"I'm Trall," repeated the man, staggering to his feet.
He plucked off a false beard, thereby throwing into prominence the haggardness of his face.
"Trall?" echoed Mallow, as though taking in the man's identity for the first time. "Good God, I thought you were dead!" The man whimpered, and fawned on Mallow as a whipped dog fawns on its master. "I'm alive; I'm Trall," he reiterated. "I'm so glad it's you, Mr. Mallow. I thought they were after me. But I'm Trall; you know me, don't you? You'll save me, won't you? I'm afraid of them.'
"Whatever is the matter, Laurence?" called out Olive, at the window. "Who is it?"
"It's all right, Olive; it's only Trall. I'll explain later; go inside now.--Good God!" said Mallow, again looking at the wreck of humanity before him. "Alive after all."
Jeremiah Trall nodded, and laughed vacantly. His life of terror and strong drink, added now to want of food and sleep, had scattered the poor creature's wits. He clung to Mallow like a child, reiterating his prayer for protection, and ultimately sliding into an incoherent gabble, disconnected though continuous. Seeing that nothing was to be got out of him, in his present state, Mallow soothed him with repeated assurances of his safety. He then led him round to the back of the house, and had him supplied with food. In another half-hour the wretched man was safely tucked in bed, with one of the men-servants to watch over him. The food and warmth and sense of security relaxed his nerves, and shortly he fell into a deep sleep. His relief had come just in time.
Meanwhile Mallow returned to the drawing-room and explained the situation. How Trall had escaped death he did not know, but he understood the man's instinct had led him to seek the protection of the only person who had treated him with kindness.
"We shall hear his story to-morrow," concluded Mallow; "and a queer one it will be, unless I'm very much mistaken."
"Laurence, do you think this can be the man who inquired at the P. and O. Office? He has a black beard."
"False, my dear; assumed no doubt to escape the Brotherhood, although, seeing they are all dead, I can't understand what it is he fears. It is quite possible he may be the man who inquired at the shipping office; we shall know all about that in the morning. And Olive," added Mallow, in lower tones, as the servant entered with the tea, "say nothing about this for the present to Miss Ostergaard or the old ladies. I'll tell Aldean myself later on."
Olive readily assented. She had no wish any of them should be alarmed. When they, with Lord Aldean, came in to tea, no word was said about Trall's strange arrival. Later on Mallow found an opportunity for enlightening Jim.
"Jove!" said the startled Aldean. "How the dickens did he escape?"
"I can't say. Perhaps he wasn't at the meeting. Don't alarm the ladies, Jim. We'll get it all out of him in the morning. He's worn-out now, poor devil."
"Do you think he knows the truth about this Carson business?"
"It's possible, and probable. At all events, whatever he knows he'll tell me."
But, in spite of all precautions, it was not long before Mrs. Purcell knew all about it. Her maids were of more than ordinary loquacity. She immediately declared her belief that they would all be murdered in their beds, and communicated her fears to Miss Slarge. The two ancients reappeared in the drawing-room in a nervous flutter, and, in the end, if only to quieten them, Mallow thought it best to explain matters fully. Contrary to his expectations, they were only the more alarmed.
"An Anarchist," cried Miss Slarge, tremulously, "with a bomb!"
"I don't think he has a bomb," replied Mallow, gravely. "He is quite harmless, Miss Slarge. He hasn't strength just now to kill a fly."
"Has he rebelled against established authority?" demanded Mrs. Purcell. "Has he crime upon his soul?"
"His worst crime is hard drinking. I'll look after him, Mrs. Purcell. Please give the servants no particulars."
Mrs. Purcell expressed a pious hope that the Manor House would be still whole in the morning; but finally agreed that Mr. Mallow had acted with his usual judgment, and was quite right to succour the oppressed.
When, after every one had gone to bed, Mallow and Aldean visited Trall, he was still sleeping, so they left him. But early next morning Mallow was in his room. He was awake, and professed himself much easier in his mind. Amid a profusion of thanks for all his kindness, he told Mallow how he had escaped the common fate through Madame having ordered him out of the house.
"I don't know how it all happened," he said. "There was a mine laid under the cellar, I know, but I feel sure Madame didn't fire it. I hope they won't think I did it. It was for fear of that I came down here."
"You are safe enough here, Trall. Besides, that section, at least, of the Brotherhood is done for."
"Oh, but they were not all there. There are others. Two of them have gone after Carlo and Clara. I protested, but Madame would send them, and she turned me out of the place."
"Where are Boldini and your niece now?"
"They have left Genoa for South America. One of the Brothers followed them. He wired to Madame they had taken ship, but he did not say for what port. But they're as good as dead," moaned Trall; "the Brothers who were sent after them had instructions to kill them."
"Oh, let us hope they will escape," said Mallow, soothingly. "By the way, that disguise of yours, Trall. Did you wear it to visit the P. and O. Office before Carson arrived?"
"No, Mr. Mallow; I was never in the P. and O. Office in my life."
Mallow looked searchingly at the man, but saw by his simple denial, and from his manner, that he was telling the truth. "Do you know any one else who went there?" he asked, shifting his ground.
"No, I never heard of any one."
"Did Dr. Drabble?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Trall, plucking at the clothes. "He never told me, if he did. But Drabble wore all kinds of disguises; sometimes he wore a light wig, at others a black one. He was never twice the same."
"I dare say it was he," said Mallow, thoughtfully; "he was the person most interested in Carson's arrival. He is dead, I suppose?"
"Blown to pieces, Mr. Mallow. He was in the cellar when I left. Not one of those present escaped alive. They are dead in their sins, Mr. Mallow, and black--black indeed are those sins. If I had not spoken for Clara, if Madame had not--well, I have sins of my own to repent of. God saved me for repentance. I'm sure of that."
"Rouge was in the cellar, of course?"
"He came down the trapdoor as I went up. I liked Rouge; he hated the Brotherhood, as I did. It might have been Rouge who caused the explosion. He laid the mine; he knew how to fire it. Yes, I believe Rouge killed them all."
"I am sure he did," said Mallow decisively. "Mrs. Arne had Nemesis at her elbow, although she thought, no doubt, it was the devil. But how did you know that I was alive, and here?"
"Rouge told me. He said that he intended to aid your escape, because you had been kind to him. As he passed down the trapdoor, I heard him say, 'Monsieur is safe.' I didn't know what he meant at the time, but afterwards I recollected he was speaking of you. When I heard of the explosion, I was nearly out of my mind. I thought the surviving Brotherhood would surely suspect me. I went to your rooms to ask for your protection. They told me there that you were at Casterwell, so I came down. I walked the whole way. I begged, and slept out-of-doors. Oh, the cold was bitter. I knew you would protect me, for you were always kind, Mr. Mallow. Always, always," and Trall stretched out his hand timidly.
"Well, now you are here, you shall stay," said Mallow, kindly. "They won't look for you here. I dare say they think you perished with the rest; and later on we'll see what had better be done."
Trall sat up eagerly.
"I know what to do; I have my plans," he whispered, with a glance round, as was his habit. "Give me money, and I'll go out to South America. Clara will look after me. Carlo has a lot of money; Drabble said so. I'll warn them of their danger, and we'll hide in the mountains. They'll never find us there. Clara is so clever; Clara knows."
"Is she your only relative?"
"So far as I know. I have a brother--her father--my brother Michael; but he may be dead. He left his wife and Clara many, many years ago. His wife died. I looked after Clara. I had money then. But when I met Drabble"--Trall burst into childish anger--"I hate Drabble; he made me what I am. He was my curse. I'm glad he's dead; glad, oh, so glad. If he'd only died before he ruined me. I was once--I am now--oh!" and the man, weeping senile tears, dropped back exhausted on his pillow.
"Hush, hush!" said Mallow, smoothing the bed-clothes; "you are with friends now; I will take care of you. But don't say a word as to who you are or what you have been doing. That might be dangerous even here."
"No, no--not a word; you won't let them get to me if they come?"
"They won't come, Trall. Believe me, they think you dead."
"Dead?" echoed Trall, his wits wandering. "Dead, dead, yes, these many years. Drabble killed my soul. Dead--yes, the man is dead; the beast lives on."
With tactful words and many promises, Mallow managed to calm him and dispel his morbid mood. The man was not really so ill as worn with fatigue, and stupefied with terror. Rest, and a belief in his safety, were the medicines he needed, and these were now forthcoming. His narrow escape seemed to have turned his thoughts towards religion, for he requested the use of a Bible with childish eagerness. Mallow left him grappling desperately with the Psalms, striving to extract hope from the more comforting.
"I am glad the poor man is better," said Olive, when she heard Mallow's report; "he seems a harmless creature."
"There is good in him, but circumstances and Drabble have done their best to destroy it."
"Well, let him stay here and rest, Laurence. See, I have the letter for Mr. Brock. We must call on him now. Talking about Dr. Drabble," added Olive, as they stepped out into the crisp air; "I think I ought to call and see his wife, and tell her."
"Do you think that is wise?" asked Mallow, dubiously.
"Of course it is wise; suspense is worse than the truth. Besides, she is without money and food. I had to send provisions to her yesterday. The sooner she understands her position, and makes the best of it, the better."
"How can she make the best of it?"
"I shall help her; and Lord Aldean has promised his assistance."
"Good fellow; you must let me do something too."
"My help is yours, Laurence," said Olive, softly.
A brisk walk soon brought them to Drabble's untidy home. In a room more slatternly than ever, they found the unsuspecting widow. She was, if possible, more worn and downcast than before.
"I'm sure I don't know what I should have done but for your kindness," she said to Olive. "But I expect the doctor will be back soon. It is too bad his leaving me destitute like this. The tradesmen won't send in food without money."
"Dear Mrs. Drabble," said Olive, touching her arm gently, "will you take me to your room? I have something to tell you."
The significance of Olive's tone was not lost upon her. "I hope--hope nothing is the matter with the doctor?" she said tremulously.
"I'll tell you in your own room," insisted Olive, leading her to the door.
"Excuse us, won't you, Mr. Mallow?" called back the widow; "and if the children should come in send them away. Danton is in bed with the mumps, and Margery has been converted. Please talk her back to some sense, Mr. Mallow, if you can. Dear, dear! my children are so dreadful."
Mallow sat quietly amid all the litter, in no wise inclined to laugh at these last words, albeit there was some humour in them. On all sides there was the noise of children creeping, scuffling, and whispering. At times a head would pop round the corner; its owner, meeting Mallow's eye, would shriek and scuttle away, and then would be swift scampering and a continuous patter as of hard little hoofs on a frosty soil. Shortly the door swung open to its widest, and Margery appeared, so astonishing a spectacle that Mallow could not but stare at the child. She was draped in a sheet; her feet were bare, and she carried a lighted candle.
"I'm doing penance!" announced Margery in solemn tones. "I should stand at the church-door and proclaim my sins, but mother won't let me."
"Your sins?" said Mallow, suppressing a strong desire to laugh; "have you any?"
"Dozens! I have sinned deeply," sighed this guilty little person. "I have been cross, I have stolen, I have perverted the truth. Would you like to hear about any particular sin, Mr. Mallow?"
"I should be delighted, Margery. Only don't shock me too much."
Margery waved her taper. "This sin was done to Olive!" she chanted. "Listen, oh people, to the sin done to Olive! I gave her a golden ornament of fine gold with wrought-work. She asked where I obtained it. I declared that I had taken it from the desk of my father. That was a lie. That was a sin. I did steal it. Wicked woman that I am--but I stole it from the study of Mr. Brock."
"Margery!" Mallow jumped with sudden interest. "Did you find that wrist-button in Mr. Brock's study?"
Margery dropped her candle and became the child she was, even to the length of bursting into tears.
"Yes," she sobbed, "I was wicked. I went to see Mr. Brock; he left me to play in his study, and I found the button in the drawer of his writing-table. I--I--I took it."
Margery's conscience had now the upper hand of her. All her acting was cast to the winds. "It was wrong to take it," she wept. "I can see that now, Mr. Mallow, but I did not think. Father said that all property should be shared in common, so I thought I would share with Mr. Brock; he has very nice property," she added, naïvely.
"Was this wrist-button put away carefully?"
"No-o-o. It was lying loose in a drawer; I didn't think it was of much value. I am very, very wicked."
Mallow drew the child towards him and consoled her. "Don't cry, Margery," he said, wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. "A fault confessed is half-redressed. Did you tell Mr. Brock that you were sorry?"
"Yes; I told him that I was converted, and that I repented of my wickedness. He said it did not matter; that I was not to trouble about what I had done."
"Then don't trouble, dear. There, there, it's all right. So you have given up the Anarchism?"
"I am a Christian now. I believe in----"
Before Margery could state her religious beliefs, Olive, looking rather anxious, came into the room. "Laurence, would you mind calling on Mr. Brock alone? Mrs. Drabble is not well enough to be left at present."
"Oh, is mother ill?" cried Margery, scared.
"She is not very well, dear. Put on your stockings and shoes, child; you will take cold. Laurence!"
"I'll go to Mr. Brock. Is that the letter, Olive? Thank you. How long will you stop here?"
"Until Mrs. Drabble is better. When you return home, Laurence, please ask Miss Slarge to come here. Margery!"
The child was shaking and white. "Please, please, what is the matter?" she asked, catching Olive by the hand.
Olive looked at her in silence and with pity. If it had been a painful task to inform Mrs. Drabble of the truth, it was a much more terrible one to inform Margery. With a nod to Mallow, she led the child from the room; and Laurence, feeling somewhatde tropin this scene of domestic grief, slipped away, not ill-pleased to have the opportunity. It was vexing, in one way, that Olive could not come with him; but on reflection he could not regret her absence.
At the corner of the Vicarage he was confronted by a she-Cerberus, in the person of Mr. Brock's deaf housekeeper. This grim and lean spinster might once have been a human flower, but the sap was now gone out of her, and she had withered on the stalk in a state of single-blessedness. Even Mallow's good looks and polite inquiries failed to impress her. She was the sworn enemy of all male-kind. At the outset she declined to admit Mallow; "indeed, he's much too ill," she said. But in the end she was so far prevailed upon as to consent to convey a message. This resulted in prompt permission for the visitor to enter the sick-room, whither the sour spinster led him with obvious reluctance. She closed the door on him with a bang, and returned to vent her ill-temper in the kitchen.
The vicar had transferred himself from his bedroom to the study. He was lying on a sofa drawn close up to the window. His eyes were unnaturally bright and sunken, and his skin was the colour of wax. The few weeks of confinement to the house had aged him inconceivably. But he appeared to be in good spirits, and received Mallow most cordially.
"You find me much afflicted, Mr. Mallow," said he, cheerfully, "but I am not without hope of recovery. I contrive to keep up my spirits, which is, I suppose, a greater preventive of inanition than the most stringent of medicines."
"I am indeed glad to know you are better, Mr. Brock. Will conversation tire you?"
"Not at all. It is a pleasure to converse intelligently. How is Mrs. Carson?"
"Miss Bellairs is quite well," said Laurence, prepared for this question. Brock turned an astonished look on his visitor. "But why do you call Olive by her maiden name?"
"Because that is her name for the present. She is not Carson's wife."
"Not Carson's wife, man? I married them myself" said the vicar, with a searching glance, not unmixed with uneasiness.
"True enough, Mr. Brock. But I am sorry to tell you that Carson has proved a scamp and a bigamist. At the time he married Olive he was already the husband of Clara Trall, the maid. They have left for England, and Olive has returned here as Miss Bellairs. She is shortly to be married to me."
"Angus already married?" gasped Brock, when he took in the full import of it. "Angus, the son of an upright man, act so basely? Surely, surely there must be some mistake."
"I--am--afraid--not. Lord Aldean followed the runaways to Florence, and saw them together. They confessed their marriage."
"But why did Angus so deceive Olive?"
Mallow shrugged. "To get her money, no doubt," he said carelessly. "It will come to you now, Mr. Brock, since the marriage has not taken place."
"Alas! I fear I have done with all use for worldly goods, Mr. Mallow. I am not so strong as I thought I was. My heart has been weakened by my accident, and any sudden shock would probably be fatal to me. If this money does come to me now, it will not remain with me long, for my days are numbered."
"Nil desperandum," said Mallow, not very originally. "You have years of clean living behind you, sir, and may mend sooner than you think. After all, you are better off than Drabble; he has met with a violent death in common with many others of his kidney."
"Drabble dead? Well, I am not surprised. I have been wondering if he was in that Soho explosion of which we have read lately. As that was his town address, it struck me that he might possibly have been. Ah!" sighed Mr. Brock, "a terrible end to a mistaken life. But I thought that Drabble was more of a Socialist than an Anarchist?"
"He was everything that's bad," said Laurence, shortly. "Olive is now comforting Mrs. Drabble, poor soul! By the way, Mr. Brock, Margery told me about that wrist-button."
"Dear, dear; the poor child must not worry about that. I forgave her taking it; children will finger things, and Margery's mind was quite perverted by her father's peculiar views.--Still," he added, with a smile, "Margery really had more right to it than I. It originally belonged to Drabble."
"What! did you get it from him, then?"
"As a gift--yes. I saw it lying on his desk one day, and took it up to examine it. As it was of Indian workmanship, I asked him to give it to me as a curiosity. I was a missionary in India once, you know."
"Yes, I know. Did Drabble give it to you willingly?"
"Certainly. I should not have taken it otherwise. It is a pretty thing; Margery tells me that she gave it to Olive."
"Olive wears it as a brooch," replied Mallow, gloomily. He was distinctly puzzled.
He noticed, too, that the vicar was half dozing, and felt that perhaps he was overtaxing his strength.
"Well, I must be going now. Mr. Brock," said he, producing Dr. Carson's letter, "my principal reason for coming was to hand you this."
"What is it?" asked Brock, taking the blue envelope drowsily.
"A letter from your old friend, Dr. Carson."
Brock woke up with a start. He was clearly agitated. "From a dead man? What does it mean?"
"A message of some import, no doubt," said Mallow. "Young Carson brought it home with him, but forgot to deliver it."
"A voice from the grave!" muttered Brock, unheeding. His hands were busy with two papers--a closely written letter, and a dozen long pages of foolscap of aggressively official appearance. Mallow's fingers itched to take them up, but he judiciously restrained himself; and watched the vicar skim his eye over the letter. Its perusal seemed to move him greatly.
"Wrong, wrong," he said, folding it up. "Better to let the dead past bury its dead," and shuffling the papers into their envelope, he slipped it under his pillow.
Mallow was struck by his remark. It tended to confirm his long-entertained suspicions.
"Mr. Brock," he asked, after a moment, "was there a secret in the life of the late Mr. Bellairs?"
"Why should you think so?" said the vicar, nervously.
"I have not forgotten about the sealed letter which forced Olive into marrying Carson. She asked you what its hint of evil meant. You told her to take no notice of it."
"That was her best course," said Mr. Brock, still agitated. "So long as she married Angus, there was no need for her to trouble about the letter."
"Then there is a secret?" insisted Mallow.
Mr. Brock shifted uneasily. "Whose life is free from sin?" he said, in low tones. "Yes, there--is--a secret."
"Had it to do with Olive's marriage?"
"Yes; if she had refused Angus, there might have been trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Don't ask me," said the vicar, with a shiver.
"I must ask you. Olive guesses that there is a secret, and she wishes to know it."
"She shall never know it from me," said the vicar, his face more pallid than ever. "I say let the dead past bury its dead."
"You said that before when you read that letter. The secret is told in that enclosed document?"
"Yes," said Brock, reluctantly.
"Then Olive must read it--I must read it. We must know the truth."
The vicar remained silent, and his brow wrinkled. "Who gains knowledge gains sorrow," he said, aphoristically. "It will do neither you nor Olive any good to learn the follies of a young man. However, I will read the document, and--if I can legitimately do so--I will send it to Olive."
"Is the secret so very terrible, then?"
"It is very terrible."
"Is her father----"
"Mr. Mallow," protested the vicar, wiping his wet forehead, "I have said all I intend to say, until I read this letter. If I can send it to Olive, it shall be sent. Please leave me. I--I have overtaxed my strength. Touch the bell, please, as you go out."
Although Mallow would fain have stayed, there was nothing left for him to do but to obey this peremptory request. He could not but acknowledge that Mr. Brock was acting in an eminently reasonable way. A secret of such moment as this appeared to be could not be communicated hastily and without due consideration.
When next he saw Olive, Mallow told her what she might expect. With characteristic firmness, she chose to abide by her decision.
"I must know the truth," she declared, "at whatever cost. So long as you and I are together, Laurence, nothing can hurt us."
"You tempt the gods, my dearest," replied Laurence, and sighed.
The events of the last few months had shaken his nerve, and he was apt at times to give way to despondency.
Mr. Brock did not seem in a hurry to come to his decision. One, two, three days passed before word came to the Manor House. Having implicit faith in the vicar's judgment, Mallow did not urge him at all. He did not even go near the Vicarage, but curbed his impatience and that of Olive as best he could. Virtue was rewarded--if reward it was--for on the fourth day the document was delivered to Miss Bellairs, with a letter from the vicar.
"I send you the history of your father in India," wrote Mr. Brock, "though it is somewhat against my better judgment. I do so, however, as I can guess that your curiosity will allow you no rest. I give you the opportunity of appeasing it. Still, even at this eleventh hour, I would most earnestly advise you to put the enclosed paper in the fire unread. Its perusal can only give you pain, and remove from its pedestal the idol of your youth."
All this, and much more, Mr. Brock wrote, and Mallow read. He was alone with Olive in the library. He looked questioningly at her. She was silent, and for answer placed the document in his hands.
"Am I to read it?" he asked. Olive bent her head. "As you think wise, dear; or shall we burn it, as Mr. Brock advises, unread?"
Olive clasped her hands tightly together. The question was a weighty one. She hesitated. Then she crossed the Rubicon.
"Read," she said, in low tones; "at whatever cost, read."
Mallow silently spread out the paper and began.
"I, Alfred Carson, M.D., who relate to you this story, do most solemnly swear to you by all a Christian gentleman holds most sacred, that though stranger far than any fiction, it existed in fact, and that the relation of it here set forth--to which my signature is duly appended--is in each and every particular true. At the time these events occurred, I occupied the post of physician to the Rao of Kikat, which was an unconsidered kingdom in the Northern part of India. I say 'was' advisedly, for since the year of the Mutiny it has been absorbed in our Asiatic Empire. But in 1859--the date of the facts herein related--it was still an independent state, reigned over by Rao Singhapetty, it is true, but free and wealthy nevertheless. Still the Rao, in a small measure, was tributary to the H.E.I.C., and it was to release himself from a nominal payment that he engaged to take part in the great rising. To his folly in this respect this story is due.
"In those days, I was young, poor, rash, and ambitious, yet not without, I think, good parts, mental and moral. If I failed to control the one by the other, the blame for such must lie with Michael Trall. He was one of those rascally adventurers who then infested India, in the hope of becoming Nabobs; fertile in resource, of great courage, and one of the most unscrupulous scoundrels who ever played the part of Mephistopheles for the seduction of weaker spirits to ruin and crime. Whence he came I know not. I conclude his past life was too disreputable to be disclosed, but my knowledge of him dates from the year 1857, when he appeared at the Rao's court, and used his impudent arts to secure an ascendency over the mind of that weak potentate. There he came into contact with me, and with Bellairs.
"Mark Bellairs, my dearest and oldest friend, had come out to India with me. He was then in the army, but having quarrelled with his father, his allowance was cut off, and he was forced to sell out. I suggested that he should travel Eastward in my company, and turn his military knowledge to some account at the court of some petty Rajah. As there was nothing for him to do in England, he agreed to try his luck in the East, and together we arrived in Bombay, with no money, and great ambitions. Of our adventures I need not speak, as they have nothing to do with this story; but we wandered here, there, and everywhere, until Fortune brought us to Kikat. Here, as the Rao was in need of a resident physician, he engaged me, and afterwards, finding that Bellairs had been in the English Service, he placed him in command of his small army. I swear that before the meeting Bellairs and I were quite content with our positions. We had power, the salaries were large, and the Rao was our very good friend. In a few years we hoped to make our fortunes, and return wealthy, and honoured to the Mother country. But for Trall, we might have continued in the straight path, but, like the Belial he was, he drew us from it to earn money and lasting shame.
"I must admit that Trall was a most fascinating man. Handsome, strong, clever, full of conversation and tact, he had acquired complete power over Singha. Then, finding that we had no little say in matters of state, he set his clever wits to work for our conquest--not without success. No doubt, it was weak of us to yield, but the man had a tremendous strength of will, and a power of fascination which could control--and did control--all who personally came in contact with him. Remember, both Bellairs and myself believed him to be an honourable gentleman; and it was not until we were well entangled in his nets that he threw off the mask. Then it was too late.
"There is ever an exception to a rule, and an exception to the well-nigh universal popularity of Trall was to be found in the person of the Rev. Manners Brock, a missionary, who had engaged himself in the hopeless task of converting the Kikat heathen. The pleasant manners and simplicity of Brock made him a great favourite with us all; even the Rao liked him, in spite of his Christianizing propensities, and placed no barrier in his way with the people. Brock was candid almost to the verge of folly. He told us how he stood alone in the world, without parents or relatives; made us acquainted with all the details of his early life as a sizar at Oxford, as a poor London curate, and made a frank declaration of his 'call' to enlighten the idolaters of India. I knew Brock's life as well as I did my own, and felt great respect for his principles and zeal. Trall was studiously affable to him, and tried his hardest to fascinate him into obedience, but somehow Brock managed to avoid his snares. He kept out of Trall's company, undermined his influence with the Rao--which was exercised for no good, you may be sure--and altogether showed our Belial plainly that he considered him a rascal. Naturally, Trall grew to hate him, and would willingly have done him an injury, but as Singha protected the missionary, open warfare was out of the question. However, Trall watched his opportunity, and it came at last--the Mutiny with it.
"When all India blazed with fanaticism from north to south, Rao kept himself and his kingdom out of trouble, although he did not go so far as to side with the English. He adopted a neutral attitude, and no doubt would have maintained it to the end, but that Trall, ever at his elbow, persuaded him to revolt. Singha did not declare open war against the foreigners--he could scarcely have done so while an Englishman headed his army--but he tampered with the mutinous princes, corresponded with them, and declared that he wished to be rid of his tributary necessity. With devilish ingenuity, Trall conducted the whole intrigue, and kept urging Singha openly to declare himself. Bellairs and I protested at first, but in some way, I can hardly say how, Trall involved us in his schemes. What would have been the end of it, had the Rao taken the field, I hardly know, but he hesitated, and hung back until it was too late. The Mutiny was suppressed, and puppets at Delhi were driven into exile, and with them, Trall's hopes of becoming the Vizier of an Eastern king. For a while he raged furiously over his disappointment; then, making the best of a bad job, he began to look about him how best to turn the tide of affairs to his own advantage. It is at this juncture that Bellairs and I come into the story.
"The troubles at an end, Singha naturally wished to make his peace with the victors. It is true that he had not declared himself an enemy, but he had intrigued deeply; he had written compromising letters; and what with the knowledge of myself, Bellairs, and Trall, there was evidence ample to have him dethroned and exiled. He grew afraid of what might happen to him, and implored us all to help him. At this critical moment Trall showed himself in his true colours.
"I have mentioned the compromising letters, and treaties with mutinous Rajahs. Well, Trall had kept copies of these, and also possessed some of the originals. If these documents had been shown to the H.E.I.C. or to Sir Henry Lawrence, there is no doubt that they would have ruined the Rao beyond all hope of keeping his kingdom.
"Singha knew this, and so did Trall, so did Bellairs and I, for the letters were shown to us. Trall proposed to blackmail the Rao; we refused, and then it was he unmasked his batteries. The man--as we then discovered--was a skilful forger, and had signed our names to many of these letters, besides the actual signature of Singha. If he was guilty, we were also, and in a worse degree, seeing that, according to the forgeries, we were ready to massacre our own countrymen. It is impossible to explain how deeply we were involved; but Trall showed us clearly, that if we did not work with him, he could, and would, ruin us. The choice lay between ruin and crime, for in no way could we have proved our innocence. Trall had the letters and treaties, with the Rao's real signature, and the false ones of myself and Bellairs; he had provided himself with more than a dozen witnesses to swear that we were renegades to the British cause; he had entangled us in the political criminality of the Rao, and we saw very plainly that our lives were ruined should the documents ever reach the Governor-General. Bellairs and I took a night to choose between our ruin and crime. Next morning--I blush to set down the fact--we chose shame.
"Consider, I pray you, our position. Trall, as I have shown, had us completely in his power. Guiltless, we should have appeared guilty, and would have been punished and despised--perhaps shot by our own countrymen. No declaration of innocence would have done away with the forgeries. The evidence of our guilt as conspirators with the Rao against the H.E.I.C. was down in black and white, and only our word on oath contradicted it. We were--as the saying goes--in a cleft stick--mere pawns shifted on Life's chess-board by an unscrupulous intriguer. There was nothing for it but to obey Trall, if we wished to save our names from the world's knowledge as those of traitors and renegades. The devil and the deep-sea proverb applies to our position.
"Well, as I have said, we gave in, and Trall proceeded to round off his plot. Money was what he wanted, and money he intended to have, even though he were to share it with Bellairs and myself. He saw Singha, and fixed his price for the inculpating documents. The price was three diamonds--famous not only in Kikat, but throughout India. Three stones of the purest water they were, a large gem and two small ones, valued together at some forty thousand pounds, more or less. Trall intended to keep the most valuable gem for himself, and to give us the other two, 'and I should advise you both to clear out then,' said he, 'for there may be trouble.'
"He was as cool in the midst of all this rascality as though he were engaged, like Brock, in missionary enterprise. When he went to have it out with Singha, we expected he would be killed there and then; but Trall, knowing his risk, knew also how to circumvent it. Of course the Rao was furious and amazed when Trall made his statement and demanded his price; and, of course, being an Indian, his first instinct was to kill the man who had deceived him. But Trall was ready with a counter move. He told Singha that the incriminating papers were in the hands of a third person, and that if he killed him these would be sent on to the Government at Calcutta. As this meant ruin, Singha was not fool enough to resort to violence, and seeing no way out of the snare, he gave up the diamonds. They were called the treasures of Kikat, and were guarded by the priests. Then the blackmailer promised that the papers should be sent back to Singha. Two hours later he presented us with our share, and slipped his own jewel into a chamois leather bag. 'Now,' said he, 'you had better skip. I'm off myself.'
"But before he could get away, the Rao made trouble. Afraid lest Trall should not return the papers, he made a clean breast of the whole thing to Brock. The missionary was fearfully angry, and without trusting himself to Trall's mercies, started straight away for Calcutta, there to lay the whole matter before the Government. He promised to get Singha out of his trouble, and have Trall arrested for his wickedness. There was no mention of Bellairs or myself, as the Rao did not know how Trall had been plotting with us. Brock got away, though Trall heard of his mission through his spies, and followed him, determined to stop his visit to Calcutta at any cost should he prove unreasonable. Bellairs and I remained with the Rao, and made up our minds to get away at the first opportunity with our diamonds. We did not know what might happen, and thought it best to be on the safe side and save our skins, at all events. In time, Singha received the papers, and, of course, saw our signatures. He applied to Bellairs for an explanation. I was absent at the time, so Bellairs saw the Rao alone. What took place at the interview I hardly knew, for Bellairs was never very explicit. But it seemed that Singha accused Bellairs of betraying him, and tried to stab him on the spot. The end of the struggle was that Bellairs passed his sword through the Rao's heart, and then came to tell me what he had done. As I saw that everything might come out, I advised immediate flight. That same night we both left Kikat.
"Shortly afterwards we learned how Singha's heir had found his father's dead body and the treasonable papers. Fearing that these, if exposed, might cost him his newly acquired throne, he wisely determined to let sleeping dogs lie. Whether he knew that Bellairs killed Singha or not I cannot say, but he probably guessed that we were implicated, from our disappearance. His measures were prompt and judicious. He burnt the papers, gave out that his father had died of apoplexy, and took possession of the State. As there was nothing to compromise, he made matters right with the Government, and when Singha's corpse was burnt on a pile, in accordance with the Hindoo custom, there was nobody to show the violence of the death. The new Rao did not pursue in case we might get him into trouble. He simply let the matter die out, and commenced his reign with the support of the Government.
"I believe, if the truth were known, he was glad his father was dead. What became of Trall I never heard; but Mr. Brock was not afterwards molested by him. He was probably satisfied with his spoil. Mr. Brock returned to England, and was presented by Bellairs with the living of Casterwell; but before leaving he put the whole facts of the case before those in power. But they, taking into consideration that Singha was dead, and that Trall had decamped, and, moreover, having regard to the then distracted state of the country, decided to let well alone. Thus it was all made very easy for Singha's son. The priests, I believe, made some fuss about the removal of the treasures of Kikat, but the new Rao soon put an end to them. He judged it better to lose the jewels than his throne. And so the trouble ended without in any way inculpating either Bellairs or myself.
"I made up my mind that I must part from my friend--my friend no longer, for I could not forgive the murder of Singha. Nor would I touch the money which had been gained by the price of dishonour and of blood. I gave my diamond to Bellairs, and, turning my back on him, went to live like a hermit in a corner of the Himalayas. That my nerves were shaken by my late troubles I do not deny. And I must also state that Trall's treachery, Singha's death, and Bellairs' wickedness disgusted me with the world. I felt the only life I could endure was one of solitude. Bellairs returned to England, made his peace with his father, and shortly after became the Squire of Casterwell, with Brock as his rector. Trall had dropped out of sight with his ill-gotten gains. He may be dead or alive, rich or poor, I know not; what is more, I do not care. The man ruined my life, soiled my honour, and I hate him.
"Years afterwards I grew weary of my solitude, and married a young Eurasian lady. She died when my son Angus was born, and, alone once more, I devoted myself to the education of the boy. As he grew up he displayed such talents that I reflected seriously how best to advance him in life. He was poor; I was old, and when I died Angus would be penniless. Then it occurred to me how wrong I had been in giving up the diamond. For my boy's sake I resolved to make peace with Bellairs, the more so when I heard that he also was married and was the father of an only daughter. With sudden resolution I wrote to Casterwell, and proposed that my son should marry his daughter, and that the value of the two diamonds should be given to them when they became man and wife.
"To this Bellairs replied that the gems were not so valuable as we had thought. He had sold both for thirty-eight thousand pounds, and this money he had deposited in the bank to accumulate. His father had left him well off, so he had himself made no use of the money. With the interest that had accrued, he said that it amounted to some fifty thousand pounds. He intended to invest this, and would share the income arising therefrom with me; but he refused to let his daughter marry my son. I replied that he was at liberty to retain the income to himself. I told him that I would not touch the money; but that if he did not consent to the marriage, and on the marriage-day give to my son Angus the capital sum of fifty thousand pounds, I would write to the Home Government, and divulge the murder by him of the Rao Singha. On this Bellairs gave in, and consented to the marriage. I drew out the clause relating to the money, which was to be incorporated in his will, and sent it to him. Out of the fifty thousand pounds which Angus would receive on his marriage with Olive Bellairs, he was to allow her a yearly income of a thousand pounds. This I considered was fair, and Bellairs thought so too, for he made his will as I directed.
"The present document I now send to Manners Brock by the hand of my son Angus. I wish him to deal with it in this fashion: If the marriage takes place it is to be destroyed. If Olive refuses, he is to show her this statement, and threaten to publish it unless she consents to the match. Bellairs is now dead, and it is possible he may have tricked me in some way. But I am not to be tricked. Unless my wish is carried out this story is to be laid before the authorities. They will then confiscate the Rao's money, and publish to the world the wickedness of Bellairs. It lies with Olive to save the money and protect the memory of her father by marrying Angus. If she declines--well, she knows what will happen. Brock, whom I admire and respect, will never let my son lose the money that I wish him to have, and, by our old friendship, I conjure him to obey me. Angus knows the story as it is here set forth, and will respect, and aid towards the consummation of my wish. For the rest, I maintain I am more than liberal in allowing my son to marry the daughter of a murderer.
"(Signed),Alfred Carson, M.D."