they stepped into the passage. "I trust I may never experience another night like this."
Whispering to Terence to follow him quietly, he led the way round the gallery and downstairs to the dining-room, where he unlocked the Tantalus and poured out a glass of spirits for Terence and another for himself. Both stood in need of some sort of stimulant after all they had been through.
"Not a word must be breathed to any living being of this, Terence," he said, as he put his glass down. "Remember, I trust my secret to you implicitly."
"I give you my word, sir, that nobody shall ever hear it from me," answered Terence, and then the two men solemnly shook hands.
"Now, before we go to bed, I'll get you to come to my room and have a look at my throat," said Jim; "it's uncommonly sore."
This proved to be the case. And small wonder was it, for the finger marks were fast turning to bruises, while the scratches showed up as fiery-red as ever. Jim shuddered again and again as he recalled that awful struggle and compared his escape with his father's cruel fate.
"Another moment and in all probability he would have done for me too," he said to himself, and then added somewhat inconsequently, "Poor Helen!"
When his wounds had been dressed, he despatched Terence to bed; for his own part, however, he knew that sleep was impossible. In fact, he did not attempt to seek it, but seating himself in a comfortable chair, proceeded to read, with what attention he could bestow upon the operation, until daylight.
When the sun rose he dressed himself and went out, wearing a scarf instead of a collar, in order that the wounds he had received might not be apparent to the world. The memory of that hateful passage under the park haunted him like an evil dream. He determined to have it closed at once for good and all. While he remained the owner of Childerbridge no one should ever set foot in it again. He was still wondering how he could best carry out the work without exciting suspicion or comment, when he observed an old man crossing the park towards him. As he drew nearer, Jim became aware that it was old Isaac, Mr. Bursfield's man-servant and general factotum. It was also to be seen that he was in a very agitated state.
"God have mercy upon us, sir!" he said, as he came up to Jim; "I've had such a fright. Is Miss Helen with you?"
"She is," Jim replied, and then endeavouring to speak unconcernedly, he added—"Has Mr. Bursfield sent you to find her?"
"The poor gentleman will never send me on another errand," Isaac replied solemnly; "he has been sent for himself. He is dead!"
"What's that you say?" cried Jim, trying to appear as if he were scarcely able to believe that he heard aright. "Do you mean to tell me that Mr. Bursfield is dead?"
"Yes, sir," said the old man; "when I went into his study this morning to open the shutters, I found him seated at his table in the arm-chair stone dead. I ran up at once to Miss Helen's room to tell her, only to find that her bed had not been slept in. Me and my wife searched the house for her, but she is not to be found anywhere. Oh, sir, what does it all mean?"
"It means that Miss Decie came to my house last night at about eleven o'clock. Mr. Bursfield's condition was such that she was afraid to remain in the house with him any longer. You must have noticed that he has been very strange of late?"
"The poor old gentleman has been ailing for some days past," Isaac replied. "He always was quick tempered, but for the last month or so he doesn't seem to have been able to control himself. Perhaps it isn't right for a servant to say it, sir, but there 'ave been times lately when I 'ave been afraid that his reason 'ave been a-failing him. There was a time when he couldn't make enough of Miss Helen, but lately he's been scarce able to speak civil to her. It's a sad thing, sir, a very sad thing, especially for a servant that's worked for him true and faithful for nigh upon forty years."
"His fit of rage last night must have hastened the end," said Jim. "The news you bring will affect Miss Decie very painfully. You had better go back and send at once for the doctor; I will return to the Manor House and tell Miss Decie."
"I humbly thank you for your kindness, sir," the man replied. "I will do what you say, and perhaps you will be kind enough to come over later."
When he had extracted the other's promise he hobbled off, and Jim returned to his own house. He found Helen and Alice in the hall, standing before the great fireplace in earnest conversation. He bade them as cheery a good morning as was possible under the circumstances, and when he had done so his sister enquired why his throat was wrapped up so closely.
"It's a trifle sore this morning," Jim replied, with some truth. "That's all. It will be all right very soon."
He then suggested that they should go in to breakfast. He had determined to break the news of Mr. Bursfield's death to Helen after the meal. This he did with great gentleness. The shock, however, was a severe one, nevertheless, but she did her best to meet it bravely.
"Poor old grandfather," she said after a while, "I always feared that his death would come like this. Oh how sorry I am that he should have died believing that I had ceased to love him."
"He could not have done that," Jim replied. "In his inmost heart he must have known that your affection was one that could never change."
She shook her head, however.
"Will you take me to him?" she enquired, and Jim, feeling that it would not be wise not to do so, consented to go with her to the Dower House. Side by side they crossed the park by the path they had come to know so well, entered the house by the little postern door, and were met in the hall by the village doctor whom Isaac had summoned.
"My dear Miss Decie," he said as they shook hands, "will you accept my heartfelt sympathy for you in your trouble. I fear it must have been a terrible shock."
"It has affected me more than I can say," she answered. "I had no idea, though I was aware that his heart was in a very weak state, that the end was so near."
"One thing I can tell you if it will make you any happier," said the doctor, "and that is, that I am certain his end was a peaceful and painless one."
Thanking the doctor for his sympathy, Helen left the room and went upstairs to the dead man's bedroom. Jim and the doctor went into the study.
"I suppose it will be necessary to hold an Inquest," said Jim, when they were alone together.
"I am very much afraid so," the doctor replied. "But it will be quite a formal affair. There are two circumstances, however, Mr. Standerton, about the affair, that I must confess puzzle me more than a little."
Jim felt himself turning cold. Had he left anything undone, or had he made any mistake?
"What are those two circumstances?" he enquired.
"Well, in the first place," said the doctor, "the old gentleman seldom went outside the house, not once a month at most, and only then on fine days. Yesterday, his man-servant tells me, he did not stir beyond the study door. Isaac is certain that he was wearing his carpet slippers at dinner time, and also when he looked in upon him before retiring, yet when he was found this morning he was wearing boots."
"That is most curious, certainly," said Jim, "but I must confess I fail to see anything remarkable in it."
"Not perhaps in the fact of his wearing the boots," said the medical gentleman, "but there is another point which, taken in conjunction with it, makes one pause to think. On the first finger of the right hand I found that the nail had been recently broken, and in a painful fashion. What is more, the second and third fingers had smears of blood upon them. Now with the exception of the nail to which I have alluded and which did not bleed, he had not a trace of a wound on either finger. That I am quite certain of, for I searched diligently. Moreover, there is not a trace of blood upon the table at which he was seated. And there is one thing stranger still."
"What is that?"
"As you are aware, it commenced to rain at a late hour last night. Unfortunately I know it, for the reason that I was compelled to be out in it. The roads were plastered with mud. Now though Mr. Bursfield, for some reason of his own, had put on his boots, he could not have ventured outside, for there is not a speck of mud upon them. In that case, why the boots, and where did the blood come from?"
"You are perfectly sure that he died of heart disease?"
"As sure as I can be of anything," said the doctor. "Nevertheless, it's altogether a mysterious affair."
This also proved to be the opinion of the Coroner's Jury, and as there was no one forthcoming to clear it up, a mystery it was likely to remain for all time. Had the Coroner and his Jury, however, known the history of the bruises under the thick bandage which the young Squire of Childerbridge wore round his throat, they would have been enlightened.
As nobody was able to account for anything save the doctor, however, a verdict of "Death from Natural Causes" was returned, and three days later, Abraham Bursfield was laid to rest with his forefathers in the little churchyard, scarcely fifty paces away from the grave of the man who had fallen by his hands.
"Jim," said Alice on the evening of the funeral, when they had brought Helen back to the Manor House, "I have a proposal to make to you. I am going to suggest that I should take Helen away for a few weeks to the seaside. The anxieties and sorrow of the past two months have been too much for her. I can see that she stands in need of a thorough change. If you have no objection to raise, I thought we could start to-morrow morning. We shall be away a month, and by that time she should be quite restored to health."
"And pray what am I going to do with myself while you are away?" he asked. "I gather you mean when you say that you are both going away that I am not to accompany you?"
"No; all things considered, I think it would be better not," said Alice. "But if you are very good you shall come down to us for two or three days during the month. Then if Helen agrees, and I have no doubt you will be able to induce her to do so, you could obtain a Special License, and be quietly married at the end of that time."
Jim, who regarded it quite possible that the marriage might be postponed for some time, clutched eagerly at the straw of hope held out to him, and willingly agreed to her suggestion.
"And now one other matter, Alice," he said. "I, on my side, have a proposal to make. Whether you will prove as complaisant as I have done is another matter."
"What is your proposal?"
"It can be resolved into one word," he answered, "That word is Mudrapilla."
He heard her catch her breath, and then she looked pleadingly at him.
"Jim," she whispered, "Oh Jim, dear, you don't mean it, do you?"
"If you and Helen will accompany me, I do," he answered. "Terence I am quite sure will not object. Will you agree, my sister?"
The answer she vouchsafed might have meant anything or nothing. It was:—
"Only to think of seeing dear old Mudrapilla again!"
So it was settled. Helen and Alice departed next day to a tiny seaside place in Devonshire, where Jim was under orders to join them for three days at the week end once during their stay. As soon as they were gone, he in his turn set off for London. His first act on reaching the City, and when he had deposited his bag at the hotel, was to drive to the office of the Estate Agent with whom his father had negotiated the purchase of Childerbridge. That portly, suave gentleman received him with the respect due to a man worth half a million of money, and the owner of such a palatial mansion and estate.
"But, my dear sir," he began, when he had heard what James had to say, "you surely don't mean to say that you are desirous of selling Childerbridge. You have only been there a few months."
"I am most anxious to be rid of the place as soon as possible," Jim replied. "As you may suppose it has the most painful recollections for me. Besides I am thinking of returning to Australia almost immediately, and scarcely know when I shall visit England again."
"In that case I must do the best I can for you," said the other. "At the same time I feel that I should warn you that the Estate Market is not in a very flourishing condition at present, and that a large number of properties that have been placed upon the market have not sold nearly as well as they should have done."
"I must take my chance of not getting its value," said Jim. "Find me a purchaser and I don't think he will be able to complain that I have not met him fairly."
The agent promised to do his best, and for the next fortnight Jim amused himself in a lazy fashion travelling about England, purchasing a variety of stock for his Australian stations, and longing for the time to come when he should be at liberty to present himself in Devonshire. At last, however, the day arrived. It was morning when he left London, it was evening when he reached his destination. It was winter when he left Waterloo, dull, dismal and foggy; when he reached Devonshire it was, in his eyes at least, perpetual summer. Both Helen and Alice were at the railway station to greet him, and immediately he saw them he realised the fact that a change for the better had taken place in his sweetheart. The old colour had come back to her cheeks, the old sparkle was in her eyes. She greeted him very lovingly, but if possible a little shyly. There were such lots of news to hear, and still more to be told, that it seemed as if they would never have done talking.
The village had proved itself a delightful little place. It was far from the track of the tripper, and had not then been spoilt by the wealthy tourist. High cliffs hemmed it in on either side, and the sea broke upon the beach of shingles. They returned to their lodgings for tea, a charming thatched cottage, within a stone's throw of the primitive little jetty, beside which the fisher boats were moored. Afterwards the lovers went for a walk upon the cliffs.
"Helen, my darling," said Jim, "I can scarcely realise that it is only a fortnight since I saw you. It seems as if years had passed. You can have no idea how happy it makes me to see you looking like your own dear self once more."
"I could not help being well here," she answered. "Besides, Alice has been so good and kind to me. I should be ungrateful indeed were I to show no improvement."
But Jim had not brought his sweetheart out on the cliff to discuss his sister's good qualities.
"Helen," he said at last, "is it possible for you to be my wife in a fortnight's time?"
He took her little hand in his and looked into her eyes. The veriest tyro might have seen that the young man was terribly in earnest.
"It might be possible," she said softly, but without looking at him. "Are you quite sure youdowish it?"
"If you talk like that I shall go back to London to-night," he answered. "You know very well that to make you my wife has been my ambition ever since I first saw you."
And then he went on to tell her of his dreams, winding up with this question—"I wonder whether you will like Australia?"
"I shall like any place where you may be," she replied.
Could any young woman say more to her lover than that? At any rate Jim appeared to be satisfied.
On the Monday following he returned to London to learn from the agent that a probable, though unexpected, purchaser had been found for Childerbridge. He proved to be a wealthy American, who was not only prepared to take over the estate at a valuation, but also to purchase the furniture and effects as they stood.
On the day following the receipt of this news, Jim travelled down with the would-be buyer, conducted him over the property, and was in a position to assure himself, when the other had departed, that Childerbridge would be very soon off his hands. To the agent's horror the matter was conducted on both sides with unusual promptness, and in consequence, when, a fortnight later, Jim stepped into the Devonshire train with a special marriage license in his pocket, the sale was as good as effected.
The wedding was solemnised next day in the quaint little village church, and excited no comment from the humble fisher folk. The only persons present were the bride and bridegroom, Alice, and the family lawyer, who had travelled down from London expressly to give the bride away. Then, no impediment being offered, James Standerton, bachelor, took to himself for wife Helen Decie, spinster. The worthy old gentleman pocketed his fee with a smiling face, congratulated both parties, and then hurried off to another parish to bury a fisherman who had been drowned in the bay a few days before. An hour later Jim and Helen started for Exeter,en routefor Scotland, while Alice accompanied the lawyer, whose wife's guest she was to be, to London, to wait there until her brother and sister-in-law should return from the north.
Four years have elapsed since that terrible night when Abraham Bursfield was found dead in the secret passage leading from Childerbridge Manor House to the Dower House in the corner of the Park. Those four years have certainly worked wondrous changes in at least four lives. One short sketch must serve to illustrate this fact, and to bring my story to a conclusion. The scene is no longer laid in England but on a rough Bush track on a very hot Australian afternoon. A tall good-looking man is jogging contentedly along, apparently oblivious to all that goes on around him. It is easily seen that he and his horse are on the very best terms with each other. He passes the Pelican Lake, descends into the hollow of what was perhaps a continuation of the same lake, and on gaining the summit of the next rise finds himself looking upon what, at first glance, would appear to be a small village. This village is the station of Mudrapilla, and the giant gums which can just be discerned some five miles or so to the right, indicate the spot where on a certain eventful evening, James Standerton first came face to face with Richard Murbridge. This same James Standerton, for it is he who is the rider of the horse, increases his pace as soon as the station itself comes into view. He passes the men's quarters, the store, the blacksmith's shop, and finally approaches a long and extremely comfortable looking one-storied residence, whose broad verandahs are confronted by orange groves on the one side, and the brave old river on the other. As he rides up one of the overseers emerges from the barracks, and hastens forward to greet his employer, and to take his horse from him. That overseer is no less a person than our old friend, Terence O'Riley, looking just the same as ever. Jim gives him a few directions concerning the sheep in the Mountain Paddock, which he has visited that afternoon, and then dismounts and strolls on through the gates, and up the garden path towards the house. In the broad verandah a lady is seated in a long comfortable chair, and playing beside her on the floor is a chubby urchin upwards of two years of age. Helen, for as may be supposed, it is none other than she, rises on hearing her husband's step on the path, and catching up the infant brings him forward to greet his father with a kiss.
"I didn't expect you for half-an-hour at least, dear," she says, when she in her turn has kissed him. "The boy and I have been patiently awaiting your arrival. Did you meet the mail?"
"I did," he answered, "and I opened the bag upon the road. There are two letters for you, one I see is from Alice."
"And you?" she asks, as she takes the letters from him.
"Well, I had one of some importance," he replied. "It is from Fairlight—my old solicitor in England, you remember him—and what do you think he tells me?"
Helen, very naturally, could not guess.
"Well, he says that Childerbridge Manor was burnt down by fire three months ago and totally destroyed. The American, the owner, is going to rebuild it at once on a scale of unparalleled magnificence."
There was a pause for a few moments, then Helen said:—
"What do you think about it, Jim?"
"All things considered I am not sorry," he answered. "Yet, perhaps, I should not say that, for it brought me the greatest blessing a man can have."
"And that blessing?" she asked innocently.
"Is a good wife," he answered, stooping to kiss her. After which he disappeared into the house.
"And pray what does Alice say?" he asked, when he returned a few minutes later.
"She gives us such good news," Helen replied. "She and Jack will spend Christmas with us. She declares she is the happiest woman in the world. Jack is a paragon."
In case the reader should fail to understand who Jack is, I might remark that he is no less a person than Jack Riddington, the overseer, mentioned at the commencement of my story, and who was supposed to be Jim's best friend. Alice, after they were engaged, admitted that she had always entertained a liking for him, while it was well known that he had always been head over ears in love with her. During Jim's absence in England he had come into a large sum of money, had purchased a station one hundred and fifty miles south of Gundawurra, had married Alice within six months of her return, and was now living a life of undoubted felicity.
"They may be happy," said Helen, "but they can never be as happy as we are. That is quite certain, husband mine."