"Well," said Elfrida angrily, when Mr. Browne got back to her, "you think him very brave, of course, but why did he run away like that? You're a most annoying man, anyway." Elfrida made an irritated movement. "I wasn't thinking of Ambert.He'sall right."
"Well, I'm not so sure," said Mr. Browne thoughtfully.
"At all events, I don't care whether he is or not!" said Elfrida, with now undissembled wrath. "What I want to know is why Mr. Blount ran away just now. What was the matter with him? What did he expect?" Elfrida made a petulant gesture, and Agatha said gently,—-
"It was the last thing Mr. Blount would have liked to be led into, but I do not think any one could blame him; I am very sorry about it."
"Well, I'm not," said Dillwyn. "If ever a man got his deserts in this life, it was Ambert. And how he took it, too!" He laughed contemptuously. "Not a blow in return."
Elfrida coloured hotly.
"I didn't see. I didn't look," said Agatha. "It was terrible. I hope he wasn't hurt. You saw Lord Ambert going away, Dicky. How did he look?"
Mr. Browne considered, and then gave words to memory. "Like a crushed strawberry," said he, with all the usual grace that belonged to him.
A little silence followed this, and then Elfrida gave way to unmistakable mirth.
Presently she felt a little ashamed, and tried to explain herself away.
"Ah, but you should have seen how Mr. Blount looked!" cried she. This was, however, the openest subterfuge. She certainly had not been thinking of Blount's appearance when she laughed.
She drew Agatha away and laid her hands upon her arms.
"It is all over. It is done. You were right, Agatha. I shall never marry him."
"You mean—Lord Ambert?"
"I mean that beast!" said Elfrida, who seldom studied the delicacies of the language—"that hateful coward!"
"You will break off with him? Elfrida, it will take courage."
"It will not take one moment." said Elfrida. "I shall be home in half an hour; it will take me five seconds to scribble a note, and twenty minutes after that I shall be free again. Free as air!"
"I hope you are in earnest—that you mean it," said Agatha gravely, "because he may make an unpleasantness about it."
"Ah, I'm so afraid hewon't," said Elfrida.
Dicky Browne, coming up at this moment with Dillwyn, heard her and understood.
"It was a great run," said Mr. Browne, "and full of pluck—on one side. I'm glad I was in at the death."
He sank upon the mossy bank next to Elfrida, whilst Dillwyn gladly accepted the opportunity to get beside Agatha. Agatha decidedly had the best of it. Mr. Browne was bent on teasing.
"I could see you looking on," said he to Elfrida. "You clapped, didn't you?"
"No," said Elfrida.
Her brows contracted. She felt so sorry for herself.
"Ah, you should," said Mr. Browne; "such a splendid performance. Pit and gallery rose to it."
"Where did you place me?" asked she coldly. "Gallery?"
But here Dillwyn interposed, cutting off Dicky's extremely low joke.
"I tell you what," said the latter, who really had no sense of decent feeling, and was not even now ashamed of himself, "I never felt so cheerful in my life as when Blount floored that fellow. When I saw him lying on the ground in a state of collapse, I fell upon my own neck with delight."
"When you fell on your own neck"—Elfrida suppressed her smile —"did you enjoy it?"
"'Twas poor—'twas very poor," confessed Mr. Browne. "But what was to be done? If you"—he looked at Elfrida—"had been there—I could have had your neck to fall upon."
"Certainly you could not," said Elfrida indignantly.
"What!" Mr. Browne's tone had taken a most reproachful cadence.
"You mean to say you wouldn't have succoured me under such trying circumstances?"
"Under no circumstances."
"Your cruelty lays it all plain," said he. "Surely it was most merciful, considering all things, that I had my own neck to fall back upon."
"I think your own neck must have been greatly surprised," said Elfrida caustically.
"Why?" demanded Mr. Brown, regarding her with severity. "Do you think it was the first time it was subjected to such sweet assaults?"
"What do you mean, Dicky? I am thankful to say that I know very little of you or your neck."
"Then, I'm sorry for you," said Mr. Browne sadly. "You've been done out of a real good thing. I must make it up to you later on."
"Agatha, we ought to find auntie and go home," said Elfrida.
She gave Dicky a short glance, but one full of contempt. It seemed to delight him. She drew Agatha away with her.
"You are still steadfast?" asked Agatha, who was afraid she wasn't.
"Quite—quite." She paused, and then laughed below her breath.
"How could I marry a crushed strawberry?" said she.
Agatha did not answer her, but she felt the frivolous Dicky had his uses.
As they came towards the party in general, they found it already on the move. Ill news flies apace, and some little tidings, some faint echoes in the air, had reached the others.
At all events, Mrs. Greatorex, horrified, was sending in all directions for Agatha. Dr. Darkham was her messenger. These sudden scandals were so disgraceful. Would he go and look for Agatha, he who—-
There was a last moment, however, when Agatha found herself alone with Dillwyn. The short, scrubby bushes were thick in this blessed spot—Dillwyn and Agatha were virtually alone.
"That is all over, I fancy," said Dillwyn, alluding to Elfrida's engagement with Ambert.
"Yes, I think so. I am sure of it."
"The best thing that could happen to her. Love alone makes marriage sacred."
"And as for Ambert—he would not have made her happy."
"I don't believe he could make anybody happy. But don't let us waste our time over him. We have only a moment—When can I see you again?"
"To-morrow. By the river?"
"Yes. At four. Agatha, I hope you know how I feel about all this secrecy—how I detest it. It is always on my mind that our meetings will be discovered, and that on you the annoyance will fall. Every evening I picture you to myself sitting dolefully"— he tried to smile—"whilst Mrs. Greatorex scolds you. I would to Heaven, my darling, I were a rich man—though I never cared for money till I saw you."
"You mustn't expect miracles," said she tenderly; "but somehow I feel sure it will all be right, and very soon, too. Aunt Hilda will give in—she cannot persist much longer—or else something will happen."
Elfrida stayed awake till twelve o'clock that night. Then she went to bed and slept soundly until her maid next morning called her.
She had said last night she would not marry Ambert. She had not yet, however, said whom shewouldmarry.
She dressed herself and went down to the garden. She always rose early, and was in the habit of taking a little first breakfast in her own room. And now she found that the tiny cup of chocolate and its accompanying roll was as much as she cared for to-day.
She strolled slowly here and there. But presently she left the garden and strolled idly into the meadow beyond it, and, leaning her arms upon the stile, told herself it was lovely to be alone for once, and at this delightful hour, with not a single weight on her mind, not a creature in sight, and her engagement broken off!
Engagements were odious! Never would she submit to one again. They meant waiting and waiting. If ever she were to dream of marriage again, there should be no engagement. Hateful word!
Suddenly a quick light grew within her eyes. Down there in the lower field, quite a quarter of a mile away, some one was walking quickly. A quarter of a mile is a long way for people to distinguish one person from another, but somehow Elfrida was equal to the occasion. She knew at once that the man down there trudging across that field was Tom. She always called him Mr. Blount topeople, but to herself of late he had been Tom.
She thought a moment, and then this finished coquette drew a handkerchief from her pocket and held it aloft.
The breeze caught and swayed it most delicately to and fro, but it did not seem to be of much use. At all events, the curate held his even way, and was now nearly across the field without having glanced once in its direction.
Elfrida was a person hard to beat. She now flung down her handkerchief, and raised both her small white hands to her mouth.
"Coo-ee."
The old Australian call came sweetly from her lips, and rang as such a sweet call should, straight to where it was meant to go.
The young man in the field below stood still, glanced to right and left, and then direct to the right.
Yes; she was there! It was she who had called him.
Blount knew nothing of what had happened after he ran away yesterday from her displeasure.
He was quite near before he dared to look at her, and then his spirits went up with a bound.She had not heard, then!
She received him sweetly.
"Fancy your cutting me like that," said she.
"Cutting you?"
"Well, yes—down there in the lower meadow. I waved my handkerchief to you, but, of course, one needn't see a thing unless one likes."
"I should have liked," said he. "But I didn't see."
"No? And then I called to you. You"—with a glance from under her long lashes—"hadto come then."
"You know very well," said he, with some reproach, "that I was only too glad to come."
She laughed a little, but she had the grace to blush.
"What made you do that yesterday?" asked she at last, in a low tone.
"Who told you?" asked he. "But that is outside the matter. I did it because it was what I have been longing to do for months. Of course"—slowly—"I could say I did it because he insulted me, but there's no good telling a lie about it."
"For months! And why?"
"Well—if you will have it," said he desperately. "I half killed that fellow because you had promised to marry him, and— God forgive me—I'm not a bit sorry for it."
There was a short silence, then Elfrida looked straight at him.
"Neither am I," said she.
This astounding announcement from the bride-elect of the man he had just thrashed startled Blount into more immediate action.
"Then, what on earth are you marrying him for?"
"Oh, that's all over," said Elfrida airily.
"What'sover?"
"My engagement to Lord Ambert. Didn't you know? I could not possibly marry a man who had been beaten—and beaten byyou!"
"You are free now?"
"I don't know," said she softly. Her eyes were again on the ground.
Tom Blount looked at her. Was she in earnest?
"You don't believe it," she said. She could read him like a book.
"It seems to me"—petulantly—"that you don'twantto believe it. And yet you tell me you half killed that coward just because—-"
"I loved you," said Blount.
"Ah!" She was not looking at the pebble now; she was looking at him. "You loved methen; I wonder—if you love me now."
"Elfrida!"
"You do?" She laughed again, so prettily, and held out to him her hand. He took it and held it fast.
"Why don't you kiss it?" she said, coquette to the last.
"I will not kiss your hand unless I may kiss you," said he. "And I would not kiss you unless you said you would be my wife."
"Wouldn't you?" said Elfrida. All her old audacity had come back to her. She stood erect, and looked at him defiantly. Her eyes sparkled; she did not, however, remove her hand from his grasp. It would have been difficult. "Very well, then, let me tell you thatIwouldn't kiss you for anything you could offer— unless you said you would be my husband."
I don't think either of them knew which was the first. It was a simultaneous rush into each other's arms.
....
She took him in to breakfast—she had recovered her appetite— and told Miss Firs-Robinson all about it on the spot.
Miss Firs-Robinson, who had refused to believe in Elfrida's determination to break off her engagement with Ambert, was at first greatly upset. She marched to the window, turning her back upon Blount—it was beyond question the finest back in Europe —and there thrummed upon the panes for a minute or so. Then she came back.
"It is a blow—a blow," said she. "Your poor father meant you to be—-"
"Happy!" said Elfrida, "And I shall be so happy with Tom, and Tom with me. Won't you, Tom?" Blount had his arm round her in a moment. "And I couldn't bear Ambert, auntie, could I now? And you couldn't bear him, either, could you now?"
She left Blount's dear arms, and went to Miss Firs-Robinson, and slipped herself into her embrace.
"He was an earl!" said the old lady, in a distinct tone.
"He was a beast," said her niece sweetly.
There seemed something definite about this. Miss Firs-Robinson let Elfrida recline upon her ample bosom, and Elfrida accepted the air-cushion very gracefully. Peace with honour seemed to be restored, when all at once Miss Firs-Robinson spoke again. Her words were unpleasant, but she for the first time on this eventful morning addressed them to Blount, which of course was a good sign.
"Elfrida has a great deal of money," said she.
"I know," said Blount. He was feeling restive.
"Why," said he, looking at Elfrida, "could you not endow a hospital or an orphanage, or—-"
"Certainly not!" said Elfrida, abandoning the air-cushion on the spot. "Why should we be uncomfortable just because we happen to love each other?" She ran to him. "I love you, and you love me, and, auntie"—she looked back and held out her hand to the old lady—"you love him too, don't you?"
"How can I tell?" said she.
"Well, at all events, youhatedAmbert, didn't you now?" Miss Firs-Robinson struggled with herself and then gave way. She burst into tears.
"Like poison, my dear," said she—"like poison."
One surprise makes many. The neighbourhood of Rickton had hardly recovered from its astonishment about the fact that Elfrida had thrown over Lord Ambert and accepted the curate, when a still greater piece of news descended upon them.
Old Reginald Greatorex died on the very evening of the day that saw Elfrida's emancipation, and a letter two days later from his solicitors told Dillwyn that the old man had made him his heir. Dillwyn went down to the funeral, and heard the will read. It was all true. There were no near relations, and no entail. Reginald was at liberty to leave his property as he chose—and he chose now to leave Medlands and three thousand a year to the son of the woman who had been the one love of his life.
To Mrs. Greatorex he left ten thousand pounds, to her immense astonishment. She had expected nothing from him. It made her feel quite rich, and on the spot she forgave him all.
Dillwyn, on his return, had an early interview with her. He was determined to see her even before seeing Agatha, though he wrote the latter an impassioned note out of the fullness of his heart. Mrs. Greatorex received him with open arms and without a touch of embarrassment. She told him in the frankest way that she had always liked him—nay,lovedhim; but, of course, he could see that Agatha must be considered. She had constituted herself her dear girl's guardian, and was it not her duty then to place her as well in life as possible? But that was all over now, of course, and her darling Agatha would be happy and comfortable as well. When he was going away she kissed him, and told him she was never so delighted in her life—she knew he was the only man in the world who could make her dearest girl happy.
He had to go off in a hurry to see old General Montgomery, who had had another slight attack last night, and who would allow no doctor but Dillwyn near him. He had chafed greatly at the young man's unavoidable absence during the past two days.
When he was gone, Mrs. Greatorex sent for Agatha. The girl quite expected that she would have said something about Jack, but there was no mention of him for some time; she dwelt largely on the difference the ten thousand pounds would make in her income, and then drifted off to Elfrida. She had behaved so wisely, she said.
"That is quite what I think," said Agatha. "She would have been wretched with Lord Ambert."
"Absolutely so."
"No wonder!" said Agatha earnestly. "Such an odious man!"
"My dear, it wasn't the man, it was the position that frightened her. A girl like that—ofnofamily, whose people kept astore—to evendreamof being a countess was the most outrageous presumption. At the last, you see, she shrank from it; she felt she could not with any propriety wear a coronet. Her brows were not formed for it by nature. It"—solemnly—"would drop off. Now you, Agatha, you will indeed be a fitting mistress for—Medlands!"
Agatha sat and stared. Mrs. Greatorex beamed back at her.
"I think," she said lightly, "you had better write a little line to Dr. Darkham to terminate that unfortunate engagement."
"There was no engagement," said the girl proudly, "except my engagement to Jack. I have had nothing to do with Dr. Darkham— nothing!"
"Well—very little, certainly," said Mrs. Greatorex. She smiled. "He has hardly anything to complain of, really. Hardlyanything. I shall send him a little diplomatic, friendly line at once."
....
Under the trees it was charming, though many of them were now losing their leaves. Agatha and Dillwyn sat beneath a huge beech, and made sweet plans for their future. It was lovely to be alone, and to be able to say everything that came straight from their hearts without the necessity of whispering. Of course they could not tell that just behind them, kneeling in the shelter of a thick growth of young trees, was a man—a man whose face was the face of a devil at that moment.
They arranged that they should live at Medlands, and they named the day for their wedding. There was nothing to grieve them in old Reginald's death.
"I feel as if I ought to be sorry for him," said he, with a little self-reproach. "But somehow I can feel nothing but that I can claim you now before the world."
"I was yours, whether the world knew it or not," said she.
"I know—I know.... Mrs. Greatorex has written to Darkham?"
"Yes; immediately after you left. He knows by this time that even a question of an engagement is at an end."
The man behind smiled. There was a look on his face as though he were jotting down something in his memory.
Dillwyn looked at his watch, and suddenly sprang to his feet.
"By Jove!" said he, "it's just two."
"Well, but that is very early," in an aggrieved tone.
"Too early"—with disgust. "But that poor old fellow is very unstrung, and begged me to go back at two."
"The General?"
"Yes. I'll pull him through, I think; but he is very shaky and nervous. I am going to sleep there to-night."
"Are you? Oh, I'm glad," said Agatha quickly.
"Glad! Why?"
"I don't know"—she hesitated. "Don't despise me for it, Jack; but I do dread that horrible man, Dr. Darkham. Sometimes I think he is mad. However, at General Montgomery's you will be safe."
Dillwyn laughed gaily, and caught her to him and kissed her.
Darkham kneeling there in his purgatory, had seen and heard everything.... On such and such a day they were to be married. All their young lives were to be a dream of joy!
When they were gone he fell prone upon the earth—with his face to it, and so lay long without moving.
Then he raised himself and got slowly to his feet. He looked round him for a moment vaguely, as though earth and sky and place were strange to him. Then he turned and ran, crashing wildly through brambles and bracken and furze, as though there was a fiend out of hell pursuing him.... Perhaps there was.
It was the evening of the same day.
A clock somewhere struck five, and Darkham suddenly heard it. It seemed to wake him from his frightful dream—a dream in which he had been walking—walking always—he did not know where.
Now as he looked up he knew. He stood at the gate of General Montgomery's avenue.
He opened the gate and went in. The place was familiar to him. How often he had been here attending on the old man until this Dillwyn came! He went slowly onwards into the deeper twilight of the trees. How cool it was—how green, how quiet! He took off his hat and let his forehead bathe itself in the dewy stillness.
When he came close to the house he stopped short. Masons were hurrying in and out of one of the side doors, and a ladder lay against a wall that led to an upper window. He had heard that some improvements were being made in the house which was a hideous structure, but he had imagined they would have been put back by the General's illness. That ladder—why, up there was the room in which the old man used to sleep.
Presently a mason came out of the house and towards the spot where he was standing. Darkham, who was quite himself again, felt a little ashamed of being discovered here without any purpose. Going quickly forward, he met the man half-way.
"Surely you are not working here, when the General is so ill?" he said, in a tone of polite surprise.
"No, sir. We've just got our orders to do no more for some days. We're collecting out tools, that's all, and are off to another job."
"I see."
"The General's main bad, I'm told. The doctor's just come and gone. He—you know him: Dr. Dillwyn—is sleeping here to-night, it seems, if you can call it sleeping when he only gets two hours."
"How two hours?"
"Well, I don't know, sir. But that's how it is. I head the servants talking. And mighty poor rest it seems to me for a man that's toiling all day. I suppose he'll be up with the old gent the rest of the night. He wouldn't have another thing done to that window, either"—pointing to the window against which the ladder lay—"although he is sleeping in that room, and the lower sash is out, as you can see. Seems he always sleeps with the window open."
Darkham nodded to him as a dismissal, and he moved away. Just as he was turning the corner, however, Darkham called to him.
"You are leaving your ladder?"
"Yes, sir. Hope to be back shortly, and the ladder'll do no harm."
"No, of course not, unless the doctor objects—he's sleeping in that room, you say."
"Why, bless you! the ladder can't harm him."
"True. Especially when he has only got two hours to endure it." Darkham laughed pleasantly. "I hope they will be early ones, at all events."
"Twelve to two, Maria says. Not so early, either."
Darkham nodded again, and, when the mason was out of sight, turned and went home. As he walked he thought. And ever his thoughts grew clearer, more concentrated.
He put his hand inside his coat, and brought out a letter. It was the "little, diplomatic, friendly line" that Mrs. Greatorex had sent him. He read it through again, although he knew it by heart, and when he had finished it his face was not good to look upon.
For the past few weeks he had lived largely on Mrs. Greatorex's promises to help him. He had believed in her promises about the coercion of Agatha. To-day he knew what her promises were worth. The moment fortune flung itself at his rival's feet, she had gone over to that rival's side! Suddenly the despised Dillwyn had become eligible and there was an end to all her professions of friendship.
He was at this moment a far richer man than Dillwyn, but Mrs. Greatorex had put all that aside as if it were not to be considered. She preferred that her niece should marry a gentleman with three thousand a year, rather than anobodywith five. She had not so much ashintedat it, yet she had managed to convey her meaning all the same. The little delicately-written, perfumed missive was full of it!
The oath he had sworn was dear to him. He had told Agatha that rather than see her married to Dillwyn he would destroy him. Well!
He began to walk again, and more rapidly. He could not take his mind off that ladder; with his eyes open, he seemed to see it. It went along the road before him, now here, now there, with the sashless window at the top of it.
He turned in the direction of the Red House. He hated going home. But it would be necessary to put in an appearance there. He feared lest, with what lay before him, his absence at dinner to-day might be noticed by the servants.
Afterwards, when the household was quiet, he could slip out through the library window. He told himself he must be careful to upset the bedclothes on his return—perhaps, however, it would be better to do so before starting.
He laid his plans very carefully. It would take, first so long to get from here to The Cedars, to mount the ladder, to enter the open window, to—It would not take long to dothat—and then so much time to get back again, to see to his clothes—the spots, the stains.
It seemed quite feasible, quite safe.
It was all so comfortably arranged for him. He felt he owed Dillwyn a debt of gratitude for the ladder and the open window. What a truly Christian trust in Providence he showed, sleeping thus at the mercy of all men! He shook anew with his horrible merriment. What a gay bridegroom he would look to-morrow. The early morning light would touch up his face.
Darkness had fallen. The wind was sighing heavily, and no star appeared.
Through the dense shadow of the trees Darkham was hurrying swiftly, stealthily. Sometimes he ran, but always he made great haste.
A loose sweeping branch met him, and cut him across the face a swingeing blow. He felt no pain. When he had broken it he cast it aside impatiently and went on with even increasing speed.
Suddenly he stood still and listened.Again!
It was the second time he had heard that sound, or fancied he had heard it. A dull unplaceable sound, yet one that suggested itself to him as the footsteps of a person following.
Once before he had stopped to listen, but nothing came of it, except the heavy soughing of the wind in the trees as the storm swept over them. No sound but that. Yet all through his hurried walk in the wood, it had seemed to him that that sound lay behind him, as though some strange thing was haunting him.
He went on again, moving cautiously, yet with great speed. Every now and then he thrust his hand into his inner pocket, and there felt for something, and patted it with a curious affection.
As he passed the edge of the wood, almost as his foot was on the road, he started. He looked back. The murky shadows of the wood told him nothing; but—that sound!Again that sound! He could have sworn he heard footsteps!
A sudden fear caught him; he turned, and rushed back into the wood, crashing to right and left of him. If he was followed, why, his purpose would be at an end; but he swore to himself, as he rushed here and there, that if he caught the man who had circumvented him, he would kill him on the spot.
Then his fury abated. He grew suddenly quite quiet. There was nothing, after all—nothing.
He wiped his brow and went on.
He tried the latch of the gate, but it was locked. He cared nothing for small obstructions like that. He climbed it easily enough, and went on down the avenue.
As he drew near the house, for the first time fear rose within his heart. But it was a fear that would have made the angels weep.
Was the ladder there? Or had one of the workmen taken it away?
He ran frantically to the break in the laurels from which the house could be seen.
The ladder was there!
He thrust his hand for the last time into his pocket, and felt the knife, and fondled it. Then he went on.
He reached the ladder, put his foot on it, and mounted. He began to climb quickly, yet with a dogged determination to make no mistake. There should be no false step.
When he was half-way up he looked down. Beneath was an area that surrounded the whole house—an area lately cemented. It was broad and white and clean. In the darkness it made a sort of light.
He turned his eyes from that and looked up. The window above was open—wide open; the sash had not been replaced.
He mounted still higher. The sill was almost within his reach; he put out his hand to grasp it, but it fell short. Another rung or two, and then—-
Suddenly he made a lurch forward and clung to the ladder. The ladder was swaying to and fro. He made a quick rush upwards and put out his hand to grasp the ledge of Dillwyn's window—but he was still too low for that.
The ladder was swaying heavily from side to side; it was now almost on the very edge of the sill. Soon it would be over. Something from below must be dragging it—dragging—-
He made a frantic dash at the sill—and missed it!
Again the ladder swayed, this timetowardsthe desired sill. Darkham braced himself for a last effort. He made a dash and sprang on to the sill of Dillwyn's room.
That precipitated the end. The ladder, reaching the edge, toppled over and went with a crash to the cemented area below.
Darkham, clutching on to the sill, saw the fall of the ladder. That meant death unless help came soon; and who was to give him help?The man he had come to murder?
He clung on desperately, his nails working into the hard stone. If he shouted, Dillwyn would hear him, would rescue him; but even at this last moment his hatred of Dillwyn held him dumb.
His fingers were growing tired—his nails were wearing away and loosening.... In a moment they would come to the edge, and then—-
Mad despair was in his heart. He clung desperately to the sill! A minute—could he hold on another minute? There was only a minute left. Was it so far to fall. Death rather than an appeal to his rival. So far the strength of the man held out.
But now his nails were loosening; his eyes, mad with fear, sought the ground below.
He looked—and looked—and all at once a fearful yell broke from him.
What was that thing down there—crouching—with that white cloth over her mouth? Had she come—was she waiting for him?
Great God! have mercy!
His fingers gave way. He fell with a sickening scream on to the hard cement below.
There was a hideous thud.
....
That awful yell had wakened Dillwyn from his sleep—a sleep that would have been death but for it. He sprang up and rushed to the open window, but too late! He caught a vague, awful vision of one falling—falling through the air into eternity—but that was all.
It was enough, however; he lit a lamp, and rushed downstairs to the front of the house. There he lowered the lamp and looked about him. Nothing—nothing to be seen. He stepped down from the avenue on to the newly-cemented area that ran round the house, and looked about him with an anxious gaze. Suddenly he found he was stepping on a little crimson line that ran towards him sluggishly.
With a sharp ejaculation he stepped aside. A cold chill ran through him. All at once he knew that it was blood.
Then he went on, following up the red line until he came to—-
Darkham was lying on the pavement, smashed almost out of recognition, yet still alive. Dillwyn knew that by the convulsive twitching of the fingers.
A figure was bending over him. Dillwyn at once saw it was the idiot, and even as he watched, the unhappy creature bent lower and laid a white cloth over the dying man's nose and mouth, pressing it down with a demoniacal force.
Dillwyn hurried forward, calling aloud as he came, but the idiot crouching over Darkham could not hear. At last he reached them and flung himself upon the wretched boy, and tore him from his prey.
The idiot grappled with him in a sort of frenzy, but Dillwyn held on. The lamp threw a dull light upon the dying man's face—but above them and around was gloom.
All at once the idiot desisted from his struggle; he pointed frantically to Darkham.
Dillwyn followed his gaze. Darkham had risen on his elbow—it was the last effort before death. Dillwyn went to him and laid his arm round him, but Darkham pushed him back. Yet it seemed to the younger man that, though Darkham's hatred of him followed him to the grave, his last thoughts were not of him.
The dying man lifted his hand and pointed it slowly, solemnly at his son—the son who sat opposite to him, laughing in his dying face. There was some awful meaning in Darkham's glazing eyes, as though he saw something beyond the idiot—something so horrible that itkepthim alive in spite of nature. He struggled forward as though to addresssome one—some one Dillwyn could not see —but the struggle was too much for him, and he fell back.... Dillwyn caught him in his arms—he was dead.
A great shout rose from the idiot.
"Sho! Sho! Sho!" yelled he.
His mother was avenged.