The past was a sleep, and her life began.Browning.
The past was a sleep, and her life began.
Browning.
"Oh, indeed I think you must be mistaken," said Mr. Cranmer. "It can't be murder—it must be a sunstroke, or a fit."
"Queer sunstroke, to wait till five o'clock in the evening to strike, and queer fit to break a man's arm," said Jane, with some warmth. "I've seen apoplexy, sir, and I've seen epilepsy, and I've seen many and many a sunstroke; I know 'em when I see 'em. This here isn't nothing of that sort."
Claud approached, hastily cramming an eyeglass in one eye, and, stooping over the wounded man, without further ado pulled open his flannel shirt and laid a hand over his heart. His face grew grave.
"We must have help for him quickly," he said, in an alert, decided tone, which did not seem to match his dilletante exterior. "Where is the nearest place to run to?"
"Poole is quite close—the farmhouse yonder—I thought Miss Elaine had gone there," said Jane.
He just touched the arm which lay powerless, the coat-sleeve soaked in blood, and shook his head.
"You're right enough—it's no fit; it's a brutal assault," he said. "A robbery, I suppose. I'll run to the farm—who'll show me the way?"
"I—I can run fast!" cried Elaine, who seemed to have pinned her faith on Mr. Cranmer.
They scrambled down through the gap in the hedge, and ran breathlessly across the Waste. It was hard to believe that the animated, emotional creature whose feet seemed to fly over the uneven ground was the same as the dull, spiritless girl who had trailed the tip of her parasol along unwillingly in the dust such a short time back.
"Do you know the people—at—the—farm?" panted Claud, who was not in training.
"Oh, yes. Mind the bog—don't get over the stile, it's broken—come through the gap. There's Clara come back from the milking. Clara! Clara! call your father, call the men, quick! Something most dreadful has happened!"
These ominous words, pronounced at the top of the shrill young voice, filled the farmyard as if by magic. The men and girls, the boys, the farmer and his wife, all rushed out of doors, and great indeed was their astonishment to see Miss Brabourne arrive on the scene with a perfectly strange gentleman as her escort. It was well that some one was at hand who could tell the story more coherently than poor Elaine, who by this time was quite at the end of her powers.
No sooner did Mr. Battishill comprehend what was wanted than his fastest horse was saddled and his son was galloping for a doctor, while the farm-laborers pulled down a hurdle, and, spreading a blanket over it, proceeded briskly to the scene of the disaster, accompanied by the farmer himself.
Mrs. Battishill urged Elaine to stay with her, but, though white and almost speechless, the girl vehemently refused—she must go back and see what had happened.
Claud Cranmer took her hand as if she had been a little girl, and she clasped his vehemently with both hers.
"Oh, do you think he will die?" she whispered hoarsely.
"I hope not; he looks a big strong fellow. It will depend, I should think, on whether or not his skull is broken. He is not a friend of yours, is he?"
"Oh, no, I never saw him in my life before. They say he is staying in the village."
"You will be dreadfully tired after this," he said, sympathetically.
"Oh, it, does not matter in the least. I am never tired; I never have anything to tire me. You don't really think his skull is broken, do you?"
"If the man that struck him could break the bone of his arm in two, I'm afraid it looks bad for the poor chap. It's a most ghastly thing, 'pon my word. I never heard of such an outrage! Broad daylight in a little country place like this! It's horrible to think of."
But he was not thinking wholly of Allonby and his mysterious fate; he was marvelling at the utter unconsciousness of the girl who walked beside him, her hand confidingly clasped in his. He had never met a girl so vilely dressed—never seen even a housemaid who wore such astounding boots; but this Miss Brabourne was evidently not in the least aware of how far her toilette came short of the requirements of an exacting society. In spite of the urgency of the moment, by the time they arrived back at the scene of action, he was lost in a speculation as to how long it would take this anomaly in the way of girlhood, if suddenly transported into the midst of fashionable London, to discover her own latent capabilities.
Lady Mabel had not been idle in their absence. She had slit Allonby's coat-sleeve, pulled his jointed mahl-stick to pieces, and contrived an impromptu splint for the broken arm therewith. She was supporting his head in her lap, and bathing it with the contents of her vinaigrette.
The wounded man's eyes were open, and he was moving his head uneasily and slowly, groaning deeply every now and then. It was plain that he was quite unconscious of his surroundings, and that he suffered much.
Elaine crept up with a fixed stare of wonder, and crouched down on the grass near. His eyes fell on her a moment,—they were big, honest, hazel eyes,—and the girl shivered and shrank, turning crimson as she met his gaze, though it was vacant and wild, and wandered off elsewhere in another second.
"Oh, if he would not groan so! Oh, how he suffers; he is going to die," she cried, mournfully.
Jane came up and drew her away, as the men assembled round the prostrate figure, and lifted it on to the hurdle, Mr. Cranmer carefully supporting the head, which was laid on a soft shawl of Lady Mabel's.
All the sky was scarlet and rose, and all the fields tinged with the same hue, as the small procession started to carry the sufferer with as little jolting as possible. The sun caught the windows of Poole and made them flare like torches.
Among the crushed grass where Allonby had lain was a dark wet stain. How sad the easel looked, with its picture just begun! The palette had fallen face downwards, the brushes were scattered hither and thither.
Lady Mabel began to collect them, and to pack them into the open color-box.
"Come, Miss Elaine, dear, we must run home. Your aunts will be sending out to see after us," said Jane, nervously re-tying her bonnet strings.
"I cannot walk a step," said the girl, who was seated on the grass, as white as marble. "You must go and tell them so—go and leave me."
"Miss Elaine, my dear!" cried Jane, totally at a loss. Elaine was usually perfectly obedient.
"I will drive Miss Brabourne home," said Lady Mabel, coming forward. "She is quite over-wrought. I should like to see her aunts, for I am nearly sure my husband knew Colonel Brabourne. Claud, what are you going to do?"
Her brother jerked his glass suddenly out of his eye and turned towards them; he had been apparently contemplating the distance with an abstracted air.
"Is there an inn in your village?" he asked of Jane.
"Yes, sir."
"Could we stay the night there?"
"Dear heart, sir, no, this lady couldn't. It's very rough, clean, and they're decent folks, but just a village public, sir. This poor young man was staying there, they say. I make no doubt but Mrs. Clapp'll be wondering after him."
"What do you want to do, Claud?" said his sister.
"I want to investigate this highway robbery a little," he answered. "It is interesting to me—very. I should have liked to have Goodman with me; so I thought, if there was any accommodation at the village, you might drive on, put up, and send Goodman back to rejoin me here."
"And let him find you also lying by the wayside with a broken head?" said Lady Mabel.
He smiled.
"Not likely to attempt two such outrages in the same spot, on the same evening," he said. "No. I'll tell you what I will do: I must go up to the farm and see to this poor fellow. He may have friends who should be telegraphed to. I'll get a bed here for the night, if you will give me my bag out of the carriage; you must drive through the village, stop at the inn to let the good folks know what has become of their lodger, and then on to the Stanton hotel as we planned. The farmer shall lend me a trap to-morrow, and I'll join you."
"You think of everything," said his sister, admiringly, "but, Claud, I wonder if these people know anything of nursing—I am so uneasy till the doctor has delivered his verdict—is there a nurse in the village that I could send up, I wonder?"
"There's a very good nurse in the village," said Jane Gollop, "the Misses Willoughby let her have a cottage rent free, and all her milk, and eggs, and butter from their own farm. We pass her cottage, if you please, 'm."
"Very good. Tell Mrs. Battishill I shall send her up," said Lady Mabel, getting into the carriage. "It is so light now, we shall get to Stanton before dark, don't you think so, Goodman?"
"Yes, my lady. It's not dark at nine o'clock now."
"No, no. Take care of yourself, Claud."
Her brother nodded, then turned to lift Elaine from the grass, where she sat motionless, staring at the road where the lifeless form of Allonby had been carried.
"Come," said Mr. Cranmer, gently.
"It's all over now," sighed Elaine.
"What is over?" he asked.
"What happened. Nothing ever happens in Edge Combe. This is the first thing that ever happened to me in my life, now it is over."
"Miss Elaine, my dear, don't stay talking," cried Jane, in a fright. She thought her charge was light-headed with the excitement she had gone through. The girl said no more, but submitted to be put into the carriage with Lady Mabel, and sank down with a sigh into the corner, turning her face away from that fateful patch of roadside grass. Goodman helped Jane gallantly to a seat beside him. Claud lingered, with his hands resting on the top of the carriage door, his eyes on Elaine's face.
"You do look pale," he said, "a lily maid indeed."
The rich color flew to her face as he had hoped it would, but he could see by the look in her eyes that she had not understood his allusion in the least.
"Breathes there a girl within the four seas who has not read the Idylls of the King?" he pondered, wondering. Then, just as the carriage was starting, he cried out,
"Hi! Goodman! One thing more—as you go through the village, send me up the constable."
Too often, clad in radiant vest,Deceitfully goes forth the morn;Too often evening in the westSinks, smilingly forsworn.Wordsworth.
Too often, clad in radiant vest,Deceitfully goes forth the morn;Too often evening in the westSinks, smilingly forsworn.
Wordsworth.
Claud Cranmer stood still in the road, watching the carriage till it disappeared round a bend in the winding way.
Then he turned, and gravely surveyed the scene of action. The hedge on one side of the lane—the side on which they had found Allonby—was broken and full of gaps. The lane on this side was skirted, first by a hay-field, and further on by the piece of ground known as the "Waste," through which, as has been before stated, an oblique footpath led to the wicket-gate in Mrs. Battishill's flower-garden.
Persons crossing this Waste were in full view of the windows of Poole. The field which adjoined the Waste was to be cut to-morrow. It was full of tall rich grass, through which no mortal could have passed without leaving most evident traces of his passage behind him.
On the further side of the lane was a very tall, quick-set hedge, thick and compact, without a hole or a rent anywhere. Below it was a deep ditch, along the brink of which Mr. Cranmer walked, eyeing the long grasses and weeds keenly for the smallest trace of trampling or disorder.
There was none.
Crossing the road again, he sat down on the stile leading to the Waste, and reflected.
Jane and Miss Brabourne had come up the lane from the direction of Edge Combe. They had crossed this piece of ground, noticed the artist at work, and proceeded to the farm beyond. In about half-an-hour they had returned by the road, to find the outrage committed and no traces of the robber to be seen.
It appeared unlikely, then, to say the least of it, that this robber should have come from the direction of Poole Farm.
Any loitering man would have been noticed by them as they passed; there was not a single clump of bush on the Waste large enough to conceal a man from the view of anyone crossing by the footpath. It seemed also to Mr. Cranmer to be exceedingly improbable that the villain should have approached along the road by which the carriage had come—that is to say, that he had been walkingtowardsEdge Combe, because the artist had been sitting directly facing anyone who came from that direction, and must have seen and noticed a passer-by on that lonely road.
Probability then suggested it as most likely that the tramp, or whoever it was, who had struck to such purpose, had approached his victim from the direction of the village of Edge Combe—had simply walked along the lane, come up behind the unsuspecting artist, and without warning administered the blow on the head, which was quite enough to leave the strongest man helpless in his hands. Of course, it was all mere speculation, still, it might afford a clue; for, if a stranger, a tramp, or a suspicious-looking person had passed through the village that afternoon, he was certain to have been noticed, and probably there were several who could identify such a one.
Then, if he had approached along the lane, how had he escaped?
Most probably by simply walking on along the solitary lane till he came to the high-road. Here was another negative piece of evidence. If this had been his course, he must, when he reached the high-road, have turned to the right, towards Stanton, because Lady Mabel and her brother, driving from Philmouth, must have met him if he had turned to the left; and Mr. Cranmer clearly recollected that they had met no such person.
All this, of course, was very elementary reasoning; because there were a thousand places in which a tramp might have concealed himself, out of the main road. Yet it appeared to the young man likely that one who presumed sufficiently on the isolation of the neighborhood to commit such an assault in broad daylight, almost within view of the windows of a large farmhouse, would be hardy enough to adopt the course of simply walking off down the road after securing his booty,—a far safer plan and less likely to attract suspicion than skulking in fields or outhouses.
But, altogether, the more he thought of it, the more incredible, the more outrageous the whole thing appeared to be.
Surely the artist would not be likely to have enough of value on him during a sketching-tour, to make the robbing of him worth such an enormous hazard! His costume, as Claud remembered, had been simplicity itself—white flannel shirt and trousers, with rough, short grey coat and cloth helmet.
He would carry a watch and chain—most likely; a signet ring—very probably. About a pound's worth of loose silver; aggregate value of entire spoils, perhaps ten pounds, for the watch would be very likely silver, or the chain worthless. Could there be more—far more in the affair than met the eye? Could this artist be a man who had enemies? Was there some wildly sensational tale of hatred and vengeance underlying the mysterious circumstances?
Claud pondered, as he raised his neat brown felt hat and wiped his forehead. He was overcome with a desire to see and question the victim. From him something might be ascertained, at least, of the plan of attack.
He set out to walk to Poole Farm, remarking casually to himself, in a depressed way, that nature never intended him for a detective.
"But I wonder what a detective would have done under the circumstances?" he mused. "I could not observe mysterious footprints in the grass near, for Miss Brabourne's well-meaning but clumsy handmaiden had trodden it all flat by the time I arrived on the scene. I have examined the road and banks for shreds of evidence. I have picked up a hairpin, which I have reason to believe is Miss Brabourne's. Ought I to put it in my pocket-book to show to the realbona-fidedetective when he arrives on the scene? It would hardly be of service, I suppose, to preserve any of the blood? Ought I to have left the paints and messes in the exact order in which they fell, I wonder? It's too late to reflect on that now, however," he added, with a glance at the paint-box, which he carried strapped up in one hand, the easel being over his shoulder. The beautiful calmness of the evening seemed to him horribly at variance with the tragedy just enacted. "It's like that funny hymn which little Peggy sings,
'Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.'
'Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.'
Certainly man in his worst aspect is a contemptible reptile," he sighed, as he walked up the little pebble walk, where the wall-flowers drowned the air with sweetness.
Inside, in the kitchen, a lively scene presented itself. Mrs. Battishill, having deposited the sick man in bed, had just come down for towels and hot water, and was flying from linen-press to boiler-tap with a volley of words and some agitation. Her daughter Clara, a slight, delicate girl who would have been pretty had she not attempted to be fashionable, wearing steels in her dress, and a large imitation gold watch chain, was trying somewhat feebly to help her mother, and holding the kettle so unsteadily that the water splashed on the clean flags. A group of men and boys stood round awestruck, anxious to glean every bit of information that could be given.
There was a murmur as Claud appeared, and everyone made room for him to enter.
"Missis—here be the London gentleman," said a great benevolent-looking laborer who stood near the door.
"Eh? Oh, come in, sir. Declare I near forgot you in the hurry of it. Saul, my boy, take the things from the gentleman, there's a dearr lamb."
A tall boy about sixteen came forward, and held out his hands for the easel with a lovely smile.
Mr. Cranmer resigned his burden with a momentary admiration of the beauty of the West of England peasantry, and came forward to where Mrs. Battishill was standing.
"As I was saying, sir, I grudges nothing; the time, nor the food, nor the bed, nor anything; but if he could have managed to fall ill at any other time than right on top o' my hay harvest! Lord knows how I'm going to dû! There'll be thirty men to feed to-morrow, sir, count heads all round, and it's one woman's work to get ready the victuals, I can tell you, and Clara and the gal doing everything wrong if I so much as turns my head away! And if I'm to be up all night——"
He was able to calm her considerably with the hope of the village nurse's speedy arrival, and was on the point of asking to go up and see the patient, when a clatter of hoofs was heard, and the doctor appeared on the scene.
He was a rough, surly, middle-aged man, totally without any modern ideas of comfort or consideration, but with broken limbs and broken heads he was in his element, for he had a sharp practice amongst the quarrymen.
Mrs. Battishill went upstairs with him, and Claud sat on the kitchen-table, swinging his legs.
"Clara," said he, "I am most fearfully hungry."
A giggle went round the assembly, as Clara, blushing rosy red, ran to get him some bread and cream, and a draught of cider.
"This is food for the gods," said the hungry Claud, as he covered his bread thickly with scalded cream. "This is indeed a land flowing with milk and honey."
"I can get yer some hooney tû, if yer wants it," murmured Clara, very low, with drooping eyes.
"No, no, I was only speaking metaphorically," said he, laughing. "How old are you, Clara?"
"A'm seventeen, sirr."
"Ah! That's a fine age. And how old's your brother?"
"A've tû broothers, sirr."
"Oh, two—which be they?" said Claud, wiping his lips, and surveying his admiring audience.
The two Battishills stepped forward, grinning.
"Oh! isn't that tall fellow with the light hair your brother?" he said, indicating the boy whom Mrs. Battishill had called Saul.
She shook her head, and there was a general titter, while the words "sorft," "innocent," could be heard, by which means he gradually gathered that Saul was the village idiot, at home everywhere and beloved everywhere. Finding himself the object of general attention, the boy crept behind Clara, who was a head shorter than he, and hid his face in her neck till only his beautiful golden curls were visible.
She leaned back, her arms on his hips, blushing and laughing.
"He's turrible shy with strangers," she said, "he can't bear 'em. Stan' up straight, thee girt fule, Saul!"
Claud thought it as picturesque an interior as Teniers ever painted. The great hearth, with its seats each side of the chimney, the glowing fire, the white washed walls, the shining tins on the dresser, the amused, absorbed faces of the peasantry, and through the open door a waft of pure air with a glimpse of trees and evening sky.
He turned next to Joe Battishill, a comely young man of one and twenty.
"What do you think of this affair?" he asked. "You know these parts—I don't. Has such a thing ever happened before?"
There was a chorus of "No!" and at least half a dozen started forward to vindicate their country side of such a charge. All were convinced that it was the work of some tramp, and then Claud proceeded to give them his ideas on the subject. It was agreed that the stranger spoke sound sense, and several volunteered to organize search parties. This was just what he wanted them to do, and he despatched some towards Edge Combe, some along the highroad to Stanton, and with these last he sent a scribbled note, enclosing his card, to the Stanton constabulary.
He begged them to watch every tramp, every suspicious character that passed through the town. Just as he was in the act of writing, and waxing quite excited in his converse with the men, the doctor was heard lumbering downstairs.
A dozen eager faces darted forward to hear the news, but the doctor marched in solemn silence through the group, and took up his position in front of the great fire, facing the assembly.
"A won't speak a worrd till he's had his ciderr," whispered Mrs. Battishill to Claud, and Clara went flying past him into the cellar.
Meanwhile Dr. Forbes' sharp eyes had travelled round the room till they rested on Claud, and the two stood staring at one another in a manner irresistibly comic to the latter.
Certainly Mr. Cranmer introduced a foreign element into the society, an element the doctor would scarcely be prepared to find in Mrs. Battishill's kitchen. He was not above middle height, and slightly built. In complexion he was somewhat fair, with closely cropped, smooth dust-colored hair and moustache, and a pale face. His eyes were grey and usually half shut, and he might have been any age you please, from five and twenty to forty. He had no pretence to good looks of any kind, but he possessed an elegance not very easy to describe—a grace of bearing, a gentleness of manner, a readiness of speech, which no doubt he owed to his Irish origin. He was a conspicuously neat person, never rumpled, never disarrayed, and now, after his very unusual exertions, his collar and tie were in perfect order, his fresh, quiet, light suit was spotless, and his neat brown felt "bowler" lay on the table at his side without even a flack of dust.
His glass was in his eye, and he held a piece of bread and cream in his hand. Feeling the doctor's eyes upon him, he deliberately ate a mouthful; then, rising his mug of cider:
"I drink your good health, sir," he said. "How do you find your patient?"
"My patient, sir," said Dr. Forbes, in a loud, resonant voice, "has had as foul usage as ever I saw in my life. He'll pull through, he has a splendid constitution. I never saw a finer physique; but he'll have a fight for it."
At this point Clara brought up the cider, which the doctor drained at one long steady pull, after which he wiped his large expressive mouth.
"If the blow on his head had been as hard as those that followed it, he'd have been a dead man by now," he said presently. "But luckily it was not. It was only strong enough to stun him. But there's a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs, and wounds and contusions all over him. Sir, if the weapon employed had equalled the goodwill of him who employed it, there would have been a fine funeral here at Edge Combe to-morrow."
"Then," said Claud, eagerly, "what do you think the blows were inflicted with?"
"A stick—a cudgel of some sort," said the doctor, "but I'll swear they were given by a novice—by a man that didn't know where to hit, but just slashed at the prostrate carcase promiscuously. Why, if that first blow on the head had been followed by another to match—there would have been the business done at once! But I can't conceive the motive—that's what baffles me, sir."
"But—don't you think the motive was robbery?" cried Claud, excitedly.
"What did he rob him of?" said the doctor; and opening his enormous hand, he showed a handsome gold watch and chain, a ring with a sunk diamond in it, a sovereign or two, and some loose silver.
Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles,Miles on milesOn the solitary pastures, where our sheep,Half asleep,Tinkle homeward in the twilight—stay or stopAs they crop.Browning.
Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles,Miles on milesOn the solitary pastures, where our sheep,Half asleep,Tinkle homeward in the twilight—stay or stopAs they crop.
Browning.
There was a general hush, during which the doctor surveyed Mr. Cranmer keenly.
"Whatcanbe the meaning of it?" cried Claud, thoroughly disconcerted and at fault.
"That's past my telling, or the telling of anybody else, I think," said Dr. Forbes, slowly. "It's the most mysterious thing in the whole course of my professional experience." He eyed Claud again. "Will you be a friend of his?" he asked.
"No, no—I know nothing of him at all," said the young man, proceeding briefly to relate how strangely he had been summoned to the scene of the tragedy. The Scotchman listened attentively, and then asked abruptly:
"Since ye take so kindly an interest in the poor lad, will ye come up and see him?"
"I should like to," said Claud at once.
"Should we go after all, sir?" asked Joe Battishill, diffidently.
"What—on the search expeditions? Yes, it would be as well to rouse the neighborhood," said Cranmer, after a moment's consideration; "but tell the Stanton constables this extraordinary fact about the property not being taken. If only I could get a word with the poor fellow himself,—if only he were conscious!"
"He'll not be conscious yet awhile," said the doctor.
They ascended the old stairs with their weighty bannisters, the loud tread with which the doctor crossed the kitchen having vanished entirely. His step was noiseless as he opened the bed-room door. It was a big room, airy and clean, and the bed was a large and cumbersome four-poster, with pink hangings. Among a forest of pillows lay Allonby, his fine proportions shrouded in one of Farmer Battishill's night-shirts. His eyes were wide open, and with the arm which was not strapped up he was beating wearily on the counterpane.
The farmer's wife, having no ice, was laying bandages of vinegar and water on his head to cool him. The doctor had set the casement window wide open, and the low clucking of the fowls in the farmyard was softly audible. Mr. Cranmer approached the bedside and looked down at the sufferer.
Allonby was a fine-looking young man—perhaps thirty years old, with strongly defined features and a pale complexion. He had a rather long, hooked nose, his eyes were set in deep under hollow brows, and his chin was prominent, giving a marked individuality to the face, which was, however, too thin for beauty. It was the face of a man who was always rather anxious, to whom the realities of life were irksome, but who had nevertheless always to consider the question of £ s. d.—a worn face, which just now, in its suffering and pallid aspect, looked very sad. The soft dark brown hair lay in a loose wave over a fine and thoughtful forehead. It was with an instinct of warm friendliness that the gazer turned from the bedside.
"Oh, what a shame it is!" he said, indignantly. "I think I never heard of such a butchery. But now, the thing is to find his friends. Had he a pocket-book with him? If not, I must walk down to the inn and inquire—he must have left letters or papers somewhere."
"Here's a pocket-book," said the doctor, holding out a leathern pouch of untidy and well-worn appearance.
Claud carried it to the window, and opened it. It contained several receipted bills, six postage-stamps, two five-pound notes, a couple of photographs of a racing crew in striped jerseys, with the name "Byrne, Richmond," on the back of them, an exhibitor's admission to the Royal Academy exhibition, and several cards of invitation and private view tickets. These served to elucidate the fact that the artist's name was Osmond Allonby, but no more.
He lifted the grey coat which hung over a chair, and felt in all its pockets. At last, from the outer one, he unearthed a pocket handkerchief and a letter addressed to
O. Allonby, Esq.,At "The Fountain Head,"Edge Combe,South Devon.
O. Allonby, Esq.,At "The Fountain Head,"Edge Combe,South Devon.
"I hope he'll forgive my opening it, poor chap," said Claud, and he pulled the paper from its envelope.
The address, as is customary in letters between people who know each other intimately, was insufficient. It was merely "7, Mansfield Road." He glanced over the beginning—it was quaint enough.
"How are you getting on, old man? We are being fried alive here, and the weather has put old C—— into such an unbearable rage that Jac says he has brought out the old threat once more, all the girls are to be turned out of the R. A. schools!"
The reader was sorely tempted to continue this effusion, but nobly skipped all the rest of the closely-written sheet, and merely looked at the signature.
"Always your loving sister,"Wyn."
"Always your loving sister,"Wyn."
"How much trouble young ladies would save, if only they would sign their names properly!" said Claud, somewhat exasperated. "However, if she is his sister I suppose it is fair to conclude her name to be Allonby. Wyn Allonby!"
He turned to the envelope, and in a moment of inspiration bethought him of the postmark. It bore the legend, London, S. W.
"That's enough!" he said, "now I can telegraph. That's all I wanted to know. Mrs. Battishill, will you kindly take all these things and lock them up in a drawer, please, for Mr. Allonby's people to have when they come."
He proceeded to wrap the watch, chain, pocket-book, etc., all together in a paper, and deposited them in a drawer which Mrs. Battishill locked and took the key.
Claud could hardly restrain a smile as he busied himself thus. The idea would occur to him of how ridiculous it was that he, Claud Cranmer, should be so occupied!—of what Mab would say if she could only see this preternatural, this business-like seriousness!—of what all the men at the "Eaton" would say!—of how they would shout with laughter at the idea of his posing as the hero of such a predicament!—of what a tale it would be for everyone down in the shires that autumn!
A voice from Allonby suddenly recalled him to the present. He approached the bed-side full of pity, trying to catch the fragments of speech which the sick man uttered with difficulty from time to time.
"And now farewell!—I am going a long way," said Allonby, and after a pause again repeated, "I am going a long way ... if indeed I go,—for all my mind is clouded with a doubt,—to the island valley of——"
A pause, then again.
"To the island valley of—what is it? where is it? I forget—I cannot say it,—to the island valley of——"
"Avilion?" suggested Claud.
There was a sigh of relief.
"Yes—that's it! that's it! The Island Valley of Avilion, where I will heal me of my—grievous wound."
"Now I wonder what has put that into his head?" said Claud.
"Following up some previous train of thought most probably," said the doctor. "The subject for a picture I should say very likely. Let him be, poor lad."
Clara here tapped softly at the door, to say that the nurse had arrived; and Claud was despatched downstairs to send her up, the doctor remaining to give her directions.
Joe Battishill and another young laborer were waiting at the door for "the gentleman's orders," and when he had sent up the nurse—a nice motherly, clean-looking woman,—he sat down to write out his telegram.
"Beg pardon, sir," said a big man, pushing past the others to the table, "but I should like half-a-dozen words wi' ye. I'm Willum Clapp as keeps the 'Fountain Head,' and my missus be in a fine takin' about this poor young chap, an' I wants to hear all that's took place."
"Oh, you're the landlord of the 'Fountain Head,' are you?" said Claud, "you're just the man I wanted to see. Can you account in any way for this that has happened? What sort of man was your lodger, quiet?—peaceable?"
William Clapp broke out into a warm eulogium on the virtues of "Muster Allonba!"
He was quiet, gentle, good-humored, and had his word and his joke for everyone. He had only received two letters since he came to Edge, one of which he put in the fire after reading it. This Mr. Clapp specially remembered, because his lodger had to come into the kitchen to accomplish the said feat, there being, naturally, no fire in the sitting-room. He had started from the inn that morning a little before mid-day, with his dinner done up in a blue handkerchief—
"And that minds me, sirr, to ask if Missus Battishill could let my missus have back the handkercher and the pudding-dish, as there'll be sooch a-many dinners to send out to the hayfields to-morrow."
"Oh—certainly, I suppose Mrs. Clapp can have her things; just ask after them, some of you fellows. And now tell me," said Claud, "did Mr. Allonby know anybody down in these parts?"
"No, sirr, I don't think he did."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure as can be, sirr. At least, if a did, a said nowt abaout it to me or the missus."
"Nobody ever came to see him?"
"No, sirr, that I'm certain on!"
"Did he seem as if he had anything on his mind?"
"No, that a didn't, for my missus said as haow she neverr see such a light-hearted chap in herr life!"
Claud pondered deeply, nursing one knee and staring at the kitchen floor.
"You see, this is what bothers me, Mr. Clapp," he said. "It was an assault apparently without any motive whatever, for Mr. Allonby was not robbed."
"Eh, it's as queer a thing as ever I heard on, and as awful," said William Clapp. "In the meedst of life we are in death, as I've often heared in church, sirr! Why, the mowers in Miss Willoughby's grass, and Loud at the smithy, they see him go by a-laughing and a-giving everyone good-morning as perlite and well-mannered as could be; and the next one hears of him——!"
The farmer made an eloquent gesture with his hand.
"Well, I'm just writing a message to his people, Mr. Clapp," said Claud. "I found a letter from his sister in London, and I thought the best thing to do was to telegraph for her to come straight."
"Ifyouplease, sirr," said the landlord, "anything me or my missus can do——"
"I am sure of it, and thank you kindly. I may want a bed at your house to-morrow night, but I'll let you know."
He rapidly pencilled a message to—
Miss Wyn Allonby,7 Mansfield Road,London, S. W.
Miss Wyn Allonby,7 Mansfield Road,London, S. W.
Then paused a minute.
"I don't even know whether she's married or not," he reflected. "However, I should think this would find her any way; people usually open telegrams."
He wrote:
"Accident to Mr. Allonby. Serious. Has been taken to Poole Farm. 11.30 train Waterloo to Stanton shall be met to-morrow."
"Accident to Mr. Allonby. Serious. Has been taken to Poole Farm. 11.30 train Waterloo to Stanton shall be met to-morrow."
He glanced up at the landlord.
"I will add your name," he said, "and address,—it will be better."
So he added, "Clapp, Fountain Head Inn," and passed the paper over to Joe Battishill, who gravely began to count the syllables.
"One and twopence, please, sir," said Joe.
Claud tossed him half-a-crown.
"You'll want something when you get to Stanton," he said; "you can keep the change."
Clara came creeping down the stair, looking white and nervous.
"Please, sir, mother say she never saw no blue handkercher nor pudding-basin neither."
"Eh?" said Claud. "Well, now I come to think of it, no more did I; I suppose it was left by the wayside."
"I'll be bold to say it wasn't," said William Clapp, "for I walked oop right past the place, and I should a known my missus's dish-clout, bless yer."
"I suppose it's hidden among the grass," said Mr. Cranmer, after a moment's thought. "Let us go and look. Is your mother sure it was not brought here, Clara?"
"Certain sure, sir. Nobody carried away anything but mother, who took the peecture, an' you as carried the box and easel."
"Could Miss Brabourne's servant have taken it?" suggested Claud.
"Nay, sir, a think not," said Clapp, "for a stopped to speak to my missus, and she would ha' gi'en her the things if she had 'em."
"Let's go and look!" cried Claud, seizing his hat again.
The sun had set at last—what a long lime it seemed to have taken to-night! The rosy afterglow dyed all the heavens, and the trees were outlined black against it. As they hurried through the Waste, it seemed to the young man as if he had known the neighborhood for years; ages appeared to have elapsed since the afternoon, when he had been soberly driving with Mab along the coach-road, accomplishing the last stage in their pleasant, uneventful ten days' driving-tour. How little he had thought, when he planned that driving-tour for Mab, who had been thoroughly wearied out with an epidemic of whooping-cough in her nursery, that it would lead to consequences such as these. He was profoundly interested in the mysterious circumstances of this affair in which, somehow, he had been made to play such a prominent part. Come what might, he must stay and see it out. Mab might go home if she liked—in fact, he thought she had better telegraph to Edward to come and fetch her. The children were all at Eastbourne with the nurses, and she would have a chance of quiet if she went for a few days to the "mater's" inconvenient dark little house in Provost Street, Park Lane; and——
"Here you are, sirr," said William Clapp, in his broad Devon. "Where's the missus's dishclout?"
In fact, it was not to be seen. They searched for it high and low, in vain. Mr. Cranmer felt as if he were in the toils of that mixture of the ghastly and the absurd which we call nightmare. This last detail was too ridiculous! That a gentleman should be waylaid and murdered on the king's highway, and all for the sake of a blue handkerchief and a pudding-basin! In his mingled feelings of amusement and annoyance, he did not know whether to laugh or be angry—the whole thing was too incredible, too monstrous.
"Thy steps are dancing towards the boundBetween the child and woman,And thoughts and feelings more profoundAnd other years are coming;And thou shalt be more deeply fair,More precious to the heart,But never canst thou be againThe lovely thing thou art."Sidney Walker.
"Thy steps are dancing towards the boundBetween the child and woman,And thoughts and feelings more profoundAnd other years are coming;And thou shalt be more deeply fair,More precious to the heart,But never canst thou be againThe lovely thing thou art."
Sidney Walker.
"My dear, I cannot understand it!" said Miss Charlotte Willoughby.
"It is most strange—you don't think Mrs. Battishill can have kept them to tea?" hazarded Miss Fanny, in her gentle way.
Miss Charlotte crushed her, as usual.
"Jane stay out to tea without leave? She has never done such thing a before."
"It's very warm. They may be lingering on account of the heat," put in Miss Ellen's quiet voice.
"The heat is not too great for any healthy girl," said Miss Emily, with decision. "I have noticed lately in Elaine a very languid and dawdling way of doing things. I shall speak to her on the subject. I don't know what she has to occupy her thoughts, but she evidently is never thinking of what she is doing."
"She is a dear good child, on the whole," said Miss Fanny, comfortably.
"I cannot help thinking that she sometimes finds her life dull," said Ellen.
"Dull!" cried the three ladies in chorus; and Charlotte added, in high and amazed tones:
"Why, she is occupied from morning till night!"
"It was only to-day I let her off a quarter-of-an-hour practising on account of the heat," continued Fanny.
"If you think she might devote more time to her calisthenics——" began Emily.
"It was not that I meant at all," said Ellen, when she could get a hearing. "I do not complain of want of occupation for hers, but want of amusement."
"I was always taught to consider," said Charlotte, in a tone of some displeasure, "that those who were fully employed need never complain ofennui. Occupation is amusement."
"Then, to follow on your argument," said Ellen, half playfully, "the convicts who are sentenced to hard labor must have a most amusing time of it."
This remark, savoring dangerously of irony, was received by the three sisters with utter silence, and Charlotte thought, as she often did, what a pity it was that Ellen read so many books; really it quite warped her judgment.
"Of course everything should be in moderation," she said frigidly, after a pause; "too severe labor would be as bad for the body as too little is for the mind."
This speech sounded rather well, and Charlotte's temper was somewhat soothed by the feeling that she had made a hit.
Miss Ellen sighed. She felt that nothing could be done on Elaine's behalf, if she began by setting up the backs of the entire council of education. Yet so narrow had the minds of these excellent women grown, by living so perpetually in one groove, that it seemed impossible even to hint that they were mistaken without putting them out of temper.
"Of course I know that occupation is most necessary," said she, "and I agree with you that every woman should be well employed; but I only wanted to suggest that perhaps a little more variety than we find necessary might be good for the young. We are glad to live our quiet, untroubled days through; but for Elaine,—don't you think that some diversion now and then would be beneficial? Remember, as girls, we went to London for a month each spring, our dear father always gave us that treat; and I know that I, at least, used to get through my work here with all the greater zest because of looking forward to that month's enjoyment."
"And what is the result?" burst out Miss Charlotte, with quite unusual energy. "What is the result of all this going to London, pray? I am sure I heartily wish, and Fanny for one agrees with me, that we had never gone near the place! If we had not gadded about to London our poor pretty Alice would never have met that vile Valentine Brabourne with his deceitful face, and the family tragedy would never have taken place——"
"And we should never have had Elaine to brighten our home and give us something to care for," said Ellen, speaking bravely, though the remembrance of her favorite sister brought the color to her wan face, and dimmed her eyes.
"You know the reason we never took Elaine to London was to keep her as much as possible dissociated from her step-mother and step-brother," went on Miss Charlotte, combatively.
"Yes, I know," answered her sister, quietly, "and that is where I think we have been so wrong. Because, much as we may have disliked Mrs. Brabourne, she was Valentine Brabourne's wife, and we had no right to allow Elaine to grow up quite estranged from her brother."
This took Charlotte's breath quite away. It was rare to hear Ellen assert herself at all, but to hear her deliberately say that Charlotte was wrong——!
"I am much more to blame than any of you," went on Ellen, "because I will admit that, at the time Elaine came to us, I was very, very sore at the conduct of Mrs. Brabourne and her relations, and I was only eager to get possession of the child and keep her from them all; but I was quite wrong, Charlotte. Think what an interest her little brother would have been to her."
"Well, I do think, Ellen, you cannot quite reflect on what you are saying," said Charlotte, her tongue loosed at last in a perfect torrent of words. "I have always said you read too many books, and I suppose you have some romantic notion of reconciliation in your head now. I have every respect for you, Ellen, as the head of this family, but you must allow me to say that, invalid as you are, and always confined to the house, you are apt to be taken hold of by crotchets and fancies. Let us look for a moment at the facts of the case: do you consider that Mrs. Brabourne was a fit person to have the bringing-up of Elaine?"
"No, I frankly say I do not. I am not suggesting that Mrs. Brabourne should have brought her up."
"Do you consider that the Ortons would be a nice house for Elaine to be constantly visiting at?"
"No, Charlotte, I cannot say I do."
"Do you imagine it at all likely that we could have been on terms of any intimacy with Mrs. Brabourne and her brotherwithoutallowing Elaine to visit there?"
"It might have been difficult," Miss Ellen, with rising color was constrained to admit; "but I was not advocating intimacy exactly; only that Elaine should be on friendly terms with little Godfrey."
"Is shenoton friendly terms? I am sure then it is not my fault. She sends him a card every Christmas and a present every birthday, and always writes to her step-mother once a year. I really do not see how one could go much further without the intimacy which you admit is undesirable," cried Charlotte, in triumph.
"I do not admit that it is undesirable for Elaine to be intimate with her brother," said Ellen, with firmness.
"And pray how is the brother to be separated from the Orton crew, with their Sunday tennis-parties, their actors and actresses, their racing and their betting?"
"By asking him down here to stay with his sister," said Ellen, quietly.
A pause followed, an awful pause, which to good little Miss Fanny boded so darkly, that she hurled herself into the breach with energetic good-will.
"Dear me!" she cried, "what a good idea! What a treat for dear Elaine! I wonder nobody ever thought of it before!"
"Do you?Ido not," said Charlotte, with withering contempt. "I wish, Fanny, I really wish you would reflect a little before you speak—you are as unpractical as Ellen is!"
Miss Fanny rejoiced in having at least partially diverted the storm to her own head—she was well used to it, and would emerge from Charlotte's ponderous admonitions as fresh and smiling as a daisy from under a roller.
"Do you know the atmosphere in which that boy has been brought up?" went on the irate speaker. "Do you know the society to which he is accustomed—the language he usually hears—and, very probably, speaks? He smokes and drinks, I should say—plays billiards and bets, very probably—a charming companion for our Elaine."
"My dear Charlotte, he is not fourteen yet, and he is being educated at the most costly private school—he can scarcely drink and gamble yet, I really think," remonstrated Ellen.
"Oh, of course, if you choose to invite him, there is no need to say more—no need to consult me—the house is not mine, as no doubt you wish to remind me," said Charlotte, with virulent injustice.
"Char!" cried Ellen, in much tribulation, "you know, my dear, so well that I would not for worlds annoy you—I would do nothing contrary to your judgment. You know how I lean upon you in everything. But think, dear, if this poor little boy is brought up, as you say, in a house-hold of Sabbath breaking, careless people, is it not only right, only charitable on our part to ask him here and see if we cannot show him the force of a good example? Are we so uncertain of the results of our teaching on Elaine that we feel sure he will corrupt her? May we not hope that the contrary will be the case—that the care we have lavished on our girl may help her to serve her brother?"
"My dear Ellen, I never yet put a rotten apple into a basket of good ones with the idea that the sound apples would cure the rotten one," said Miss Charlotte, grimly.
"Oh, surely the case is not the same," cried Miss Ellen, too flurried to search for the fallacy in her sister's analogy.
"Put it in this way: In two years—only two years, mind—Elaine will be her own mistress, whether or not she inherits the fortune which we think is hers by right, she will at least have a handsome allowance. With what confidence will you be able to launch her out into the world if you fear now that, in her own home, and surrounded by her home influences, she will not be able to withstand the corrupting power of a little boy of fourteen?"
"There again, that is all rhodomontade," cried Charlotte, "talking on, without reflection, which is very surprising in a woman of your sound sense. 'Launch her out into the world,' indeed! As if we were going to turn Elaine out of the house on her twenty first birthday, and wash our hands of her. What is to prevent her staying here always, if she pleases?"
"What is to keep her here a moment, if she chooses to go?" asked Ellen.
Charlotte hesitated a little.
"She is not likely to choose to go," she said.
"I am not so sure. There is a great deal—oh, a great deal in Elaine which none of us have ever seen," replied her sister. "It sometimes frightens me to think how little I know about her."
"I cannot imagine what you mean," said Charlotte, in the blank, dry tone she always used when she could not understand what was said.
"You will see some day," said Ellen, which Micaiah-like prophecy exasperated her sister the more.
"I think Ellen is right," said Emily, suddenly.
She had taken very little part in the discussion, but it was always assumed in the family that Emily would agree with Charlotte. The open desertion of this unfailing ally bereft the already much irritated lady of the power of speech.
"I mean about having the boy Brabourne to stay here," said Emily, "I have thought of the same thing myself more than once—that Elaine ought to get acquainted with him, and that the only way to do it would be to have him here, as we dislike the Ortons so much. I don't want people to think that we grudge him his share of the inheritance, and I think it looks like that, if we ignore him so persistently."
This was putting the matter on a ground less high than Ellen's, and one, therefore, more easily grasped by the others.
"I quite agree with you," murmured Fanny, and Charlotte raised an aroused face from her work.
"I daresay," said Emily, "that the Ortons all laugh at us for nasty covetous old maids, and that they think we dislike the boy simply because we are jealous, I don't exactly like to have people imagine that."
"Naturally not," Charlotte was beginning, in muffled tones, when Fanny exclaimed, in consternation,
"Bless us all! Look at the clock! Where can that child be?"
All looked up. The urn had long ceased to sing, the hot cake was cold, the fried ham had turned to white lumps of fat, and the finger of the clock pointed to seven.
They had been so absorbed in discussing Elaine's future that her present whereabouts had entirely been forgotten. Now at last they were thoroughly anxious.
Fanny rang the bell to have the tea re-made and the food heated, Emily hurried out to see if there were any signs of the wanderers on the road across the valley. Charlotte went to Acland, the coachman, to tell him to go and look for them.
"You had better harness Charlie, and take the carriage," she said, "I am afraid something is wrong—Miss Elaine has sprained her ankle, or something; anyway, it is getting so late, they had better drive home. It is very strange; I can't understand it at all."
"No, miss, not more can't I, for Jane's mostly a woonderful poonctual body for her tea," said Acland, chuckling.
"Never known her late before; somethingmusthave happened."
She walked nervously across the stable-yard, and looked down the drive.
Lo! and behold a trim little carriage was just entering, and perched on the box beside a strange coachman was Jane herself.
"Jane!" screamed Charlotte, "where's Miss Elaine?"
The carriage came to a standstill, and Elaine, white, and, somehow, altered-looking, stood up in it.
"Here I am, Aunt Char," she said; "I am quite safe."
"But what—what—what has happened?" gasped Miss Charlotte, staring at Elaine's travelling-companion. "Jane, what has happened?"
For all answer, Jane went off into a perfect volley of hysterics. It was scarcely to be wondered at, for her day's experience had far exceeded anything which had previously happened to her in all her fifty years of life.
Miss Charlotte was greatly alarmed, however, as Jane's usual demeanor was staid and unemotional to a degree. She ran for sal volatile, salts, for she hardly knew what, and soon her agitated and broken utterances drew Fanny and Emily out into the stable-yard.
Elaine did not go into hysterics. She stood up, very white, with shining eyes, which seemed bluer and larger than usual, as Lady Mabel introduced herself to the ladies, and began a clear and graphic description of what had taken place. It seemed too incredible, too horrifying to be true, that their little Edge Combe had been the scene of such violence and bloodshed.
So overcome were they that they quite forgot even to thank Lady Mabel for her kindness in bringing Elaine home, until she said, with a charmingly graceful bow, "And now I will not keep you, as I know you are longing to be rid of me;" and extended a hand in leave taking.
Then Miss Charlotte suddenly rallied, and said,
"Oh, but we could not on any account allow you to go on without taking some refreshment."