Then I knewThat I was saved. I never metHis face before, but, at first view,I felt quite sure that God had setHimself to Satan: who would spendA minute's mistrust on the end?Count Gismond.
Then I knewThat I was saved. I never metHis face before, but, at first view,I felt quite sure that God had setHimself to Satan: who would spendA minute's mistrust on the end?
Count Gismond.
"It is an infamous falsehood!"
Every one turned in the direction of the speaker. Elsa, who had sunk on the ground, clinging to Henry Fowler's knees, made a sudden movement, and held out her hands.
It is very seldom, in our prosaic century, that a man first meets a woman in such circumstances—first sees her with all the restraints of conventionality stripped clean away—with helpless, appealing anguish written in her eyes.
To Percivale it seemed as if the whole scene dated back for about six centuries, as though he were a knight-errant, one of Arthur's knights, coming suddenly upon a distressed maiden, who claimed his help as her divine right. A long dreadful moment had elapsed between Mrs. Orton's accusation and his reply, a moment which he had expected would have been seized either by Mr. Fowler or the young man who stood by.
But no. Both were silent, for the same fatal reason. They both thought it possible, knowing what provocation had been Elsa's, that, in a moment of passion, she had struck blindly. But the sound of the stranger's frank, fearless tones seemed, for no reason at all, to make Henry feel ashamed of himself. He stooped to Elsa and lifted her to her feet.
"Take courage, my child, tell the truth," he said, tenderly.
Mrs. Orton and Mr. Percivale stood facing each other.
"May I ask by what right you are meddling in this affair, sir?" asked Ottilie, with studied insolence. "What do you know of the matter? How can you possibly presume to give an opinion? If I might venture to make a suggestion to so grand a gentleman, it would be that you return to your vessel, and continue that cruise which you so charitably interrupted to bring us this awful intelligence."
Percivale never moved his large, calm eyes from her face; but, slowly removing his cap from his bright head, made her a graceful bow.
"With all possible aversion to disobeying a lady's commands, madam, I must decline to take your thoughtful suggestion," he said, courteously. "I have just told you, in hasty words which were the result of a moment's indignation, that I believe the statement you just now made to be false. Whilst apologising for the manner in which I expressed myself, I beg to say that I meant every word I said; and you will thus see that I have rendered it impossible for me to leave this place, until it is proved that I am right and you are wrong."
She laughed insultingly, she was too excited to know exactly what she said or did.
"You will have to stay a long time," said she, with a sneer. "Why, look at Elaine Brabourne! Look at her cowering there! Doesn't her attitude speak for itself? Do you wish to be better acquainted with the situation? Will it satisfy you to be told that a fortune of eighty thousand pounds comes to this girl on her brother's death, and that it is only a week since she was made aware of the fact? And if I say further that she wants to marry a beggarly artist, and that only my little Godfrey's frail life stood between——"
"Ottilie, Ottilie, hold your tongue, my dear girl," said Frederick, nervously. "You are overwrought, you must take some rest, and leave me to search out this affair."
"Leave you!" She wrenched herself away scornfully. "Leaveyouto do it? Why, you could be made to say black was white in ten minutes by anyone who would discuss the question with you. Well"—to Percivale—"are you still mad enough to say that the matter admits of a doubt?"
The perfect quiet of his answer was a most complete contrast to her violence.
"It is unfortunate," he said, "that the consideration of the same circumstances should lead us to diametrically opposite conclusions; but so it is. You consider that the young lady's present appearance and attitude argues guilt; to me it strongly indicates innocence. This shows how necessary it is that I should have proof of the truth of my view, which proof I shall immediately take steps to find."
Henry Fowler roused himself; his face seemed to have grown ten years older during the last half-hour.
"I am grateful to you, sir," he said to Percivale, with a piteous humility. "Elsa, my darling, you must go home at once."
Raising her lovely head from his shoulder, she stood upright, for the first time since her accusation. She looked straight at the stranger, holding out her hands.
"It is false—every word they said about me," she faltered. "I could tell you——" here her voice broke.
Holding his hat in his left hand, he grasped both her small hands in his right, and, bending low, kissed them respectfully.
"I want no assurances," he said. "I do not even want you to tell me of your innocence. I know it; and all these people, who have heard you falsely accused, shall hear justice done if God grant me life and strength to do it." He smiled for the first time—a quiet, grave smile which irradiated all his face. "I do not even know your name," he said; "but I know that you are innocent."
Miss Charlotte, white and subdued, came up and took the girl's hand.
Elsa moved slightly, as if she were dreaming, and then smiled back into Percivale's eyes, a smile of perfect trust, as though an angel had appeared to champion her.
It was her only leave-taking: she never spoke; but, turning, walked through the assembled peasants with a mien as dignified, as consciously noble, as that of Marie-Antoinette at her trial.
"They can take our fly—I am going along the cliffs to find my boy," said Mrs. Orton, with a burst of tears.
Her husband and Claud followed the three ladies to the carriage. Henry Fowler was left face to face with the stranger.
"God help us," he said, brokenly. "What is to be done?"
"The first thing," said Percivale, quietly, "is to decide whether the boy found by my crew is the brother of Miss—Miss——"
"Brabourne,—true. But he is only her half-brother."
"The next thing will be to prove——"
"It is hopeless," cried Henry, helplessly, as they moved away from the crowd together. "You don't know, as I do, the weight of evidence against her. You do not—pardon me—understand the circumstances."
"No. For my enlightenment I must apply first to you. As the matter seems to be a family one, and as I am an utter stranger, I shall consider you fully justified if you decline to afford me any help at all. But I must warn you that, if I cannot get information from you, I shall apply for it elsewhere. It will take longer; but I have pledged my word."
Henry surveyed him with an interest bordering on admiration.
"I shall tell you anything you ask," he said. "Our first meeting has been too far beyond the limits of conventionalities for us to be bound by any rules. God bless you for your unhesitating defence of my poor little girl. I was too crushed—I knew too much to be able to speak promptly, as you did; and I terribly fear that when you have heard all I can tell you, though you may not waver in your belief in her, you will think the case against her looks very grave."
They paused, and turned to watch Mr. and Mrs. Orton, and Claud, who were approaching. Mr. Percivale called to one of the crew of theSwanto come ashore and lead the way; and after the party had been yet further augmented by the Edge Valley policeman, they set forth towards the cliffs.
Ottilie hurried on first, sweeping her husband in her train. Claud, Mr. Fowler, and Percivale walked more slowly, and as they went, the latter was put in full possession of the facts of the case, so far as they could be known.
He disagreed entirely with the inference that Elsa's odd conduct of the preceding day, and seeming uncertainty as to where she had parted from her brother, was a sign of guilt.
"We cannot," he urged, "any of us dwell for a moment on such a hypothesis as that it was a murder in cold blood. The next conclusion, then, would be, a blow struck in a fit of passion, unintentionally causing death. Now, consider probabilities for a moment. In such a case, would it not be the only impulse of any girl, terrified by the unexpected result of her anger, to rush for help? Miss Brabourne has never seen death—she would think of a swoon from loss of blood as the worst possible contingency, she would have hurried home, she would have told the first wayfarer she met, she would have been so agitated as to render concealment impossible. Besides, the poor boy's clothes were saturated with blood; how could she have lifted him—how could she have scooped any sort of hole without her clothes bearing such evident traces of it?"
"The front of her dress was very dirty," said Claud, reluctantly. "You know I always notice that sort of thing. No rain had fallen then, so it was not mud; but it was chalk, I am certain."
"You have not watched Elsa, Mr. Percivale, as I have done," said Henry, sadly. "You are ignorant of her character, and her bringing-up. She has never known what sympathy meant. Every trivial offence has been treated as a crime. Her childhood was one long atmosphere of punishment. The Misses Willoughby are good women, but they have not understood how to bring her up—repression, authority, decorum, those are their ideas. If ever Elsa laughed, she laughed alone; if she suffered, it was in secret. She is reserved by nature, and this training has made her far more so. Were she to fall into any grievous trouble, such as this, for instance," pausing a moment, he then added firmly, "I must confess that I think her first, second, and third impulse would be to conceal it."
Percivale made no reply.
"Her temper, too—she has never been taught to govern it," went on Henry, sadly; "and it is very violent. Add to this the provocation she has had——"
"Have you," asked Claud, suddenly, "have you mentioned to anyone the book we found on the cliff last night?"
Henry made a gesture of despair.
"I had forgotten that," he said, miserably. "But it is another strong piece of evidence."
Claud explained to Percivale.
"Miss Brabourne told us that she had not been on the cliffs yesterday. As we walked home, we found a favorite book of hers lying out in the rain—a book which only some very unforeseen agitation would induce her to part with."
"Of course we could suppress that evidence at the inquest," was the immoral suggestion of the Justice of the Peace.
"It will not be necessary," tranquilly replied their companion. "I shall know the truth by then."
They were out on the cliffs by this time, and presently became aware, by the halting of the sailors in front, that the fatal spot was reached. They saw Mrs. Orton cast herself on the ground in the theatrical way which seemed habitual to her, and saw her husband's face turn greenish white as he averted it from the little corpse over which she bent so vehemently. Walking forward, they too stood beside the dead boy.
Every feeling of animosity, of dislike, which Henry Fowler might have cherished, melted before the pitiful sight. It was through a mist of tears, which came near to falling, that he gazed down on the child's white face.
It was quite composed and the eyes half shut. A certain drawn look about the mouth, and the added placidity and beauty of death gave to it a likeness to Elsa which had not seemed to exist in life. It was somewhat horrible to contemplate. In her moments of dumb obstinacy Henry had seen her look so.
He turned away his face for a moment, looking out over the busy, tossing, sunlit sea, where the shadows of the clouds chased each other in soft blurs of shadow, with green and russet shoals between.
The fresh quick air swept over the chalk, laden with brine. A warm odor of thyme was in its breath, and there lay Godfrey, with stiff limbs and still heart, in a silence only broken by his aunt's sobs, and the whistling of the wind among the rocks.
"How do you know that death was caused by a blow?" asked Mr. Percivale of the sailors, at length.
Bergman explained, in his German accents, that they had made an examination of the body to see if it could be identified.
"It is not lying now as we found it, sir. It was bent together—we straightened the limbs. In pulling down the shirt to see if there was a name marked on it, we discovered a livid bruise."
Mr. Percivale knelt down by the dead boy, and, passing an arm gently beneath him, raised the lifeless head till it lay against his shoulder, and exposed the bruise in question.
Mrs. Orton, who had been silent till now, uttered an inarticulate cry of rage:
"Look there!" she gasped.
"Is anyone here ignorant enough to assert that this scar is the result of the blow of a girl's fist?" demanded Percivale, raising his head. "It has been done with a stick—a heavy stick. See, it has grazed the skin right across; you can follow the direction of it. Does Miss Brabourne carry a weapon of that description?"
"She had no stick when we met her in the lane yesterday," said Claud, eagerly.
"Idiot! As if she could not throw away a dozen on her way home from here," passionately broke in Mrs. Orton.
"Ottilie," said her husband, in a low, warning voice, "take care."
"Take care! Too late to say that now," she cried. "Why didn't I take care sooner—care of my poor little boy? Why did I ever send him to this den of assassins? But, thank Heaven, we are in England, and shall have justice—a life for a life," she concluded, wildly.
"We are willing to make all possible allowances for Mrs. Orton's feelings," said Percivale, with great gentleness. "I must agree with her that it is much to be regretted that she trusted such a delicate child, and one on whose life so much depended, out of her own personal care."
"What do you mean, sir?" cried Ottilie, suddenly.
"What do I mean? Merely what I said, madam," he answered, astonished.
"You are trying to make insinuations," she cried, too excited to think of prudence. "What depended on Godfrey's life? Do you suppose I am thinking of the paltry few hundreds a year we received for taking care of him?"
"Madam," he replied at once, "an hour since you did not scruple openly, in the presence of numbers of people, to accuse Miss Brabourne of murdering her brother to obtain his fortune; I am therefore not surprised that you imagine others may be ready to supply a base motive for your grief at his death. Believe me, however, my imagination is not so vivid as yours; what you suggest had not occurred to me until you mentioned it."
She had no answer to make; she was choking with rage; the stranger was a match for her. Her husband stood by, reflecting for the first time on the effect which Godfrey's death must have for him. The few hundreds of which his wife spoke so contemptuously had nevertheless been particularly acceptable to people who habitually lived far beyond their income, and were always in want of ready money. But beyond this—had Godfrey lived to attain his majority, the whole of his fortune would have been practically in his uncle's hands. He could have invested it, turned it over, betted with it, speculated with it; and the boy would have made a will immensely in his favor. He had never looked forward to a long life for the young heir.
Weakly, and viciously inclined, he had always imagined that four or five years of indulgence would "finish" him; but that he should live to be twenty-one was all-important. Now the whole of that untouched fortune was Elsa's, unless this murder could be proved against her. Mr. Orton began to divine the more rapid workings of his wife's mind. In the event of both children dying unmarried, the money was willed, half to Frederick, half to the Misses Willoughby.
Never had Mr. and Mrs. Orton been in more urgent, more terrible need than at this moment. The year had been a consistently unlucky one. Their Ascot losses had merely been the beginning of sorrows.
The hurried flight from Homburg had really been due, not to poor Godfrey's complaints of his dulness, but to an inability to remain longer; and they had arrived at Edge with the full intention of partaking of the Misses Willoughby's hospitality as long as they could manage to endure the slowness of existence at their expense.
And now here was this dire calamity befallen them! Frederick smarted under a righteous sense of injury. He thought Fate had a special spite against him. What was a man to do if everything would persist in being a failure? Every single road towards paying his debts seemed to be inexorably closed. This was most certainly his misfortune and not his fault; he was perfectly willing to pay, if some one would give him the money to do it with; and, as nobody would, it followed that he was most deeply to be pitied.
One friend in that path shall beTo secure my step from wrong;One to count night day for me,Patient through the watches long,Serving most with none to see.A Serenade at the Villa.
One friend in that path shall beTo secure my step from wrong;One to count night day for me,Patient through the watches long,Serving most with none to see.
A Serenade at the Villa.
Nothing could well look blacker than did the case to Henry Fowler. He could see no way out of it. Had the boy been found at the foot of the cliffs, a verdict of accidental death could so easily have been returned; but here, and with the marks of violence plainly visible on the body, the presumption seemed terribly strong.
He stood with head sunk upon his chest, feeling beaten down, degraded, stricken. Over and over in his mind did he turn the circumstances to see if there would be enough evidence to justify the coroner in committing Elaine for trial.
Absolute proof of her guilt would not, he thought, be possible; the night had been so wild, the spot so lonely. But the very fact of standing to take her trial on such a charge would be more than enough to blast the young girl's future. Supposing she had to go through life stigmatised as one acquitted of murder merely because the jury did not see enough evidence to convict? The thought was literally agony to his large, gentle heart. Was this to be the fate of Alice's daughter? He stood as one accused in his own eyes of culpable neglect; in some way such a culmination should have been avoided—he should have been able to watch over Elaine better than he had done.
Claud gently recalled him to the present by asking what was to be done with the body.
Rousing himself, he gave directions for it to be carried to Edge Willoughby; and then fell afresh into a fit of despair, realising how terribly imminent it all was.
"When will the inquest take place?" asked Mr. Percivale, approaching him.
"The day after to-morrow—I cannot delay it longer; you have forty-eight hours in which to accomplish your purpose," returned Henry, with a bitter laugh quite unlike him.
"Forty-eight hours," repeated the stranger, steadily. "One can do a great deal in that time."
He remained standing, in the perfect quietness of attitude which seemed habitual to him, his eyes fixed on the rude niche, hollowed in the ground, where the boy's corpse had lain.
"He was not robbed," he said, after a moment.
"Robbed? No! She was not clever enough for that," cut in Ottilie, with her harsh sneer. "Had she possessed wit enough to rifle his pockets and fling his watch into a thicket, she would have stood a better chance."
"Miss Brabourne is, perhaps, not so well versed in the science of these matters as you seem to be, madam," was the mild answer. "Yet, if she possessed cunning enough to conceive the plan of murdering her brother for his fortune, it would seem consistent to credit her also with cunning enough to do all in her power to avert suspicion; to me, it amounts to a moral impossibility that any young lady in her right mind should perpetrate such a deed, and then walk quietly home without so much as making up a single falsehood to shield herself."
"Murderers, especially inexperienced ones, are never consistent," returned Mrs. Orton, furiously, "as you would know, if you knew anything at all of the matter."
"Ottilie, Ottilie, come away, for goodness sake—it is snobbish to get up a row," urged her husband, in low tones; and, taking her by the arm, he led her unwillingly away from the scene of conflict.
Claud and Percivale were left confronting each other.
"The valley will have a pretty ghastly celebrity attaching to it after this," remarked the former, removing his straw hat to pass his handkerchief over his hot brow. "This is the second mysterious affair within one summer."
"The second!" echoed Percivale, keenly, turning his eyes upon him full of awakened interest.
"Yes; and with points of similarity too. Each victim had been attacked from behind, and beaten with a heavy stick; there was no robbery in either case, and Miss Elsa Brabourne in the former case, oddly enough, was the person to discover the insensible victim. Whether the incident unconsciously influenced her, whether as is the case sometimes, according to newspapers, the ease with which one crime had been committed suggested another, I cannot of course say——"
"Was the man killed?"
"No; he recovered: but had no idea as to who was his assailant. We had down a detective——"
"English detectives are no use at all, or I would telegraph for the entire force," replied Percivale. "I believe I shall get to the bottom of this matter more surely by myself. I have already formulated a theory. You say the criminal was never discovered?"
"No; never even had a clue worth calling a clue."
"Then surely the same idea at once occurs to you as to me, that both these murders are the work of one hand."
Claud was silent.
"I had not thought of it," he said at last.
"No; because your mind is full of a preconceived idea; and nothing is more fatal to the discovery of the truth. Let me show you what I mean. I suppose there is no room at all for the absurd supposition that Miss Brabourne was concerned in crime number one?"
"None whatever. She was out walking with her maid, and they found Mr. Allonby lying insensible by the roadside. He had been first stunned by a blow on the head, then so severely beaten that the bone of one arm was broken."
"And not robbed?"
"No; except for a most absurd circumstance—one which mystified us all more than anything. He had his dinner with him—he was making a sketch, I should tell you; an artist—and this dinner was packed for him by Mrs. Clapp, of the Fountain Head, in a pudding-basin, tied round with a blue and white handkerchief. After the murder the basin and handkerchief were missing, nor could they be found, though careful search was made. The detective could offer no solution of this part of the business."
"What solution did he offer of the rest of the transaction?"
"He felt certain it must be the result of some private grudge; the attack was such a vicious one—as if the one idea had been to kill—to wreak vengeance."
"What time of day was this done?" asked Percivale, who was following every word with close interest.
"As near as possible at five o'clock, one evening towards the end of June. The time can be fixed pretty conclusively, for when Miss Brabourne and her maid passed the place shortly before, he was alive, seated on a camp-stool; on their return he was lying in the grass, motionless."
"And was there any inhabitant of the village likely to bear the artist a grudge?"
"Impossible! He was an utter stranger."
"Did anyone see a stranger pass through? Let me know the circumstances more accurately. Describe the scene of the occurrence."
Claud eagerly complied, supplying Mr. Percivale with every detail, and doing it with the intelligent accuracy which was part of his nature. The other listened closely, questioning here and there, and finally gave his conclusion with calm conviction.
"Every word you utter convinces me that for a stranger of any sort to penetrate into the valley, track Mr. Allonby's whereabouts, and vanish without leaving a trace, taking with him a pudding-basin as a memento of his vengeance, amounts to a moral impossibility. It is absurd. You say, too, that Mr. Allonby has no idea himself on the subject—says he has no enemies—is as much in the dark as anyone?"
"Yes, and I believe him: he is a thoroughly simple-minded, honest fellow."
"Then it stands to reason, in my opinion, that the murderer is an inhabitant of Edge Valley."
"But then," cried Claud, "you take away any possibility of a motive!"
"Exactly; and, granting for the sake of argument that Miss Brabourne didnotmurder her brother, what motive have we here?"
Claud was silent.
"The way you argue is this," went on Percivale, "you know of a powerfully strong motive for the murder of this poor boy, and you feel bound to accept the theory because, if it be not so, you are at a loss to account for the thing on any other grounds. You say—there must be a very forcible reason to incite to murder. I answer you—here is a crime, committed in this very village, not three months back, fresh in everyone's memory, alike in many salient points, and, as far as we can learn, utterly without purpose. If one mysterious deed can be committed in this valley, why not two? Why is the homicide to stop short? If he has managed to dispose of a full-grown man on the high-road in broad daylight, he will make short work of a delicate little boy, out by himself on the cliffs in the twilight."
"But," urged Claud, "you are assuming that these outrages are committed simply for the sake of killing—with no motive but slaughter. They must then be the work of a maniac, of some one not in his right mind!"
"Exactly. That is the very same conclusion which I have arrived at. Do you know of any such in the village?"
"No, I don't. I am certain there is no such person," answered Claud, hopelessly.
"He may very likely exist without anyone's suspecting it," rejoined Percivale. "You know a man may suffer from one special form of mania and be absolutely sane on every other point. If we could leave the discovery to time, he must inevitably betray himself, sooner or later; but we have to run him to earth in eight-and-forty hours. Let us see if the spots selected give us any clue. How far from where we are now standing was Mr. Allonby attacked?"
"In quite the opposite direction—nearly four miles from here. Starting from Edge Willoughby, you would turn to your right and strike inland to get to Poole Farm; you would turn to your left and walk along the shore to get here."
"I see. That does not help us much; yet the criminal should have some hiding place within convenient distance one would think. Unless it be some one so completely beyond the pale of suspicion that his goings and comings excited no attention whatever. Is there no village idiot here? They indulge in one in most out-of-the-way spots like this?"
"Oh, yes, there is Saul Parker, an epileptic boy; but he is out of the question."
"Why out of the question?" asked Percivale, persistently.
"Why, because—because—my good sir, why areyouout of the question, the thing is just as absurd," answered Claud, almost crossly.
"Is it? I wonder," said Percivale, thoughtfully. "We shall soon see, if you can answer a few more of my questions for me. To begin—Iam out of the question because it can be proved that I was not in Edge Valley at the time either crime was committed. Can you say as much for this Saul Parker?"
"No, of course he was in the place at the time, but the whole idea is absurd. He is gentle, tractable, most beautiful in face, and sat to Miss Allonby as a model for a picture Mr. Fowler now has——"
"Where was he at the time Mr. Allonby was attacked?" coolly continued his interrogator.
"Where was he? I——" a sudden memory burst upon Claud of Mrs. Battishill's kitchen when he first beheld it.
"He was in the kitchen of Poole Farm," he answered, triumphantly, "for I saw him there myself. I think that proves thealibiall right."
"Did you see him there before or after the attempted murder?"
"After—naturally."
"Ah!... where does this Saul Parker live?"
"He lives with his mother in a cottage on the Quarry Road. She is the widow of a quarry-man."
"It was along the Quarry Road, I think, that Miss Brabourne and her brother went to the cliff yesterday? I wish you would kindly take me back to the village that way. I should like to see the idiot, foolish as you think my theory sounds. Is he very small and puny?"
"Oh, no—a great fellow, taller than I am," admitted Claud, with a vague, vague wonder growing in him as to whether, after all, the stranger had chanced upon the truth of what had baffled them all this summer.
And—the absurdity of the idea!
Even as this sentiment crossed his mind, he could not help owning that, though he could reiterate that it was absurd, he could give no substantial reasons for his opinion. Everyone would have thought it absurd—anyone in Edge Valley to whom the suggestion had been made would have passed it by with a contemptuous laugh. The idiot was probably the only person in the whole place whose goings and comings were never challenged—who wandered in and out as he listed, now in this farm kitchen, now in that, kindly tolerated for the sake of his beautiful face and his affliction. It was of little use to question him.
"Where have 'ee been, my lad? Haow's yer moother?" or any other like civility. A soft smile or a gurgling laugh would be the only response at times, or, if mischievously inclined, he might give an answer which was not the true one.
Yet, now that Claud began to think over what he knew of the boy....
His intense aversion to strangers was one point in his character which rose to immediate remembrance. He recalled Wynifred's story of how she had caught him in the act of throwing a stone at Mr. Haldane when his back was turned; and Clara Battishill's complaints of his cruelty were also fresh in his memory.
But Godfrey he knew to be the special terror of Saul's life, and the object of his untold hatred. Godfrey set his bull-dog at the idiot, laughed at him, bullied him—one blow from that heavy cudgel which Saul habitually dragged after him would be more than enough to avenge his wrongs on the frail boy. And yet—and yet——
Somehow, Elsa's guilt seemed painfully obvious. Her embarrassment, her confusion of the night before—how were they to be accounted for? Was there any other solution possible? Her untruthful equivocation as to where she had been—what else could it portend?
This idea about Saul was, after all, too wild and far-fetched. How could he have been guilty of the attack on Osmond without the Battishills being aware of the fact?
No; the theory was ingenious, but, in his opinion, it would not hold water. He said so, aloud, after a long interval of silence.
"I shall at all events see if facts fit in at all with it," said Percivale, quietly. "Drowning men catch at straws, you know." Pausing a moment he then added, almost reverently:
"If that beautiful woman is arraigned for this crime—if she has ever to stand in the dock to answer to the charge of fratricide, or even manslaughter, I shall feel all the rest of my life though as if I were stained, shamed, degraded from my rightful post of helper to the oppressed. I feel as though I could cut through armies single-handed sooner than see Frederick Orton's wife triumph over the youth and helplessness of Miss Brabourne."
He hesitated over the name, breathing it softly, as a devotee might name a patron saint.
"You know something of the Ortons?" asked Claud.
"By reputation—yes," returned Percivale, with the air of one who does not intend to say more.
Had he chosen, he could have edified his companion with an account of how, last summer, at Oban, Mrs. Orton had determined, by hook or by crook, to become acquainted with the mysterious owner of theSwan, of whom no one knew more than his name, his unsociable habits, and his somewhat remarkable appearance; and how she prosecuted this design with so much vigor that he was obliged to intimate to her, as unequivocably as is possible from a gentleman to a lady, that he declined the honor of her acquaintance.
He said nothing of this, however; evidently, whatever his merits or his failings, he was a very uncommunicative person.
As if by mutual consent, they moved slowly along together, their faces turned back towards Edge Valley. Suddenly it occurred to Claud that he was due at Ardnacruan in six hours' time. There was nothing for it but to drive into Stanton and telegraph; no consideration should induce him to leave the scene of action in the present unforeseen and agitated aspect of affairs. He must implore Fowler to keep him a few days longer—which request that good fellow would grant, he knew how willingly.
As these thoughts crossed his mind, Henry approached them, his kind face furrowed and drawn with pain in a manner piteous to behold. Laying a hand on Mr. Cranmer's arm, he said, brokenly,
"Claud, my lad, you're not thinking of leaving me to-day?"
A rush of sympathy filled the young man's heart. Never before had Mr. Fowler made use of his Christian name.
"No, my dear fellow, of course I shall stay," he said, at once. "If only I thought I could be of any comfort to you——"
"You can—you are. But I am selfish—your friends will be expecting you——"
"I will drive into Stanton and send a telegram, if I may have the trap. Perhaps there might be some business I could do for you?"
"One or two things, lad, if you would. I feel mazed. I can't think clearly. Let me see——"
"I'll think for you," said Claud, slipping his arm into his; "and, first, I am going to take you straight home to have a glass of wine and some food. You are positively faint from exhaustion."
"You must come too," said Mr. Fowler, to Percivale.
"Thanks."
The young man turned slowly round towards them.
During the few foregoing sentences he had been gazing out seawards, with folded arms.
"On second thoughts," he said to Claud, "I think that, before making the inquiries I speak of, I will see Miss Brabourne—if I can."
She stood on the floor,Fair and still as the moonlight that came there before,And a smile just beginning:It touches her lips, but it dare not ariseTo the height of the mystical sphere of her eyes,And the large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry,Sing on like the angels in separate gloryBetween clouds of amber.Lay of the Brown Rosary.
She stood on the floor,Fair and still as the moonlight that came there before,And a smile just beginning:It touches her lips, but it dare not ariseTo the height of the mystical sphere of her eyes,And the large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry,Sing on like the angels in separate gloryBetween clouds of amber.
Lay of the Brown Rosary.
The desolation and abandonment which had fallen upon Edge Willoughby cannot be described.
The sisters knew not what to think, or say, or do. A vague notion that all employment was incongruous when suffering under abereavementled them to sit in a circle round the dining-room, gazing at each other with stiff and pale faces, wondering if this nightmare-like day would ever end, and what would follow next.
In the large drawing-room lay the motionless form of poor Godfrey, still and dead, in the gloom of closed blinds and drawn curtains. The same death-like quiet brooded over all the house. Miss Ellen lay on her couch in an agony of self-reproach, caused by the fact that it was owing to her influence entirely that the boy had come to Edge.
Oh, that he had never come—that Elsa had never been subjected to the fiery trial which had terminated so fatally.
It was all their fault, she told herself. They had grossly mismanaged the child—they had never sought her confidence, only exacted her submission. Now that Miss Ellen would have given everything she possessed for that confidence, it was, of course, obstinately withheld. No word could Elsa be made to speak, though, figuratively, they had all gone down on their knees to her.
If she would only confess the truth—whatever it was they could pardon it, had been their piteous cry. But she would not speak. The only thing they could extract was an announcement that they all, she knew, took her for a murderess, and she would therefore not attempt to justify herself; and finally, all they could do was to allow her to go away into her own room and lock herself in. The whole situation was intensely awkward: for the Ortons were quartered upon them, and it was hard to say which was the greater—their dislike to being there, or the Misses Willoughbys' dislike to having them.
On returning from the cliff, Ottilie had swept off all her belongings with a grand air, declaring that no human power should induce her to sleep under the same roof with Elsa, and had driven with her husband to the "Fountain Head," where they were met by William Clapp, who respectfully but firmly denied them admittance. "He had heard what the lady was pleased to say, aout on the beach this morning, and he warn't going tû harbor them as laid things o' that kind to the charge o' Miss Ullin as he had seen grow up, and meant to stand by to his dying day."
There was absolutely no alternative but to go back ignominiously to Edge Willoughby, and beg for an asylum there till the inquest should be over. The request was granted with freezing hauteur by the sisters, Miss Charlotte adding that she thought it would be more pleasant for all parties if Mr. and Mrs. Orton had their meals served separately.
The pair were out of doors now, wandering restlessly about, in quest of nobody quite knew what. When the bell sounded the sisters imagined that they had returned, and a tremor of excitement ran through the pallid assembly as the parlor-maid brought in a small card, on which was engraved simply:
Mr. Percivale,Yacht "Swan."
Mr. Percivale,Yacht "Swan."
The gentleman followed his card, and stood just inside the door, still in his nautical and somewhat unusual dress, cap in hand, and with his clear eyes fixed upon Miss Ellen.
"May I come in?" he asked.
"O—certainly!" fluttered Miss Ellen.
He went straight across the room to her couch and took her hand.
"I hope you will allow me to introduce myself," he said. "I am the unfortunate man who hurled such a bomb-shell into the midst of the village this morning. I am now engaged in doing my poor best to repair the mischief I have caused. Take courage, Miss Willoughby—your white dove shall not receive so much as a fleck on her gold and silver plumage."
Miss Ellen could hardly speak for tears.
"She is flecked already," she gasped. "A vile accusation has been levelled at her before a crowd of witnesses. We are disgraced."
"I think the lady who made the accusation will be the one to feel disgraced," answered Mr. Percivale, taking a seat beside her. "Keep up heart, Miss Willoughby, I feel sure this frightful accusation will be easily proved false."
She looked up with a sudden spasm of hope.
"Then you really think——" she began, and paused.
"I think?" interrogatively.
"You sincerely believe that Elaine is quite innocent of this—that she is as ignorant of the facts of the case as we are?" There was a feverish, frantic eagerness, in her voice as she spoke.
"That is certainly my fixed belief," he said, calmly. "I fail to see how anyone could think otherwise. I know what you fear—that Miss Brabourne struck a blow in anger, and then was so horrified at its result that she dared not confess what she had done. There is a circumstance which renders this an impossible view of the case. Whoever murdered the poor boy afterwards scooped a shallow hole in the grass, partly out of sight beneath a bramble, and laid the body in it. To do this without becoming covered with blood and dirt would have been a miracle. Miss Brabourne came home last night, so Mr. Cranmer says, with the front of her dress marked with chalk; but there are plenty of witnesses, I think, to prove that she had no blood-stains, either on hands or dress, nor were her hands in the state they necessarily must have been had she dug a hole with insufficient tools."
"That is true," said Miss Ellen, eagerly. "You shall see the dress if you like—it is soiled, but not nearly to that extent! This is hope—this is life. I never thought of all this before."
"If you would allow me," went on the stranger, courteously, "I want to see more than Miss Brabourne's dress—I want an interview with her herself. Would you allow me to see her—alone?"
There was a slight pause. Then Miss Charlotte spoke.
"May I ask why you wish to see my niece in private?" she asked.
"I will tell you frankly why. I am the only person who has fearlessly asserted from the first that I believe her to be innocent. I think it likely that she will, in consequence, accord me a confidence which she would withhold from anyone else."
"He is right," said Miss Ellen, with tears. "She will not speak a word to us. We have never trusted her—we have let her see it; we have been very wrong. Take Mr. Percivale into the school-room, Emily, and see if you can induce Elsa to come down and see him."
Percivale followed his guide into the small, dull room where most of Elsa's life had been passed. There were the instruments of her daily torture, the black-board, the globes, the slates and lesson-books, the rattling, inharmonious piano. Outside was the dip of the valley, the wooded height beyond, and, nearer, the wide sunny terrace, now a blaze of dahlias and chrysanthemums. He walked to the window and stood there—very still, and gazing out with eyes that did not betray the secret of what his thoughts might be. His cap lay on the small table near; leaning against the woodwork, he folded his arms, and so, without change of attitude or expression, awaited the entrance of the accused.
Elsa came in after an interval of nearly a quarter-of-an-hour. She was white, and had evidently been weeping; but these accidents seemed scarcely to impair her beauty, while they heightened the strange interest which surrounded her, as it were, with an atmosphere of her own. Slowly closing the door behind her, she stood just within it, as still as he, and with her eyes fixed questioningly upon him, as if inquiring whether his first profession of faith in her had been shaken by what he had since heard.
The slight sound of the lock made him rouse himself, and withdraw his gaze from the horizon to fix it upon her face. Over mouth, cheeks, and brow his eyes flickered till they rested upon hers; and for several moments they remained so, seeing only one another. The girl seemed reading him as she would read a page—as a condemned criminal might devour the lines which told him that his innocence was established. Gradually on her wistful face there dawned a smile—a ray of blessed assurance. She moved two steps forward, stopped, faltered, hid her face.
He advanced quickly, stood beside her, and said,
"I thank you."
It made her look up hurriedly.
"You—thank me?"
"Yes; for your granting me this interview shows me that you are on my side—that you are going to sanction my poor efforts to help you. To what do I owe such honor? It ought to be the portion of some worthier knight than I; but, such as I am, I will fight for you if it costs me life itself."
"You are—" she began, but her voice failed her. "I cannot say it," cried she—"I cannot tell you how I think of you. You are a stranger, but you can see clearer than they can. Not one of them believes in me—not even my godfather. But you—you—" as if instinctively she held out both her hands.
Taking them, he bent over them and lightly kissed them as he had done on the beach, with a grace which was not quite English. Then, flashing a glance round the room, he selected the least aggressively uncomfortable chair, and made her sit down in it. Leaning against the piano, in such an attitude that the whole droop of her posture and the hands which lay in her lap were clearly visible as he looked down upon her, he said:
"I feel so ashamed to make you sit here and exert yourself to talk to a stranger when you are feeling so keenly. But I want you to help me by trying to remember certain incidents as clearly as you can. Will you try?"
"I will do anything you tell me."
"That is very good of you. Now forgive my hurrying you so, and plunging so abruptly into the midst of my subject, but my time is short—"
She started.
"Are you going away?"
A rush of most unwonted color mounted to Percivale's cheeks, and he hesitated a moment before his reply.
"No; not going till your innocence is established; but the inquest will be held here the day after to-morrow, and I want to be in a position to show you blameless by then."
She lifted her head and smiled up at him.
"You can do it. I believe you could doanything," she said, softly.
He looked at her steadily as he replied,
"It does seem at this moment as though a great deal were possible."
There was an eloquent pause, during which the hall clock struck loudly. Its sound roused Percivale, and he began his questioning.
"First of all, I want to know exactly what happened during your walk with your brother yesterday. Can you remember, and will you tell me carefully, what time you started, where you went, and how you parted? For all these things are of great importance."
"Yes; I will tell you exactly what happened. It was about half-past-two o'clock when my aunts said I was to go out with Godfrey. I did not want to go—for two reasons, both of which I will tell you. The first was that I was feeling very miserable because I had just said good-bye to my friends the Allonbys, who were gone to London——"
"You will forgive me interrupting you one moment," he said, in a very still voice, and with a fixed expression, "but Mrs. Orton this morning said that you were going to be married. May I ask if you are engaged to Mr. Allonby, because if so I think he ought to be telegraphed for—it would not be my place—I am not privileged——"
He broke off and waited. After a moment she said,
"I am not engaged to Mr. Allonby."
"Thank you. I hope you did not think I was unnecessarily curious?"
"No."
"And now to continue. What other reason had you for not wishing to go out with Godfrey?"
"He had been very rude a fortnight before, and Mr. Allonby punished him. I knew he would try to revenge himself on me as soon as Mr. Allonby was gone—he said so."
"Exactly; but you went?"
"Yes, I was obliged to go. So we started along the Quarry Road, and when we got some way we began to quarrel. I had a book with me that Mr. Allonby had given me, and Godfrey tried to take it away. I would not let him, and he grew very angry. I held it above my head, and he sprung up and hung on me, and managed somehow to get his foot underneath mine, so that I slipped on the road, and he got the book. I was feeling very low-spirited, and so weary of his tiresome ways that I began to cry. We were on the road leading to the cliff from the quarries, close to the cottage where Mrs. Parker lives. She has a son called Saul who is an idiot, and he hates Godfrey, because he used to set his bull-dog at him. The other day Saul threw a stone at Godfrey from behind a tree, and hit his leg, and so Godfrey was determined to pay him out. When he saw the cottage it reminded him of this, so he said he should run home to the stable-yard, and get Venom, his dog. He turned back, and ran along the road towards home, and I was too tired and too unhappy to follow him. I thought I would give him the slip, so I just went off and hid myself in the woods by Boveney Hollow. I sat in the woods and cried for a long time, and at last the wind had risen so, and the sky looked so black and threatening, that I was frightened, and I guessed that Godfrey had gone home by that time, so I came out of the woods by the shortest way, and when I reached the high-road I met Mr. Fowler and Mr. Cranmer, so I went home with them."
"And that was the last you saw of your brother?"
"Yes."
"He ran home to fetch his dog, in order to set it at Saul Parker the idiot?"
"Yes. He had done it before. He said it was to teach Saul to behave himself; for you know poor Saul doesn't know any manners, and he is always rude to strangers, he hates them so. If he so much as sees the back of a person he does not know, he begins to scream with rage."
"Is he—this idiot—considered dangerous?"
"Dangerous? Oh, no, I think he is quite gentle, unless you tease him. At least, I do remember Clara Battishill saying that he was growing cruel. He is a big boy. Mr. Fowler tried to persuade his mother to let him go to a home, where they would teach him to occupy himself; but she cried so bitterly at the idea of losing him; he is all she has to love."
Mr. Percivale was silent; his eyes perused the pattern of the worn carpet.
Furtively Elsa lifted her eyelids, and critically examined his face. A high, noble-looking head, the eyes of a dreamer, the chin of a poet, the mouth of a man both resolute and pure.
His fair moustache did not obscure the firm sweet line between the lips; something there was about him which did not belong to the nineteenth century; an atmosphere of lofty purpose and ideal simplicity. His expression was quite unlike anything one is accustomed to see. There was no cynicism, no spite, no half-amused, half-bored tolerance of a trivial world—none of that air of being exactly equipped for the circumstances in which he found himself, which belonged so completely to Claud Cranmer.
This was a nature quite apart from its surroundings—a nature which had formed an ideal, and would never mingle but with the realization of this ideal. For this man the chances of happiness were terribly few; he could never adapt himself, never consent to put up with anything lower or less than he had dreamed of. If by the mysterious workings of fate he could meet and win a woman whose soul was as pure, whose standard as lofty as his own, he would enjoy a happiness undreamed of here below by the many thousands who soar not above mediocrity; but if—if, as was so terribly probable, he should make a mistake; if, after all, he took Leah instead of Rachel, he would touch a depth of misery and despair equally unknown to the generality of mankind. For him existed no possibility of compromise; his one hope of felicity rested upon the simple accident of whom he should fall in love with. And, by a strange paradox, the very loftiness of his nature and singleness of his mind rendered him far less capable of forming a true judgment than a man like Claud, who had "dipped in life's struggle and out again," had many times