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Title: The Sin of Jasper StandishAuthor: "Rita," Eliza Humphreys* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 1900281h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: March 2019Most recent update: March 2019This eBook was produced by: Maurie and Lyn MulcahyProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg AustraliaLicence which may be viewed online.
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PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
This is the story of a Woman's vengeance and a woman's endurance.
It begins in the female ward of the prison infirmary of a town inWales; a dreary place, a place where misery and crime brood in sullenhopelessness over the wreck of human lives; a place where kindlinessand comfort are almost unknown; of mental and physical torture; ofhours that hold the torment of lost souls.
In that ward a woman lay on a low iron stretcher, with closed eyes andlivid lips, from whence the laboured breath issued in gasps of pain.
She was young, but all of youth's beauty and charm had gone from herface. The hand of death had stamped her. The chill of death was on hercold brow, her motionless hands. Save for those spasmodic gasps shewas already dead; blind and deaf to all around her. Beside her kneltanother woman. Her face was white, almost as the dying face on whichher tearless eyes were fixed. The laboured beats of her heart echoedthose long-drawn laboured breaths.
A nurse approached and drew a screen round the bed and the two figures."It can't be long—now," she said.
The kneeling woman lifted her head and looked at the callousface—callous by force of long experience with incessant suffering,scenes that held no longer power to harrow the heart or nerves. Eye meteye. The nurse turned away. There was only one more task for her there.
The kneeling woman let her head fall on her clasped hands. A hoarsesound escaped her lips. "Thank God!" she said.
As if that sound had found its way to the dying brain, there came aflicker of life over the livid face; the closed eyes opened. All ofagony, all of despair, that it is in the human heart to speak, spokeout in that glance. The lips moved convulsively.
"Mother!"
"I am here, my child," said the watcher. "Will you speak—at last?"
The eyes closed again. The white lips set themselves with a firmnessthat seemed to hold back confession or reply by sheer force of will.
"Hester," pleaded the mother brokenly, "death is at hand. Before youface that judgment seat speak, I beseech you. Only one word—only thatname—that I may avenge your wrongs."
Again the eyes opened. Terror was in them now, terror and anguishcombined. Then one nerveless hand raised itself, made a faint upwardmotion as if it sought something, failed, and lay lifeless once again.But the lips were silent still. No word answered that impassionedappeal.
"Hester, I ask you once more. Give me but the clue and I will neitherrest nor cease till I have found out your murderer."
A faint shiver ran through the still form. The quick gasping breathechoed again on the stillness. It raced the hurrying moments, it shookall of strength and life from out that feeble body. There was onelong-drawn sigh, and the face grew grey and still.
Slowly the kneeling woman rose to her feet. Silently she stoopedforward and kissed the damp and icy brow. Very gently she lifted thecold stiff hands and laid them on the pulseless breast. Her own handtouched something lying there. Something hard and small. She drewit out from the coarse linen of that prison garb. It was a smallTestament, very worn, very old.
For a moment she stood gazing at it with sad remembering eyes, and inthat moment there flashed back to her memory the picture of a littlegolden-haired child walking sedately to Sunday school in the tenderwarmth of summer days; of a young girl in the simple white of herconfirmation dress, holding that same book with reverent hands, of ahead bent down in wintry firelight conning favourite texts.
All this she saw, and then remembered the last place where that samebook had lain. On the broken heart of a dying woman whom only death hadsaved from worse indignity.
In the silence of that midnight hour her lips touched the old wornTestament, and touching it uttered a vow terrible and relentless. Overthat lifeless body, over that Holy Book, the words were spoken, to goforth into soundless space, to work their purpose out in the distantfuture, to become a guiding influence in one life, and affect thedestiny of another.
In that dishonoured prison ward were sown the first seeds of a woman'svengeance, and a man's undreamt-of punishment.
THE SIN OF JASPER STANDISH.
There was great talk in the little town of Rathfurley when it was knownthat the Hermitage had been taken by an English family.
In the first place the house had been tenantless for many years, andfalling into decay and desolation. In the next it was never supposedthat the Mallorys, who were a good old family, and only as poor asthe "raal gintry" of Ireland generally contrived to be, would everdemean themselves by letting their ancestral acres to anyone else. Sowhen the rumour got about, Judy McGee had a good deal to say on thesubject to her crony Bridget Mooney, who kept the sweet-stuff shop atthe corner of Slancy-street, and Judy's son was a gardener, and wastold to keep his eye on the situation, for he might be having as gooda chance of it as anyone else. Mrs. Mooney was blessed with a daughterchristened Honora, a fine strapping girl, brought up to service, and atpresent out of employ. The English family would no doubt be wanting ahousemaid, and Honora was advised to be first in the field. If one orboth of these applicants were successful, there would be little doubtbut that the whole business, pedigree, position, and income of theintruder would soon be in the hands of the two most notable gossips inRathfurley.
The result might prove extremely agreeable to the inhabitants ofthe little town, who of late years had had small chance of externalinterests.
Though called a town, Rathfurley was little more than a village,boasting of one good street, and various dirty minor branches,radiating from the centre of that main thoroughfare. It also possesseda market, a bank, or, rather, a branch of a bank, a post-office, andsome fairly decent shops.
The Hermitage, which had once been an abbey, stood on a slight woodedeminence, about a couple of miles from the town. It overlooked theriver, it had extensive park-like grounds, an orchard and kitchengarden, and in summer the roses ran riot everywhere, climbing up thegrey stone walls, blooming in the wilderness of shrubs and brambles,throwing wide arms of growing blossoms across the gravelled paths.
Neglect had in no way discouraged their growth, and when the new ownercame to look over his purchase it presented a picture of colour,perfume, and beauty that almost atoned for lack of culture.
The agent's clerk, who accompanied him, was surprised at the enthusiasmwith which he greeted everything, even the house. But then Tom Reillywas not artistic by nature, and the Englishman was.
The new owner decided that the grounds wanted "doing up," only in theform of weeding, grass-cutting, and pruning. He would have nothingaltered, no formal beds, no marvels of plots and ornamental borders.
Thus came in Phelim McGee's chance. Young Reilly had promised torecommend him, and did so. Sir Anthony Orcheton took the recommendationwith a geniality scarcely expected from one of his nation, and orderedPhelim and an underling to be turned in on the place without delay.
Then came the inspection of the house. It was a very ancient and verybeautiful building.
The hall was square and panelled with oak, the staircase was oak also,and the balustrades were richly carved. Doors opened on three sidesinto the living-rooms—drawing, dining-room and library. A thick baizeswing door shut off the larger hall from a small one leading into thekitchens. A good many repairs would be necessary to make the interiorhabitable, and Sir Anthony Orcheton made notes to that effect in hispocket-book. By the advice of young Reilly he again decided that localtalent should have the work, and perform it under his own supervision.
"Is there a decent hotel where I could stay—I and my daughter?" heasked. "We couldn't expect to get in here under a couple of months, atleast."
"There's the Rathfurley Arms," answered Reilly. "It's considered avery fair hotel—not up to London, of course, but I think you would becomfortable."
Tom Reilly had once been to London, and gave himself occasional airson the strength of it. Sir Anthony agreed to try the hotel. He askedno particulars as to his neighbours, their pursuits, or status in thecounty or social proclivities. This greatly surprised young Reilly.That anyone should wish to settle down in a place like the Hermitagewithout due knowledge of their surroundings, or some idea of acceptancefrom the neighbourhood, was a fact in no way reconcilable to anyprevious experience of tenants and their ways.
However, all his hints were unnoticed. Sir Anthony evidently didn'tcare twopence about hunting or horses, or squireens. Indeed, as wasfound out later, the worthy gentleman was somewhat of a recluse—bynature studious, by good fortune wealthy, and blessed with an onlydaughter, whose enthusiasm for everything Irish was the result ofa school friendship. The school friend had asked her on occasionalvisits, and on one of these visits she had discovered the Hermitage,and bullied and coaxed her father into taking it. He rarely denied heranything. He accepted the agent's statement that the property was agood investment, and had now come to complete the purchase.
He was not at all inclined to fault his bargain. The situationwas beautiful; the house a fine old picturesque dwelling, withpossibilities of picturesque improvements, adapted to modern comfort.Lyle would be within a couple of miles or so of her beloved NoraCallaghan, and he able to indulge his studious tastes and his favouritepastime of fishing. He was quite content, and returned with Tom Reillyto the hotel, to inspect its suitability as a temporary home.
The accounts of all these matters spread rapidly. Indeed no one wouldhave been more astonished than Sir Anthony had he heard what was said,known, and conjectured of him, in such a remarkably short space of time.
The interest that the Irish of all classes take in the concerns of anyand every one outside their own immediate circle is apparently the onething that reconciles them to existence.
"So it's not a family after all we're to have, Biddy," said the proudmother of Phelim, the newly-engaged gardener. "Just an ould gintlemanand his daughter. Well, it's not much in the way o' style they'll beafter keepin'. Ah glory be! The ould days are gone intirely. Only atrap or two; that's what young Mr. Tom was sayin'. No hunters; a quietcob and a ridin' horse. The likes o' that! And thim grand stables goin'to waste."
"Maybe they'll be havin' more by and by, Judy, woman," said her crony."Though why in the wurrld you're makin' sich a hullabaloo about itbates me intirely. Is it yer whole fam'ly you expect to be placin'there? Why, it's blessin' the saints ye ought to be for Phelim's goodluck; but I see you're after gettin' Pat in as stable-help now he'slost his place at Mount Urris."
Mrs. Judy McGee tossed her head with conscious virtue. "Me, is it?Speak for yerself, ma'am. Maybe there's yer sister Mary's two bhoys,that's as at home with horses as if they'd been foaled in a stable.That's what yer manin'."
"And small blame to me, if I had me eye on thim same. Shure an' isn'tMary Murphy as dacint an' hard-working a widdy woman as you'll meet anyday between this and County Meath? And six childer to provide for, thepoor craythur! But there's people in this wurrld as thinks the saintshas only their consarns at heart."
Judy McGee bridled visibly at so pointed an insinuation, and theconversation drifted into personalities more or less hostile. Just asthe affairs of a past generation came up for judgment, and the argumentpromised excitement to a listening crowd, the tongues suddenly ceased.There had come a clatter of hoofs up the stony street, and the riderdrew rein before the little shop.
"Whisht, woman!" muttered Judy, warningly. "It's the Inspector himself."
All the faces turned to the figure sitting so lightly and easily on thebeautiful Irish mare, and curtseys and greetings came from all sides.He gave somewhat curt response.
"Have any of you seen Mickey Doolan?" he asked. "Was he this way atall?"
"No, yer honur," came universal response.
"Ah, well, if you should see him ask him to drop in this evening. I'vesomething for him to do."
He nodded carelessly to the group and rode off.
"Now, what's he wanting Mickey for?" chorused inquisitive voices.
"A bit o' poachin' maybe."
"Poachin'! Ah! thin 'tis you have the black thought av ivery one, MollCassidy. What should he want him that way for at all, at all? Maybeit's some bizness he'll be after getting the bhoy to do for him. Notthe first time neither."
"In the name av ivery saint that iver wore a crown o' glory, what's putthat iday into yer head, woman?" asked Mrs. McGee. "Shure his honor hasthim as can do his bizness for him better than Mickey any day! Indadethere's quare things and quare people as Mister Inspector has to dowith. Not that I'd be sayin' the bad wurrd av inyone; only there'ssomethin' about that same gintleman I niver did feel was quite as itshould be. Oh, I'll not benamin' anything. A close mouth is as goodas a priest's blessing any day."
"Thin it's not many blessin's have come yer way, Judy," said Mrs.Cassidy, with fine irony.
"Arrah now, Moll, don't ye be so contumashus. It's well ye know howto kape a saycret, whether it's yer own or anyone else's. And MisterStandish, for all the handsome face av him and the way he has wid thegurls, is none just too honest or too safe-dalin'. There's thim as cansee wid one eye more than ithers wid two."
"Ah! you'll be killin' us wid curiosity intirely, Mrs. McGee. Maybeas you know so much ye'll tell us why Mrs. Grapnell at the Bank Houseis so mighty close? 'Tis she who goes about wid the high head and thesilent tongue, av yer looking for saycret-keepers. There's a mightypower av throuble, if not worse, behind that tight mouth av hers, or myname's not what iveryone takes it for."
"I never could get at the rights av that," observed Biddy Mooney. "Whya nice, pleasant-spoken gintleman like Mister Callaghan should be aftertakin' an Englishwoman into his sarvice bates me."
"Shure it was Miss Nora's iday intirely. When she went to school inEngland to git the grand talk and fine wurrds av thim sort o' gintry,as comes trapyzin' over the counthry, she was so taken up wid Englishways an' English company her own payple weren't good enough for her anymore."
"'Twas only a couple o' years she was over there," observed anothervoice.
"Och an' it's plenty can be done and larned in a couple o' year, letme tell you, Sally. And didn't Patsey Finnigan give the wurrd thatMiss Nora was set on bringin' a 'proper English sarvint' back wid her?That's the truth av it."
"An' now 'tis English gintry we're to have at the Hermitage. Glory be!We shan't be knowin' ourselves soon."
"Castle's fallin'. Indade that's thrue for ye," lamented Judy McGee."Poor ould Ireland isn't what it was at all, at all. Not but what it'sa stroke of luck my bhoy's gettin' the gardener's place wid the newpayple, an' he'll work in Patrick too, or I'll be axin' the rayson why."
"Yes, an' Honora. Don't ye forgit her, Judy."
"Arrah, it's small chance ye'd be givin' me to do that same, BridgetMooney. But it's bringin' their own sarvints they'll be, I'm thinkin'."
"English sarvints niver stay long in Ireland," remarked Mrs. Cassidy,sententiously. "'Tis thinkin' we're all Faynians and murderers they'llbe."
"Ah thin, let thim stay in their own counthry. We're none too anxiousfor their company, or their mane ways, or their outlandish talk."
"What's made the English gintleman buy the property at all?" inquiredMrs. Mooney, suddenly.
"Divil knows. That's what we've got to find out, Biddy woman. And it'sthe luck that's in it me own bhoy getting in at once to the place. He'srare and quick wid his ears an' his sinses. He'll not be long puttin'things togither."
"He's his own mother's son, thin," said Moll Cassidy, who had gloomymoments when her speech was apt to become ironical and home-thrusting.
"And none the worse for that, I'm hopin', Mrs. Cassidy," respondedthat same mother, sharply. "It's a hard day for a poor woman who'sdone her best for her family to be hearin' that takin' after herselfis accounted a sin or a shame to thim. Maybe yer own childer will bethe dacenter for goin' agin nature. It's sorra a one av thim fayvoursyer man in looks, or yerself in manners. As for Larry, theomadhaun,wasn't he stalin' the eggs av me one black hen before me own two eyes aweek ago come Sunday whin he thought I was at mass?"
"Arrah, shame to ye, Judy McGee, for a lyin'-tongued, ill-judgin'woman. The swate bhoy was only after nailin' up the broken palin' avyer hen-house, as was a livin' disgrace to the naybours."
"Disgrace is it! Now you'll be takin' back that wurrd wid yer owntongue in the inside av two seconds, Mrs. Cassidy, or I'll be taychin'you the manin' av manners."
"Whisht! whisht! woman; givin' the place a bad name afore strangers.Can't you see who's comin' down the street?"
It was Biddy Mooney who spoke. An instant hush fell on the excitedgroup. All eyes turned in one direction.
Coming slowly along, her head held high, her sombre eyes gazingstraight before her, was the person they had been discussing—JaneGrapnell, housekeeper at the Bank.
ENTIRE ignorance or indifference to the Irish precept that everyone'sbusiness is the individual's business, had kept Jane Grapnell in aperfectly equable frame of mind towards her neighbours, or thoseenterprising shopkeepers who had managed to secure the Bank custom.
Her master had been appointed only a twelve-month to the position ofmanager at Rathfurley. She had been scarcely that time in his service.It was quite true, as the gossips had said, that Nora Callaghan hadbrought this woman with her from England. Her anxiety to come to thecountry had rather surprised the Irish girl.
Jane Grapnell had held a situation in the school where Nora and herfriend Lyle Orcheton, were finishing their education. A grim, silentwoman, a woman never popular with her fellow-servants, it had beena matter of surprise to Nora Callaghan that she should display somuch devotion to herself. But she liked the woman and appreciated hertrustworthy nature and the thoroughly conscientious method of her work.It struck her that she would be of inestimable value in her maidenefforts at house-keeping, and she engaged her forthwith.
Jane Grapnell soon proved herself deserving of her young mistress'appreciation. She relieved her of all responsibility while ostensiblyconsulting her on all occasions. She was clever, capable, andeconomical. If her reserve and habits of discipline met with littlefavour in the eyes of her fellow-servants, they were adequatelyappreciated by her master and mistress. Except to Nora, however, JaneGrapnell maintained the same cold evenness of manner. She made nofriends, rarely went out, except on household matters, and was neverknown to do more than "pass the time o' day" with those ever alertgossips of the little town.
As she passed the group round Judy McGee's shop on this eventfulmorning she noted that some unusual excitement prevailed. She receivedthe usual greeting and returned the usual answer.
She never flinched before the fire of curious eyes, nor thesemi-audible whispers that echoed to her passing steps. She was toomuch engrossed by her own thoughts to heed what was said of her. Thesepeople had no part in her life, nor interest for her mind. They wouldnot have believed such a thing possible, but it was true, and to itstruth she owed her unpopularity.
"Bad cess to her for a proud, stuck-up doxy," muttered Judy, whosefriendly overtures had never yet received any recognition. "'Tis an illlook she wears, and a hard bed she'll have to lie on before her lasthour comes."
"I wonder what's at the back av her now?" added Moll Cassidy.
"Something mighty quare, or may I niver read the cast av an eye," saidBridget Mooney.
"It's wondering I am whatever Miss Nora could see in the woman to takeup wid her so," chimed in Sally Rooney.
And then giving temporary burial to the hatchet of war that had beenso imminent, they went tooth and nail for Jane Grapnell's character,deeds, and morals. That she came off badly goes without saying toanyone acquainted with the Irish penalties of an unbreakable reserve.
Meanwhile the object of discussion went on her way, called at theshops, gave her orders, and finally walked off in the direction of theHermitage.
Once out of the town and the gaze of curious eyes, her face relaxedfrom its austerity. The set lines softened into weariness, the curvesof the mouth were more sad than bitter. It was no common face, thisof the much-discussed woman. Power, strength, suffering, patience,all spoke out in its tense expression. A woman with a history, and ahistory tragic and pain-filled. A woman who could endure long, butforgive never.
She walked swiftly along the white even road, where the autumn leaveswere already scattered. "Across the fields" gave a short cut to herdestiny, and she took it as if it was well known to her.
Coming at last to a lane heavily screened by trees and thick brushwood,she paused. Before her was a small grey stone house, shut off from thelane by a palisade and hedge of laurels. A garden rich with autumncolouring spread on either side the narrow path. At the back of thehouse was a rough stable and poultry run, and the almost inevitablepig-sty.
Externally the dwelling-place looked more pretentious than it was. Itreally only consisted of four rooms and a kitchen. One of the rooms wasa sort of office on the ground floor, with a grained-glass window thateffectually eluded curious eyes.
This was the house of Jasper Standish, the county Inspector ofRathfurley—a position of no small importance in Ireland, thoughit possesses little to English minds. In the former country theposition can only be held by a man of education, ability, and socialdistinction. He is as far removed from the accepted idea of "policeman"as our Tommy Atkins is from the officer who commands him.
Jasper Standish had secured the appointment with some difficulty, andnot without a large amount of influence to back him up. But he wasboth clever and fascinating, and gifted with brilliant brains as wellas a handsome face. He was wonderfully popular in Rathfurley. He wasalso excessively ambitious; and entirely without scruples as to how heworked for that ambition.
It was before this man's house that Jane Grapnell was standing lost inthought. With her English ideas, it had seemed strange that Standishshould be on terms of equality with her master's household, diningthere perpetually, playing cards whenever the old gentleman wanted agame, singing Irish songs in a rich baritone to Nora's accompaniment,riding by her side if by chance they met, as not infrequently happened.
All this set Jane wondering. It also occasioned her much concern.For she passionately loved her lovely young mistress, and almost aspassionately and—without any positive reason—disliked Mr. JasperStandish.
Such antipathies are wholly inexplicable by any rule of common sense.They may be sent as a warning, or simply aroused by the innateantagonism of thoroughly opposed natures. Those who have known anddisregarded them have sometimes lived to regret that disregard. Thosewho believe in occult force sufficiently to let instinct guide wherereason stumbles have, in like manner, lived to be thankful for awarning uttered through scaled senses, but none the less important.
Something almost akin to morbid curiosity led Jane to examine theappearance and extent of the "Grey Lodge," as it was called.
What there could be about the Lodge and its occupant to interest thismorose and silent woman was a secret to all outside herself, butcertain it is that from the first moment her eyes had fallen on JasperStandish, she had been morbidly curious about everything concerningthat gentleman.
She stood there so long now that the sunlight began to pale behind thedark belt of trees that shut in the house. So long and so silentlythat the birds hopped and twittered around her motionless figurewithout apparent notice. The leaves dropped at her feet, as the windsighed through the boughs. A vague melancholy tinged the hour and thescene—the melancholy with which the dying year parts from all thebloom and beauty of her summer prime.
Here this man she so distrusted lived alone, with an old woman asservant and her grandson as groom, stable-boy, and gardener combined.He kept up no "style," but the stables were occupied by a couple ofhorses that would have been hard to beat for breed, speed, and stayingpowers.
The woman looked up at last. A footstep had roused her. Beside herstood a small impish-looking youth, neither boy nor man. His quickferret-like eyes were alert with mischief and curiosity.
"Is it his honour yer wantin', ma'am?" he inquired, as he peered up atJane Grapnell's face.
She started and drew slightly away. "No," she said hurriedly. "No! Idon't want him."
"Thin it's a dale av interest yer after takin' in his property. Maybeit's wantin' to buy it ye are. Shure it's a tidy bit av a place, butit's not for sale just yet. The masther's got a lase av it for twohundred and ninety-nine years, or thereabouts."
His impish eyes twinkled. He, like most of the poorer folk inRathfurley, knew Mrs. Grapnell as the English housekeeper at theBank House, and was well-disposed to take a "rise" out of her whenopportunity offered. Her dark, stern eyes glanced at him with a silentdisdain of his poor witticism.
"Are you in his service?" she asked.
"Thrue for ye, ma'am, I am. Errand bhoy and giniral help. I'm notliving in the establishment so to say. Me name's Doolan—Mickey Doolan.Maybe ye know it. Shure an' it's me father has the big mate stall inthe market, where ye gits yer joints."
"Oh!" she said vaguely, "is it? Then why don't you work for your fatherinstead of for Mr. Standish?"
"Work for him? Why—he just leathered the life out of me as long as Idid. So I took to independence; and it suits me a mighty dale better."
"But I thought——"
"Oh! yer mindin' what I said about messenger and errand boy to MisterStandish. Shure, that's jist the jokin' way av me. I gets an odd jobnow an' thin', mostly in the way av pickin' up news an' helpin' him abit wid information as to poachin' an' sich like."
Jane Grapnell's usual reserve seemed to have deserted her to-day. Herface was almost eager as she turned to the boy.
"Information! Then of course you know about the cases at the policecourt—criminals and offenders?"
"It's mighty clever ye are to guess that!" said the youth, with mockadmiration. "I won't be sayin' it to praise meself, but there's manya poor divil I've laid by the heels; an' whin Mister Standish hasthe hard job before him, it's Mickey Doolan does most av the work,unbeknown to thim as is wanted. Ye understand?"
She looked at him with a sort of eager interest. An informer; a spy; acreature who might be bribed to do any humiliating or dirty work.
So he stood self-confessed. Yet the silent, reserved woman, who madeno friends, who "held her head so high," who was accounted a model ofdiscretion, actuality displayed more interest in this disreputablebeing than in the virtues and goodwill of a Mrs. McGee, or a BiddyMooney.
She put a series of cautious questions to the youth. Questions sostrange that they seemed to have no possible connection with herself.It puzzled Mickey somewhat, but his odd mixture of lies and truths wereuttered with a disarming frankness that would have almost won the faithof one of his own countrymen.
Jane Grapnell, however, had too large an element of caution in hernature to be readily deceived. She was working for an object, and sheknew she must not be too particular as to the tools she employed. Shesifted Mickey's exaggerations with a skill of which he was unconscious.
At the close of their conversation she presented him with half-a-crown.He looked from it to her with a face expressive of completebewilderment, then pocketed it swiftly, and touched his ragged cap withthe first sign of respect he had shown her.
"Shure an' av it's any further conversayshun ye'ed be after wantin' widme, I'm at your service, ma'am. It seems a mighty profitable sort av athing," he said, with a grin of appreciation.
"I may want you again, Mickey," she said. "Where are you to be found?"
"Mostly down by Cronin's public," he answered. "Or shall I be givin' acall at the Bank House for ye, odd times?"
"No, no," she said, quickly. "Don't come there. I'll let you know if Ido want you."
She drew down her veil and walked quickly away into the gatheringgloom. He watched her, his eyes twinkling.
"What is it she's manin', at all, at all?" he muttered. "Shure it'snot a thafe or a murderer that she's tracking. And so mighty grand asiveryone thought she was; and not a 'good-day' hardly passing her lips.Well, divil take me, but 'tis yerself's in luck to-day, Mickey bhoy,an' yer company an honour to be paid for, so it is. Well, she can haveplinty av it at the same price, if the fancy takes her. And sorra awurrd av this bizness passes me lips to Mister Standish. It's none toofond he is av parting wid his half-crowns, or sixpences either. Shureit's himself comin' I hear. What's the dirty work Mickey Doolan's to dofor him now?"
When Sir Anthony decided that the hotel would suit him well enough, hesent for his daughter Lyle.
Here, however, feminine opposition came into play. Nora entreated thather friend should stay with her at the Bank House, while the Hermitagewas being put into order, and Lyle on her arrival backed up theentreaties of her friend successfully. Her father gave in, and the twogirls rejoiced in unlimited freedom and untiring companionship.
There was enough likeness of character and dissimilarity of naturebetween the Irish and English girl to give that salt of contrast totheir friendship which is at once a test and a tie. Nora had all thewarm-heartedness and vivacity of her nation, Lyle Orcheton the softnessand strength, the temerity, and straight-forwardness of hers. She wasmore reserved than Nora, and less apt to make friends, but also she wastruer-hearted and more courageous. Her affections, if slower to win,were more durable when once bestowed. Nora's flirtations were numerous;Lyle's reserve would shut out anything so frivolous as meaninglessattentions. Yet with so much difference and divergence the two girlswere deeply attached to one another.
They had much in common. Both were motherless; both were only children.A limited home circle left them with much outlying force of affectionto bestow. Nora gave her friend the largest share, but still had plentyto dispose of. Lyle, on the other hand, concentrated most of her loveon this bright and lovely and most winning creature, and gave hersecond place in her warm, deep heart. Her father ranked first, but heheld for her elements of responsibility and consideration by reasonof his studious habits, his mild absent-mindedness, and his manlikehelplessness in all domestic matters.
She satisfied herself that he was perfectly comfortable and well lookedafter at the hotel before yielding to Nora's eager persuasions. Healso had a general invitation to the Bank House from the genial TomCallaghan, so that he and his daughter would not be much apart.
The first morning after her arrival Lyle and Nora rode over to theHermitage. Nora gave up her own little mare "Heartsease" to her friend,and took her father's mount for herself. She could ride anything, andher love of horses was almost a passion.
The morning was lovely—cool, balmy, rain-washed; the sky an arc ofIrish sapphire, the woods a blaze of gold and emerald and russet brown.To be young and healthy and heart-free on such a day, and mounted for arousing gallop, was to taste something of the joy of living.
The girls made a picture that the township appreciated as they trotteddown the main street. It was market day, and vehicles were many andstrange, and droves of sheep and pigs seemed contesting the "right o'way" with foot passengers.
"You seem to know everyone, Nora," said her friend, as they drew reinand walked their horses.
"It's rather a case of everyone knowing me, my dear. That's the penaltyof my father's daughter's position. There's Judy McGee at her shopdoor. I must speak to her a minute or she'll never forgive me. She'sdying to see you, I'm sure."
They drew up before a curtseying figure and inspecting eyes. Lylegave gracious response, but did not find the conversation absorbinglyinteresting. Certainly it was varied, diverging from the layingqualities of the black hen to the measles of Mrs. McGrath's youngestgrandchild, and taking in by the way such little matters as the widowMurphy's newly-married daughter's twins, and the curiously bad qualityof the potatoes sold at Danny MacGuire's shop. When these subjects hadbeen discussed long enough to leave behind a faithful photograph of theyoung stranger's face, figure, eyes, hair, and the colour and fit ofher habit, as well as the fact of her having borrowed Miss Nora's ownmare, they were permitted to ride on their way.
"Funny people, aren't we?" said Nora. "I often wonder how we strikeEnglish folk on a first acquaintance."
"I know how you struck me," said Lyle. "That was when you lived atDerry, you remember; and I spent my holidays with you."
"Yes. You told me your opinion, and we nearly had a quarrel. However,you understand us better, or will—once you live among us. Oh! there'sMrs. Brady O'Neil, Lyle. I wonder if she'll stop. I'd like to introduceyou. It's her nephew, you know, who had the Hermitage, and was obligedto sell it owing to debts. She's your neighbour. A charming woman, andgives such parties! Yes, she's stopping the carriage."
"Ah, Nora!" said a cheery voice, "it's a long time since I've seen you.I declare I thought you'd gone to England again. Your English friend,did you say? Ah! delighted to meet you, Miss Orcheton. We shall beneighbours, you know, once you come to the Hermitage. But I supposethat won't be for some time. It must be sadly out of repair. Derrick,poor boy, could not do anything for the place. Why, when he came ofage 'twas nothing but debts he found for heritage—his own, and otherpeople's."
She broke off with a laugh.
Lyle looked at her with pardonable curiosity. She was a handsome,florid woman of about forty-five; alert, breezy, good-tempered, withvery bright eyes, and an ever-ready smile. A general favourite, andsufficiently well off to be of use to the county, as well as popular init.
"So you're staying with Nora," she went on. "Well, that's nicer foryou than the hotel. You must come round to me on Tuesday next. Just alittle party, you know, Nora. All young people. A hand at cards, anda waltz or two for those who like. Mr. Standish has promised to come.There's not his equal for a partner miles around—as you ought to know,Miss Nora."
She shot a glance of meaning at the pretty Irish girl, who tried tolook unconscious, but failed signally.
"We shall be very pleased to come, Mrs. O'Neil," she said. "At leastI shall, and I'm sure Miss Orcheton won't say no. She's as fond ofdancing as myself."
"I'm glad of that," said the genial lady. "I love young people aboutme, and the pair of you will be an acquisition, to the county. Yes;and there'll be some broken hearts before long, or I'm much belying mycountrymen. Well, I mustn't be keeping you. Remember me to your father,Nora, and don't you be forgetting Tuesday—eight o clock. Good-bye."
The carriage drove off and again the girls proceeded on their way.
"Who is Mr. Standish, Nora?" asked Lyle, after a short silence.
The girl coloured faintly. "He's the County Inspector," she answered.
"Oh!" said Lyle, somewhat doubtfully. "A—gentleman?"
"Of course, my dear. The Irish constabulary rank here with themilitary. It's quite different from England. Mr. Standish is of goodfamily, and goes everywhere. He is very popular, besides being ashandsome a man as you'd wish to see."
"I don't care for handsome men," said Lyle curtly. "They're always soconceited."
"Well, Jasper Standish isn't that."
"You seem to think a great deal him, Nora?"
"Nonsense, child. Not more than of any other man. My fairy princehasn't come this way yet, my dear."
"Doesn't it seem strange, Nora," said Lyle after the silence which asharp trot had engendered, "that we two are here, riding together,life just beginning for us, and somewhere in the world—where we don'tknow—there may be two men waiting for us, ready to lay their hearts atour feet? They don't know us, we don't know them; but Fate will bringthem when the hour is ripe, and all the world will change for us fromthat hour."
Nora's brilliant face paled suddenly. "From that hour!" she echoed. "Doyou think, Lyle, that love is unconscious at first—that the change maybe there long before we realise it?"
"I can't say. What do we know! Books may be deceiving us. Ourexperience has all to come."
"Well, I'm not going to take it seriously," laughed Nora. "I want toenjoy life before I settle down to marriage. Somehow, Lyle, when Ilook round and watch married people, it seems as if they had mostlygot wrong partners, had the wrong cards dealt them, like a bad handat whist. Lovers who are all devotion, miserable if a day partedthem, can bear the separation of married life better than its unity.There's that pretty little Mrs O'Rourke, for instance. She and DannyO'Rourke certainly made a love match if ever there was one. She wentout to India with him. He had an appointment in one of the north-westprovinces. A couple of years passed, and she came home. Now she'sliving with her mother, and as pretty as ever, but the way she flirtsand carries on—why, you'd think she had no husband at all. Twoyears—and such a change. Is love worth no more than that?"
Lyle's face took a deeper gravity.
"I think," she said, "girls are rather unfairly used. We are givenan idealised picture of men, and then left to find out the reality.We cannot meet them on equal ground, or an any terms of intimacywithout being accused of flirting or allowing them to suppose thatwe expect a declaration. It is all quite wrong. If there were nooutsiders to interfere, to draw false conclusions, or hint at expectedresults, we might come to a far better understanding before taking theall-important step."
"You are quite right," agreed Nora, eagerly. "Were you thinking of Mrs.O'Neil's remark?"
"Yes. I shouldn't let it worry me if I were you, Nora."
"My dear, I don't intend to. Jasper Standish is not a marrying man. Heis too poor. I have no money. Dear old dad has only his salary to keepthings going comfortably. We are very good—friends. That is all."
Lyle glanced quickly at the downcast eyes, the wavering colour. Alittle touch of fear chilled her heart. Was it all? Did nothingunderlie that word "friends?" She had read that a man and a girl mustneeds be something more, or something less, than that. But she neverasked a confidence that was not spontaneous, and the subject dropped.
They found Phelim McGee and his young brother and a third "help" hardat work on the pruning and grass-cutting that Sir Anthony had directed.The girls dismounted and left their horses in charge of the ubiquitousPhelim, and then Lyle opened the door with the key the agent hadgiven to Sir Anthony's charge, and she and Nora commenced a tour ofinvestigation.
They were in raptures over the possibilities of the lovely old hall,with its oak panels and Italian ceiling. They threw open long-closedshutters and let the golden wealth of sunshine into the rooms; theyexplored every nook and corner, decided on renovations and furniture,most of which was coming from England, apportioned the various bed anddressing-rooms and were alternately practical and enthusiastic.
"Oh! I wish it were all ready, and we were coming in to-morrow!"exclaimed Lyle, after a final decision as to which room was always tobe reserved for her friend, so that she might go or stay at her ownsweet will.
"You'll have to wait for a good many to-morrows I'm thinking, if yourfather employs the Rathfurley workmen," answered Nora. "An Irishworkman will do anything—except hurry. If you'll take my advice have aDublin firm to do all you want, and do it by contract. Then you may getin this side of Christmas."
"What! Not for two months! Why, there's very little to do."
"Papering, painting, roof, repairs," enumerated Nora, whose eye wasmore business-like than her friend's. "Mind, you'll be coming in at abad time. Our winters are mostly rainy, and it's been unoccupied solong that it may be damp."
They were standing at the window of a room facing south, with a lovelypeep of the river winding its way through distant woods in the fullglory of autumn colouring. It was a quaint-shaped room, ending in aturret, and the window was lancet-shaped, with small, leaded panes.Lyle had decided she would have it for herself as a study and retreat.She turned from the window to look over available space, and furnishit with imaginary comforts and girlish possessions. Here should standa book-case, here a couch, her writing-table must stand by the window,her easel——
Suddenly she shivered where she stood in the warm sunlight. Hereyes went from the room within to the scene without. The woods werethick with leaf and song, the hedges still held autumn treasures,rose-scented and fragrant, doves cooed in the boughs in faint caressivenotes, the west wind blew soft fragrance through the open casement bywhich she leaned. Everything spoke of peace and beauty, and yet—howexplain that odd, strange feeling which had come upon her?
"How pale you look!" exclaimed Nora, suddenly. "Whatever is the matter?Why, Lyle, dearest, you're shaking all over!"
The girl put her hand to her forehead in a bewildered way.
"Yes, I know, I can't explain. Only somehow, Nora, something tells me Ishall be terribly unhappy in this room."
"Lyle!"
"I can't say why. It just came—the feeling—the sensation."
"It is very strange. Now, if it had been my experience, I could haveaccounted for it. We Irish are so superstitious. But you——"
"I'm not, a bit. And yet this has happened to me. What shall I do,Nora? Laugh at it, defy it, or put it to the test? Perhaps somethinghas happened in this room—something dreadful."
"Oh, don't," said Nora, shuddering. "You'll be saying next the place ishaunted."
"It is haunted by some sadness, some misfortune. The shadow passed overme. It's gone now, Nora."
She drew herself up. Her eyes gleamed. "I'll not be put off myintentions. I never did believe in presentiments—I'll defy this one!"
Quiet and subdued, Nora Callaghan followed her friend down the broadstaircase where faded and ancient tapestry still hung on the walls,down and into the great hall which they had already furnished in fancy,and so on to the terrace that lay before the curious pointed windowswith their lancet panes. The view from here was magnificent, and thetwo girls stood side by side drinking in the glorious freshness andsunshine, and the scents of fresh moist earth and late roses. Myrtleand trailing wisteria had climbed up the portals and window-frames;vine-like tendrils swayed in the breeze, and amidst the thick ivy birdshad nested and sheltered for many untroubled years.
Gradually the shadow of that strange presentiment faded. The naturaljoyousness of youth responded to the call of Nature. Once more thelight talk rippled, the girlish laughter sounded. The next thing wasto explore the grounds, which sloped gradually down to the river. Herethey discovered an old boathouse and a dilapidated punt.
"We must have a boat," said Lyle. "I learnt to row last summer when wewere at Colwyn Bay. An old fisherman taught me."
"How lovely!" exclaimed Nora, with rapture. "You'll teach me too, won'tyou, darling?"
"Of course." Then she laughed softly. "'Thy people shall be my people,and my ways thy ways.' There's an appropriate misquotation for you.And now I suppose we had better return. It will be dad's luncheontime, and I promised to be there and give him the program of necessaryalterations."
"Tell him to have workmen from Dublin or you'll be a year waiting toget in," said Nora. "You're bringing your own furniture, are you not?"
"All the old things—oak, pictures, silver, books. But we shall requirea good deal more."
"How lovely it will be, choosing and buying and arranging it! Yourfather is such an old dear. He lets you do just what you like."
"Oh, but his taste is perfect. He won't let me get anything unsuitable.He wants the Hermitage to be as semi-mediæval as possible."
Then they beckoned the waiting Phelim, and, remounting their horses,rode back to the town.
"You won't be far from police supervision," said Nora, pointing withher whip to the chimneys of the Grey Lodge, as they showed through thetrees. "That is where Mr. Standish lives."
Lyle's eyes followed the direction indicated with some curiosity.
"I feel rather interested in that man," she remarked.
"You are sure to see him soon," said Nora. "He is always about. Inany case, there is Tuesday coming. Mrs. O'Neil's little parties aredelightful; she is the soul of hospitality and kindness. She is verypopular hereabouts."
"Any history?"
Nora laughed. "Ah, I see you are catching it. Yes, there is a history.A bad husband who ran away and died abroad. An only son also dead;drowned in this very river, Lyle. Poor woman, she has had her troubles,they say. However, she seems jolly enough now. She's of very goodfamily. She was a Miss Brady, of Riverstown. She calls herself Mrs.Brady O'Neil formally. . . . Oh, my dear, here is Mr. Standish. Shall Iintroduce you, or just pass on?"
"No, don't stop."
In an aftertime, dark with horrors and heavy with trouble as yetunguessed, Lyle Orcheton remembered that her first instinct with regardto this man had been one of avoidance, her next one of distrust; andyet as she cantered easily past and met the quick flash of his darkblue eyes, she confessed to herself she had never seen so handsome aface.
A bow from Nora, a brief "Good-morning, Miss Callaghan," and he hadpassed them.
A blushing face drooped consciously before the searching gaze of twotender eyes.
"Ah, Nora," said the English girl, gently, "has the romance begun, mydear?"
The blush faded as quickly as it had come.
"Nonsense!" she said petulantly. "Why, I scarcely know him."
Lyle shook her graceful head. "Juliet knew nothing of Romeo; yet shegave him herself, her life."
"Well, I should not be quite so ready to part with either as thatheroine of Shakespere's."
"Irish people are full of romance. It is an inheritance of yourcountry—your clime—your history. He is wonderfully handsome," sheadded irrelevantly.
Nora laughed. "I told you that. I'm glad you agree with me."
"All the same," continued Lyle, gravely, "he awoke a sort of 'I do notlike thee, Dr. Fell,' instinct on my part. I wonder why?"
"In that second? Nonsense, Lyle! You hardly looked at him."
"Yet, I could describe him accurately. Features deliberately correct;eyes dark blue, full lids, inclined to droop; straight nose, almosttoo fine; and lips heavy and full-coloured. Cruel lips, Nora. The darkmoustache has a duty to perform; it keeps their secret. He would be atyrant if opportunity offered, and—I would never trust him."
"Good gracious, Lyle, you have an inventive mind," exclaimed Nora,petulantly. "It's quite impossible you can read a person's character ina single glance."
"Quite. I only theorise, of course. I am open to persuasion—yours orMr. Standish's—that I have misread him. Now let us have a gallop alongthis road. It's too good to lose."
* * * * * *
As events turned out, there came no opportunity for an introduction toJasper Standish until the evening of Mrs. O'Neil's party.
The two girls looked radiantly beautiful in their simple dresses. Happyyouth—that is self-sufficient in its own supreme possession—thatcan afford to laugh at Paris Art and Pivet's bloom! Some such thoughtcrossed Belle O'Neil's mind as she welcomed the two graceful youngfigures, and remembered with a pang the days when Belle Brady had beenthe beauty and toast of her county.
She was still a fine looking woman, a woman of ample charms, sparklingeyes, flashing teeth; kindly, good-humoured, the soul of hospitality.But she saw the "light of other days" in these bright eyes and gracefulfigures, and gave an involuntary sigh as tribute to their memory.
"Well, my dears, I suppose it's not cards you'll be coming to sit downto. There's Miss Kelly, there, is kindly going to play some dance musicfor us; and the hall's all ready for you. Wait till I find you somepartners. Nora, my dear, I think you know everyone. Ah! Mr. Standish,come here half a moment. Let me introduce you to our new neighbour,Miss Orcheton. You'll have a quadrille together to open the ball, won'tyou? Nora—oh you don't know my nephew! He only arrived to-day fromIndia. Sick leave, he says; not that his looks pity him, but that's thevoyage. Derrick, this is Miss Callaghan, of the Bank House; and thisMiss Orcheton, whose father's your tenant at the Hermitage. Now youlook after them, and see they don't want for partners. I'll have myhands full when the cards are started. We're desperate gamblers here,you must know, Miss Orcheton—oh shocking. But it's life, bless you,and where'd we be without a little pleasant excitement sometimes? Itkeeps us young, anyway."
Lyle and Nora had received and returned their respective introductionsto this running commentary. When Mrs. O'Neil's voice at last ceasedLyle was conscious of an offered arm, and found herself walking downthe brilliantly-lighted drawing-room by the side of the handsome CountyInspector.
Yet all the time she was thinking of a sad and delicate-looking face,out of which two melancholy dark eyes had looked eagerly, almostanxiously, back to her own. It was the face of Derrick Mallory,the past owner of the Hermitage, the man whom she had heard of asspendthrift and gambler, and hero and martyr alternately. And it washis house that would be her home, and over his mortgaged acres shewould roam at will. Here was a ready-made interest about him. Shewished he had spoken, but a grave bow, and that look of pardonablecuriosity had been his only response to their introduction.
Meanwhile Jasper Standish was claiming her ear, and inquiring how sheliked Ireland.
"I liked it long before I thought of living in it," she answered."It was my enthusiasm that induced my father to buy the Hermitage. Iused to come over on visits to Miss Callaghan before they settled atRathfurley. We were schoolfellows, you know."
"So I heard from Miss Callaghan," he answered.
His voice was pleasant, without very much accent, Lyle glanced at himand found Nora's admiration excusable. He was even handsomer in eveningdress than she had thought him at their first meeting.
"You know I am staying with her while the Hermitage is being put intoorder."
"Miss Orcheton, do you know Ireland at all? Do you suppose thatimportant fact hasn't been in the mouth of every gossoon and everygossiping old woman since you and your luggage arrived at the railwaystation?"
She laughed. "Yes, I ought to have known that. You are a notable nationof gossips, Mr. Standish."
"Indeed, and we are. No need to tell me that. I'm glad to see you canride, Miss Orcheton. There's some pretty decent hunting here in theseason. I'll be proud to give you a lead across a bit of Irish country,if I may."
She drew herself up somewhat stiffly. "Thank you, but I have neverhunted yet. I hardly think I shall care to do so."
"Not care!" His heavy lids upraised themselves in genuine astonishment."Oh! you can't mean that. Why, 'tis the grandest thing in the world.You'll care fast enough once you try it."
"I think the quadrille is forming," she said, evasively. "Shall we takeour places?"
If Jasper Standish rode as well as he danced, and sang as well as hetalked, she wondered no longer at his popularity.
He claimed a waltz after the quadrille and then put his name down onher programme for a couple more later in the evening. He had done hisbest to interest her. He had come here to-night with that specialpurpose. But used as he was to easy conquests he could not read throughthis girl's reserve, or meet without flinching the scrutiny of hergrave eyes. She made him feel uncomfortable and conscious, and he didnot like the sensation. When he was away from her he watched her, andthe proud poise of her head, the grace of her slender form, the serioussoftness of her deep-ringed eyes affected him as the sparkling beautyof his own countrywomen had never done.
She attracted universal attention and admiration, as was only naturalwhen to youth and beauty, and that most expressive Irish definition"style" was added a rumour of heiress-ship. The only child of a wealthyEnglishman, and one foolish enough to take an Irish property, well, itwas small wonder if the young bachelors were advised to "be keeping aneye on her."
Nora watched her friend approvingly. Her nature held not such paltryfeeling as jealousy, and, besides, they were such different styles thatit was unlikely they would ever be rivals. Nora was engaged for everydance, but Lyle preferred withholding her programme.
"I like to watch you all," she said to Nora who argued against sittingout when a floor was perfect and partners numerous and the night butyoung.
"I am enjoying myself excessively. Don't you worry about me," sheadded. And Nora tripped off, wondering at so singular a taste, fordancing and gambling are in the Irish blood, and to refuse the one andavoid the other seemed an inexplicable proceeding.
Lyle watched her and Jasper Standish waltzing, and drew her ownconclusions. The girl's happy face, and shy, sweet smile spoke withtranslatable eloquence. The man was less easy to read.
It was in one of these moments of observation that a figure approachedher, and a voice unlike most of those she had heard that nightrequested a dance as a favour. She looked up and saw Derrick Mallorystanding before her.
She handed him her programme.
"I thought I saw you going into the card-room," she said, and thenflushed scarlet at self-betrayal. For it was foolish enough to havewatched him—without confessing she had done so.
"I went to pass away the time till I might claim this," he said. "Ihave not danced yet."
She looked up then and met the eyes whose melancholy had so appealedto her. His speech was a little odd, and its veiled compliment ratherannoyed her. She put compliments down as the poor coinage which menoffer to the pre-supposed vanity of women.
"What a waste of time, and good music!" she said, lightly.
"You were not dancing. I found myself wondering what you could bethinking of, sitting in that remote corner and watching those romps soattentively. Our dancing is rather of the fast and furious type, isn'tit? Someone has said of us we can be anything but dignified. I thinkthat's right. We Irish throw too much zest into everything."
"And we English too little," she said. "I rather envy that capacity for'letting oneself go.' It must add a great deal to your enjoyment."
"I suppose it does. Shall we begin? I'm not in very good form. It'sa long time since I danced. I've been envying Standish there. He's asplendid waltzer."
She was silent. She had leant herself to the swinging ease of his step,the firm clasp of his arm. The air of the Soldaten-Lieder waltz wasin her ears, and something vague and strange and delightful set thisdance apart from all those that preceded it. He, too, looked down atthe shining head, with its glittering coils of hair, the colour comingand going in the fair cheek, and felt suddenly that life had changedand the word "woman" had become a personality for the first time in hislife.
"HAS the fated fairy prince put in an appearance yet?" asked Nora,laughingly, as they sat by their bedroom fire, and brushed out loosenedtresses in that semi-abandonment of dressing-gown hours so dear tofeminine friendship.
It was three weeks after Mrs. O'Neil's dance, and in those weeksthere had been scarcely a day that Derrick Mallory had not met themin walk or ride, or dropped in at afternoon tea-time in the autumndusk, excused by some message from his aunt, who saw a pretty bit ofmatch-making ready to hand.
Lyle brushed the shining tresses more vigorously. "Why do you ask?"
"For the very good and sufficient reason that two and two make four—ifone chooses to count. There can be little doubt of the attractionthat brings a certain gentleman to the Bank House so often, or makeshim so attentive to Sir Anthony, whom by rights he should regard asan interloper. That's what we generally do. Sell our heritage to astranger, and then hate him for ever after for obliging us with hismoney to stave off impending ruin."
"You don't suppose that Mr. Mallory takes anything but ordinary politeinterest in us—in me?" questioned Lyle, as she busied herself over aparting that seemed particularly difficult to make.
"Oh, of course not. Ordinary interest is just the sort of thing thatbrings a man out all weathers, that makes a daily meeting imperative,and hot-house flowers and fruit a quite trilling attention."
"My dear Nora——"
"My sweetest Lyle, don't put on that serious face to me. It won't do,my dear. I've had too many experiences not to know the real thing whenI see it. Derrick Mallory fell in love with you the first night he sawyou at his aunt's. I never saw a more hopeless case. Why, he doesn'teven seem to know any other girl exists when you're in the room!"
The cheek that was plainly visible between the soft waves of hair worea very becoming flush now.
"Nora, do you really think——"
"My dear, I do. And anyone must be blind who can't see that the manadores you. Of course you disguise your feelings better. That is why Iasked is it a case of the fairy prince—at last?"
"How can I tell!" said the girl, softly. "A few weeks are such a shorttime—to mean all one's life."
"Yes," said Nora, with sudden gravity. "Short enough to be long, ifone isn't sure. I think you might be sure, Lyle. Derrick Mallory is sodifferent to most of the men we've met; so earnest—so true. Neither ofyou take life lightly."
"He is—just what you say. But, Nora, there's never been anything—nota word that I—that anyone could interpret as meaning more thanfriendliness. Naturally he takes an interest in us because of theHermitage; but that's all."
"Well, it may be all at present, but it won't be all much longer."
Lyle sighed softly. "I am very well content," she said. "I don't wantto have to decide. I couldn't dream of leaving my father for—well, foryears to come. And you see, Derrick has to return to India."
"Yes, in six months, worse luck! I wonder if anything will have changedfor us, Lyle, before those six months?"
A momentary silence fell between them. The thoughts of both werebusy with vague sweet possibilities that neither could have put intowords. Lyle Orcheton had not as yet dared to confess the secret ofthis growing attraction. She could not assure herself that it waslove—the love that makes or mars life, that robs girlhood to enrichits after-womanhood; that is at once sweet, painful, incomprehensible;that steals in like a thief opposed to lawful authority, and hides itstreasure with a guilty pride in its possession, at once shamed andproud and defiant. She only knew that Derrick Mallory was more to herthan she had ever dreamt a man could become, and how or why he hadbecome so in this brief space of time she was unable to say.
Also, another secret was troubling her, which loyalty forbade her toreveal, and which she marvelled Nora had not discovered for herself.This was the subtle homage of Jasper Standish. So subtle was it, sodelicately conveyed, that it rendered her defenceless. She could notoppose or resent what was never openly acknowledged. A hint, a look, awhisper, these were vague things to wake such uneasiness and dislikeas she felt for this man, but they were about her like a breath—acobweb—something to disdain or brush aside, yet impossible to avoid.Then, too, her father had taken an unaccountable fancy for the man, andshowed an equally unaccountable dislike to Derrick Mallory.
Lyle did not guess that his mind was being slowly poisoned against herundeclared lover by the man who coveted his place. Sir Anthony heardstories of wildness, extravagance, gambling habits, that filled himwith alarm, and made him ostensibly cold and impervious to any friendlyovertures on Derrick's part.
It was impossible for the young man not to feel this coldness andavoidance. A curt greeting, a frigid handshake, a scarcely disguisedindifference to his presence, these gave chilling encouragement to hisnewly-dawning hopes. Lyle, it is true, was always the same gracious andlovely divinity he had crowned as love of his life from the first hourof their meeting, but Lyle was young and rich, and her father's idol.He could not press a suit which that father seemed bent on discouraging.
So matters looked black for the prince and princess of Nora's fairytale, and her concern and interest in them perhaps helped to blind herto the undercurrent that was at work in her own affairs.
That special night they talked more gravely than they had yet done,drawn together by some prescience of dawning trouble that eachrecognised for the other.
"Do you know," asked Lyle, at last, "if Derrick Mallory is reallyvery poor? Father says he is, and also that he is deeply in debt. Iwish——" she stopped abruptly, but the sympathy in the eyes so nearher own, unlocked her lips. "Oh! Nora, I feel that father does not likehim. I wish he did. He seems to be unaccountably prejudiced againsthim. Why, I cannot imagine."
Nora drew the lovely head, with its fleece of golden locks, against hershoulder.
"Dearie," she said, "I didn't want to discourage you, but I havenoticed the same thing. Sir Anthony, who is so genial and kind toeveryone, is unaccountably distant to poor Derrick. He was almost rudeto him yesterday. If I were you, I think I should ask the reason.Perhaps he fears losing you; it may be jealousy of a new rival. He hasbeen the 'only one' so long. My old dad is more philosophic. He hasnever taken my flirtations seriously to heart. He knows he will have tolose me some day."
"Oh! I could not ask him," exclaimed Lyle. "It would look so—sostrange. I must only hope that time will overcome this prejudice.There can be no real reason for it. Have you heard any stories to—hisdiscredit?"
That pronoun gave away the situation most innocently. Nora smiled underthe veil of hair she was curling and twisting with idle fingers.
"It depends," she said archly, "on what you consider discredit. Hedid gamble a good deal—once. Long ago that was, before he went outto India. Of course we know nothing of his life out there. But then,what do girls ever know of men's lives? We have to take them on trust.Our own instincts are all we have to guide us. No wonder marriage is alottery, as they say. Who can tell if it's a prize or a blank they'redrawing until it's too late to change!"
"And love—what of that?"
"It is a dream in a sleep I often think. And it lasts just as long asno one wakes the dreamer."
Lyle was silent. She was standing on the threshold of life; standing,waiting, holding out hopeful hands to some beautiful dream-god in theland of shadows beyond. But where he might lead her and what she was tofind, when the light of day should sweep the shadows away and show herthe land beyond, she knew no more than a child knows.
For this is Life. A dream first, then a fever and delirium peopled withphantasies, then a cold, empty space in which we blindly grope, prayingdumbly for a little love, a little peace, a little rest, ere we sinkback again into the shadows from whence we came.
* * * * * *
Their talk that night drew the girls still closer together; wakenedin each heart something deeper and stronger than ordinary girlishfriendship means.
The first hint of trouble is always a test to any nature. It has toface the experience that others have tasted and found bitter; itshrinks involuntarily from the ordeal and turns eagerly to any sympathy.
Into the charmed circle of these young lives had penetrated the firstchill breath of such trouble. They clung to each other with a vaguefear that was not to be explained, but of which they were conscious.They could not put it into words—yet. But the time was not far offwhen the words would do little to lessen it.
Lyle sat on for long after Nora had left her; sat on, her eyes gazinginto the fire, her chin resting on her hand, seeing in glowing emberand leaping flame a hundred fanciful pictures. And always among themmoved one figure, and always, looking back at her, were two eyes, verytender, very earnest, very sad. And as they met her gaze she could feelher heart beating with a strange mixture of joy and fear.
"He does care!" she whispered. "Oh! I know that, by what I feel myself.And yet there is something—something that holds him back, that sealshis lips. Oh! I wish I knew, I wish I knew! I do not think I should beafraid, Derrick, my love!"
The County Inspector sat in his little office study, gazing with moodybrows at the rows of figures in a leathern pocket-book. His handsomeface was not pleasant to look at. He shut the book with a vicious snap,and tossed it into a drawer of his writing-table, which he shut andlocked.
His official room was in the barracks; but here at home he reservedthis little dingy study for other sorts of business. It was onlyfurnished with a leather-topped writing-table, some chairs, an oldmahogany book-case filled with musty volumes on law and sport, whilea gun-rack and some hunting crops ornamented the walls. Above themantel-shelf was a small oval mirror in a wide gilt frame, and below itwere a medley of pipes, cigar-cases, and tobacco-jars.
As he turned from the table and began slowly to pace the small room,his eyes caught the reflection of his face and his expression in theglass. He paused abruptly, scanning lowered brows and sombre eyes, andthe cruel mouth which the soft moustache but half-concealed.
"What a murderous brute I look!" he muttered. "Not much there to charma girl's eyes."
He rested his elbows on the low mantel and gazed long and earnestly atthat face of his, of whose every good point he was fully conscious. Hewas an excessively vain man, and numberless feminine conquests had butadded fuel to that glowing fire of personal self-appreciation. Vanityand avarice were indeed the ruling passions of his nature, though hecalled the one pride and the other ambition. After a long and earnestscrutiny he again turned from the glass, and commenced that restlesspacing.
"I'm in a cursed, hole, there's no doubt about it," so ran hisreflections. "It's not only the girl, but the money. Two thousand—andonly another month to get it! If I could pay off half, they'd renew;but where on earth am I to lay hands on a thousand? It might as well befifty! Devil take my cursed luck. When I backed 'Shamrock' I thought itwas as sure as the Bank, and——"
He stood quite still, as if some chance word had set him off on a newtrain of reflection. But the reflection could not have been pleasant,for cold drops of sweat started from his brow and his lips twitched andpaled.
"Powers above! I never thought of that. It might be done. Of all livingmen I'd be the last to come under suspicion. My position gives me therun of the place as well as the investigation afterwards. And I couldalways pay it back again, once I was straight. Sir Anthony's rich. Thegirl will have everything. I could win her over, though she's no greatliking for me as yet. But Nora——"
Again his brow darkened.
"To give her the go-by, after as good as making love to her—well, shewon't be the first girl who's been thrown over. She'll soon consoleherself. If only she'd keep a silent tongue to the other. The devil'sin it with their friendliness. 'As fond as two sisters,' people say. Adeal fonder, I'm thinking. Sisters can keep their own secrets, friendscan't—not women friends, that's the curse of it."
A light tap at the window startled him. He went forward and drew backthe curtain. The night was very dark. A faint rain was falling.
"Is that you, Mickey?" he asked, sharply.
"It is, yer honour. I've a wurrd for ye."
"Jump in then."
The lad obeyed, and vaulted lightly from sill to floor, as if well usedto the process.
"Well?" questioned Standish, sharply.
"Yer honour told me to kape me ears open if ever wurrd av Donovan'sFarm bein' sold came me way."
"Yes."
"Shure thin it's to be sold immaydiate, an' a man from Limerick'sbuyin' it. A rich draper who's tired av city life, an' mad to be agintleman farmer. It's thrue for ye, sir, as thrue as Eve ate thelittle apples."
"How did you hear it?"
"I'm not goin' to say more thin yer payin' for," said the youth,doggedly, his eyes glancing sideways at the handsome face before him."There's at laste five shillings due to me now, an' divil a ha'pennyI've seen av it. Whin I gets that I'll be after tellin' ye more, maybe.It's meself has learnt the name av the purchaser, an' the day whin themoney's to be paid over."
A curious gleam shot from Jasper Standish's eyes. He drew a handful ofloose silver from his pocket and threw it on the table.
"Take that, and be damned to you for a thief of the world! Now, go on."
The boy seized the money eagerly and proceeded to tie it up in a raggedstrip of handkerchief, which he took from his throat.
"It's the whole bizness yer honour's wantin'?"
"No—cut it short. As long as the selling is decided I only want tolearn the date, and how the purchase money is to be paid."
"Shure, there'll be grand work over that, what with lawyers an'witnesses an' all; an' Donovan, he's goin' out to his son in Ameriky soI've heard."
"You're quite sure about the farm?"
"Shure an' sartin' be on me own five fingers." (the sign of the cross)."I heard ivery wurrd av the matter by rayson av bein' in BartieMeagan's public-house, an' shammin' slape whilst they was makin' thebargain. Mighty close it was to be kept, so they said. Divil a wurrd tobe breathed to the naybours. They thought 'twas heavy wid the drink Iwas, yer honour, an' niver took no manner av notice. But ye may take mewurrd, the bargain's struck, an' sorra a way out av it."
"That will do," said Standish, quietly. "Now, be off with yourself, andkeep your tongue in your mouth, or it will be the worse for you. Ifyou get drunk and blab before I give you leave, there's that poachingaffair waiting for you. Remember, I'm only staying my hand."
"Shure; yer honour's not manin' to be hard on a poor bhoy that's thrownon the wurrld like meself. I've sarved ye well an'——"
"That will do, I tell you, go!"
If Jasper Standish had seen the vindictive face that looked back at thewindow a moment later, and heard the muttered curse that followed it,he might not have felt quite so easy respecting this half-witted toolof his. But he was blissfully unconscious that Mickey Doolan had anindependent mind of his own, and was becoming deeply resentful of thetreatment he received from his employer.
"Now what's his rayson for wantin' to know about Donovan's Farmunbeknown to Donovan?" ruminated the boy as he picked his way homeover fields and puddles through the now fast-falling rain. "'Twouldhave been mighty aisy to put his question to thim as is consarned inthe matter instead of setting me list'nin' an' pryin' at kayholes an'sich like. But, indade, it's the quare ways Mister Inspector has widhim. Now I'm jist axin' meself if this bit av information will be avany service to the English lady? Maybe she could make some sinse out avit, an' if there's another half-crown to be got for that same, Mickey'sthe bhoy to git it. I'll jist be hangin' about the Bank convaynientto-morrow morning an' see if I can git a wurrd av her at all. I'm noneso fond av Mister Standish that I'd mind sarvin' him a thrick wan avthese days. It's many a cuff an' a kick an' a curse I owe him, an' I'mnot the bhoy to appreshiate thim sort av wages. It's a fule he thinks Iam, but there's fules as is wiser than thim as thinks thimselves wise."
And to the tune of this philosophy he got home and ate his supper,regardless of his father's curses and his mother's laments over the"vagabone" of the family.
As for Standish, once the boy had gone he drew a chair up to the fire,poured out a glass of whisky, lit his pipe, and indulged in a longthoughtful mood.
What ideas ran riot in his brain, what plot weaved itself from suchseemingly unimportant information as Mickey Doolan's, were not betrayedby outward sign. His face grew dark and evil. He drank deeply and onlygrew more morose and evil-looking with each replenished glass. It wasclose on midnight before he rose and extinguished the lamp.
"A month!" he said then, and glanced at the drawer which held thathateful heap of obligations. "Well, many things may happen in month. Imight even find myself a rich man—in a month."
He stumbled up to bed and threw himself down, dressed as he was, andfell into the heavy senseless sleep of intoxication.
It was well Nora Callaghan could not see him now. And yet, had she doneso, the pang that would have rent her girlish heart might have curedthat girlish infatuation, and saved her from worse sorrow and worsesuffering in the time to come.
As day's glided into weeks the staff of work-people at the Hermitageproved that wonders could be done even in a country averse to the follyof making unnecessary haste over anything in the way of work.
The rooms grew beautiful and habitable. The grounds were cleared of allencumbering weeds and brambles, the lawn was smoothly rolled, the walksfreshly gravelled, the straggling roses pruned and trellised, and allthe wealth of autumn flowers left to bloom in beds and borders.
"We shall be in before Christmas, after all," said Lyle, gaily, toher father, as they paid their almost daily visit of direction andsupervision. "The servants could be here next week when the furniturecomes. The house looks perfectly livable now. A few good fires are allit wants. Our rooms are quite ready. We shall only really need the halland your study at first."
"You seem very anxious to get in, child," said Sir Anthony, smilingat her eager face. "I must say I scarcely expected such satisfactoryresults. If you are sure the rooms aren't damp I don't mind how soon wesettle. The hotel is not very comfortable, and we are trespassing toolong on the hospitality of the Callaghans. When shall I send for theservants?"
They were to have their old butler and cook from England, and Lylewas to engage the others in the town. After some discussion, it wasarranged that the next week would bring the house into sufficient orderfor the domestics to put in an appearance, and after informing theforeman of this decision, and begging him to proceed with the remainingwork as speedily as possible, the father and daughter rode home.
As they passed the Grey Loge, Jasper Standish was coming out, alsomounted, Sir Anthony greeted him cordially, and told him of his recentdecision.
"I'm delighted with the house," he went on. "It didn't look verypromising at first, but upon my word I think I've got a bargain."
"There are a good many similar bargains to be had in this distressfulcountry," said Standish, keeping his little blood mare close to Lyle'schestnut. She had scarcely looked at him. He felt piqued and annoyed.
Her coldness added zest to his pursuit of her. It was new to him tomeet with repulse from anything feminine.
"The sooner we are neighbours, the happier for me," he said, softly, inthe little averted ear. "Rose-tinted, like the inside of a shell."
It was not turned to him in any sort of response, and the girl's eyesremained fixed on the road before her. She was never so cold or sodisdainful as when Jasper Standish was by her side. There seemed toher something treacherous in his pretended homage, his ever-readycompliment. The very slightest touch of the whip sent the prettychestnut curvetting restlessly.
"Heartsease isn't used to another horse so near," said Lyle, fallinginto a quick trot, which brought her ahead of her companion.
"Yet I've seen one horse as close to her side as I was, and she showedno displeasure," muttered Jasper, savagely.
The only answer to this ill-bred remark was the changing from trot togallop. He had perforce to stay beside Sir Anthony.
"Let her go ahead," said that gentleman; "it doesn't matter. My soberold grey has kept the little mare at a foot pace almost. I'm glad I'vemet you, Standish. Why, we shall be next-door neighbours, so to speak.You must drop in whenever you can. A hand at cards, or a little music,you know."
"You are most kind. I needn't say how I shall value such neighbours.By-the-bye, Sir Anthony, what's happened to young Mallory? I heard he'dgone to London. Is that so?"
"He's not here, at all events," said Sir Anthony. "And I for one amnot sorry. A man with such a history behind him is not safe company;and scoundrels are generally fascinating to women, especially youngand romantic women. I am just beginning to realise a father'sresponsibilities, Standish. They're pretty heavy ones, let me tell you."
"But Miss Orcheton——"
"Oh, Lyle is good and dutiful and loving enough, I grant; but whena man's getting old, and realises that he'll be left in the lurchfor the sake of some young sprig with a handsome face and emptypockets, why—he's apt to regret that Fate has left him the doubleresponsibility of a widower's lot."
"You're not a bit too old to change that lot, and halve theresponsibility," laughed Jasper, encouragingly.
"Oh, my dear sir, thank you—no. That's not in my line at all. A man atmy time of life doesn't take kindly to new faces, new rules, new ways.I'm perfectly contented as I am, if only Lyle didn't give me a twingeof anxiety now and again. I'm not ambitious for her to make a grandmatch. I'd sooner she made a happy one. But it's a terrible thing for agirl to sacrifice herself to an infatuation."
"I hope you've no reason to fear such a thing on Miss Orcheton's part?"
"Not positively. Only Callaghan gave me a hint, and I didn't quite likeit. A rather constant visitor; and it certainly wasn't Miss Nora hecame after. That's one reason I'll be glad to have my own house, andchoose my own company."
With all Sir Anthony's good-nature and absent-mindedness there wasmingled a little strain of obstinacy. He had taken it into hishead that the quondam owner of the Hermitage was not a desirableacquaintance. He had come into property, and gambled it away. Thatwas how he looked at Derrick Mallory's position and misfortunes. Henever took into consideration that the said property had been heavilyencumbered at the time of such inheritance, that it had been quitebeyond Derrick's means to keep up the place, or play therôle oflanded proprietor where so much would be expected of him. The oldbaronet only looked at the main facts of the case, and ignored allthose that served to excuse it.
The last thing on earth he would have wished was that Lyle shouldbecome attached to what he termed "a penniless spendthrift;" and thefact that she was becoming interested in that young man was quiteenough to alarm him. The sudden departure of Derrick to London was, tohim, a very fortunate coincidence. He only wished he might be detainedthere until they were fairly settled at the Hermitage. It would beeasier to show him that his acquaintance was not desirable.
Jasper Standish gathered these facts with little difficulty. It seemedto him that for once Fate was playing into his hands, and smoothingthe path on which his feet were set. Before him gleamed the Star ofAmbition. A wealthy marriage was all he needed. He saw himself asmagistrate and landowner; a wealthy man; a man of social and politicalimportance.
Nothing stood between him and the realisation of such ambition but agirl's whim! Stay! Yes—one thing. He thought of the figures in thatpocket-book. He thought of the hours of grace growing less and less.He must prove to his creditor that he was soon to be the husband of anheiress, or furnish himself with the means to pay this claim.
His brow darkened. He almost hated the old man babbling so cheerfullyat his side; but more than all he hated the girl who rode there in herinsolent grace before his moody eyes—the girl who was so necessaryto his schemes, and had that day thrown down at his feet the glove offeminine defiance.
A FEELING at once hurt and proud, yet holding depth of unsuspectedpain, was asserting itself in Lyle Orcheton's heart. To have receivedsuch silent worship, such unmistakeable devotion as Derrick Malloryhad shown, and then be left alone, facing an unexplained absence, anunuttered confession—it was a trying ordeal.
In later years a woman learns to be less sensitive than in thefirst dawn of exacting youth. Her dreams are less crystalline, herimagination less poetic. She has suffered disillusion, but learntpatience. She no longer rushes off at a tangent because her lover hasomitted a duty or committed a trifling fault. Absence may be excusable;silence may possess virtues of discretion. She can afford to waitfor explanation instead of flying into a whirlpool of emotion, or acataract of tears by way of relief. But this wisdom comes only withyears and knowledge, and a wider comprehension of poor humanity'slimitations.
It had not come yet to Lyle Orcheton or to Nora Callaghan. They wereboth suffering in their respective fashions, and the fact of suchsuffering shut the door of confidence on the new feelings that hadseemed so delightful in their first dawn of acknowledgment. Theypretended to be as light of heart, as full of enjoyment, as eager inanticipation, as they had once succeeded in being without need ofpretence.
"If he is not what I thought him, well—let him go!" was the secretthought of each, and in a hundred little words and ways they conveyedto each other that after all men were not absolutely necessary to theenjoyment of life; not absolute heroes of romance. It might be possibleto place them on too lofty a pedestal, dower them with too rich aburden of virtues.
But each young heart ached for that assurance, and smiles were lessfrequent and the laughter held a forced note of mirth, instead of itsformer spontaneous ring.
There is nothing harder to act than happiness when it has fled—unless,indeed, it be sorrow before it is realised. But sympathy can helpthe latter, whereas nothing—neither sympathy, nor good fortune, norfriendship—can create anything but a false model of happiness, oncethe real thing is destroyed. Yet they played their parts very bravely,and no one guessed that life was temporarily out of tune for both.
Sir Anthony was engrossed with artistic designs, with burrowing andsearching for quaint and old-fashioned furnishing. He saw no changein Lyle. If anything, she seemed more eager, more talkative, morebrilliant than of old; a still more charming and sympathetic companionthan she had always been.
He was blissfully content. It seemed to him that he had found a verypleasant anchorage for his failing years. He enjoyed the genialcompanionship of Tom Callaghan, with that appreciation of qualitiesin another that we ourselves lack, which is an excellent basis forfriendship. To play chess or take a hand at cards of evenings with thegenial bank manager and his cronies, to listen to his Irish stories,to drink sparingly of his excellent Irish whisky, had become quite anestablished custom now. The one drawback to his life at the Hermitagewould be the greatly increased distance that would separate him fromthe town, and would render those evenings occasional instead of nightlypleasures. However, he would not mar present enjoyment by anticipatingfuture abstinence. Tom Callaghan, as he was generally called, hadintroduced him to many of the neighbouring gentry, and Mrs. O'Neil haddone the same with regard to the county.
However, Sir Anthony found no society so much to his taste as that ofTom Callaghan himself, and his old crony and schoolmate, Dr. Kelly, wholived in a quaint, red-brick house in the middle of Slancy Street, andwas the most popular as well as the most skilful practitioner in thedistrict. "Doctor Dan" everyone called him. Indeed, so universal wasthe cognomen that Sir Anthony continually found himself employing it.
Dr. Dan was a true son of Erin, rollicking, good-natured, fond of aspree, and fonder still of a good story. His wife was somewhat of aninvalid, and rarely went from home; but Dr. Dan was free of every housein the county or district under his charge, and the very sight of hisbeaming, jovial face and merry blue eyes was "as good as physic anyday," to quote popular opinion.
It wanted but two days of that month to which Jasper Standish waslooking forward with growing desperation. His affairs had not improvedin one particular. He had not been able to meet or secure LyleOrcheton's attention, and he dared not ask her father for a loan underpresent circumstances.
He was spending the evening at the Bank House, having been invited bythe manager to drop in and take a hand at whist with Sir Anthony andDr. Dan. In the hopes of atête-à-tête with Lyle he accepted.
The two girls, however, retreated to their own sanctum as soon as thecards appeared. There was some feminine mystery of dressmaking goingforward, with which Jane Grapnell was helping her young mistress. Theyhad been invited to a dance on New Year's Eve at Mrs. Brady O'Neil's,which necessitated alterations in previously worn gowns, far too freshand pretty to be discarded, yet labelled with that terrible "wornbefore" which seems as "Anathema Maranatha" to feminine minds.
At ten o'clock Mr. Callaghan announced that he must break up the whistparty.
"The truth is," he said. "I'm a bit behind with some work. My clerk'shad a sharp attack of pleurisy, and I've had to do everythingsingle-handed. They're to send another from the head office to-morrow.So for my credit's sake I must get the work ready to-night. A coupleof hours will do it. This was market day, too, and I have a lot ofmoney to lock up in the safe and see to. That fellow Donovan, who soldBallygar Farm, would insist on cash payment, and kept me until afterclosing time counting it out and examining it like an old woman, till Iwas well nigh crazy with the fellow."
"Donovan? Oh, yes! He's off to America, I'm told," said Dr. Dan. "Hekept that little business of his mighty secret. A clear close file heis, though. I suppose he made a good thing out of it, Tom?"
"He did, indeed, and he was as frightened as a child about his money.Didn't dare take it home for fear he'd be robbed and murdered. There'sa lot of queer characters about just now, he says."
Jasper Standish was bending over the fire to light a spill for hispipe. He kept his back turned to the speakers, but a curious steelyglitter came into his eyes.
"So there are!" he said. "A troublesome gang who're giving me a lot ofbother. They seem to be everywhere at once. There were three robberieslast week."
"Well at all events old Donovan's money's safe enough," laughed TomCallaghan.
"Ah! then, Tom, if it's work that's claiming you I'll be off," said Dr.Dan. "I as good as promised to look in on young Sullivan's wife. Twinsto-day. I have to pass their shop on my way home. I suppose the youngladies are after their beauty sleep. Faith, they're wise. Good night,Sir Anthony. May I never have worse luck or a better partner than I'vehad to-night. No, Tom. Don't you be coming to the door. It's a devil ofa night. Dark as Erebus and raining fit to drown you. It's glad I am Ihaven't your journey before me, Jasper, my boy! Good-night all!"
Sir Anthony rose and made his adieux as cordially but less noiselessly.Tom Callaghan escorted him to the door. The hotel was scarcely fiveminutes' distance.
The night was all and worse than Dr. Dan had declared it. A storm ofrain and sleet blew in as the door opened. The street without was darkand full of pools and ruts. The lamps made faint blurs and shadows thatwere scarcely deserving of such a description as "illuminating."
The bank manager closed the door with a shiver and came back to thedining-room. Jasper Standish was still in the same position, gazinginto the fire.
"Come and have another glass of whisky, Standish, before you face theelements," said his host, genially. "Are you riding home to-night?"
"Yes. I left my mare at Moriarty's. She'd cast a shoe; and he promisedto keep her there till I called."
"It's an awful night."
"Oh, I've got my mackintosh," he answered, indifferently, as he pouredout the whisky with a somewhat unsteady hand.
There was a curious look of repressed excitement about him, and hedrank the copious libation of strong spirit at a draught. Tom Callaghanglanced at him with some wonder. He had never seen the cool, handsomeInspector do such a thing in all his previous experience.
"I was thinking, if you don't mind, Mr. Callaghan, that I'd like to goround with you and see that the—the premises are really secure," hesaid, as he put down his glass. "I've often thought that door openinginto the lane was none too safe."
"You mean from my private room?"
"Yes."
"Oh, nonsense, my dear, fellow! Safe as—as a bank, I was going to say.Come and see for yourself. It has bolts and chain."
"Burglars and desperadoes have made short work of such defences beforenow, Mr. Callaghan."
"Are you trying to frighten me?"
"Not at all. Only you may be sure that the news of all that money beinglodged with you is well known. Donovan had his own fears, evidently.I'll tell you what. I'll send one of my men to keep special guard roundthe place. I must pass the barracks, you know, on my way home."
"It's very good of you, Standish, but upon my word it's not the leastbit necessary. This is not the first time, by a good many, I've hadlarge sums of money lodged here. Besides—the safe would defy burglars.They can't open it, and they certainly can't remove it. However, youcome along with me and I'll prove your fears groundless. Oh! just onemoment. I'll see if the servants have gone upstairs, and give the girlsa hint not to be scared if they hear me in the dead hour of the nightgroping my way to bed."
He laughed again and went out into the passage, and then up the stairs.Jasper Standish heard his pleasant cheery voice speaking from thelanding to Nora, and telling her he had to be in the Bank for a coupleof hours. He heard, and his heart began to beat with quick, feverishthrobs. His hands were so tightly clenched that the nails pressed intothe palms, and he was unconscious of the pain.
"Is it the devil that's behind it all, or a stroke of luck for me?" hethought.
Then the brisk footsteps sounded on its return. The door opened.
"Now, Standish, I'm at your service. This way."
"Shall I put out the light?"
"No, leave it. Everyone's gone to bed. Maybe I'll need a drop of whiskywhen I come back."
When I comeback! Jasper's heart stood still, then galloped on withquick, mad beats.
"If you ever do!" something whispered.
A PAVED passage led from the house into the Bank. It was small andinsignificant enough compared with its important brethren of London orCork or Dublin. Behind the counter was the clerk's desk, and beyondthat the manager's room, in which stood the safe secured to the floor.Mr. Callaghan put down the candle he carried on the table, and then litthe gas. Outside the rain beat against the window, which was protectedby iron bars.
"You'll find it cold here without a fire," said Jasper, glancing at thegrey ashes in the grate.
"So I shall, my boy," said the manager, ruefully. "I ought to have hadit laid ready for lighting. No matter, I'll put my office coat atop ofthis."
He went over to the peg on which hung a warm, thick coat of greyfrieze, and took it down.
"I left the books here, ready," he went on, approaching the table, "butfirst I'll lock away that money. You said you wanted to look at thefastenings, Standish. Do, while I'm at the safe. Then I'll let you outat the other door before I set to work."
"I—I suppose I could not help you?" hazarded Jasper.
"My dear fellow, every cobbler to his last. Book-keeping and petty cashaccounts aren't learnt by instinct. I do hope that clerk of mine willpull round soon. He is such a smart fellow, and knows his businessthoroughly. What are you looking at? Nothing wrong about that window,is there?"
"A pane of glass cracked, that's all. Do you mind my having the candlehere a second?"
"Not at all. Take it."
He passed it across the table, then took his keys out and opened thedrawer of his writing table.
"Poor old Donovan!" he chuckled. "He was mighty frightened about thismoney of his. It's a good sum, too. But there's no customer like yourretired tradesman."
Jasper made no answer. He heard the jingle of the keys, the clink ofcoins in little leather bags, as Mr. Callaghan had put them in, therustle of paper notes—the dirty, troublesome pound notes beloved ofthe Irish. A mist swam before his eyes. His hand shook so violentlythat the candle almost dropped. A swirl of rain and sleet beat againstthe windows. It sounded to him like a summons. If his brain would onlyclear—if he could only think of a plan. There lay the money so near.The very sum he needed to stave off ruin and exposure. There came thatvoice whispering in his ear—"Your chance at last!"
Should he take it? but how. If he could frame any excuse to getCallaghan out of the room—but then he didn't know the right keys. Andit would be known he had been there. No; that would not do. Was thereno other way? Stun him suddenly—creep up behind him while he was atthe safe. Yes; that was better. No fear of detection. The window? Itwas high up. It looked out on a small side street or lane. No onecould see. A furtive glance. The white head was bending over the lock,another second and it would be opened. A second! His thoughts whirled.The mist was red now—red and thick, closing round him. The voice hadchanged. It was imperative. "What do you fear? Who will even know?" itwhispered. "Who would ever suspect you? Take your chance. You'll neverget such another."
"How am I to do it?" He had lost command of himself now. He seemedno longer Jasper Standish, as he had known and thought of JasperStandish, but a cold relentless evil soul, dealing out the last momentsof a doomed life; with no pity for its age, or its harmlessness, thesuffering of others, the ruin to itself. He looked at the clock. Howtime had raced since the first chance words of this unconscious victimhad fired a train of thought within that murderous breast!
Again that chink of the money. The manager was putting it away. If oncethe safe was locked he might never be able to open it. If——
There must, be no "if." It was too late for scruples now. He turned.The mist cleared from his eyes; he saw on the table a large fileweighted with bills and papers. The hook was sharp.
A stride—a blow—a heavy fall. The hook had crushed through theskull of the unconscious man. He fell beside the open safe, the bloodspurting up in a stream of crimson, dyeing the floor on which he lay.
* * * * * *
The calmness of desperation seized the murderer. Now the deed was donehe must avoid all chance of suspicion. It must seem to have been acrime committed for the sake of robbery—as it was. He put the littlebags of gold and silver into his pockets, avoiding the notes in caseof detection. Then he lowered the gas, and went over to the window. Apressure, and the broken pane yielded, the cold rain swept in. Nexthe tried the bars. One alone was loose, and moved beneath his fiercestrength. With a desperate effort he wrenched it from its place, andlaid it on the floor within the room.
Surely that was enough. The open safe, the scattered papers, toldtheir own tale. Now he must get away and make good his story for themorrow. There was no chance of discovery. He would call at the barracksand send a constable as special guard, telling him Mr. Callaghan wasworking late in the Bank to account for the light.
How clear his brain felt. How easy it was now to plot and plan. Andhow easy it would be to avert suspicion. He had only to offer his ownevidence ready-made for the occasion. The resident magistrate was aharmless, convivial old gentleman, greatly addicted to hot punch andwhist playing. There was nothing to fear from him.
Now to unlock the door and get away.
The door leading into the private portion of the Bank premises wasclosed, but not locked. He debated a moment as to whether it wasadvisable to leave it so, or give the first discoverer in the morningthe trouble of breaking it open.
Precaution was safer. He crossed over and locked it. Then he let downthe chain and unfastened the stiff bolts of that other exit. It creakedhorribly in the stillness, as it swung back. Mr. Callaghan had rarelyused it. Indeed, there seemed no reason for its being there at all.
Standish did not think so apparently, as he crept out into the darknessand stood listening intently, his breath suspended, his ears strainedto their utmost. All depended on this moment. Should anyone be passing,should he be seen coming into the main thoroughfare from this passage,his careful schemes might yet be of no avail.
He drew his soft felt hat down over his brows, and turned up the collarof his mackintosh. The wind howled dismally through the dark street,the sky above was black and starless, the rain fell in straight closesheets, through which the fierce gusts scurried at intervals. It was anawful night. Little chance of anyone being abroad whom necessity didnot drive to it. Yet still he hesitated and listened.
Suddenly he started. What was that? A soft patter of bare feet echoingon the pavement. Would they pass or turn down thither? They halted.His straining ears held every other sense submissive for one hatefulmoment. Then the patter continued down the street. They had not turnedinto the lane, where he crouched amidst the shadows dark and thick andominous, as would his own fears be from this night forward.
The fox may escape pursuer by fleet foot and wary eye, the hunted beastmay turn and rend its dauntless hunter, but to the human creaturestained with crime and for ever haunted by the phantom of discoverythere is neither refuge nor defiance possible. The terror that pursueshim from the first hour of his guilt is one that eye cannot evade,no foot outspeed. He can kill life but he cannot kill that terror ofhimself, and that threatened vengeance which is set by an invinciblePower above men's deeds, so that let the world judge of them as itmay, they shall never escape the doom they have recklessly challenged.And they know it, each in his own soul, be that soul never so black orguilty.
The day was to come when Jasper Standish should acknowledge it; when tohave killed memory with one blow, as he had killed that harmless kindlylife, would be the one boon he craved, and craved in vain.
* * * * * *
Early the next morning the Inspector was roused from a heavy sleep,the sleep of intoxication, by a loud knocking at his door. He openedbewildered eyes and gazed around. He had had bad dreams; his headached, his mouth was dry and parched. What had he dreamt? What hadhappened? Half-dazed and scarcely awake, he lifted himself up anddemanded the reason of the summons.
"Will yer honour make haste an' come down?" said the voice of his oldservant. "Shure, an' there's two men from the barracks as is wantin' tosee ye immaydiately. It's a terrible business. Murder, they sez."
Murder! His face blanched. Was this his dream, or was the dream theresult of a deed of desperation? How his head ached! What a fool he hadbeen to drink so much. Just when coolness and skill would be required.
"I'll be down in two minutes," he called out, then sprang out of bedand looked at his clothes where they lay in a huddled heap.
On the cuff of his shirt was a crimson stain. He grew cold and sick ashis eyes fell on it. Blood! Good heavens! how came it there? Why had henot noticed it before?
Muttering a savage oath he seized the shirt and thrust it into oneof the drawers of his chest, which combined the uses of toilet-tableand drawers both. He hurried on some garments and went downstairs tointerview his men.
They were in his little study. One was the constable he had ordered tokeep watch on the bank as he passed the barracks on that mad gallophome, the previous night.
The story was soon told. The man had seen or heard nothing suspicious,and had been relieved on his beat at six o'clock. It was then pitchdark, and still raining, but the wind had abated. He wondered that thelight in the dining-room had been left burning all night, but thoughtthat was the concern of the inmates. He had not gone down the lane,but once or twice thrown the light of his "bull's-eye" into its silentdarkness. The storm was so bad he had been thankful to shelter underthe portico of the principal entrance between the intervals of hismarch to and fro.
The second man then took up the tale. He had only been up and down thestreet once, when the door of the private entrance opened and a femalefigure ran out and signalled him. It was the housekeeper. She seemedagitated. She had gone into the dining-room and found the gas burning.It was so unlike her master's methodical habits that she rememberedimmediately his message to his daughter—he had some work to do, andwould be in his office till midnight or later. Thinking that perhaps hehad fallen asleep she went down the passage and tried the communicatingdoor. It was locked. Then, unable to control her uneasiness, she ranupstairs to her master's room. The door was ajar. She looked in. Theroom was empty, the bed undisturbed. Really alarmed now, she rushed outto summon the policeman. He accompanied her to the door opening intothe Bank premises. It was locked on the inside. He shook it, knocked atit in vain. It defied strength, and no notice was taken of his summons.
"Something must have happened," cried the housekeeper, now reallyterrified.
Jasper Standish made rapid notes in his pocket-book.
She had then suggested trying the other door leading into the lane.They went there. He tried the handle, and to his surprise the dooropened readily. They were in the manager's private office. One glanceshowed there had been a robbery. Papers were scattered about, chairsoverturned, the safe was open.
A scream from the housekeeper brought his eyes to the floor. She waskneeling down, supporting the head of her master. It was covered withblood. He was stiff and cold.
Then Standish spoke for the first time. "Dead?" he asked, hoarsely.
"Murdered!" answered the constable.
A strange scene met the eyes of the Inspector when he entered theBank half an hour later. Already some whisper of disaster had spreadthrough the town. A couple of policemen were standing in front of thebuilding, and a crowd of people were jostling, pushing, questioning andexclaiming in various keys of inquiry and horror.
In the office, where the constable had first discovered him, lay thebody of the genial, kindly manager, who in popular parlance had been"iv'ry one's friend an' niver the hard wurrd for anybody." Alas! Noword, hard or soft, would ever pass those silent lips again.
Dr. Dan, who had been summoned, was examining the wound. The sharp hookhad pierced the brain. Death must have been instantaneous. He looked upas Standish entered.
"Good God! this is horrible!" he exclaimed. "To have left him lastnight jovial, laughing, cheery, and be summoned to see—this."
It seemed in no way strange to him that the Inspector should look paleand unnerved, or shrink from touching that inanimate form. So fewhours—and such a tragedy!
"It must have been done for robbery. Look!" continued the doctor,pointing to the disordered room. "That's how it was found. Villain'swork indeed. See that broken window, and the bar. There must have beena struggle. Well, that's your work, Standish. I suppose we can removehim now?"
"Yes, of course," said Jasper, hoarsely, glancing round at the facesof the housekeeper, the young servant, and the "bhoy," who made up theestablishment.
"I shall require you all as witnesses," he added sharply. "But firsttake the—body—away. Lay it on his bed. There will be an inquest, ofcourse. Does his daughter know?" he asked suddenly.
"No, sir," said a quiet voice, unlike the brogue that was revellingin smothered gasps of horror round the room. The Inspector looked atthe speaker. He saw a pale, set face, the dark fire of sombre eyes,features rigid and impassive.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Jane Grapnell. I am the housekeeper."
"You can't keep the matter from Miss Callaghan. She must know," hesaid. He remembered the woman's face. He had seen her sometimes on theoccasion of his visits. "Break it as gently as you can."
He turned away. Why did the woman look at him so? And where had he seena face resembling hers? She woke some unpleasant memory, but he couldnot trace it to its fountain-head—yet.
He busied himself with his notebook. Would they never remove thatstiff and silent figure? He felt sick and faint, as his glance fell onthe white face in its awful stillness, and the open eyes that seemed asthose of an accuser.
He made a sign to one of his men. The women drew back. Dr. Dan liftedthe white head, where the hair lay clotted and massed with oozingblood. The inspector shuddered as he moved aside to let them pass. Notfor untold gold could he have raised a hand to help in that ghastlytask. His first wild frenzy of blood-thirst and desperation had wornaway. He was only conscious now of horror and of dread. A dull, numbsensation paralysed his faculties, and always before his eyes floatedthat mist of blood.
He sank down on a chair and covered his eyes with a shaking hand. Hetried to pull himself together. An awful ordeal lay before him. Itwould never do to betray weakness or fear. Why did that woman stare athim so? What was she waiting for?
As the sad procession moved out of the room he seemed to regain hiscomposure. He took down a description of the room, the state it was in,the instrument with which the deed had been committed, the names of theservants. Then he shut up his book and approached the safe. The keyswere in the lock; some notes and some small bags lay upon the shelves.He closed and sealed the door, and did the same with the drawer of thewriting-table.
As he finished, Dr. Dan returned. The Inspector dismissed theservants and the policemen, then turned to the distressed and anxiouspractitioner.
"You saw him last," said Dr. Dan. "My God! To think of our all walkingcoolly away and this—to happen!"
"I left him here," said Standish, calmly. "I examined the fasteningsand spoke about that window being unsafe. He only laughed. There arehis books, you see. I wonder if he did any work."
"It was that cursed Donovan business," muttered the doctor. "He was anavaricious old miser, and everyone disliked him. You may be sure it gotabout that he had brought his money here. There were plenty to watchhim. But—the devils!—to take this honest harmless life! By all thepowers, if you don't make someone swing for this, I'll know the reasonwhy."
"You may trust me to do my best," said Jasper, calmly. "The motive isplain enough. Of course we cannot tell how much money has been stolen,but I suppose his clerk could."
"He's very ill; it's impossible for him to attend to anything."
"The new one then; he was to come to-day. Surely, from the books——"
"If the books had been made up. Don't you remember what poor Tom said?He had to work at them; he had been kept all day paying and receivingmoney."
"Well, I know nothing about banking. But there would be sure to beentries somewhere of the sums received."
"I suppose so. My God! it's terrible. I can't realise it. What am I tosay to that poor girl, and what will she do now? Poor Tom! I know henever saved a penny. His income was none too large either. Ah! faith.It's a sad day for us all; friends and relatives. My heart aches,Standish; we were boys together, friends always. And it's not as if hehad died as I've seen men die; the gentle sleep—the parting word——"
He walked to and fro, the tears starting to his eyes and rolling downhis cheeks. "A bitter blow—a bad day for me and all who loved him. Tothink of the cowardly trick! Struck down without a warning, for thebasest motive that ever made man criminal."
Standish rose somewhat suddenly. "I can do nothing more here," he saidharshly. "I've taken notes of all that's necessary. I must see aboutthe inquest next."
"The inquest! See about the murderer,—damn him!" shouted Dr. Dan,furiously. "By all the saints, I feel as if I could choke the life outof him myself, if only I found him."
"Of course I'll attend to that also," said Jasper. "The gang that Isuspect won't be hard to find. You can trust me, Doctor. He was—myfriend, too."
The pallor of his face, the trembling lip, the unsteady voice, were tothe unsuspicious doctor as evidence of emotion, not of guilt.
He wrung his hand in answering sympathy. "Do your best, Standish. Godforgive me for saying it, but I'll not rest in peace until the ruffianis discovered. I'd spend my last penny to bring him to justice."
* * * * * *
Dr. Dan remained behind to see Nora. She awoke at her usual time inblissful unconsciousness that anything had happened, that this day onwhich her sleep-filled eyes opened was to stand for all her life ablack and awful landmark, a day from which all peace and joy of youthshould flee, never more to return.
Lazily she made her girlish toilet, wondering if Lyle was awake,wondering if a certain strange dream that haunted her memory was inany way prophetic. She had dreamt she saw a solitary magpie perchedupon a stone, and as she looked the stone turned to a cross, and thecross seemed gleaming white above a grave—a grave set solitary andapart on a wide, desolate moor. Then while still she stood and gazed,the bird of ill-omen flapped its long wings and rose with a strangecry; it hovered above her head, circling round and round. She tried tofrighten it away, but it always returned. Then with one last desperateeffort she waved her arms and the bird's wings dropped and changed to auniform she knew only too well, and the beak and head became a face andthe body a figure, and she was looking into the cold smiling eyes ofJasper Standish.
Like all the Irish Nora had a fair share of superstition. She wentover the old distich her nurse had been wont to sing of the propheticmagpie:—
"One for sorrow, two for mirth,
Three for a marriage, four for a birth."
One for sorrow! Did her dream mean sorrow? But then she had notactually seen the bird, only dreamt she was seeing it. Perhaps that——
A sharp rap at the door. "Miss Nora, are you dressed?"
"Very nearly, Jane. What's the hurry?"
"Dr. Kelly is below, miss. He wants to see you."
"To see me? Whatever for? Isn't dad down?"
"No, miss."
"Well, tell the doctor I'll be with him in five minutes—if it's sovery important. He won't mind about my hair."
A few moments, and she was facing her old friend, laughter on her lipsand in her eyes.
"Well, Dr. Dan," said a laughing voice, "what on earth do you mean bybringing me down at this time of the morning—Doctor!" catching sightof his agitated face. "What's the matter? What's happened?"
He held out his hands and drew her near him. He had known her when shewas a little child. "My dear," he said, pitifully, "be brave, be calm.I have bad news for you, Nora."
"Father—he's ill," she cried quickly.
"Very ill. There's been an accident."
She drew away, her face slowly whitening beneath the presence of fear.
"Tell me!" she whispered. "He's not dead?"
There was only silence. She felt herself answered, and gazed round inbewilderment, her limbs shaking.
Dr. Dan put his arm round her. "He is happy and at rest. Try and thinkso. It will be terribly hard to bear—at first."
Then he broke down. A hoarse sob choked back even sympathy andtenderness. "Oh, child," he cried, "I loved him too. And all I wouldhave done for him I will do for you. Only, I can't help you, I can'tcomfort you."
"How was it? Where?" she cried in a passion of entreaty. "Why wasn't Ithere? You might have called me. He would have surely wanted to see me.Oh, Dad! Dad!"
"Ah; hush," he murmured, pitifully. "It was not illness, it was notaccident. Some dastard villain broke into the Bank last night androbbed it, and your father——"
"He is—murdered!"
Her voice was only a whisper. The shock had dried her tears. She wasconscious of a vague horror that seemed to freeze her blood and holdher in an icy grasp.
Suddenly she swayed; a strange little cry broke from her quiveringlips. He caught her in his arms, and laid her gently on the couch.
Then a quiet figure stole in and knelt beside her.
"Leave her to me—now," said a pleading voice. He stood aside. It wasJane Grapnell, who loosened the wrapper and chafed the cold hands, andapplied all necessary restoratives.
"It is only faintness," she said, "and it won't save her from what isworse—what is to come."
It was late that evening before Jasper Standish left his office androde home. He had had a busy day. No arrest had been made, but whispersof suspicion were abroad.
A murder so cold-blooded and brutal awoke universal indignation. Itwas the theme of conversation, the subject of every possible surmise.It interfered greatly with business and trade generally; everything infact, except the public-houses, for much talk is dry work, and "Glorybe!" not unfrequently ends in a "glass of porter," or the "laste littlelittle dhrop av whisky," as restorative and consolation.
Every sort of rumour found tongue, and found credence. But how orwhence one whisper stole from lip to lip, and was repeated with batedbreath and shuddering horror no one quite knew.
"'Twill be sure to come out at the inquest," they told each other, andominous shakes of the head followed; and Mrs. McGee assured BridgetMooney that "'twas nothing more than she'd been expectin'. No goodiver came out of sich close-fisted, tight-lipped manners, not to spakeav thim as weren't iver good enough to spake the civil wurrd to theirnaybours."
Mrs. Mooney opined it was "a judgment on thim as weren't satisfied widtheir own payple and own folk, but must needs be havin' strangers an'heretics to do for thim."
Altogether the gossips had a rare time of it that day, while the newclerk sat in the deserted office and sent and received telegrams andinterviewed the Inspector, and came to the reluctant conclusion that MrCallaghan had been more than a bit careless over accounts, for he couldtrace none of the money that had been paid in the last day or two, andof Donovan's there was no proof, not even a memorandum.
It was little wonder that Jasper Standish looked fagged and worn whenhe reached his home. He flung himself out of the saddle and bade thestable-boy give the mare a good feed—she might be wanted again thatnight. Then he went in to his dinner, though eating seemed but a sorrypretence. In the middle of his meal a thought struck him. It blanchedhis cheek, and set his nerves quivering. "Fool! fool! and I've beenaway all day, and the drawer unlocked."
He started to go upstairs, then sat down again. Above all things hemust avert suspicion. How did he know that old Moll Murtagh was nota spy! There was no trusting these cursed gossips. He finished hisdinner, drinking only one glass of whisky to steady his nerves. Hewould need them of steel to-night.
Calling to the old woman to clear away, he went upstairs to hisbedroom, taking the lamp with him. He threw a rapid glance round. Yes,of course, the old busybody had been there, "tidying up," as she calledit. He shut the door and drew down the blind. Then he opened the drawerinto which he had thrust the blood-stained shirt. None was there!
He stared aghast at the open space; littered with ties, collars, andhandkerchiefs, but there was nothing else. Vain to turn and tossarticle after article. It was too large to escape notice. Someone hadbeen to that drawer and removed the shirt. With curses dire and deep heclosed it again.
Perhaps he had made a mistake. It might not have been the top drawerinto which he had thrust it in the confusion and terror of that morningsummons. He pulled out the next. There were shirts in plenty there,but all fresh, unsoiled, immaculate. Not one had been worn since theiron of the laundress had smoothed them. The next—no, not anythingbut socks and vests, arranged with old Moll's careful tidiness. Whohad touched that shirt. In a sudden rage he strode to the door, butwith his hand on the knob, something seemed to whisper caution. If heshowed anxiety, asked a question, the old crone might get suspicious.Supposing she had but taken it to wash it, and he made a fuss, whatwould she think?
He turned back, and sitting on the edge of the bed, leant his headon his hands in dazed and desperate perplexity. What a trifle itseemed—and yet men had gone to the gallows for just such a trifle!Just such a foolish, unconsidered incident had formed before now thefirst link in the chain of condemnation.
To pass the matter over as unimportant would be best. A cut fingerwould account for it. But then the finger should have been bandaged allthis day. It was too late now to pretend an accident.
"I'll take a look round to-night after the old fiend has gone to bed,"he said to himself. "If she's only been and taken it to the wash, it'llsure to be hanging up in the kitchen. But, damn it, I was forgetting;she sleeps there."
He raved and cursed at the triviality of the thing, and his ownimpotence in face of that triviality. As yet not a spark of suspicionhad fallen in his direction. But that was only natural; the peoplewould as soon suspect the chief magistrate of the county as they wouldone so universally esteemed and popular as its Inspector. Still, hemust make an arrest or two, if only to give them something to cackleabout. There must be no lack of zeal on his part while the deed wasfresh in everyone's mind, and tripping off everyone's tongue.
"That sour-faced devil will do for me," he reflected. "She'll bewatched pretty closely, and she must know it, too. I can make out agood case of suspicion to begin with, and she's none too popular here."
He rose and went over to the glass. Already it seemed to him there wasa change in his face—something sinister and furtive; and in his eyeslurked fear.
"I must be on my guard," he muttered. "Once the inquest is over I shallbreathe freely again. Fortunately the matter is almost entirely in myhands."
He took out his notebook and went carefully over point after point.The coroner was a great ally of his. It would be quite easy to directhis questions. No one could tell how long he had lingered behind theothers on that night. He had frankly confessed his reason for staying;also declared Mr. Callaghan had let him out at that side door leadinginto the lane. His horse had been waiting. The time between his leavingthe bank and reaching Moriarty's would be asked. He had all that ready.Then he had called at the barracks purposely to carry out that tale ofanxiety, and Sir Anthony and Dr. Dan could prove that he had warned themanager of the robberies committed by what was called the "Foxy Gang."It was composed of three men, all red-haired. They always wore masks.No one had been able to recognise their faces.
He drew a deep breath and put the book back into his pocket. He came tothe conclusion that he would say nothing about the shirt. Best not tonotice its disappearance.
As he turned from the glass, a sudden tap came at the window. Hestarted, and the cold dew of that fear that would henceforth be hisshadow broke over his face. He stood motionless, staring at the whiteblind. The window was shut. The night was very still. What could havemade that noise?
He thought of the old laurel tree without. Perhaps some stray branchhad blown against the pane. Yet—no. There was not wind enough to stira bough. Should he open the window and look out? He felt for once inhis life that he had not the courage to do it. He shrank from gazinginto the darkness. A guilty conscience is never free from superstition.He felt himself pursued by a ghostly vision—a phantom whose icy breathcould chill his blood, and make his courage weak as water.
He seized the light and left the room. There was work before himto-night; a battle to be fought; a wily foe to be bested. He would needall his strength of nerve, all the cunning of his brain. The price forwhich he had bartered his soul's peace must be paid to save his honourin the sight of men.
His honour! He could have laughed at the ghastly mockery of that word.He who before the sight of God and man had forfeited all right to sucha thing!
* * * * * *
The light streamed out from the hall. His man was walking the littlemare up and down. The sky was dark, save for a few stars glitteringamongst drifting clouds. Jasper sprang to the saddle and his cloak fellround him.
"Shall I be waiting to stable her, sor?" asked the man, touching agreasy cap.
"No; I may be late. There's no knowing. Leave the lantern as usual."
The man ran forward and opened the gate. "It's not to the town he'sgoin' anyway," he said, as he watched the retreating figures of horseand rider. "Shure an' it's a mighty lot av quare bizness he's beenafther lately—night-times too. I'm sorry for the poor blayguards whinhe does catch thim. 'Tis a purty murderous timper Mister Standish canlay hands on whin he's crossed any ways!"
Then he went back into the warmth of the kitchen and the "bit avsupper" awaiting him. Neither master nor man had glanced up at the oldlaurel tree, with its spreading branches; neither had seen a smallimpish face peering down through the screening leaves.
That tree was just outside the bedroom window of Jasper Standish. Onelong crooked bough was rustling now in the silence of the desertedgarden. Yet there was no wind.
TWO helpless young forms clung to each other. Two girlish faces,horror-struck and anguished, gazed, half-terrified, half-incredulous,on a tragedy that had suddenly crashed upon the peace and joy of aninnocent household.
About them moved the calm erect figure of the English housekeeper;on her face a strange stillness, in her eyes a fierce light. Amidstall the turmoil and confusion of that awful time she alone had beencomposed and helpful. Shrieks, wails, tears, exclamations had passedher by as a summer storm passes over some strong and stately tree. Suchunnatural want of feeling did not tend to increase her popularity.
"Indade, and she's the strange woman, Biddy," said old Katey Mulcahyas she and Biddy Murphy performed the last offices when the inquestwas over. "'Twas the quare things as come out about her this day. Ah!Glory be—it's not meself 'ud care to be in her shoes. 'Tis the brandav suspicion that's laid on her by ivery word she said, an' the clevertongue av Mister Standish didn't want for manin'. Wasn't that so,Biddy, machree?"
"Thrue for ye it was, Katey woman. Shure 'tis a strange time we'rehavin' here, an' scarce a taste av anything comin' the way av usayther. Jist 'do yer work and be off wid ye.' Many's the times we'vewatched an' worked togither, Kateyagra, an' steadied the pinnies onthe eyes av the blessed corpse (the heavens be their bed this blessednight), and in all thim times narra a one that husband or widdy ororphan wudn't be sayin', 'Biddy, dacint woman, it's yerself that'sneedin' the little dhrop to kape up yer stringth an' yer sperrits thisblessed day.' An' that's the thrue wurrd I'm spakin', as yerself canbear me witness, Katey Mulcahy."
"Dade, thin, I can. It's not Miss Nora's fault, the darlin'. It's jistworn out wid grief an' sorrow the poor orphan is, as inyone couldsee wid half an eye in their heads. An' the English young lady—toogrand to be troublin' about the likes av us. But it's that stuck-uphousekapin' hussy that's to blame in the matter. A mighty tight handover the kays she has, Biddy. An' it's niver a dhrop or sup she puts toher own lips save in the matter av tay or water, so Sally told me."
"An' Sally's the truthful girl, as I've good cause to know, for isn'tshe my brother-in-law's only child, an' a rare handy little craythur,an', oh, the wonderful cook! 'Twas jist cryin' her two eyes blind shewas in the kitchin. She'll niver git sich a place agin, she says—Godforgive meself, I was near quarrellin' wid her mother once for lettin'her go to sarvice whin I'd the chance av gettin' her into as tidy abit av bizness as ye'd want, at the dhraper's in Tallow-street. But'twas sarvice she was bent on, an' shure Sally thought herself a quaneintirely wid twelve pounds a year and Miss Nora givin' her the dressesan' the aprons. Mother av Heaven! 'tis a sad day for us, as I wassayin'."
A sad day indeed. The forerunner of many days, sadder and moretroubled, yet to follow.
The examination at the inquest had led to the expected and onlypossible verdict—"Wilful murder against some person or personsunknown."
Old Donovan had been like a raving lunatic over the matter; though thereceipt given him by the deceased man was sufficient to prove he hadpaid in the money received for his farm.
The "Foxy Gang" seemed to have disappeared entirely. No trace could befound of them. Dr. Dan offered £50 and Sir Anthony £100 for informationor discovery of the criminal.
A new manager had been hastily appointed, and the premises were beingcarefully examined in view of extra security. The door leading intothe lane was to be bricked up, the window re-barred. But all theseprecautions could not restore the dead man to life, or throw any lighton the dark mystery of his tragic end.
Dr. Dan bore Nora off to his own house, and Lyle went back to thehotel. The gloom and horror of the tragedy rested over the little townlike a heavy pall. Perhaps somewhere among them the murderer stalkedunknown. Perhaps at shop, or stall, or bar, some of that fatal "bloodmoney" was being passed or exchanged. Dark suspicions were at work, andas the gloomy winter nights drew in, the talk at every fireside and inevery cabin for miles around was only the bank manager's murder.
Meanwhile, Nora Callaghan, crushed and heart-broken, remained under Dr.Dan's kindly care. Her father had left no will, but as she was theonly near relative he possessed she would have what little money therewas, and all his household belongings. Lyle Orcheton insisted that herfriend must henceforth share her home, and the girl consented for atime to do so. She was quite unable, in the first shock of grief, tothink or act for herself in any matter.
It was while rumour was at its height and popular prejudice runningamuck against common sense, as is not infrequently the case, that theyoung English lady suddenly astounded the town and gave the gossipsfresh food for talk. She announced that she had engaged Jane Grapnellto be her housekeeper at the Hermitage.
The news created quite a stir. Never had tongues so wagged andwhispered. Never had gossips so toothsome a morsel of scandal to chewand digest. Mrs. McGee held perfect levées on the strength of it, andSally, the Bank servant, was suddenly the most desirable and feted ofall domestics. Everything she knew and could tell of Jane Grapnellwas sought, treasured, and repeated. Every trait of that unfortunatewoman's character was received with significant glances and ominousshakes of the head, and muttered "The likes av that;" "Ah! Gloryme, 'tis she has the black dhrop in her heart;" and various otherexpressions familiar to this frankly critical nation.
"Can any good come out of—England?" was the popular query. Everyonehad known that letting the Hermitage to English folk would mean badluck, and if poor Mr. Callaghan, the good honest gentleman, had onlykept to Irish servants and made Miss Nora keep Irish ways, why never ataste of this bad work would have happened.
So ran the tide of popular opinion, all unguessed by those so discussedand criticised. Jane Grapnell herself was the least suspicious. A womancarrying a dark secret in her heart, burdened with a trouble that shemust fight against single-handed, was not a woman to concern herselfwith village gossip, or idle stories, or vague hints dropped by thecurious.
She thanked Heaven on her knees when Lyle Orcheton offered her theplace of housekeeper at the Hermitage. She had strong reasons forwishing to remain in this part of Ireland, and it might have beendifficult to procure a situation in a good family. The matter wassimplified by Lyle's offer, and she was duly grateful. Besides, shewould not be separated from her beloved Miss Nora yet awhile.
So while tongues wagged and heads nodded, she took no notice of thesemysterious signs of public opinion. She had far more important dutiesto occupy her time, far deeper concerns to fill her mind than what Mrs.McGee said, or Bridget Mooney thought, or Sally the cook babbled overthe teacups.
Trivialities that are all-important to small minds, possess no concernat all for those pre-occupied by grave and critical interests. If JaneGrapnell's head was still held high, if her eyes were averted fromprying glance and meaning nods, it was only because she really notednothing of their significance. Her days were given up to the care ofher young mistress. At night she slept in her room, for Nora's nerveswere in such a weak and over-strained condition that it was impossibleto leave her alone.
The cook and housemaid at Dr. Dan's were both Irish, and had all thesuperstitions and prejudices of their race and class. They likedJane no better than their neighbours of the town liked her, and whenshe came into the kitchen made no secret that her company was lessdesirable than her room.
One evening about three weeks after the murder Jane went downstairsto get some milk for Nora. She had to pass through the kitchen on herway to the pantry. It was vacant. One of the servants was having her"evening," the other had been sent out with some medicine from thesurgery that was wanted in a hurry.
Jane glanced round. It was the first time she had found it tenantless.She brought the milk in a jug and put it on the table while she lookedfor a glass.
As she stood, holding open the cupboard door, a short quick rap came atthe window. She looked in its direction, but the blind was down, andshe could see nothing. Wondering if it meant summons or signal, sheapproached and raised the blind. A small impish face looked in at her.She unlatched the window and opened it.
"Who's there?" she demanded.
"Shure thin, don't ye know me?" piped a thin voice. "Mickey Doolan itis; an' it's thrying to git spache av ye these last ten days I've been.I've something to tell ye. Whin can ye come out?"
"Can't you tell me now?"
"Shure thin, it wud take too long initirely. Can ye come to the littlewood beyant the town? I'll be there on the sthroke av midnight. Can yecome?"
"Is it really—important?"
"Important! By the saints it's life and death and damnation its manin';an' no name I'll be spakin' butone ye know. Him as ye tould meto watch!"
"I'll be there." Her voice shook with eagerness. "Twelve o'clock, isit?"
"That same. Don't let inyone know yer out, or ivery soul in the placewill git wind av it by to-morrow's noon."
"Trust me. Now go."
She closed the window and went back to the kitchen.
"If it should be!" she cried fiercely, her eyes aflame, her cheeks oneburning glow of excitement. "Oh! If only one end of the thread comes myway, the rope shall yet be spun that I have sworn to knot round thatvillain's throat!"
ONLY when she returned to Nora's bedroom did Jane Grapnell remember thedifficulties that lay in the way of keeping her promise. If the girlwas wakeful or restless she would not be able to get away unobserved.
True, there was the sleeping draught Dr. Dan had prescribed for thesefits of insomnia. She might give her that—she must. At whatever cost,she must learn what Mickey had to tell her.
She glanced anxiously at Nora. Wide-awake, feverish, tossing from sideto side. No signs of slumber. She resolved to administer the draughtat ten o'clock. It generally gave six hours of deep sleep. Dr. Danwas averse to her taking it often, for fear the habit would becomehabitual. But Jane felt that the situation was too important forscruples.
She was well aware now of the ways of the household. She knew she couldget out through the back entrance quite easily, and by taking the keylet herself in again.
At ten o'clock, she gave the medicine, measuring it carefully into thegirl's glass of milk. It was perfectly tasteless, and Nora suspectednothing. In less than an hour she was sound asleep, her breathing calmand even as a child's.
Then Jane changed her skirt for an old black cloth one, put her bootsready to carry in her hand, slipped a box of matches in her pocket, andsat down to wait with what patience she could till all the house wasquiet. The servants went up to their room shortly after ten o'clock.Dr. Dan, when he was at home, as happened to-night, usually retiredabout eleven. She heard him bolt the front door, and then come up tohis own room on the other side of the landing.
In half an hour she must leave. The wood Mickey spoke of lay just onthe outskirts of the town. It was waste ground—an ill-drained, dark,uncanny spot, shut in by trees, thick with weeds and brambles. Shecould reach it with quick walking in 20 minutes, but her impatience wasso great that she resolved to start at the half-hour. She drew a screenround the little low chair bedstead on which she slept, and put theshaded night-light on the mantelpiece. If Nora should wake she wouldnot know that Jane was not in her usual place. The lemonade and barleywater were on a little table by the girl's bed. As a rule she nevercalled Jane up at night, but attended to herself. Surely this night ofall others she would not want her services.
Wrapping herself in a shawl, which she drew Irish fashion over herhead, Jane softly opened the door. All was quiet. She listened fora moment before venturing downstairs, not a sound anywhere. Softlyshe stole across the landing. Her stockinged feet made no noise onthe carpet. The stairs did not creak as she cautiously descended. Onreaching the hall she struck a match, for fear of stumbling in thepitchy darkness, then passed swiftly along to the door that led to thekitchen. A moment and she was at the outer door. The key was in thelock as usual; she turned it easily and withdrew it, slid back thebolt, and was in the little yard that gave egress to the street.
The night was very dark. There was a threatening of rain in the chillmisty air and the lowering clouds. The street was quite deserted. Asshe listened she caught the echo of a policeman's tread far up, but shecould see no one. With beating heart she hurried on, taking the leastfrequented thoroughfares.
The distance seemed endless to her impatience, but at last she reachedthe wood and halted at its entrance.
It was a lonely spot. For the first time a touch of fear chilled her.
To be alone, unprotected, in such a place, at such an hour, heldsomething of risk. Where had the boy meant her to meet him? Surely notin the heart of the wood, under those dark and serried ranks of firs?She started. A low whistle sounded just above her head. In a seconda lithe form swung itself down monkey fashion from bough to ground.Mickey Doolan was by her side.
"Whisht! We'll kape here, under the trees," he whispered. "Shure it'safraid of the very shadows I'm gettin'. Oh, the terrible bad man he is!An' what to do wid him bates me."
"You've discovered something?"
"Missis Grapnell, it's the thrue wurrd I'm tellin' ye this blessednight. Shure as I'm a living sowl he's had something to do wid themurder av Mister Callaghan at the Bank."
She stood still, as if turned to stone. "What are you saying? Whatproof——"
"Proof, is it? Well, whin the time comes I'm not wantin' for that same.Listen to me. There's a tree mighty convaynient tohis bedroomwindy. (We won't be naming names.) And now an' agin I've made bould toclimb up that same ould laurel, an' take a peep into the room, jist tosee what my gintleman was up to, whin he niver dreamt a livin' sowlhad an eye on him. Most times I only seed he was heavy wid the dhrink,an' staggerin' about the room for all the wurrld like a stuck pig.But the morning av the day whin he went off all av a hurry wid hismen I happened to be jist lookin' round, an' the old woman was safein the kitchin, an' the stableman, shure he was off to get the news,an' I slipped into the house an' up to the bedroom, knowin' it wud bemore than iver ould Moll Murtagh cud do to catch me. I looked herean' I looked there. Shure, 'twas all in the height av confusion, an'something drew me straight to the chest av drawers, an' I opens thim,an' what do I see? As I'm alive an' spakin' this blessed minute, it wasnothing less than the fine white shirt he'd been afther wearin' thatsame night when the poor ould gintleman was sthruck down, an'—whisht!give me yer ear close; it's murderin' me he'd be av he knew whatI'm sayin'—the cuff was all red with blood! There's for ye.Trimblin' are ye? Well, it's meself was shakin' like the laves aboveus whin I made the discovery. Sez I, 'Mickey,' I sez, 'there's bin badwork here, an' ye've chanced to light on it; an' av ye're wise it's thesilent tongue an' the cute brain that'll sarve ye now.' An' I thoughtav you, ma'am; an' that it might be worth the matter av a sovereign ortwo av I tould ye about it, for two heads is better than a single oneany day."
"Yes. Yes. I'll give you a sovereign to-night. But go on. What did youdo with the shirt?"
"I tuk it—though I was mighty feared all the time. I tuk it—an' I hidit in a safe place that I know av. I got out at the windy, an' divil asowl knows I was near the place, an' himself has niver axed for me. Notthat that's to be wondered at, for shure he's been in a mighty potherover the Bank murder. Now, an' ye've anither bit av gowld to spare,it's meself can put ye on the thrack av anither av his saycrets. It'sa quare thing, an' it bates me intirely how I got hold av it. There'sa bhoy I'm friendly with—a rareomadhaun an' servin' as giniralhelp to ould Benjy Myers, the miser—him as they sez is a Jew an' lindsmoney at cint per cint—whativer that manes. Shure he's as mane as thedivil, an' the gossoon he tould me he airs his sov'rins in the sun forfear they'd be gettin' light wid lyin' by in his chest."
"Yes, yes," she interrupted, "but what of the other secret? I'll giveyou another gold piece if it's worth anything, I promise you."
"It's this, thin. Misther Standish owed ould Myers a power av money.Now it's the talk, isn't it, that there was money tuk from the Bankthat night the ould gintleman was kilt. An' who'd be likely to takeit but thim as needed it, an'must have it? Ye can't go beyan'tthat."
She stopped aghast at the sudden light thrown on an act of desperation.Here, indeed, was motive. But where was proof? A weak woman, ahalf-witted boy, and at stake the life of a man conscienceless andreckless, with unlimited power and influence at his back. How couldthey hope to bring this crime home to him?
"If it could be proved that he had the money?" she said hoarsely.
Mickey scratched his head and looked doubtful. "Ah, shure an' he's toocute for that. Anyways, I've done me best for ye, ma'am. An' be thepowers 'tis careful ye'll have to be, an' saycret, too, for av MistherStandish got a hint av what I'm afther tellin' ye to-night, 'tisn't mylife, nor maybe yours either, wud be safe from the pains av eternitymuch longer."
"You say you've buried the shirt?"
"In a wooden box in the ground. It's meself alone as knows the place."
"You must tell me, Mickey. We must both work together. I'll pay youwell for all that you find out. Besides, there's the reward. You shallhave that, too—every penny."
"Saints in glory! What are ye sayin' ma'am, at all? The reward?Why, 'tis the richest man in all Rathfurley I'd be. All that money!Wurrah deelish! It's surely dramin' I am."
"Hush!" she said cautiously, for in excitement he had raised his voice."For Heaven's sake be careful. Keep guard on your tongue night and day."
"Sowl av Saint Peter, 'tis lock an' kay will be on me lips from thisblessed night—an' to-day's Friday. God betwixt us an' harm."
"You may well pray that," she said gravely. "We've a dangerous man todeal with, and God alone can prove the right and punish the wrong. It'snot his first crime, Mickey. Maybe it won't be his last. Now I must goback. How can you let me know if you find out anything more?"
"I'll watch the ways av it. Trust Mickey Doolan, ma'am. It mustn't beknown as we're matin' each other."
"No, no. Next week I'm leaving the doctor's to go to the Hermitage withMiss Nora."
"Shure, there'll be convayniences there more than enough.Ah!—musha—the blayguard! Little he's dreamin' that the pooromadhaun he's kicked an' cursed this many a day is on the thrack avhis evil deeds. Shure, I wudn't have the sins av thim on me sowl forthe wealth av the three kingdoms!"
He crossed himself hurriedly, and then disappeared as suddenly as hehad come.
The night had grown darker. A fine soft rain was falling. Jane drew theshawl closer and hurried out to the wood, and back to the town.
She was trembling with agitation. The awful discovery on which she hadstumbled usurped her mind to the exclusion of all else. Mechanicallyshe took her way up the long, straggling street, tripping over roughstones or stumbling into pools and mud. The rain fell faster, theclouds darkened overhead. Before she reached the doctor's house she waswet through.
With shaking fingers she unlatched the gate, and groped her way to theback door.
It was not easy to find the keyhole in that inky darkness, and her coldhands slipped over the surface of the wood. At last she got the keyinto place, turned it, and stood within. As she re-locked it a lightsuddenly flashed in the passage.
"Who's there?" challenged a stern voice.
She turned hastily; the shawl slipped from her white face. Standing atthe end of the passage was Dr. Dan!
Amazement and consternation were visible on the doctor's usually genialface.
"Jane! Good heavens, woman, where have you been at this time ofnight?—and look at the state you're in!"
The water was dripping from the soaked shawl and from her shabby skirt;her boots were heavy with mud and clay. She stood motionless, wonderinghow she could explain her absence, seeing suspicion and displeasuregrowing stronger every moment in the eyes fastened on her face.
"I can't explain," she said at last. "Whatever you think, sir, I can'thelp it. I had to go out to meet a friend. It was better no one shouldknow. I took the key to let myself in. That's all I can tell you."
"This is very extraordinary behaviour," he said sternly. "If you were ayoung, indiscreet girl, I should know what interpretation to place onit. But a woman of your years and——"
"And appearance, sir," she interpolated; "Don't spare me. I have nowoman's vanity to be hurt by plain speaking."
"And appearance, then, must surely be actuated by some very strongmotive to lay herself under suspicion. If you cannot justify yourconduct to me, I shall feel in duty bound to lay the facts before MissOrcheton. I do not consider you a safe person to be in her service. Whyhave you left your young mistress alone, after all my instructions tothe contrary? That you are bound to explain."
A piteous look came into the dark troubled eyes. She clasped her handsconvulsively. "Oh, sir, you wouldn't do that! For pity's sake, don'tmisjudge me. There's no one I love like Miss Nora. It would break myheart if she thought badly of me. Can't you trust me? You'll know thereason some day. So will she. But now my lips are sealed. I can'tspeak. It's my life against my silence."
Such truth, such conviction, spoke out in her agonised face andpleading voice, that against his better judgment Dr. Dan felt the womanwas at least sincere.
"This is all very queer and very mysterious," he said. "What reasonhave I to believe you are not doing something dishonest—dishonourable?"
Her pale face silenced him.
"You have no reason," she said very quietly. "Only my bare word. Theword of a suffering and much tried woman. Miss Nora would believe me,perhaps even Miss Orcheton; but I must leave you to deal with them.Only,"—and her voice grew firm and there was that in her face thatgave its own testimony to truth—"only if you turn me from here, ifyou shut the door of kindness and helpfulness so newly opened, therewill be others to suffer, innocent lives sacrificed. My God!" and thefirmness broke into agony, "what is there in human nature that onesoul won't and can't take another on trust? That it's always ready tobelieve the worst, if the best stands unproved, for judgment!"
"Faith, Jane, you're right. What is there? I've got two sides of youbefore me to-night. One lends to suspicion, the other to trust. If I'manything of a judge of character, and heaven knows I've seen plenty ofall grades, sorts, and conditions, well—I'm inclined to put the trustbefore the suspicion. I'm sure you love Miss Nora too well to lightlyrisk dismissal from her service. I'll take your word you were out onno harm, but, mind, no more of this sort of thing. I hate mysteriesand secrets. No good ever came of them, nor ever will. Get off withyourself and change those wet clothes, or you'll be ill. It's lucky Icame across you, and not one of the servants, or you'd not have got offso easily."
Tears rushed to the woman's eyes, her lips quivered. "God reward you,sir," she said. "You've saved what's more than life to-night; andyou'll not find me ungrateful."
She moved on to the kitchen to get a candle. Dr. Dan went back to hisown room more puzzled than he liked to acknowledge.
* * * * * *
All the joyous anticipation's with which Lyle Orcheton had lookedforward to that "settling down" into the Hermitage had been chilled andovercast by the awful calamity that had befallen her friend.
The happiness and light-heartedness that had been hers so brief a whilebefore, had changed into sorrow. It was a grave and very subdued facethat superintended the arrangements of the new home, that directed andwatched the gradual change from confusion to order.
In Nora's room many tears were shed at thought of all that had chancedsince that pretty chamber had been planned and furnished for hervisits. It was ready now, draped, curtained, furnished—as lovely anddainty as perfect taste and loving hands could make it; ready—andon the morrow Dr. Dan had arranged to drive Nora over. It would beChristmas Eve; and Lyle had implored that they might be together. Itwould be sad and melancholy, a time of memories and reminiscences, butamidst new surroundings, and ministered to with all the devotion ofloving hearts, she hoped the poor girl would suffer less.
The mystery of her father's death preyed on her mind incessantly. Sheseemed unable to shake it off; and however a conversation began, italways drifted back to that one point. Indeed the awful tragedy hadcast a gloom over the whole town and neighbourhood. Mrs. O'Neil hadpostponed her New Year's Eve party. She could not "fancy a dance,"she said, "without her two favourites being present." She had been toand fro to the Hermitage to help Lyle during these last few days of"fitting up," so purely the prerogative of feminine hands. Workmen hadbeen dismissed. All was finished save a few trifling details that wereleft till over the New Year.
Mrs. O'Neil and Lyle Orcheton stood before a blazing fire,contemplating the room on which such loving thought had been lavished.
"It is entirely charming," said the genial Belle. "If anything couldminister to a mind diseased, and pluck out a sorrow by the roots, itshould be surroundings like these. All said and done, Lyle, my dear,you English can give us points in the way of arranging rooms, whetherthey're purely feminine, like this, or useful and ornamental, like thehall, or 'livable,' like your dining-room. But this is simply perfect."
"Poor Nora!" sighed Lyle. "If only we could rouse her or interest herin anything. It's dreadful the way she broods over her father's death.It seems as if she'd never get over it."
"You must give her time."
"That's so hard to believe. A year is long to look forward to, thoughshort to look back upon. But I'm keeping you standing. Shall I ring forsome tea and we'll have it here?"
"Do, my dear; it will be delightfully cosy. I told the carriage to comeround for me at six o'clock. We have the best part of an hour before usfor a gossip. I forgot, though, you're not much inclined that way."
Lyle smiled. "But I like to hear you talk," she said.
"We're great people for that, my dear. Well, everyone has their littlepeculiarities. By the way, I hear you are bringing Nora's housekeeperhere. Is that so?"
"Yes," said Lyle. "I am rather fond of Jane; I pity her too. She is awoman who has lived through some great sorrow. I wish sometimes I couldbreak down that iron reserve of hers; but it seems impossible."
"I have a fancy that I have seen her before," said Mrs. O'Neilthoughtfully; "but she always seems to avoid me. She reminds meof——Lyle, did you ever hear of that little maid of mine whodisappeared so suddenly?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"That woman brings her back to my memory. I was very fond of the girl.I brought her over from England. I treated her more as a companion thana maid. And, quite suddenly, she ran away."
"Ran away! With any one, do you mean?"
"No; that's the strange part of it. Had there been a lover in thecase, I should not have been so surprised; but she was a quiet, wellconducted girl—never a breath of scandal about her. I felt deeply hurtat the time; it seemed so ungrateful."
"And you say Jane reminds you of her?"
"Of the time I engaged her—of Hester's mother. I only saw her once.Has Jane a sister, do you know?"
"She has never spoken of any relative, either to Nora or myself. Shewas housekeeper at the school where we were, and Nora told me sheoffered to accompany her to Ireland; in fact, seemed anxious to come."
"Yet she knows no one in the country—has made no friends. I shouldlike to talk to her, Lyle, if I might."
"Certainly. When? To-day she is not busy, I know. Shall I ring and askher to come up here?"
"I wish you would, my dear; an unexplained mystery is so uncomfortable."
Lyle smiled. "I am beginning to understand Irish people," she said."I'll ring for tea, and send a messenger to Jane at the same time."
The room was dusk, save for the firelight, when Jane Grapnell enteredit. Her eyes fell on Mrs. O'Neil lying back in the deep, cozy chair,and her colorless face changed to a sickly gray hue. She stood by thedoor, her hand on the handle.
"You sent for me, miss," she said.
"Yes, Jane; Mrs. O'Neil wishes to speak to you."
"I have been telling Miss Orcheton that you reminded me of some one Ihad seen long ago—in England," said Mrs. O'Neil. "Of course, it mayhave been a relative. Have you a sister there?"
"No, madam," was the brief response.
"Do you know any one of the name of Sands?"
"No one."
"Ah, then I must have made a mistake. I once had a maid of that name, agreat favorite of mine. Her mother——But never mind. It can't possiblyinterest you, as you have no sister, you say."
"This—this maid, madam, she has left your service?"
The words fell stiffly from the stiff lips. The woman seemed to speakonly by a strong effort.
"Oh, yes, long ago. It was a great disappointment to me. I have neverfound any one to suit me so well."
There was a moment's silence, Lyle poured out a cup of tea, and handedit to her visitor.
"Shall Jane light the lamp?" she asked.
"Not unless you wish. I like this dusk."
The housekeeper had advanced into the room. She paused half-way betweenthe door and the table on which stood the lamp. The red glow of thefire touched her white face, and showed her eyes strained and anxious.She looked if she longed to speak of something in her mind.
"You need not wait, then, Jane," said her young mistress.
But the woman did not seem to hear. She went forward, fidgeted with theshade of the lamp, the matches, altered a chair, and then, crossing tothe window, rearranged a fold or two of the lace curtains.
Lyle watched her with some surprise. There was a change in her manner,something altogether unusual in her loitering movements, her seeminginattention.
"Did you not hear me, Jane?" she asked.
The woman started, and left the window.
"I—I beg your pardon, miss. I thought perhaps——I mean, would Mrs.O'Neil like to ask anything more?"
"There is nothing more to ask," said Mrs. O'Neil. "I suppose I madea mistake in thinking you were related to Hester, or could tell meanything about her."
"No," said Jane, in a cold, steady voice, "I can tell you nothing."
"I am sorry," said Mrs. O'Neil, turning her head towards the fire. "Onedoes not like to lose sight of an old favorite, even if she appearsungrateful."
"Ungrateful!" The voice was hoarse and broken, Jane turned abruptly,"She was neverthat," she burst out impetuously. "There are thingsthat can't be explained, that look worse than they are. It is not fairto judge——"
Then she remembered herself; her profession of ignorance, her denialof Hester. Perplexity and distress showed in her face. Without anotherword she left the room.
Lyle and Mrs. O'Neil looked in wonder at each other.
"How strange she was!" they exclaimed simultaneously. "I never knew herspeak or look like that before," added Lyle.
"Have you ever thought there was some—some mystery about her?" askedher friend uneasily.
"No. She is very reserved and quiet as a rule. I never saw her displayaffection for any living soul but Nora. But as to mystery——"
"She is a woman with a secret," said Mrs. O'Neil. "It may be her own,it may be another person's. And somehow, Lyle, I felt she was nottelling me the truth. I believe she knew, or knows, something of HesterSands."
A troubled look came into Lyle's eyes. "Then why should she deny——"
"Oh, my dear, don't ask me. Women of her class do strange thingssometimes. There may be a family history—not exactly creditable toothers, I mean. I am not including Jane; any one can see she has knowntrouble, poor soul! And perhaps she is too proud to speak of it. Well,no matter. Here I have been chattering away, and quite forgetting oneimportant piece of news. Fancy! Derrick is coming back for Christmas. Ihad a letter from him this morning."
Lyle bent a flushed cheek over her teacup. "You must be very pleased.So you won't be alone, after all!" she said. A sudden constraint hadcome over voice and manner.
Mrs. O'Neil did not appear to notice it, however. She was fumbling inher pocket for a letter, which she at last produced. "There's a messagefor you in it," she said. "I wonder if I can read it?"
Lyle stirred the fire, and the bright flames illumined the room ruddily.
"Oh! I didn't mean to be that, my dear. I've no great fancy for my owncompany, especially at such times. Derrick doesn't say what took himto London, only—but I've got his letter somewhere. I think there's amessage for you in it."
She fumbled in her pocket, and finally produced the missive. At thatmoment a servant entered with a lamp, and Lyle ordered tea to be sentup. Then she drew a low-cushioned chair up to the fire, using a handscreen to shade her face from the glowing flames.
"Perhaps you won't care to be bothered hearing it," said Mrs. O'Neil.
"Oh, yes," she answered, calmly. "If you care to read it."
"Well, here it is. I'm-um-um—Nothing particular there. 'Londonhateful, fog and cold and snow—My business is finally completed. I'mheartily thankful. I'll have to go out to India sooner than I expected,but I'll have a time in the old country first. I trust poor MissCallaghan is getting over that terrible shock. How is her friend, MissLy——' (crossed out, my dear). 'Miss Orcheton? If you see her, praygive my warmest sympathy and regards. I can understand how she willsuffer with and for her friend. Her nature is so staunch and tender andtrue.'—There, my dear; I think that's all."
The firelight seemed to cast a particularly warm glow over Lyle'sdelicate, clear cheeks, but all she said was: "Thank you. I'm sureyou'll be very glad to have him back."
"Yes; but I can't understand about his returning to India so soon.However, I'll learn the rights of that from his own lips. I'm very fondof the boy, you know, Lyle. I've never had a child of my own, and he'sbeen as good as a son to me."
Lyle turned her attention to the little tea-table, which theparlour-maid placed next her, and busied herself over the cups andsaucers.
Mrs. O'Neil, however, never needed much encouragement to talk, andbabbled on cheerfully without pausing for response. "I used to thinkonce that Providence had treated me badly, giving me neither son nordaughter to inherit all my money. But that was before I found out thatmarriage means a mighty lot more than girls imagine."
Lyle looked at her. The flush had died out of her face, her lips partedas if about to speak, then suddenly closed. Mrs. O'Neil drank off hertea and put the cup back on the silver tray.
"I'm glad—now," she went on in a lower tone, "that no child evercalled me mother; and when a woman says that, Lyle, don't you believebut that the smiles have tears at the back of them. Don't suppose thelaugh doesn't cover a heartache."
"You weren't happy?" asked the girl, softly.
"I married the wrong man. And it was all done in a fit of pique andmad jealousy—a bit of a quarrel, high words, no patience, no waiting,no reason. That's the way with us when we're young. Before we knowanything of men we set ourselves to judge them. We are too exacting. Wehaven't learnt they need excuse as much—and more too—as ourselves.I'm telling you this, my dear, because I think you are rather inclinedto be high-handed in the matter of lovers. You want them to come up toa standard of your own. Ah! child, believe me, they never will. If theyseem to, it's only pretence, and pretence is a bad beginning, and aworse ending, for love."
"Why did you marry at all?" inquired Lyle. "Because one man failed you,it was a poor revenge to take another less capable of satisfying yourheart."
"I was a hot-headed fool. Lovers I had by the score, and, sure the bestmatch in the county was Terence O'Neil, the man I married, and theworst was the man I loved. So our quarrel ended badly, and he went intothe Army, and was ordered to some awful foreign place—West Africa, Ithink it was—and from that day to this I've never had word or signfrom him."
"But you've not forgotten?"
"Ah! my dear girl, it's not easy to forget the man who's made youunhappy. Every tear you shed is a tribute to his power; every regretyou breathe is the landmark in the journey that takes you further andfurther away from him."
Her bright eyes turned to the fire. Lyle watched her with deepinterest. To have lived to forty and yet remember one's girlhood andits vain love—how strange! And how dull and hopeless it made life lookto her young eyes, if pain and disillusion were for ever its shadow!
She spoke impatiently, a little tinge of bitterness in her voice.
"Why do we—love? Why must we?"
Belle O'Neil's suspiciously bright eyes were still fixed on the fire.
"It is unreasonable," she said, softly, "I suppose we can't help it.I've often asked myself what do we love men for, and upon my soul,child, I think it must be because a man is the one creature who makesus suffer most, and cares least for the suffering."
"Perhaps he can't understand it."
"You mean he doesn't realize that hehas hurt?"
"I mean that women let imagination and emotion play a large part intheir sufferings," said Lyle. "But a man feels only what hurts himself."
"Well, we're foolish creatures—upon my word I must say it. But also,Lyle, I don't think a man is worth half the tears and heart-aches hecosts. If we could only see him as he is——"
She paused—then laughed softly. "But when we can dothat," shecontinued, "we know him too well to care for him as he would like us tocare. I speak from experience. My first wrinkle taught me philosophy.Believe me, child, if it's ever a question of giving way to yourfeelings, or saving your features the wear and tear of emotions, choosethe latter course. Tears and sighs may be a relief, but they don't doan atom of good. They try your nerves and spoil your eyes, and then theman says, 'How you've gone off!'"
Lyle smiled faintly. "That's all very true, but to arrive at that stageof philosophy requires some experience—and some suffering."
"True, my dear, it does; and you may never have to go through it. Butit's few who escape. Yes, child, I'll have some more tea. Tea andtalk—faith, they help a woman to bear a lot of trouble, though it'srather bathos to say it."
A strange restlessness possessed Lyle on that Christmas Eve. Nora wasnot to come till the evening, when Dr. Dan would drive her over, andstay to dinner.
After luncheon she made up her mind to have a walk through the grounds.It was a mild sunny afternoon, such as often visits midwinter inIreland; a pleasant interlude between the rain and snow which havepreceded, and may succeed it.
Lyle felt the influence of the sunshine in a corresponding brightnessof spirits. The gloom of these last miserable weeks was temporarilybanished. Her head no longer drooped, her step had its old alertness.She walked swiftly over the trim walks, and past the beds so lately awilderness of vegetation. She caught a breath of hidden violets fromgrassy nooks, a glint of scarlet or russet life that had defied storm,and clung firmly to bough or stem, or undergrowth. The warm air waslike a dream of spring, the moss green as emerald.
As she penetrated deeper into the wood it seemed to her full ofsurprises. Gleams of sky and river, peeps of swelling hills, the browndimness of ploughed fields, and everywhere trees—dark firs, glossylaurels; the stripped bare bows of towering elms, the silvery bark ofstately beech, beyond all a vista of rosy gloom.
Lyle stood still and gazed up that natural avenue. It was the firsttime she had been there. It seemed to lead indefinitely away beyond theboundaries of the park. The path beneath was mossy and weed-grown—atrack between thick undergrowth that in summer was luxurious withhoneysuckle and profligate beauty of wild flowers, ivy, and hedge briar.
She resolved to follow the path and trace it to its furthest boundary.The rough Irish terrier that her father had given her rushed on aheadwith frantic glee, scenting rabbit in the brushwood, or giving vent toecstasies of fury at a squirrel in safe shelter of arching boughs.
She had walked for nearly an hour before she came to some broken wirefencing, behind which rose a hedge of ill-kept luxuriant shrubs. As yetthere had not been time to do anything to the remoter portion of thegrounds. Ferns and hedgerows were just as they had been in years ofneglect, when no one had lived in the house, or cared for the place.
The girl looked about her and then strolled slowly on. Suddenly shecame to a break in the neglected hedge, where, hanging on brokenhinges, was an old gate. It opened on a patch of waste ground, andbeyond that, lay a little wooded copse. As she leant her arms on therails, and surveyed the somewhat dreary spot, she saw a figure come outof the wood.
Her heart gave a quick throb. She felt the blood fly to her cheek, andthen ebb back with a suddenness that made her faint.
Then there came a quick step; the gate was opened; the sound of a voiceremembered only too faithfully was in her ears.
"Miss Lyle! Iam glad to see you! What kind fate sent you to thislonely place?"
He had used her Christian name instead of her surname, but her heartgave the slip no rebuke. He was holding her hand in both his own, asif to emphasise that gladness which had thrilled his greeting. She waslooking back to the eyes that she had told herself would never lookinto hers again with that untranslatable expression to which she haddared give no name. Yet the expression was there still, intensified bysomething deeper, more compelling, something that set her heart beatinganew, and made the colour rise afresh.
She could think of nothing to say. The sunlight wavered over thewoods, the terrier barked interrogation, the coo of a wood pigeon fellon the silence, and yet—she could only stand there trembling like aleaf, with her hand closed in that warm clasp, her soul drinking in arapturous draught of gladness from that deep gaze that held her like aspell.
"Oh! Lyle," said at last a voice, broken and husky with strong feeling,"how I have missed you; how I have wanted you! I wonder if in all thistime you have given a thought to me."
Where had her anger vanished? Where had those doubts at his unexplaineddeparture, that hurt pride, that professed indifference all gone? Theymelted as snow melts before the warmth of summer suns. The wood-dove'scoo was echoed by another. "We two," it seemed to say, and the echo ofdevotion gave back again, "We two."
"Won't you speak?" pleaded Derrick's voice. "Are you angry with me?"
He was very close to her, and he half released the little hand that wasnow one tremor of agitation. Then she found voice.
"Angry? no—of course not."
"Are you a little bit glad that I have come back?"
Instinctive coquetry, the defensive weapon with which feminine thingslove to protect their self-betraying weakness, would have framed a "No"on the trembling lips; but something truer, deeper, more compellingforced "Yes"—so faintly that it was little wonder if a lover's triumphleaped to those devouring eyes.
"Oh! Lyle, do you mean it?—for I love you. My God! how I love you! Allthese endless weeks I have counted the hours till I could get back;till I could say—— Sweetheart,you know what I would say."
She shook like a leaf in autumn's storms, but his arms drew her to thewarm shelter of his breast.
"I know," she sobbed. "Oh! is it true, is it true?"
"As true as the heavens above; as that you are here, where I scarcelydared dream you ever would be, Lyle."
She looked up. No rose so crimson as her flushing cheeks, no star soradiant as her sweet, shy eyes.
His lips silenced the answer that her parted lips were so glad tospeak. A passionate exultation thrilled him at the touch of these puregirlish ones.
"Oh! I am too happy," he cried suddenly. "It doesn't seem possible thatyou should care; should love me. Is it so? Say you do!"
"God knows I do."
"My sweet!" He caught her to his breast once more.
For the first time in his troubled, stormy life Derrick Mallory knewthat he had touched the acme of pure happiness; that neither life nordeath could part him from the memory of this one most perfect moment.
Arm in arm they paced that moss-grown path beneath the trees, heedlessof time, of everything save just the rapture of this newborn joy, thebliss of being together. There was so much to say, to confess, tomarvel at. Less for him perhaps than for her; seeing that love to agirl's awakening nature has in it an element of spirituality, untouchedby man's grosser sensibilities.
They found meaning and reason for that strange attraction whichhad drawn them to one another from the first hour of meeting; theyconfessed mutual doubt and anxiety. Then the voices took a deeper note,and something of solemnity breathed through the passion of each heart,passion that they vowed should survive all earthly changes, should linkthem still in memory whatever ill or disaster befel, should bridge eventhe chasm of eternity, and claim soul for soul in that dim future whichstretches before all mortal life and mortal love.
No chill of warning, no touch of ill came to them. Hope achieved royalheights, on which each saw the other throned. Their love revelled invague demands and assurances, in prophecies of happiness that knew noboundary. The wonder of it was like a halo about their heads. Lylesaw no mere ordinary mortal in her lover. He had been the first tolook into that enchanted garden where fancy had roamed and imaginationrevelled. He stood to her as the reality of those vague and beautifuldreams, the dearer, the more heroic, the more wonderful because of somefaint shadow of past trouble, at whose banishment he hinted, and of theexact nature of which she did not question yet.
And he, looking down at the lovely face, lovelier still in the softradiance of this new-found joy, felt as men feel but once; that he wasre-baptised in the fresh pure current of a pure love, on whose radiantwaters his soul floated Edenwards.
He was awed by a happiness so intense. The more so because it hadseemed almost unattainable so brief a time before.
The distant woods were reddening to sunset, the air had taken the faintchill of departing day, the terrier had uttered many remonstrances atthis monotonous promenade, with its interludes of prolonged halts, whenLyle suddenly remembered home duties and expected guests.
"It must be late," she said. "And Nora is coming—did I tell you? No.Oh! I am expecting her to-night. Ah! how selfish I am! In my joy Iforgot all her heavy trouble."
"Take your joy, dearest, while you can. I am sure she would notbegrudge it."
"I know that. But, Derrick, I must go home now. And that reminds me.How did you chance upon this spot? Where does that wood lead to?"
"To Aunt Belle's plantation. Didn't you know? The house is about ahalf-mile further on. It was a grand discovery, my darling. Some goodangel surely led my feet there to-day. I only arrived this morning,and felt too restless to stay in the house. I dared not call on you sosoon—and that reminds me, sweetheart. Why is your father so prejudicedagainst me?"
"He thinks you were wild and reckless. That you had to part with yourinheritance to pay your debts."
"The latter part is true enough. But it wasn't my fault. As for beingwild—(how shyly you said it, sweetheart!) I think I have a very fairrecord if my character has to stand at the bar of his judgment. Isuppose he's not prejudiced against my nationality? Powers above, Lyle,I've forgotten something."
The consternation in his tone alarmed her.
"What is it? Oh, Derrick, nothing wrong—nothing you've done?"
A curious dusky flush came into his face. His voice was low and hurried.
"Wrong? No. But, Lyle, have you thought? I'm a Catholic. Sir Anthonyhas rather a prejudice against my faith."
The girl turned very pale. "I know. Oh! Derrick, won't there be troubleabout it? Your priests can't bear marriages with Protestants, andyou are right about my father. He is prejudiced. The first thing heasked when I was so friendly with Nora was about her religion. But theCallaghans are Protestants, you know."
"Yes, dear. And I am not. What will he say?"
Their footsteps slackened. The first shadow of trouble had swept overtheir promised land. They looked into each other's eyes and read a newmeaning in the tenderness—a something pleading, hopeful, yet touchedwith fear.
"There must be a way out of it," said Derrick at last. "Must?—why,thereshall. We can't part—you and I—for sake of any prejudicein the minds of others. It's impossible—now. Why, you've grown intomy life, child; taken root too deep for me to pluck you out whateverchanced. I felt you were mine the first hour my eyes met yours. Do youremember?"
Another interlude, the sweeter for that first shadow on the sunshineof assurance; then they went on in the gathering gloom, silent andhalf-afraid.
"I must see him!" said Derrick at last. "He loves you too well tomake you unhappy. I must persuade him that the obstacle is notinsurmountable. All things give way to firmness and determination. Canyou be firm, Lyle?"
"Try me," she said softly. "I would not disobey my father, Derrick, butI could never be false to you, never marry any other man. When he seesthat I mean it, I am sure he will yield."
"You know him better than I do. Ah! dearest, our bit of untroubledhappiness was very brief, wasn't it?"
She shivered suddenly.
"As long as we love each other, life can never be very sad—to me,"she said, but she felt, even as she said it, that an invisible sorrowhovered in the air. Its brooding wings fell with the brooding night;they rested above her head and shadowed her path.
Before the bright fire in her bedroom Lyle Orcheton stood dressed fordinner.
With the glorious prerogative of youth she was absolutely independentof fine clothes, toilet accessories, paint, powder, curling-tongs.Happiness had dowered her to-night with a new and more subtlebeauty. The pure tints of her skin, the coils of her burnished hair,enhanced the simplicity of her soft black gown, worn in complimentto Nora's heavy mourning. It was cut square at the neck, and thebeautifully-moulded throat rose above it in smooth and unadornedperfection. Her arms were bare, save for lace mittens which reachedto the elbow. One arched foot rested on the fender-bar as she gazedmusingly into the fire—a happy light in her eyes, a smile coming andgoing on her lips.
She had forgotten that temporary shadow in the joy of remembering onesplendid moment. Whatever chanced hereafter, nothing could mar thatmemory, nothing alter its wonderful truth.
The sound of wheels on the gravelled drive roused her from her reverieto action. She gave one rapid glance at herself, and then ran down tothe hall to welcome the arrivals.
A bright wood fire burned in the open grate, the light ofcrimson-shaded lamps shed a warm glow over carvings and tapestry,cushioned lounges, soft rugs, palms and hot-house flowers. A beautiful,luxurious picture, yet homelike withal.
Nora gave a little cry of delight as she gazed around. "Oh! Lyle, howperfect you have made it!"
She had come to her friend determined not to grieve her with furthermanifestations of her own great sorrow; determined that the firstChristmas in Lyle's new home should bear no shadow of her casting. Paleand thin and worn she looked, but there was a new firmness in the youngface, a new tenderness in the lovely eyes.
"Is it like what we planned?" asked Lyle. Then, remembering under whatdifferent circumstances it had been planned, she hurried on withoutseeming to notice the quivering lips. "Confess I've worked hard. Isometimes thought it never would be finished in time. There are stilllots of unopened cases waiting attention."
"I'll be able to help you now," said Nora, eagerly.
"Are you really stronger—better?" asked her friend, anxiously.
"Oh! yes. I feel quite well. Only Dr. Dan will dose me with tonics andother abominations."
"Now, Miss Nora, no taking liberties with my name and treatment," saida cheery voice; and the doctor, divested of overcoat and hat, appearedon the scene, followed by Sir Anthony.
Lyle drew Nora down on to a great cushioned Chesterfield, and removedher hat and cloak with loving hands.
"Jane has your dress all ready," she said, "but you can rest for fiveminutes. Then I'll take you to your room. I hope you'll like it. Mrs.O'Neil helped me a great deal. She has been so kind."
A sudden memory of someone else closely associated with Mrs. O'Neilbrought a wave of rich colour to her cheek, but Nora's eyes were lessobservant than of yore.
"I am sure it will be lovely," she said, with a kiss. "Have youfinished your turret yet?"
"No. I wanted to wait for you."
"That was sweet of you. It's just the very thing I've longed for."
"Dinner will be ready in a quarter or an hour," said Sir Anthony,suddenly. "I don't know whether you young ladies have any toilet dutiesor not?"
Nora rose. "I won't keep you waiting, Sir Anthony," she said.
"I'm dressed, so I'll help you, Nora," added Lyle. And the two girlishfigures flitted up the broad staircase, arm linked in arm.
"It's perfectly wonderful! What a transformation!" exclaimed Nora,as they crossed the softly carpeted corridor where every nook heldsomething of beauty in the shape of vase, or picture, or tapestry. Butwhen Lyle threw open the door of Nora's bedchamber, her cry of raptureended suddenly in a little sob.
"It is too good of you. Oh! Lyle, what a gem of a room—and all my oldtreasures!"
It was the sight of those old treasures, most of them gifts from herdead father, that brought the sob to her throat, the sudden mist to hereyes.
But Lyle would have no weeping. "Dear, you must not give way," shewhispered tenderly. "You have grieved enough. Try to think he is safeand happy; that he loves you still; that all is for the best."
"I am trying. Indeed, Lyle, I don't want to cast a gloom on your newlife here. Ah! Jane, thank you. Yes, I must make haste. My hair willdo, I think. I dressed it before I left."
She dried her eyes and let Jane remove her dress and boots. Lyle satdown in the big basket chair by the fire and waited. Nora's black gownwas like her own, save for some bands of crape round the skirt andoutlining the square of the bodice.
She looked very sweet and fair; the soft clinging folds just suited herslim young figure, and like Lyle she wore no jewel or ornament.
"But this is all too grand and beautiful for me," she said, glancinground from the white rugs to the white bed draped in lace overblush-rose silk, the window hangings and pictures, the toilet-table andwardrobe of white enamelled wood, the big cushioned sofa, the prettycombination bookshelf and writing table.
Lyle laughed. "Mrs. O'Neil said it was the most purely feminine roomshe had ever seen. That it was full of sentiment, and would certainlyfoster the ideal in your nature."
"It is purely lovable, if that expresses its object."
"It does indeed," said Lyle, gravely. "I wanted it to say something ofmyself and you—of all the pleasure it had given me to arrange it. Ihope you will have many happy hours and days here, Nora; at least, I'lltry my best that you shall have them."
"You are too good to me, Lyle, dearest. What should I have done throughall this terrible time but for you!"
"Hush! We are to have no tears, no sad memories. You're ready—isn'tshe, Jane?"
"Yes, miss. No—one moment."
And Jane stepped back and gravely surveyed the effects of herhandiwork. On the toilet-table stood a bowl of white and pink roses.She took a white one, with its glossy green leaves, and fastened itdeftly on the left side of the open bodice. Then she approached Lyle,with a pink one, and did the same.
The girls stood side by side, and looked at themselves. Golden headand chestnut, violet eye and blue, pale cheek and glowing, a fair pairthey made; but the eyes of the woman who watched them grew dark withregretful memories as she looked from face to face. Perhaps she, too,remembered life's springtime, and its brief spell of hope and love, andall that is joyous.
Then the sound of the dinner bell recalled them to realities, and theyhastened downstairs. To Lyle's surprise she saw her father talkingeagerly to Jasper Standish.
"Nonsense! You must stay," he was saying. "Christmas Eve and all. Lyle,make Mr. Standish change his mind. He brought over these lovely flowersfor you as a Christmas greeting, and now wants to run off."
Lyle's face changed from warmth to coldness. Jasper noticed it.
"I hope you will stay, Mr. Standish," she said, not too cordially. "Andit was very kind of you to bring these flowers."
She did not touch them, he observed. There they lay on one of thesmaller tables—a white fragile mass of Christmas roses, whitelilac and lilies of the valley. She knew he must have ordered themfrom Dublin. No such blossoms would have been found in any ordinaryflorist's, and the conservatories of the county were none too wellstocked.
"You are very kind," said Jasper, "and it is too tempting an offer torefuse, if you will add to your kindness by excusing my dress."
"Of course, of course," said Sir Anthony, genially. "Off with yourovercoat and come along."
Nora Callaghan's face had flushed and paled during that brief colloquy.He shook hands with her now, and murmured a conventional Christmasgreeting. Then Sir Anthony led the way to the dining-room. Dr. Danoffered his arm to Lyle, and Jasper Standish followed with Nora.
It was an ordeal he would have gladly foregone. His eyes avoided hers,his hand shook nervously as he raised his soup spoon. Fortunately, theparty was so small that the conversation could scarcely be anything butgeneral.
Lyle studiously avoided his gaze, and ignored his somewhat clumsycompliments. She talked chiefly to Dr. Dan, leaving her father toentertain Jasper and Nora. The unexpected appearance of this man whomshe disliked spoilt her anticipated evening. He would stay on, therewould be cards, her father would ask her to make a fourth at whist, andshe would have to endure that odious presence during the rubber. It wastoo bad, and Nora's first night here too.
Dr. Dan's funny stories fell on absent ears. Pigs and courtships andpenance had lost their interest—temporarily. She was inexperiencedas yet in that polite hypocrisy which feigns interest when bored ortroubled, or racked with personal anxiety. Her laugh came in at thewrong place, and her brain followed but slowly the winding of an Irishargument, or the geography of an Irish oath.
She noted, however, that Jasper Standish took a great deal morechampagne than either of his elders, that his cheeks were very flushed,and his eyes strangely bright. She was thankful when she could giveNora the signal to retire.
They went back to the hall, as the drawing-room was not yet ready foroccupation. "We shall follow very soon," called out Sir Anthony. "Lyle,see the card-table is ready. It's a long time since I had a rubber."
"I thought that would be the end of it!" said Lyle, somewhat crossly."I shall have to take a hand. And you—what will you do, darling?"
"If you don't care about playing, Lyle, I will be the fourth," Noraanswered. "I am more used to cards than you, and play a very goodgame—so dear old dad used to say."
Lyle looked at her with some wonder. Then her heart sank. "It's onlybecause of that hateful man," she thought. "Oh! what can she see inhim to care about? The very sight of him chills my blood. I feel he istreacherous—merciless—unsafe. If only I could make her believe italso!"
She little guessed then how or in what manner she would make herbelieve it. Still less on what strange current they were even now beingswept along to the shores of a terrible and fateful discovery.
"MAY I come in?" said Lyle's voice very softly at the communicatingdoor between the two bedrooms.
Nora started from a reverie, long, thoughtful, pain-filled. She waspartly undressed, and had thrown on a white woollen gown of Lyle'sproviding. The big cushioned couch was drawn up before the fire. Therewas no other light in the room save that of the glowing flames.
"Yes," she answered, "I am not in bed."
The door opened. Lyle stood for a moment on the threshold and gazedaround.
"It is just as I pictured," she said. "If you are not sleepy, Nora, mayI stop with you till the Christmas dawn? It is just eleven o'clock."
"I hoped you would!" said Nora, earnestly. "I did not like to ask it.You seemed tired."
"I am not tired," she said, and closed the door, and then came forwardand sank down on the rug beside the couch. "You lie back," she said,"and make yourself comfortable. I have something to tell you. It willsurprise you, I think."
Nora looked at her. The firelight played on the curves of exquisitelips parting in a smile of exquisite happiness.
"You needn't tell more than your face does, Lyle," she said. "He hasreturned, and you are happy."
"Oh, so happy," breathed the girl, passionately. "There seems no word,and no language to express it."
Nora's heart gave a little throb of envy. It was not possible to lookat that radiant face, that expression of perfect and wondering humanhappiness, and not envy it. For her own heart was heavy, and thisevening it had been racked with doubt and distrust.
"I hardly know how to tell you," faltered Lyle. "I never said anythingto you all this time, but I thought he had gone away, not caring. Ifeared he would never return; and all the time, Nora, he—loved me!"
If Derrick Mallory could have heard the intonation of those two wordshe might well have gone on his knees in humble thankfulness; for not tomany is it given to receive such wealth of worship and self-surrenderas this girl's nature could so royally bestow.
"I always thought so," said Nora. "It was easy to read. I knew he couldexplain his absence. What occasioned it?"
Lyle gave a little start. Then she laughed softly.
"I really never asked him. It all came so suddenly. I was walking inthe woods and reached the boundary of the park, and he was coming fromthe other direction, and saw me, and then—well, then he told me, Nora."
"Darling, I am glad for you. I hope you will be very, very happy."
"I am almost afraid. It seems too good to be true."
"Nothing is too good to be true for you, Lyle. Certainly no man. Ithink it is the other way about. You are too good for him."
"Oh, Nora!" Reproach rang out at such seeming disloyalty. "That is onlybecause you don't know him."
"Sweetheart, do you know so very much more?"
"Ah! but it's so different when onefeels. Don't you think, Nora,love is a sort of intuition?"
"They say it is a sort of mental and moral blindness."
"That's not kind; not a bit like you, Nora. Oh! I thought you would beso glad, so full of sympathy. If it were you——"
She paused, as if conscious of a sudden check. Well enough she knewthat if it had been Nora's fate to confide an acknowledged love ofwhich Jasper Standish was hero, she could not have feigned muchsympathy with her.
"Ah!" said Nora, sadly, "if it were I—but it never will be. You saylove is a sort of intuition. So is sorrow. I know my fate, dear. Itcan't be a happy one. But don't let us talk of myself. I want to hearabout Derrick. I suppose I may call him that?"
Lyle's eyes turned to the fire again. Her hands clasped themselvesround her knee.
"Of course you may."
Then followed a stream of soft raptures, conjectures, hopes. But atlast the shadow fell, and Nora saw it. With little difficulty shedrew from the halting lips that dreadful possibility—her father'sobjection, grounded at first on prejudice, then on the difference ofreligion between the two. What did Nora think?"
Nora thought the latter difficulty the greatest. She had lived inIreland long enough, and had heard enough, too, to give Lyle some ideaof how Irish Protestants are hated by priests and people.
"But your father——" began Lyle, unthinkingly.
Nora winced. "Dear old dad would have got on much better but for hisreligion. That's why he never got a really good appointment. But hecouldn't help being popular wherever he went. Still, you see, hemust have had a bitter enemy——" Her voice faltered. Again they hadstumbled on dangerous ground.
There was a spell of silence. Presently Lyle spoke again.
"If my father refuses to let me marry Derrick, I cannot go against hiswishes, but I cannot help loving him. I shall never marry anyone else."
"That is how you feel?"
"Yes. It seems very strange that a man can come into one's life andalter it all so completely in such a short time, Nora. For it is a veryshort time. You remember that morning when we rode here and discussedlove, and what it might mean, and wondered? And now it has happened."
"Yes," said Nora, and her voice faltered a little. "It has happened."
"Ah! dearest," said Lyle, with quick sympathy, "forgive me if I seemto forget your suffering. My own happiness seems so selfish—and yet Ihave no one else to speak to."
"I am glad you told me, Lyle, but I foresee trouble ahead of all this.Derrick will have to fight the upholders of his faith—and you yourfather's prejudices on two points. Then he has to go back to Indiasoon, hasn't he?"
"Yes, in two months, I think."
"I'm afraid, Lyle, your cloud, though not bigger than a man's hand now,is on the horizon already. But I don't want to discourage you. We musthope for the best. Sir Anthony is so fond of you, he couldn't see youunhappy."
Lyle's face was very grave. Her lips quivered.
"It seems hard," she said, "that the moment one touches joy itvanishes, and sorrow looks at you instead. Isn't it so, Nora?"
"I am only a girl, and very ignorant, and have seen but little of life.But even that little tells me it is so, Lyle."
"It is very hard and very—pathetic."
"It sounds so, even when one hasn't quite realised it. Men suffer,women suffer, little children suffer. With one hand we clasp joy, withthe other grief. They are twin sisters that cannot be separated. Thelegend of my country is 'the smile and the tear,' you know."
"True; and I cannot wonder that you are less hopeful than of old.Still, Nora, not all the shadows, not all the fears, can blot out thememory of to-day. In all my life it will stand out, pure, perfect,wonderful. However it ends, I shall be grateful for having known thetruth and worth of love."
Nora sat perfectly still.
She had determined she would not give way to emotions. This ache andthrob of her own heart should not draw confession of is weakness. Butthe task grew harder every moment. Those last words, in their tenderconfidence, their heaven-lifted folly, their revelation of life'ssupreme glory, almost broke down her self-restraint.
Beside this love what was hers? Shamed, distrustful, pain-racked—astrain of broken music beside a poem of soulful joy. And yet she lovedas deeply, as passionately, as the girl by her side.
But her life was a dream half-broken, restless—a sleep with closedeyes that longed, yet feared, to open. To have said "I love where I amnot beloved" would have seemed a shameful confession; yet the shamewould have been easier to bear than this self-repression, this dammingback of a flood that longed to roll its tideful waters over prudence,hopelessness, restraint, denial, fate!
Why, she asked herself, should love come in guise of devil to some,of angel to others? Why should Hagar of the Desert have nothing, savethe sex that claimed them, in common with Sarah of the Tent. Thewild rebellion of youth ran riot in her veins. Her friend's exultanthappiness showed her own misery in blacker contrast. The one walked ina garden of fragrant glories, the other in a meadow land of blight.For one flowers bloomed, wings unfolded, sunlight showered its goldendower, for the other were gathering clouds, and withered bloom, andgloom of starless night.
"I have tired you," said Lyle at last. She looked up at the pale facelying against rose-coloured cushions; the haunting sadness of the eyesstruck her to the heart. She knelt down beside the quiet figure, andput her arms about it.
"Darling," she said, "are you suffering from what is harder to bearthan the natural grief of your recent loss? Won't you trust me? Is iteasier to bear, locked up in your own heart?"
Nora sat up suddenly. Some wild thought of escape—of denial—flashedthrough her brain. A light from the wood fire flamed up full upon herface; showed its pain, its dread, its awful suffering.
Lyle was horror-struck. "Nora!" she cried.
Then the storm burst. "Why did you saythat? Why did you? Oh! Lyle.I'm so unhappy! Don't mind—let me cry. I'm tired out, I think; andto-night—to-night——"
"What of to-night? Dear, don't fear to tell me. Never sister lovedsister more devotedly. Surely you know that now."
"It's because I know it," sobbed the distracted girl. "Because youyourself are unconscious of what you have done. You—have taken himfrom me, Lyle. It is you he loves—you. I saw it to-night if I neversaw it before."
Lyle released the quivering figure, and rose slowly to her feet, pale,and stern, and grave.
"What are you saying, Nora? I—have done this?"
Two slender hands covered the tortured face. The tears streamed downand through that useless protection.
"It is true!" she panted, between her gasping sobs. "Oh! why did youmake me say it? The shame is hard enough to bear without that. Ifit had been anyone else but you, Lyle. You don't even like him—younever did—you don't want his love, and I—I could go down on my kneesand pray for it. I could die gladly only to have had his arms roundme—once."
"Nora! Oh, my dear, stop! You are overwrought. You don't know whatyou're saying!"
"I do know. I have kept it back so long that I feel as if I shouldgo mad with silence. You can't understand. You are colder—moreself-controlled; but when we Irish love, it is desperate. It is life ordeath—heaven or hell."
"My dear——"
"You pity me, of course. It's no fault of yours, as I said——"
She sank back exhausted, the sobs coming still in hysterical gasps, herwhole slight frame exhausted with emotion.
Lyle looked at her with a sort of terror in her eyes. In contrastwith her own love, her own feelings, this torrent of ungoverned andirrepressible passion seemed awful.
There was nothing to say. She hated this man, and—Nora loved him. Hehad led her on to believe he cared for her, and now chose suddenly totransfer his allegiance. That alone proclaimed him untrustworthy, andyet—Nora loved him!
She sank down on the white rug. Those agonising sobs rent her very soul.
Then from afar, in the distance, came the sound of bells. Softly,sweetly, they chimed in the stirless silence of the night. Nora's handsdropped from her face. She looked at Lyle.
"The Christmas dawn!" she whispered. "What a greeting to give it, Lyle!I have always met it with a prayer. To-night I cannot."
Her head sank back against the rose-silk cushions. She lay there quitestill, with closed eyes, while the bells pealed "Peace and Goodwilltowards Men!"
FOR long after she had seen Nora safe in bed, and asleep from sheerexhaustion, Lyle lay awake herself in the adjoining room.
The tragedies of life were facing her rapidly now. Only a few monthsand the glad hopeful serenity had vanished. She had faced crime,sorrow, loss, love, and now stood as a rival in the eyes of the friendshe loved so dearly. It was a bitter truth. But she had heard itspoken, and would have to bear its bitterness now, for all the time tocome.
It was long past midnight. The dismal sobs of wind and rain were in theair, the clock's ticking seemed abnormally loud. It would be morningsoon. She would have to rise and face it, carrying a double secret inher heart.
Derrick would not disturb the Christmas serenity by any interviewwith Sir Anthony. They had agreed to wait for this week, and then thematter was to be laid before him. Knowing what they would have to face,Derrick had begged for one week of peace—one week in which to holdtheir secret undisturbed—seven little days in which to talk and dreamand meet. It did not seem much. Fate could hardly grudge them that.
She covered her aching eyes with her hands, and tried to pray, but thewords brought little sense of comfort. What a tangle it all seemed!Derrick and herself, and Nora and that hateful man. She shuddered asshe thought of the girl's reckless passion, of her words: "When weIrish love it is desperate! It is life or death—heaven or hell!"
What could there be of heaven, its glory, its peace, its sanctity,in this love of hers for Jasper Standish? Even if it were returned,she dreaded to think of Nora's future in his hands, of her faithful,passionate heart at his mercy.
The prejudice she had conceived against Jasper Standish was one ofthose inexplicable feelings that defy reason. She had distrusted anddisliked him from the first. His good looks were only a mask. Shefelt that cruelty and treachery lurked behind. His covert attentionsto herself at once incensed and shamed her. Yet they were so artfullyconveyed that it was almost impossible to take any definite stand. Shecould only avoid, she could not absolutely forbid them.
Worn out at last with conflicting thoughts she fell asleep. So deepand dreamless was it that the pretty Irish housemaid who brought hermorning tea and prepared her bath stood long by her side, not liking towake her.
The rain was over. A brisk wind had driven the clouds away. The sunshone through her window as she opened her eyes at last. She sprang upand looked around. A vague sense of something distressful oppressedher, and yet a new and wonderful joy lived in the sunshine, echoedthrough call and chirp of birds in the ivy round her casements. Thenshe remembered, and pretty Molly wondered at the sudden gravity of thebeautiful young face.
"Wishin' you a Merry Christmas, miss," she said shyly. "And manyof them; and long may ye be spared to live and enjoy them in yourbeautiful home."
"Thank you, Molly," she said. "It is very pleasant to hear good wishesthe moment one wakes. The same to yourself."
"Ah! thin, miss, me best thanks, an' may it be long before I saygood-bye to ye. Shall I be callin' Miss Callaghan at all? It's in thedeep sleep she is; so I took the tay back agin."
"Oh, don't disturb her!" cried Lyle. "Sleep will do her good. You cantake her some breakfast when she wakes up. Is my bath ready?"
"It is, miss."
"Very well. You can go now, Molly. Any letters?"
"Shure, the post is very late on Christmas Day, miss. What wid theweight av cards an' packages. Shane O'Flaherty, the poor boy, can't bekapin' his hours reg'lar at all."
Lyle laughed and sprang out of bed. The gloom and sorrow of the pastnight had lessened. She was young; she loved; she was beloved. Fatecould not harm her seriously, could not rob her of the joy of memory,the sweets of anticipation. The troubles would end somehow. They must.If one set oneself resolutely to achieve a thing one was bound to do it.
The black nightmare of those past hours fled before the glorioussunshine, the hopes and joys of the season. Her soul was at peace withall the world, brimming over with tenderness and goodwill. Naturerejoices after storm and stress, so in like manner human hearts risefrom sorrow's pressure and breathe and live once more in the sunshineof hope—the hope that is God's message, that even from the closinggates of Eden breathed its message to forlorn ears, that keeps alivesome instinct of courage in bruised and breaking hearts, so thatmortals shall not quite despair even when life seems most desolate.
Nora was still asleep when Lyle had finished dressing. She softlyclosed the door again and went downstairs to breakfast.
Sir Anthony's mild face was full of kindliness and goodwill. As heheld her in his arms and bade God bless her as the treasure of hislife, her conscience knew a little pang of remorse.
It was hard to hold a secret from him. It was the first time she hadever done so. "But it won't be for long," she told herself. "Only onelittle week." Yet could she have foreseen the disasters that that"little week" of secrecy would entail, she would have thrown herself onthat kindly breast and confessed there and then her girlish love.
But the moments of opportunity are rare, and few hands are ready tograsp them.
She withdrew herself from her father's arms, and took her accustomedseat at the breakfast table, explaining Nora's absence while she pouredout coffee.
"Are you coming to church with us, dad?" she asked presently.
"Certainly. The congregation is none too large at any time; and poorMr. Harrison will look for us. I thought of asking him back to lunch."
"You'll have to ask his wife also; and she is a dreadfullyuninteresting person."
"I never knew a clergyman's wife who wasn't. Their ideas have a purelypersonal horizon, bounded on the north by their own special church,on the south by mother's meetings, on the east by their own officialimportance, and on the west by the inevitable large family, which is aclerical stipend."
Lyle laughed. She felt almost light-hearted. If only she could forgetthat confession of Nora's.
Sir Anthony seemed in unusually good spirits. He talked more than wasusual with him. After breakfast was over he produced two morocco cases,one of which he presented to Lyle. She gave a little cry of rapture."Pearls! Oh! how lovely!"
Reposing on a velvet bed was a necklace of pearls clasped by a singlediamond. Just the ornament for a girlish throat, with that pure-tintedsatin skin that Lyle possessed.
"And this is for Nora," said the old gentleman. He showed a similarnecklet, only the pearls were smaller. "I know you like to haveeverything as alike as possible," he said. "Besides, pearls are thejewels of girlhood. I never cared to see them wear anything else."
"How dear of you to think of Nora, too! I'm sure she'll be in raptureswith this."
"It will be a sad day for her, poor child," said Sir Anthony, sadly."She cannot choose but remember her last Christmas Day."
"It seems the strangest thing to me," exclaimed Lyle, with suddenimpetuosity, "that nothing has been found out about that murder. Ioften think that Mr. Standish doesn't trouble his head about it. Dayfollows day, and week follows week, and neither clue nor trace isfound."
"Standish has a clue, but he is too wary to give it away yet," said herfather. "He knows what gossips these folk are. The matter has to beconducted with the greatest secrecy and discretion."
"Oh, of course, you always take his part," said Lyle, somewhatpettishly. "I cannot understand why you like that man so much."
"I find him excellent company. And he has been most thoughtful and kindin many ways. You have an unaccountable prejudice against him, Lyle."
"Well, we won't begin our first Christmas here with a quarrel," saidLyle, lightly. "And I really cannot agree with you on this point, sowe won't discuss it. I'm going to run up to see Nora. Shall I take thepresent, or will you give it her yourself?"
"You take it. Girls understand each other. I can't bear to see her cry."
And cry Nora did at the thoughtful kindness and beauty of her present,recalling as it did another loving giver, who was laid at rest for evernow in the cold earth. Last year he had given her pearls, too. A ringof them—the first ring she had ever worn. "They mean tears," said Mrs.O'Neil, when she had displayed them triumphantly.
Well, they had certainly meant tears for her. Bitter, humiliating,heart-breaking tears. Would these mean the same?
* * * * * *
Lyle did not allude to that conversation of the previous night.She felt it best to treat it with the respect of silence. It hadbeen an impulse fierce and ungovernable. Perhaps Nora regretted itsself-betrayal as much as she regretted its nature.
The morning sped on. The boredom of the clerical luncheon was over,and Mr. Harrison and his wife had taken their departure. Sir Anthonyretired to his study; Lyle, blushing softly, took a letter from herbreast, where it had lain since the post arrived. Her first love-letter.
Who would not covet girlhood and its faith again, to be heaven-liftedby such sweet folly!
"DARLING—MY OWN,
"If it was no dream—and faith, child, I've been asking myself thatquestion ever since—meet me as soon after three as you can at the sameplace. 'Twill be a hundred years till I see your sweet face again,beloved, and hear you say—— Never mind. I'll ask youthat when wemeet.
"Yours only and always,
"Derrick."
Of course she would go. She must tell Nora, but she would understand. Aweek—and one day had gone—only six remained.
She turned to where her friend was sitting, gazing moodily into thefire.
"Nora," she said, "I have to go out for an hour or two. Can you amuseyourself? You won't think me rude, leaving you alone?"
"Of course not. I think I will lie down. I'm very tired."
"There are plenty of books in my room. Take any you like; or there areall the Christmas numbers father ordered on that table beside you."
"Don't trouble about me."
She rose languidly. Try as she would she could not stifle the pang ofenvy, could not but feel that Fate was dealing cruelly hard with her.
From the window of her room she saw Lyle speeding like a lapwing overgrassy lawn, and gravelled path. Soon the trees hid her from those sadand brooding eyes. She turned away and threw herself down on the couch.
"She has everything," she thought resentfully. "Home, wealth, joy,love. And I—I am bankrupt in all. Oh! It isn't fair. It isn't right.If I didn't love her I should hate her for robbing me of the only thingI craved on earth." And then she felt a sudden horror of herself for athought so unworthy.
"It's the most miserable Christmas Day I ever spent in my life, and shedoesn't care. All the world now only means—him. Oh! what is comingto me? I feel so wicked, so envious. I seem changing altogether! Mymind is a fever, my heart only one ceaseless ache. I seem to lose allcontrol over brain and sense at times. Oh! what an awful thing it is tolove like this! I could kill myself with shame and rage—only I feelthat even death would not stamp it out."
She flung her arms out in wild agony. "If God puts love into our heartswhat can we do! I didn't ask it, I didn't want it; but there's nopower left in me to cast it out again. There it is—beating, craving,maddening. Whatever he is, whatever he does, I love him—shall alwayslove him. Oh! Jasper, why can't you care for me?"
The tears only scorched her eyes. They brought no relief to her achingbrain. She followed Lyle in fancy; saw the meeting, the blushing face,the happy eyes, the shy grace with which she yielded to her lover'sembrace. And once—once all this had seemed so near herself. Love hadlooked out of those dark eyes of Jasper Standish, had echoed in thesubtle falter of tones love-tuned and beguiling, had given meaning to ahand touch, the warm embrace that held her to his heart for the magicmoments of a too brief waltz.
These memories maddened her now. Since Lyle had come here all waschanged. She had been pushed aside; her beauty, her grace, herworshipping tenderness were of no account.
Where had she heard, or read, something about a woman driven desperateby unrequited love? Driven to Death's arms from those coldlyindifferent ones of her lover!
"Hell has no fury like a woman scorned." No fury! Good God above! Wasshe to bethat! All the sweetness of her nature turned to gall, itssummer prime blighted and laid waste!
She hid her face in her hands. She rocked herself to and fro in anagony of fear. "Oh! help me, Christ," she moaned. "I don't want to dowrong. Don't let me get hard and bitter and revengeful. If I could behappy just a little while—only a little while—before I die!"
There was a false air of festivity about that Christmas night. SirAnthony was grave and absent-minded. To the old, Christmas is alwaysa time of memories. Nora was pale and weary-looking. Lyle in her newradiance of happiness felt almost ashamed of a joy that was apart fromthem, and tried to subdue her sweet content and hopefulness in sympathywith regrets of the one, the sorrow of the other.
After dinner they sat round the wood fire in the hall, and talked. Atleast Sir Anthony talked and the girls listened. But it was a relief toall when ten o'clock sounded, and they were free to part for the night.
"I am not going to keep you up chattering," said Lyle, as she stood onthe threshold of Nora's room. "You need rest; and, indeed, I don't mindtelling you I had very little sleep last night. When you are strongerand better we will have another talk. At present it is bad for you,and only selfish of me. Promise me you won't sit up thinking. Justgo straight to bed and sleep. You'll feel all the better to-morrowmorning."
"I'll do my best," said Nora. "I must confess I feel tired, awfullytired. Jane is coming up to brush my hair and undress me," she added."Shall I say good-night now?"
They kissed each other, but Lyle felt something was lacking in thecaress. The old spontaneous tenderness had gone from it. "Poor darling!no wonder she is unhappy," she thought, regretfully. And then sheclosed the door and went into her own room.
She had so much to think of. All the wonderful gladness of thatafternoon—all the tender speeches of her lover, all the hopes of thegolden future that was to be theirs. She blew out the candle at last,and then, actuated by some impulse to gaze at the same sky, the samemoon, on which his eyes might then be gazing, she crossed over to thewindow and drew aside the blind and looked out. The moon was almost atits full. It shone on the leafless trees, the glistening grass, theshadowy path which yesterday had led her to such undreamt-of happiness.
As she stood looking out with wistful, dreamy eyes, she saw a figurecross the level patch of sward and flit under the trees to that sameavenue.
It was a woman's figure.
Lyle felt that discipline was being relaxed in some way. The servantswere all supposed to be in bed by half-past ten at the latest.Certainly, even if upon this occasion owing to Christmas festivities,they had no right to be out of doors.
"I wonder who it was?" she thought. "Not Molly—she is short; thefigure was tall. I must tell Jane about it. Dear me! I hope there won'tbe trouble in the servants' hall, with this half-English, half-Irishestablishment. I wonder why none of them like Jane. Perhaps she is toostrict. However this sort of thing will never do."
She dropped the blind. The figure was out of sight. There was asweetheart in the case, no doubt. Her heart gave a little throb. Itmust be hard not to be able to see your lover when you wished. Nowonder maid and man took the law into their own hands occasionally.Still, she must give Jane a hint in the morning.
* * * * * *
A dismal wet morning followed that genial Christmas Day. A steadydownpour that gave no hope of cessation. Lyle felt correspondinglydepressed. She would not be able to get out. One day of the promisedseven would be lost. How hard it seemed!
Nora came down to breakfast. She looked wan and wretched. She had notslept, she said.
"I tell you what we'll do," said Lyle, suddenly. "We will set to workon my turret-room. I'll have a fire lit at once, and Jane shall helpus. At least, you needn't work. You can sit down and watch me."
Nora brightened up at the suggestion, but declared she was not going tosit down. She was perfectly able to work, and would like it.
"Well, I'll just go to the housekeeper's room and give my orders, andthen we can begin."
It was only when giving those orders that the memory of the precedingnight occurred to Lyle.
"Oh! by the way, Jane," she said, "I saw one of the servants goingacross the park last night. It was nearly eleven o'clock. Surely——"
She stopped abruptly, startled by a sudden swift look of alarm onJane Grapnell's face. It was gone in a moment, but certainly it hadbeen there. Yet why should she be alarmed? It was no fault of hers."Perhaps," she said, "you know who it was?"
"I—yes, Miss, I think I do."
"Well, you must see it does not occur again. It's not safe as wellas not right. If the girl goes out she must leave some door open. Ithought you, or Woodman, went over the house the last thing. Who wentover it last night?"
"I—was the last, miss."
"Didn't you notice anything?"
Jane shook her head.
Lyle thought her manner rather strange, but let the matter drop, andmade her request about the turret-room. Jane promised to come as soonas her morning duties were over, and Lyle ran off, all eagerness andexcitement, to the scene of her forthcoming labours.
A housemaid was kneeling by the fire, which did not seem inclined toburn. It was no other than Honora Mooney, who had secured the placeafter all.
Lyle stood a moment looking at the confusion. Furniture was there, butnone of it in its proper place; books stood in piles on the floor, asthey had been taken out of packing-cases, pictures also were carefullystacked on tables and window seats, but none as yet graced the walls.The room looked gloomy and uninviting in its disorder, and the rainbeat heavily at the quaint leaded casements. The view without wasblurred and misty, and Lyle gave a little shiver as her eyes turned tothe smouldering flame.
"It's damp the place is, miss," said the girl, apologetically. "Shure,I've been on my two knees this blessed hour nearly, tryin' to light thefire."
"I think it's going to burn up now," said Lyle, with forcedcheerfulness. "By-the-bye what's your name? I haven't seen you before.You're the under-housemaid, I think?"
"Shure, an' I am, miss. An' it's doin' my best I'll be to suit yerladyship. Honora Mooney's me name. Me mother has a bit av a shop in thetown beyant. Molly an' I is friends from schooltime, an' she spoke upto the housekeeper for me, an' I came in the night before the ChristmasEve."
"Then who was it—Molly or you, who ran out last night across the park,I suppose to meet a young man? Eh, Honora?"
The girl looked astonished. "Indade thin, it wasn't me, your ladyship(The Lord between us and harm!). That's not the sort av thing I'd bedoin' any day. Besides, it's Phelim McGee, the dacint bhoy that'sgardener here to his honour, that I'm kapin' company with, and nocall to be runnin' after him at sich hours, seein' as how I've me ownevenin', an' Sunday after Mass."
"Perhaps it was Molly," suggested Lyle, thinking what a lot Irishservants had to say beyond plain "Yes or No."
"Indade, thin, axin' yer ladyship's pardon, it could not have beenMolly, for she an' I are sharin' the same room, an' we was both in bedan' dramin'—lastewise she was snorin'—by half-past ten o'clock lastnight, seein' as we was up at daylight for first Mass before doin' astroke av work."
Lyle felt a little puzzled. The cook was the only other possibledelinquent. But the cook was a staid and portly person of forty yearsof age at least. Besides, she hadn't been long enough over from Englandto have a "follower" yet, even were she minded that way. Also thefigure she had seen did not in any way resemble Bates. It had beentall, slight, and active. She remembered the quick step—the rapidpassage over the open space into the shadow of the trees. Certainlyit was very odd. She wondered if the girl was speaking truth. Shehad heard that Irish servants considered that in no way a bindingobligation if they took service with a Protestant family. The priestwould always absolve them in the matter of a "little bit av a lie" to aheretic.
There seemed a mystery about this simple fact, and she did not like it.Someone had certainly left the kitchen regions, and been in the parkbetween half-past ten and eleven o'clock that night. Should she let thematter drop or pursue it further?
"Will yer ladyship be needin' me any more?" inquired Honora, giving alast touch to the blazing logs. "The housekeeper said I was to bringdusters an' a sweepin' brush, an' there they are."
"No, thank you," said Lyle, "I shall not need you. Mrs. Grapnell willhelp me."
The girl curtsied and withdrew. At the same moment Nora entered. Shelooked more cheerful and like her old self. She had tied a big hollandapron over her black frock, and was evidently bent on work. Lylebanished the subject of the truant in the park for the time, and thetwo girls commenced their labours. It was about half an hour beforeJane joined them, and the three did wonders with the room before theluncheon bell rang.
"If we go on with it this afternoon," said Lyle, after a hopelessglance at the still pouring rain, "it will be finished by evening. Wewill have afternoon tea up here, Nora, to celebrate the occasion. Jane,you must be tired. You've done all the hard work."
"Isn't it quiet up here!" said Nora. "A perfect Sister Anne turret."
She went to the casement and opened it. "You can see for miles andmiles. It's lovely! Why——" she drew back suddenly, the paleness ofher face suffused with a blush. "Lyle, here's a visitor; someone ridingup the drive."
"Not Mr. Standish again!" exclaimed Lyle, with impetuous wrath.
Nora made no answer, only left the room.
Jane's eyes met those of her young mistress.
"You don't like him either, miss?" she said in a low voice.
"Indeed I don't, Jane. I wish he wouldn't come here so often."
"Oh! Miss Lyle, if you only knew, if you could make Miss Norabelieve——"
"Believe what, Jane?"
The woman wrung her hands in a sort of impotent despair.
"Believe that he is a villain, a liar, and worse."
"Worse! What do you mean?"
"It will come out some day, it's bound to come out, but he's so cunningand so strong, and proofs are difficult. But oh, Miss Lyle, if youcould only keep her away from his evil influence till the time is ripe,till the truth can be spoken!"
"I—I can't imagine what you mean, Jane. You must explain. But I can'twait now; I shall be late as it is. This afternoon you must tell meyour reasons for speaking against Mr. Standish in this manner."
She threw off her apron and ran downstairs to wash her hands beforegoing to the dining-room.
"So I'm not the only one who distrusts you, Mr. Jasper," she said toherself. "Oh! if only it wasn't too late to save my darling from yourevil influence, if only she hadn't learnt to care!"
* * * * * *
Meantime Jasper Standish had told Sir Anthony he had called on animportant matter. That easy-going gentleman was a little disconcerted.
"Leave it until after luncheon," he said. "What a day for you to beout."
"Oh, I never mind weather," said the Inspector. "It wouldn't do."
Just then the bell rang, and a few minutes later Nora entered. Sheexplained Lyle would be down presently. She had been arranging hernew room. They sat down to table. It was an informal meal, and no onewaited for anyone else if inclined to begin. The soup was finished andremoved before Lyle entered. She excused her unpunctuality, and with avery frigid handshake to Jasper took a seat opposite to him.
"How does the sanctum go on?" inquired her father. "I must tell you,Mr. Standish, that my daughter has chosen a very queer-looking room inthe turret for herself. It is to be workshop, study, boudoir—goodnessknows what. A mysterious resort for feminine employment and feminineconfidences. I am not to look at it until it is complete. When willthat be, Lyle?"
"By this evening."
"You have worked hard," said her father in surprise.
"The room in the turret?" said Jasper, eagerly. "That is the room withthe secret stairway. Have you discovered it?"
Both girls looked at him in surprise.
"No!" exclaimed Lyle. "I never knew there was any other staircase butthat leading from the upper corridor."
"There is, though, and a queer history enough is attached to it. I'vebeen down it myself when the house was untenanted. I'll show it you ifyou wish, Miss Orcheton?"
"I hope it's safe. Where does it lead to?" asked Sir Anthony.
"To an underground passage; and that goes through the park till youreach a sort of cave—a rocky hollow, near the river. It is said that avery pious friar of the order of St. Francis used to dwell in it."
"How strange!" exclaimed Lyle, deeply interested. "Oh! you must show methe way. I can't think where the staircase can be. The walls look sosolid."
"Well," said Sir Anthony, "when we've settled our business, Standish,you can play guide to the mystery. But be careful. Those old passagesand stairways are sometimes unsafe."
"This stair is of stone," said Jasper.
"How came you to discover it?" asked Lyle.
He smiled; that cold, faint smile she so disliked.
"My business, Miss Orcheton, sometimes leads me into strange places andstrange scenes. I had reason to suspect a criminal was in hiding here.In my search I came across that secret door. I persevered until I foundout how it was opened."
"And did you find the miscreant?" inquired Sir Anthony.
"No; he escaped."
Lyle looked up from her plate—looked him full in the face, and saw hiseyes droop before her steadfast gaze.
"You seem to have a way of letting suspected offenders escape, Mr.Standish," she said.
It was fated there should be no discovery of the secret staircase thatafternoon. Whatever the nature of Jasper Standish's communication toSir Anthony, it was one that seemed to overthrow all other plans. Hehad been nearly an hour in the study when Nora's keen ears caught thesound of horse's hoofs on the gravel, and rushing to the window, shesaw the retreating figure of her fickle lover. White as death sheturned to Lyle.
"He's gone!" she exclaimed.
Lyle, busy with an effective bit of drapery and a carved Cairo screen,asked vaguely—"Who?"
"Jasper—Mr. Standish!" said Nora, faintly. "I thought he was cominghere to show us the secret door."
"He certainly said so. Perhaps he hadn't time. Never mind, child,another day will do, unless we can find it for ourselves. What do yousay, Jane? Shall we try?"
"I think if one person has found it, another surely may," answeredJane, gravely.
"How it rains!" exclaimed Lyle, disappointedly, going to the window andlooking out with love-lorn eyes at leaden sky and dripping trees. "Nosign of clearing up to-day."
She turned and looked at the room. Suddenly a cold chilling wave seemedto flow over the pleasant glow and excitement that had actuated herlabours hitherto. She remembered again that feeling which she hadspoken of to Nora when first she had stood in this room. The feelingthat some great unhappiness, some great sorrow, would befall her there.Was it already on its way? She felt tired and faint, and sat down onthe window seat.
"I don't think I'll do any more to-day," she said. "After all, there'splenty of time. There may be other wet days."
As she ceased speaking a knock came to the door, and Molly's voice washeard.
"If ye plaze, Miss Orcheton, Sir Anthony wishes to see ye in his studyat once, av ye'll be so good as to step down."
Lyle rose, rather bewildered. "Yes, of course. I'll be down directly."
She met Jane's eyes. They looked prophetic; but she said nothing.
"It will soon be tea-time," said Lyle, with forced cheerfulness. "Getit ready, will you, Jane, by the time I return, and let us have somelights. The room looks so gloomy."
Then she went slowly down the stairs, wondering what her father'ssummons could mean.
As she opened the study door she saw him sitting in his big leatherarmchair by the fire.
"You wanted me, dad," she said, cheerfully.
He turned and looked at her. There was something so stern andreproachful in his gaze that her heart sank, and she felt the blood ebbslowly from her face and lips.
"What has—happened?" she asked faintly.
"Not much, I suppose, in your eyes," said Sir Anthony, with a sternnessshe had never yet heard in his voice. "Only that I have discovered yourdeceit; that I have found my only child, whom I so loved and trusted,has been false to both the love and trust."
"Father!" she cried.
He looked at her still. There was no anger in his glance, only a sadstern hopelessness.
"False!" he repeated. "But all your sex are that. Why should I expectyou to be different?"
"What do you mean? Of what do you accuse me?"
"Of deceiving me," he said. "You have been secretly meeting,love-making, with a man whom you know I personally dislike anddisapprove of. You have made your name a byword among village gossips."
"Father," she cried again, "it's not so. I can explain——"
"Silence! and hear me out. Explanation should have come from yourlover's lips, had he a spark of manliness or honour. Instead of that hepersuades you to secrecy. Induces you, my daughter, a girl I thought soproud and true, to meet him in the woods like any village trull meetsher boorish swain."
"This is all misrepresentation," she said. "The truth is this, and Iam not ashamed of it: I do love Derrick Mallory, and he loves me. Ihave met him but twice. He is coming here to speak to you and ask yourconsent. We did but wait until the Christmas holidays were over. Whohas maligned us? Who has told a tale that sounds false and unworthy?Our love knows only two days' acknowledgment. I have not purposelydeceived you."
"I say you have. You had no right to see or meet this man without mypermission or my knowledge. His character bears no stainless record.He is immoral—extravagant—reckless. He is no fit husband for you,and he knew it; else he would have asked your father's sanction beforepersuading you to commence a clandestine intrigue."
"Oh! dad," sobbed Lyle, passionately, "what are you saying? Those arenot your words, your thoughts! Someone has been traducing him—fillingyour mind with resentment. Derrick is not what you say. He has beenunfortunate, I grant. Everyone knows his debts were not of his originalincurring. The property was encumbered. He was poor and burdened withan expensive heritage. He sold it to clear himself and got a foreignappointment, and went away. That is the truth!"
"The truth!" scoffed Sir Anthony. "Yes—the sort of truth with which aman fills the ears of a romantic girl. What other stories has he toldyou? What other loves and fancies have filled his thirty years? Why didhe rush off to London so suddenly? What kept him there so long? Has hetold you that?"
"I can trust him perfectly," she answered, with paling lips.
"Trust him! You—a baby—a mere school-girl, who knows nothing of life,of the world, of men! I haven't patience with such romantic nonsense."
"Why are you so dreadfully prejudiced against Derrick?" she askedproudly. "At least you might do him common justice. Hear his story fromhis own lips, not take him on second-hand testimony."
In her heart she knew who had done her this evil turn. What had beenthe reason of that long interview in the study?
"I intend to see him," said Sir Anthony, grimly. "Have no fearsabout that. I shall send for him, and ask an explanation of his mostungentlemanly conduct. Nothing can excuse a man for placing a younggirl in a false position, and in a place like this—where gossip issecond nature."
Poor Lyle! Her cheeks were scorched with shamed, insulted pride. Tohave her innocent and beautiful love-dream rent asunder by coarsemisrepresentation—the agony and horror of it almost deprived her ofwords, or self-defence.
But suddenly courage returned. She had someone now to depend on.Someone who would fight her battle for her. It would be all right whenDerrick explained. At present her father was angry and unable to judgecalmly of the situation. To-morrow all would be different.
She drew up her slight young figure. Sir Anthony watched her uneasily.He had made up his mind that this man was not the right husband forher, and, like all seemingly easy-going and careless individuals, hecould be very obstinate when he chose, especially when he had conceiveda liking or prejudice.
He liked Standish, and he hated Derrick Mallory. That was the sum totalof the whole matter. Lyle's wealth should not go to this impoverishedIrishroué, as he chose to call him—of that he was determined. Itwas only a girlish flirtation; it must be nipped in the bud. Like manyof those set in authority, Sir Anthony had yet to discover that thereis a strength in the young sapling, and a pertinacity in the comingblossom that can defy even parental "nipping."
That outburst somewhat surprised him. The look of the hurt youngface gave him an uncomfortable feeling of playing the tyrant. He wasconfronted by something outraged and accusing, instead of the culprithe had thought to arraign. However, he was determined to hold his firstposition. He averted his gaze, and said, coldly:
"There is nothing to be gained by further discussion. I will write toMr. Mallory to-night, and ask an explanation of his conduct. But do notexpect that such explanation can alter my opinion. As for sanctioningany engagement between you, that is out of the question. There is notonly the difference of position—you are my heiress, and he but a needyfortune-hunter—but also the bar of religion. He is a Roman Catholic.A marriage with him would entail troubles needless to enumerate underpresent circumstances. The whole affair is impossible. As for love,the fancy of a girl for a man she has only met some half-dozen times,and of whose character, nature, and habits she is entirely ignorant,cannot be worth the name. This is only a piece of romantic folly, and Iconfess I am surprised and disappointed in you, Lyle."
The young sweet face grew very white.
"I am sorry we look at the matter so differently," she said. "I assureyou, father, it is no light thing to me, or to Derrick."
"It is pure folly!" he repeated.
"I think not," she answered, gently. "We are in deadly earnest, as youwill find. My faith in him is as great as my love. Whatever happens Ishall never care for any other man, or marry one."
"I am not asking you to marry any other man, I only say you shall notmarry this one. When I see him I will tell him my objections and myreasons. I expect you to be guided by both."
"I cannot disobey you, of course," she said, very low. "I must onlytrust that time will soften your prejudice. When you find we are bothtrue and steadfast and determined, you will be convinced this is not'pure folly,' as you called it a moment ago."
"It will take a good deal to convince me of that," he said, curtly."I want to save you from yourself, and from the after consequences ofa girl's romantic fancy. I shall spare no pains to do it. I have saidall."
The tears rushed to her eyes. So kind, so generous, so loving, he hadalways been, and, now to speak like this. To so misunderstand her atlife's most critical moment. There was a pause. He averted his eyes andlooked into the fire. She lingered, hoping he might speak again, buthis attitude offered no encouragement to remain. Silently she turnedaway and left the room, feeling sick and shamed and wounded to thequick.
As she crossed the hall a loud ring pealed, and the butler went to openthe door. She hurriedly drew aside. "Not at home," she whispered.
She was afraid it might be Mrs. O'Neil or some other visitor. Shecould not, dared not, see anyone to-day. She had no spirit left forconventionalities.
As she shrank back in the shade of theportières she heard a voicespeaking that sent every pulse in her body throbbing.
It was the voice of Derrick Mallory!
LYLE uttered a faint cry; then, regardless of dignity, rushed acrossthe hall and faced a dripping figure holding disappointed parley withWoodman.
"It's you, Derrick? Oh, how lucky! Come in at once."
The dignified butler looked quite at a loss to comprehend suchextraordinary conduct, but his young mistress waved him aside. Derricktook off his mackintosh and followed Lyle into the warm and dusky hall.Woodman retired to his own regions.
"Oh, Derrick," cried Lyle impetuously, "thank God you've come! I havejust had an awful scene with my father. Someone has seen us meeting inthe woods and told him. He accuses you of being dishonourable, and iseven now, I think, writing to you, to forbid your calling or seeing meever again! You must go to him! You must explain. Say I would not letyou speak before. Oh! it's all my fault, and he is angry. I never sawhim so angry in my life."
Derrick looked at her in grave bewilderment. He did not like to havethe ground cut from under his feet in this prompt manner, to besuddenly placed in a false position, and have to face its consequences.
"Who can have seen us?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Lyle, crimsoning at the recollection of herfather's words, "but I can give a very good guess at who has told hisstory to dad. I am sure it was Mr. Standish."
"Jasper Standish!" Derrick's brow darkened. "What concern is it of his?"
"I hate him!" exclaimed Lyle passionately. "I am sure, too, he woulddo me an ill-turn if he could. He was with my father an hour thisafternoon. Then I was summoned to his study, and as I said before, hespoke to me as he had never spoken in his life. Oh! Derrick, you'llbe patient with him, won't you, for my sake? Some enemy has beenpoisoning his mind against you, but when he knows you, when he seesyou are in earnest, he will give way. We may have to face opposition,even parting; but so long as we are true, nothing can alter our presentposition—can it?"
He looked at her very sadly. "My darling, it grieves me to have broughttrouble on you so quickly. I knew your father was not very cordiallydisposed towards me, but I did not think it was as bad as you say. Itis fortunate I called. I thought a formal visit here was preferable tonot seeing you at all, and so made up my mind to come. Can I see SirAnthony?"
"I will ask him," said Lyle.
She was feeling a little hurt and sore. He had given her no lover'sgreeting; had not even seemed to remember it. The first chilling touchof life outside her charmed circle had pressed upon it already; andnothing would ever be quite the same as on those two blissful days whenthey had been all the world to each other.
She turned to go when Derrick's voice called her back. He held out hisarms, and she crept into their fond shelter, and with a little sob laidher head upon his heart.
"Ah! Lyle," he said. "I feared this. We were too happy. I knewsomething must happen. But not so soon. Still, dearest, we must bebrave. We must fight our battle as best we can. If the worst comes tothe worst it is only a question of waiting till you are of age. Then noone can prevent you marrying me if you choose."
"Not even your priests?" she asked, hesitatingly. "Father seemed tothink——"
She felt his arms relax, and, drawing herself away, saw that his facelooked pale and troubled.
"I . . . . I forgot. Let me see him, Lyle. Best get it over. It's anordeal, but I have faced—worse."
She was to remember that expression hereafter, and interpret it forherself before long. Now it passed her ear, leaving no definite meaningbehind it.
"Come then," she said, and led the way to where the tapestryportières fell between hall and study.
She knocked at the door, and her father's voice bade her enter. Sheturned the handle and went bravely in. He was still sitting in the samechair, almost in the same position. The fire had died down, a shadedreading lamp lit the long room but dimly.
"Father," she said, "not five minutes ago Mr. Mallory chanced to call.He wishes to speak to you."
Sir Anthony turned a surprised and very haughty face towards the boldintruder. He bowed coldly.
"Leave us, Lyle," he then said. "If your presence is necessary, I willsummon you."
With one look of pity and encouragement at her lover's face, the girlwent softly away, closing the door behind her.
She forgot about tea, about the two awaiting her in the turret. All herthoughts were concentrated on that momentous interview as she sat orpaced to and fro in the dim-lit hall, waiting in agonised suspense itsissue.
Woodman lit the lamp in the outer entrance, and the wax candles in thebrass sconces. He felt something was amiss, and gave a pretty accurateguess as to its nature. Being a confirmed mysogynist himself, however,he only put it down to "young folk's foolishness."
How slowly the moments passed! What was happening? What were theysaying?
Hope sickened and died out of her heart. She felt that trouble, heavytrouble, was at hand. She had come to a sudden block in the path ofexistence.
At last she heard the study door open. She stood perfectly still, herheart throbbing painfully, her eyes strained. Derrick came towards her.One look at his white, set face was enough.
"Your father wishes your presence," he said.
An icy chill ran through her whole frame. She asked no question. Therewas no need. Blank despair sat on clouded brow, and brooded in hopelesseyes.
In some blind unconscious fashion she crossed the space, and he stoodaside and held the door open for her to enter.
Sir Anthony was standing by the table. As she advanced he looked up,and his face grew less stern and forbidding.
"Lyle," he said, "I have a very unpleasant duty to fulfil, and I wantto do it as briefly as possible. Mr. Mallory has done me the honour toask for your hand. I have no fault to find with what he says of hisposition or his prospects. If I considered him a suitable husband foryou, they would amply satisfy me, for your own fortune would enableyou to live as you have always been accustomed to live. Mind, I saida suitable husband. But I do not find himthat. I will give youmy reasons. First comes the, to me, insuperable bar of differenceof religious faith. Marriage is one of the Sacraments of the RomishChurch. Marriage with one of a different faith entails situations andconditions that are both humiliating and objectionable. Am I not right,Mr. Mallory?"
Derrick bowed. His face was ashen white, and his hands grasped achair-back as if to stay their trembling.
"I have a book here," continued Sir Anthony, "which explains theprincipal dogmas of this Church. My opinions may be prejudiced,doubtless they are; but on this point of marriage between what istermed a heretic and a true believer, there is a great deal of truth.It would suit similar instances of dissimilar faiths. That is objectionnumber one, and Mr. Mallory has no argument that can confute it.
"Then comes the second, and it is one with which I will allow you todeal for yourself, Lyle. That relates to his moral character, and isof vital importance to your future. You are young, a mere school-girl,whose knowledge of men is founded on romances, novels, and girlhood'sdreams of the other sex. These are very, very far from realities. Mr.Mallory is unfortunately the descendant of a family renowned for theirgambling proclivities and their infidelities to women.
"It is not his fault. I am not blaming him, and had I had satisfactoryproof that in his own case these hereditary traits were not visible,I might have taken a more hopeful view of the future. But he has norecord to show that would enable me to take this view. No, sir, don'tinterrupt—yet. After I have said all I intend to say, you can makegood your case, if you wish. Now, Lyle, looking at the matter from acommon-sense point of view, I foresee a very troubled and disastrousfuture out of such unpromising materials.
"But this is not all. . . I am going to pain you, I fear, but if yourlover can justify himself in your eyes that pain will be short-lived.On first meeting you Mr. Mallory paid you rather marked attentions;sufficiently so to attract notice in a place like this and lead toremark. Suddenly, without word or reason, he left the place and went toLondon. Did he give you any reason for doing so?"
Lyle raised her white face and looked at Derrick.
"Certainly not!" she said. "Why should he? There was no cause."
"There was cause enough after he had led you to suppose he cared foryou. Well, to continue. When he returned, after an interval of nearlytwo months, did he allude to this absence or its reasons?"
"No," she said faintly, and with an appealing look at Derrick'sdowncast face and quivering lips. "I asked for none."
"Naturally. I know your nature. You are very proud, very trustful.You would never seem to claim by right what was not offered youspontaneously. Well, ask him now. I know the reason. I shall know if hetells you the truth. I will leave you to learn it from his own lips. Ifafter that you still wish to marry him, I can only say I have greatlymisjudged your strength of character. Mr. Mallory, I will wish you goodnight. Our interview has been most unpleasant, but do me the credit toconfess it was not of my seeking."
With a very distant bow he left the room, and the two standing oneither side of the oak table looked at each other with sudden terrifiedquestioning.
Then with the impulse of desperation Derrick crossed to Lyle's side andthrew himself on the rug before her, clasping her with a passionatestrength.
"My love," he cried, "oh, what can I say? I meant to tell youalways—always. Fate has forced my hand cruelly in this matter. Lyle,whatever you think, whatever I may appear, I did love you from thatfirst hour our eyes met! But when I found how dear you were getting,I knew I had a duty to perform before I could speak, before I coulddare to ask for your love. Oh! how can I tell you? You will neverbelieve that I was true in heart and soul and all that was best. HowI raged, how I cursed folly, impatience, indifference, whatever it isthat drives a man to take up false ties to place himself in a falseposition! Oh! Lyle, you are so young, so good, so pure, how can I makeyou understand?"
His voice broke; its misery went to her heart.
She drew herself away from his clinging touch; a chill as of ice seemedto rest on her heart and slacken its wild beats.
"I think I—understand," she said slowly. "There was someone else?"
He made no answer. For one long torturing moment their hearts throbbedin a silence of unbroken agony. Then he slowly rose to his feet, andplaced her in the chair where Sir Anthony had been sitting. He hardlydared look at her face, it was so altered, so woeful, so aged.
"Lyle," he said, "I could wish you were less pure, less proud, lessinnocent. It is not a pleasant story I have to tell you—it never couldhave been. Though I hoped when you knew me better you would judgeme more tenderly. Briefly it is this. When I came home from Indiathere was on board the steamer a—a woman who represented herself asa widow. We were much together. I cared nothing for her, save as aman cares for a companion who amuses or interests him. But she—well,never mind details. There are things a man can't say about a woman whoprofesses to care for him. There was the usual drifting, the sentimentof moonlight and idle hours. I only found out later that she was nowidow. She had a husband, though he was an incarcerated madman. Withregard to herself she was but an adventuress—a swallow who lived onmen's summers. I found it necessary to throw off her would-be shacklesperemptorily. But for a time she contrived to make my hours and daysvery unpleasant.
"When I met you, Lyle, I resolved there should be an end. I went upto London for that purpose, and after some difficulty managed toshake myself free of her. But how could I tell you—how explain? Bysome means your father has heard of this. Perhaps through the samekind friend who brought him word of our single tryst. He thinks I amimmoral, untrustworthy; that I do not love you. Oh, Lyle! Lyle!"
She had not spoken a word. By no look or sign had he any intimationof what that confession had meant to her, till suddenly he met hereyes. But in that moment something seemed to have been cast out of herlife, and the effort at casting it aside left her faint and sick. Itwas only a girl's faith, a girl's innocent belief. Nothing much in aman's eyes, nothing much in a woman's when she has drunk of the watersof experience and known them bitter. But much, all, everything, to anature as yet untried. That first hearing of another's name coupledwith his own scared her soul with a lightning flash of agony. He hadbeen the one and sole god of her worship, but she—she was only one ofmany to him.
All youth's hope and credulity died within her. She only thoughtof herself as rivalling someone less fair perhaps, less capable ofchaining his fickle fancy. But still only—rivalling. She was notall. She had never been all to him, even in those days and hours shehad loved to recall as pregnant with meaning. It was all wrong, alla mistake. Her father had indeed been wise when he read this man'scharacter.
As his voice rang out, sounding her name with imploring passion,she felt stung and outraged. The conflict of faith, with its firstmisgivings was all of which she was conscious.
She rose to her feet.
"It is a shameful story," she said. "If you have any sense of right, ofhonour, go to her. Go to the woman who believed you loved her. I wantno second-hand vows, or kisses, or—love!"
Her voice broke. Her eyes were cold and wrathful still, but the effortto speak, to put into plain words her broken faith, was beyond her.
He rose, too, and put one hand against the table, leaning heavily on it.
"Do you mean it?" he asked faintly. "Can you so misjudge me? Is yourlove worth no more than this?"
"Your own words have been your judge," she said. "You are not what Ithought you. You—never were."
A hot shamed flush rose to his brow. "I am rightly punished," he saidbitterly. "I might have known. No reed so brittle to lean upon as agirl's faith. She has no pity, no comprehension of any sin that seemsto hurt her vanity."
"If you think that," she said proudly, "you have learnt your lesson ina false school. There is nothing more to say."
"My child," said a tender voice.
Lyle lifted her head from her arms, on which it had been resting fromthe moment that a closing door had seemed to her like the falling ofcold earth on a coffin-lid. Behind, lay death and desolation.
Her father was standing beside her. The old love was in his eyes, theold tenderness in his voice.
"It is hard for you, my dear," he said, "very hard; but it would havebeen a thousand times worse to brave—later. Some day you will be gladit came when it did."
He stood looking sadly at the agonised young face. It is hard enoughfor a parent to learn he has been supplanted, but it is harder stillwhen he finds that the usurper is unworthy.
A little wan smile touched her lips. "If it was bound to come," shesaid, "I am glad it has happened now. I need not expect—anything more!"
"My child," he said, sadly. "My poor child!"
She was trembling like a leaf, but her eyes were tearless. "You werequite right, dad," she said. "I was so headstrong; so foolish. Ithought myself so sure. I am rightly served."
"The worse you can think of him the better. He is an unprincipledscoundrel. No doubt, bad as his confession was, it was not half as badas the real case."
"It was bad enough," she said, slowly. "I should not like to think itworse."
She half rose, but he saw she was too unnerved to stand, and put hergently into the chair.
"Sit down, child," he said, gently. "You are not fit to face othersyet. I wish I could comfort you, Lyle; but no one in this world canplay the part of Providence to even the dearest thing they love. Everyheart knows its own bitterness and must bear its own burden. I wantedto save you from disgrace, perhaps ruin in the future. I could not easethe blow, save by letting him deal it."
She did not speak.
"I have heard many things about this Derrick Mallory," he went on,"but as I so plainly discouraged his visits, I had no immediate fearof—what has happened."
"You are in no way to blame," she said. "It was I myself all through."
"You are very young," he said sadly, "and you had no mother to watchover, or advise you. A father, however dearly he loves his child,cannot follow the windings and turnings of her fancy or her heart. Itried my best to save you, but it was too late even then."
"Yes," she echoed, "it has been too late for a long, long time."
"Now that you have learnt his unworthiness," continued her father, "youmust summon all your courage to help you in forgetting him. Fortunatelyhis time in this country is short. He has to return to India."
He saw her shiver involuntarily. His eyes grew dark with anger.
"A man who takes a human life," he said, "suffers the due punishment ofhis crime; but a man who comes into the fair garden of a girl's youngheart, tramples it, withers it, destroys it, he can go scot free!"
"And yet it is worse than life that he destroys!" she cried, and hidher face in her hands in a sudden paroxysm of grief. "Only yesterday Iwas so happy. I thanked God that it was possible to be so happy, andnow it can never come again—never."
He let her cry unrebuked. Grief was more natural than that strange calm.
At last she dashed the tears aside. "To think," she said, "that I couldhave pained you for sake of—him. Forgotten our long years of love andconfidence. Oh, dad, how wise you were—how wise!"
"Yet you do not feel inclined to thank me. Ah! child, I know, I know.It is hard to bear at first."
"I will stay with you," she said brokenly. "It is the best place—forme."
"God knows I have no desire that you should leave me," he said fondly."My home is yours, for all your life, if you wish."
"I will go to my room now," she said presently. "For to-night I wouldrather see no one. Just be by myself. You will excuse me at dinner?"
"Yes; if you feel you would rather be alone. But brooding and thinkingwon't make it easier to bear, my child."
"Only to-night," she said, and looked at him with eyes whose pitifulmisery stabbed him to the heart.
"I did it for the best," he told himself. "For the best. He was toblame. He could not defend his own conduct. I left him to do it, and hefailed."
She put his arm aside and stood up. He thought with a bitter pang howall the lovely youth and hope had gone from her in this awful hour, andcould have cursed the man who was the cause. But words were useless,and curses, too. They mended nothing; altered nothing.
In the Mills of Pain the hearts of all are ground. Some to powder, someto chaff; some are bruised, and some are crushed forever. For strongerthan Love and Life and Joy is the hand of Fate—and none can master orwithstand it.
* * * * * *
After that first shock and agony of disillusion a dull calm settledupon Lyle. She told Nora that her father had for good reasons refusedhis consent to any engagement with Derrick Mallory; that all was overbetween them. Nora was only half-satisfied, but she did not like topress for reasons that were rigidly withheld. Lyle could not betray hisunworthiness to a third person. It was humiliating enough to know itherself.
Between the two girls, who had been so devoted, and so happy in theirinnocent friendship, a strange silence and coldness crept. Each hadher own sorrow to combat, her own secret to guard. Suddenly they hadreached a point where neither could be of any help. There were no moreconfidences in their rooms at night, none of the laughing jests andtricks of old. But the days lagged wearily, and on both young heartslay the burden of unuttered pain. Their eager hands, outstretched tothe roses in life's garden, had been filled with nettles instead.
Sometimes in those dreary days, when the snow or the rain fell andthe wind moaned drearily round the old house, Lyle would go up to herturret and gaze sadly down that leafless avenue, where her feet hadsped so gaily and unconsciously to meet her doom. She had no heart nowto finish her pretty "Sister Anne's Chamber." She would move listlesslyto and fro, or sit idly gazing into the fire, trying to believe lifewould soon go back to its normal condition; that her "fated fairyprince" would soon be only a memory; that those two blissful days werepart of a dream from which she had been roughly awakened; that love wasa delusion and a snare. It could be well dispensed with.
And all the time that she shut her eyes to aught beyond that importantcircle of personal unhappiness, events were happening around her sofateful and so tragic, that in after years she asked herself how shecould have been so blind as not to see them.
The bad weather had kept all visitors from the Hermitage. Even Mrs.O'Neil had not ventured out.
She had scribbled a note to Lyle, saying she was confined to her roomwith a severe cold, and asking her to come and see her if she couldspare an hour, but Lyle shrank from going near the house. She couldnot face the ordeal of a chance meeting with Derrick, and she was notsure whether he had left Ireland. She wrote sympathisingly, but excusedherself from going over on account of indisposition.
So the days drifted on, each seeming a week in length, till theyreached New Year's Eve. Sir Anthony was a little weary of themelancholy evenings. No one would play or sing, no friend dropped infor a hand at whist or nap. They had seen nothing of Jasper Standish,and Dr. Dan wrote that he was at his wit's end to cope with thesickness raging in the little town. Workmen came to and fro, completingand furnishing and decorating the unfinished rooms, and in the daytimeSir Anthony demanded Lyle's help and advice as much as possible, inorder to distract her thoughts. But for the long winter evenings therewas no distraction save what they could give each other.
Nora's bright spirits seemed to have vanished. She was pale andlistless. Her eyes were heavy, and their dark circles spoke ofsleepless nights. Now and then she would try to shake off thisdespondent frame of mind, but the effort was plainly an effort. Thelaughter was forced, the jests were mirthless.
On New Year's Eve Dr. Dan came over. He was shocked at the change inhis pretty ward. She looked but the shadow of her old bright self, sothin and pale and spiritless. But like everyone else he put the changedown to grief for her father, and the horror of his tragic fate.
Meanwhile strange rumours were spreading through the village as to thatfate, and murmurs as to the Inspector's laxity in the matter of arrestwere rife on every occasion.
"Shure, an' is it kilt an' murdered in our beds we're to be, an' nivera sowl the wiser?" was an observation that reached Jasper's ears morefrequently than he liked.
The reward was stimulating energies, and he was perpetually receivinginformation of suspicious events or appearances, but he dismissed themperemptorily. Yet to all intents and purposes he was much occupied, andthough he seemed to keep his own counsel, there were not wanting hintsof meaning on the track of his footsteps.
"When the time comes," he would say in answer to queries or demands.
"An' shure, whin that'll be not the saints in glory can tell us,"muttered the gossips.
New Year's Eve found the Inspector in his gloomy little study, oncemore busy with that private notebook. The window was closely curtained;he had turned the key in the door. The fire blazed brightly, and hisunfailing comforter, the spirit bottle, was on the table by his side.
He shut the book with a vicious snap, and leant his head on his hands,trying to follow out a plan of reasoning.
"Will it be safe—yet?" So ran his thoughts. "The links fit prettyclosely, but there are not enough. If I show my hand too soon, the gamewill be lost. I must secure myself first before I make a move. Now,that weak, pretty fool is the only buffer between me and the blow thatmay come my way. I render two weapons powerless if I use her againstthem. That proud English minx is not to be fooled, and her old fatheris not the sort of man to win over to my schemes. I have no hold onhim. True, I've parted her from her fool of a lover. Fool! Ah! twiceand treble fool that he was to have won the love of a girl like thatand let her slip through his fingers. Had she cared for me, I'd haveheld her against everything—the whole world—herself included."
He drank a tumblerful of the potent spirit by his side, and then beganto pace the room restlessly, talking half-aloud.
"Crime! Who talks of crime? A man must needs serve his own necessities.It is no crime to put away that which stands between. If so, then isevery ruler a criminal; every general; every statesman. To live we mustdestroy. Only the strong are fitted to survive. Place and power fallonly to the adventurous. No good thing is gained without struggle,or kept without strength. All life shows it. It is the scheme of theuniverse. The Creator takes life as relentlessly as he gives it. Thewheel of destiny rolls ever on and on, crushing all that is in its way.Man but follows its example save where cowardice forbids."
The blood flushed his temples. He threw back his head and laughed aloud.
"If this succeeds, all will go well. Promotion follows, then fortune.It is a daring scheme, but its very daring will serve my ends. The casewill seem to fail for just one tittle of evidence. The law will besatisfied, the tongues will wag so furiously that she can never hold upher head again. To be guilty in all but the actual verdict of guilt isenough to ruin her. She will face her own condemnation. My zeal and mydiscretion will have accomplished their purpose."
Again he drank. Again the blood mounted to his head, fired his veins,thrilled him with wild, fierce resolve.
So the Old Year left him—wicked of heart, evil of purpose—triumphingwith unholy joy over the weak and helpless—weaving schemes that shouldwreck and ruin innocent lives, trampling under foot all scruples andall fear.
So the New Year found him—dazed and drunken and evil still, whilethrough storm and stress of the dying night the bells pealed out theirmessage to his unheeding ears.
"THERE'LL be bad work this year, Norry girl," said pretty Molly, thehousemaid. "Divil a bit av luck for any av us."
"Glory be! What's happened thin?"
"Arrah, didn't that red-haired imp av a Mickey Doolan cross thethreshold the first thing as the door was opened? An' that fule av anEnglish cook knew no better than to laugh whin I tould her 'twas theworst av luck. He came wid a letter, he said, and wouldn't go till he'ddelivered it. There's for you now! An' who do you think the letter wasfor? Tell me that!"
"How should I know, Molly? Not for you, nor me neither. An' as for theyoung ladies——"
"Ah, musha, young ladies. What would the likes av thim be wantin' widthat thafe av the wurrld—Mickey! Ah! may he die an' give the crowsa puddin' for this day's bad luck. No, gurl, it was Mrs. Grapnell hewas wantin' spache wid, an' shure she was downstairs in two shakesav a lamb's tail whin she heard it, an' out in the garden they werecolloguing for iver so long, an' she comin' in all av a trimble an'white as the driven snow, an' not a word good or bad did she spake.Only up to her room an' shut herself in. That's just what happened now!Make the best ye can av it."
"It's little best any av us can be makin' av thim as lives in thishouse," said Honora. "Sich gloomy faces, an' sthrange ways, an' nowthe ill-luck to come on thim all as soon as they've set foot in theplace. Shure, an' indade it's sorry I am I listened to me mother'sperswashins an' tuk the situation. Less money an' pleasanter companywould suit me better any day. An' the strict rules, an' always thatEnglish cook forgettin' about the fish av a Friday, an' sayin' it's thehousekeeper's fault. Musha! A pretty housekeeper! An' a face as sour asa crab-apple."
"That's true for ye. Only that the wages is good an' paid regular, an'the work aisy enough between the two av us, it's meself wouldn't careto put up wid it a month longer."
"There's the bell, Molly; an' the tay not wet. Shure, 'tis you are yermother's own spit for gossipin'. Be off wid ye, or 'tis gettin' noticean' not givin' it ye'll be."
Meanwhile, in her own room Jane Grapnell was sitting before a smalltable. A pile of papers lay before her, covered with her neat smallhandwriting. Her hand shook visibly as she added page after page, butshe never paused. She wrote with a feverish energy, as if against time,and her face was indeed what Molly had described it, "white as thedriven snow."
When she paused at last, the clock was striking eight. It was herbreakfast hour, and habits of discipline are not lightly broken. Risingfrom the table, she blotted the sheets and locked them into a smallleather portfolio, with a key which she wore round her neck, attachedto a fine silver chain. That done she enclosed it in a large sheet ofpaper and sealed it securely. Holding it in her hand she looked roundthe room as if she sought a hiding-place.
The search was in vain. A strange, hunted look came into her eyes.
"I daren't leave it here," she whispered, half-aloud. "If there's asearch, he might find it. There's no trusting such a villain."
Her eyes fell on a white fleecy shawl lying on a chair. It was one ofNora's. She had brought it there to mend. Snatching it up, she threw itover her arm, so as to conceal the portfolio, and left the room.
* * * * * *
Nora entered the breakfast-room first on that New Year's morning. Onthe table beside her plate lay a letter. As she saw the writing, a waveof colour came into her pale face. Something of the old brightness andlight shone in her eyes. She snatched it eagerly.
First fell out a card. A simple thing enough, only a wreath of violetsand the stereotyped greeting. But the sender's name was on it, and herheart thrilled at sign of remembrance. Enclosed was a thin slip ofpaper on which was written something. She read it, her face one blushof delight, then thrust it hastily into her pocket, as she heard Lyle'svoice without. She entered with Sir Anthony.
Nora turned to greet them. They both looked wonderingly at her changedface, and Lyle recognised once more the old impetuous warmth in herkiss, the old girlish ring in her voice.
"Something has happened. You've had good news?" she said, smiling atthe bright face.
"Yes," she answered. "I have the best of news, and of luck. Remembrancefrom a friend I thought had forgotten me."
"Ah! cards," said Lyle, listlessly, looking at a pile for herself. Shedid not open them, only pushed them indifferently away, and began topour out tea.
The sun was shining at last after that dreary week of rain. The air wasonce more balmy and springlike. Life was alert in the world without,and the blue of sky and river showed a lovely radiance through the yetleafless trees.
"You must go out to-day, both of you," said Sir Anthony. "You'll loseall your roses cooped up in the house day after day. Order the horses,Lyle, and have a good gallop."
She glanced at Nora. "What do you say?"
"I should love it," answered the girl, with subdued eagerness.
"Very well," agreed Lyle. "I will order the horses to be brought roundafter breakfast. That will give us nearly three hours before lunch."
"There's a meet at Mount Urris, isn't there?" said Sir Anthony,presently. "You could ride over and see them throw off. It's not morethan five miles from us."
Again Nora's face flushed and paled. How Fate was playing into herhands to-day.
"I was just thinking of that," she said. "I haven't seen a meet thisseason. Do you ever mean to hunt, Lyle?"
"Father doesn't wish it," she answered, indifferently.
"No," said Sir Anthony. "If I had half-a-dozen daughters it would bedifferent. I don't want to tempt Providence, and prevention is betterthan cure when there's a risk of broken necks and arms. I never couldbear to see women in the field. They spoil men's sport, and don't getmuch of their own."
"It's rank heresy to say that in Ireland, Sir Anthony," said Nora."Women pride themselves on their horsemanship, and to be 'in at thedeath' is a feminine proverb."
"That may be. I don't like it, and I won't allow Lyle to hunt as longas I have any authority over her."
The subject dropped, and as soon as breakfast was over Lyle went to thehousekeeper's room. Nora ran up to her own room to see about her habit.In reality to read over that treasured scrawl which had seemed to lifther to sight and sense of happiness once again.
Once swung into the saddle and cantering gaily down the drive her senseof exhilaration reached its height. Lyle could not understand hergaiety. Yet even to herself came that feeling of pleasure born of agood mount, the brisk rush of cool sweet air, warm sunshine and youth.The reaction after long days, sleepless nights, tear-filled hours, wasa relief for which she was duly grateful.
True, the relief was but temporary, but who is not thankful for thelull of pain in an aching nerve, though a visit to the dentist stilllurks in the background.
The horses were fresh and required management, so the girls did notwaste time in talking. They arrived at Mount Urris in time to seea goodly array of red coats, top boots, and riding habits. Also amultitude of vehicles of all sorts and conditions.
Then suddenly, without warning or preparation, it dawned upon Lyle thatDerrick might be there. She had not thought of the possibility, but nowit flashed across her and made her rein in her horse in a manner atwhich he showed strong disapproval.
At that moment a cheery voice called out her name, and she found theremonstrating forelegs of Meteor close to the low phaéton of BelleO'Neil. Wrapped in furs, and husky of voice, that lady had been unableto resist the temptation of such a gathering as this. Half the countyfavoured the Mount Urris meets.
"I was just wondering if you'd be here," she exclaimed. "And a nicefriendly neighbour you are indeed! Never been to see me, and there wasI shut up between my own four walls the best part of a week, and not asoul to speak to—save Derry. And you know, or will know some day, thata man is none too fond of putting his nose into a sick room! Well, hereI am though, and I as good as told Dr. Dan that he might save himselfthe trouble of saying 'No,' for I'd made up my mind. Are you going tofollow, Lyle?"
"No," she said, thankful for the restlessness that made Meteor pranceand curvet till her face and voice were under control. "I only rodeover with Nora to see them throw off."
"Derrick's about somewhere," continued Mrs. O'Neil, "mounted on aperfect devil of a horse, too. Blackskin they call him, and faith heis black; and an eye—you should see it, Lyle—rolling fire set inebony. I'm terrified at the brute; but he's a fine jumper—would takeanything."
She looked about. "I can't see him anywhere," she said. "I expect Derrykeeps him out of the crowd. By the way, where's Nora? I thought she waswith you."
Lyle glanced round. She could not see her friend anywhere. "I don'tknow where she's gone," she said.
"Ah! there she is, talking to Mr. Standish," exclaimed Mrs. O'Neil."That flirtation has hung fire a bit lately. Ah! poor girl, though, Iwas forgetting that sad story, Lyle, my dear, isn't it most mysteriousthat no word can be got as to the man who did that murder? The lasttime I was talking to Jasper Standish I said so to him. And what doyou think he answered?—and there was a meaning with it too, or I'm nojudge. 'Don't be too sure,' he said, 'that it was aman who did it.'Now wasn't that queer? What do you make of it?"
"I think—candidly—that Mr. Standish has given himself very littletrouble to discover who committed it—whether man or woman," said Lyle,coldly. "But it seems highly improbable that anyone but a man couldhave done it. Think of the strength needed. The broken window—thefallen bar!"
"I said that to him. Those were my very words, and he answered mestraight that the window could have been broken and the bar loosed fromits socket, inside the room, as easily as outside."
Lyle started! "What an extraordinary thing! Does he mean anyone in thehouse?—but that's impossible."
"My dear, crimes are often committed by just the last person we thinkcould possibly commit them. I don't know what Jasper meant, but 'twasvery strange. Ah! there's Derry, edging along outside of the crowd. Ithink he's coming this way."
Lyle's heart gave a quick sickening throb. Her hands grew suddenlynerveless.
"I think," she said, hurriedly, "I'll go and see after Nora. We shallmeet again Mrs. O'Neil." She turned her horse and rode away, leavingMrs. O'Neil in a state of surprise at such an abrupt departure.
But Lyle had no intention of joining Nora. She did not wish to see orspeak to Jasper Standish. Her one idea had been to evade Derrick. Shecarefully avoided the vehicles, steering Meteor in and out of the noisyexcited crowd, the plunging horses and garrulous drivers.
Arrived at a point of vantage, she glanced carelessly round. Ah! therehe was. How the blood raced through her veins. How dizzy and faint themere sight of that tall figure, that proudly poised head, made herfeel. All her pride was up in arms, but then fell down abased. She hadnot forgotten that brief joy, that too sweet dream.
Now, to the memory was added a touch of jealousy, bitter and torturing.He was beside a woman—readjusting the reins, bending slightly forwardin the act. Every movement of his hands and turn of his head seemed tosend red-hot pincers into her heart. She was nothing to him any longer.Cast out of his life, disregarded—perhaps forgotten.
She loitered there in the background, wishing Nora would end that longcolloquy with Jasper Standish, hoping that Belle O'Neil would not takeit into her head to tell Derrick she was present. Not that it wouldmatter. They were parted for ever.
Presently there was a stir. She caught sight of the hounds threadingtheir way in an eager, straggling procession. Horses pricked theirears, riders settled themselves more firmly in saddle. Those who meantbusiness looked alert, and drew away from the crowd.
Lyle, unconscious what was meant, let her horse go pretty well as hewished. She had some vague idea that Nora would join her as soon as thehounds were in covert.
Suddenly there came a cheer, the crack of whips, a blare of that musicfrom the hounds' throats so dear to the huntsmen's ears, the sound of ahorn thrilled out on the air, and a cry of "Forrad! Forrad away!"
In a second, before she had time to think what it all meant or what shewas to do, Lyle felt the reins wrenched from her careless hands. Meteorhad decided that inaction at such a moment was impossible. She wasconscious of flight, swift and easy, through the air, of dark specksto right, to left, in front of her, of trees racing by in headlongfury, of a broad white band streaming along dark fields and furrows.She grasped the reins instinctively, but knowing the horse had "got hishead" left further proceedings to his own discretion.
A sort of delirium swept over her.
Sky and field and trees intermingled. Everything seemed mad and wildwith motion. The madness touched herself, she could have laughed aloud!The blood ran riot through her veins, the sunlight flashed, the windwhistled. Brown shadows came and went; they were passed in flight, shescarce knowing what they meant. On and on, swifter and swifter, tillsuddenly a dull thud of hoofs beat close to her side. Nearer and nearerthey came. The black satin coat and outstretched neck of another horsewas in line with Meteor's head.
She thought of those words "rolling fire set in ebony," and heard avoice whose anxious tones set every nerve throbbing. "Turn, if youcan," it said. "There's a nasty bit over the next fence."
Then a hasty exclamation: "My God! Lyle, is it you?Can't you turn?"
"No!" she gasped, breathlessly, conscious only of the impatientmovement with which Meteor tore at the curb as her hand closed on it.
"Then let him go. Follow me—and trust to Providence."
She saw the big hunter shoot on ahead, going straight as an arrow forthat blackthorn hedge, beyond which might lie—anything. Somehow itdidn't seem to matter now.
Meteor, stimulated by example, followed on those flying hoofs. She shuther eyes involuntarily. Her knees clenched tight about the pommel, andfor the first time since that headlong race began her hand graspedthe saddle. Her loosened hair fell like a cloud about her. She feltthat now familiar rise; then—a stumble, a quick scrambling effort,and—peace!
Wearied with the last supreme effort Meteor slackened pace, thenstopped; his flanks heaving, his breath pumped through crimson nostrilsby long-enduring lungs.
She swayed in the saddle, and all grew dark before her. But through themists of falling senses she heard a voice low in her ear:
"Thank God, you're safe! What a feat! Whatever made you attempt it?"
What she answered, or if she answered at all, Lyle never knew. Derrickleapt from his hunter, and was by her side just in time to catch hernerveless figure as she fell forward.
WHEN she recovered consciousness Lyle found herself resting against ascarlet coat, in a quiet field. The two horses were quietly croppinggrass a few yards away. For some moments she could remember nothing.Then it all rushed back—that unintentional run with the hounds, thelast leap, the warning voice.
She sat up dazed and giddy. Her brow was wet; so were her lips, and thefront of her habit. A silver hunting flask lay beside her on the grass.She met the anxious eyes of Derrick Mallory, and staggered to her feetone crimson glow of shame.
"What in Heaven's name possessed you to do such a mad thing?" he askedsternly. "It's a miracle you weren't killed. Not a woman in the wholefield could take that leap. It's just about as much as a big jumperlike Blackskin there can do. And I thought you never hunted."
She laughed hysterically.
"No more I do. I didn't come here of my own will. . . . . My horsestarted with the others, and I simply could not stop him."
"Perhaps you were wise not to try."
His eyes turned from her face to the stiff fence and the wide ditchbeyond. Then a chill, embarrassed silence fell upon them both.
"You're losing your run," she said presently. "Pray go on. I'm allright now; I can go home."
"Have you any idea where you are?" he asked.
She glanced round. "No, but I can ask."
"I shall put you on the road," he said coldly. "I can't overtake them,and, however unpleasant my company may be, I can't allow you to go allthose miles by yourself. Besides, you can't cross-country now, andyou're quite twelve miles from home."
She made no remonstrance. Her will seemed suddenly weak, like her body.She was even conscious of a little thrill of pleasure at the masterfultone; conscious, too, that for one half-hour to have him near her, hearhis voice, meet his eyes, was worth more than that perilous gallop, andits risky termination.
"We'd better breathe the horses a bit," he continued.
Then he stooped for his flask, and she suddenly became conscious thather bodice was open at the throat; that she was hatless, and her hairstreaming about her. With a hot, painful blush she began to twist upthe shining coils.
He studiously averted his eyes, but when the task was completed hehanded her her hat.
"It fell off at that last jump," he said.
She fastened the elastic. How her hand shook, and how weak and strangeshe felt.
"May I offer you some more brandy?" asked Derrick. "I could not getmore than a drop down your throat when I tried, and you're awfullyshaken."
She tried to say "No," but it was a feeble attempt, and ended by herseating herself once more on the grass. He poured out some into thelittle cup and handed it to her. She took it meekly, and the faintnesspassed off.
"Rest there awhile," he said, more gently than he had yet spoken. "I'llgo and catch the horses."
When she had rested and recovered, he mounted her on Meteor, andopened a gate in the field that led into a long winding lane. It wasso narrow that the horses could scarcely walk abreast, but had it beentwice as narrow or twice as long Lyle felt she would not have uttered acomplaint.
They were very silent.
Her thoughts flitted to and fro—sometimes sad, sometimes resentful,but quite unable to regain that standpoint of hurt and angered feelingwhich had prompted her dismissal of an unworthy suitor. She wonderedvaguely if he had suffered during this past week—if to him had fallenlong sleepless nights, long hateful hours; dreariness, hopeless unrest.
The silence was becoming embarrassing. Their thoughts trenched ona subject too difficult for speech, and every furtive glance meantdanger. She tried to battle against this foolish consciousness. She hadno wish to wear her heart-break openly, and yet there seemed no way ofpretending forgetfulness of what had been.
Pride came to her aid. She spoke of her hunting adventure as lightly asif it had been a morning gallop; but he checked the lightness sternly.
"I didn't know it was you till I overtook you," he said. "And when Ilooked at your horse and thought of what he had done, and what laybefore him, I never expected to see you alive. Don't make a jest ofit,"—his voice shook slightly—"I thought I had faced everything thatcould mean feeling, but that moment showed me—I had not."
Their eyes met. It would have been hard to say which face was thewhiter of the two. Her heart throbbed—"He has not forgotten,"—with asense of triumph, and then of shame at that triumph.
He went on relentlessly. "You dealt me a facer, Lyle, and I went fromyou wounded to the core of my heart, but in sight of that danger Iforgot all, even the pride of manhood. I would have died a thousanddeaths to save you the risk of that one moment."
The falter in his voice set every pulse thrilling as she had neverthought to feel them thrill again. But she kept silence. Perhaps shethought her voice might be traitor to dignity, and that that thrillwould break its coldness.
"I never hoped to see you again, or speak to you," he went on in lownervous tones. "But you've haunted every hour of my life, if that isany satisfaction to you. I suppose you were right in your judgment, butwomen ought to be merciful, and though scores of lovers sigh for you,Lyle, you'll never win a truer love than that you've thrown away in amoment of pique and pride."
"I wanted truth," she said, "I held nothing back from you."
"You should have had it, child; but how could I explain, with love foryou hot on my lips? I had room for no other word or memory."
"It is too late to speak of that now."
"I know. But I leave here to-morrow. In a week I sail for India.You need not grudge me one hour whose memory can go with me in myloneliness. It will be loneliness indeed, Lyle—and only a week ago Ithought it would be all so different."
"To-morrow?" she echoed faintly, and some shadow of that lonelinessseemed to fall over herself.
"Yes. I can't stay here. It is martyrdom. Women can sit and brood overtroubles. It is one of their luxuries of sentiment. But a man can't.It would drive him mad or desperate; especially when the trouble is ofhis own bringing. This last week—— But why talk of it? It can't alteranything, and, you—wouldn't care."
She bent her head over Meteor's arching neck. Not care! Oh, if only shedidn't!
"I'm not sorry," he went on presently, "for this chance. I left youwith hot anger in my heart. I had no right, perhaps, to be offended;but we Irish are not responsible for our temperaments, and I felt stungand hurt. I think we hardly knew how angry we were, Lyle. But now afterthis meeting I'll go away at peace with you, and wishing you happinessand better luck than I could ever have brought you. I wonder whether Iam asking too much, but I'd give ten years of my life to hear you say,'Derrick, I forgive you.'"
He saw her lip quiver, and the pallor of her face frightened him. Wasit possible she did love him, only pride stood between them as aninvincible barrier?
"Don't say it out of pity," he said, hoarsely. "You misjudged me once.I don't wish you to do it again. Say it because you mean it; becauseyou are the same Lyle who came to my arms with such sweet graciousnessand made me her slave forever; because you are the only woman I everreally loved; because if you could see my heart you would know howfoolish was your causeless jealousy; because there you are rooted,sovereign and queen of all that's left of life, filling it withmemories that you can't alter, and I can't prevent! Say it for thesereasons or—keep silence."
She thought he must hear her heart's loud throbs, but they were not allof pain or pride in that moment. Something of exultation mingled withthem.
She had recognised her power.
She could make him plead and suffer, and remember. That other womancould scarcely rival her now.
"You don't speak," he said again. "Very well, I won't ask you for aword you don't mean, but I never dreamt you were so hard, Lyle."
"I am not hard," she said proudly, "only to forgive isn't—possible.You have laid a burden on my heart that all the years to come willscarcely lighten. All men will seem to me false when I remember you."
"If you learn the lessons of life," he said gravely, "you will not callmy actions by such a harsh name. The drifting fancies of a man do notaffect his heart. The one woman he loves is the only loadstone that canreally draw him."
Lyle turned her white face away to hide the gathering tears. She knewshe forgave him, but it was hard to say it. Her heart was weak as waterto his pleading. She felt his power had in no way relaxed. And now itwas too late. Part they must, there was no help for it. It was easierto keep up the pretence of coldness and of pride than yield and breakdown, and suffer again all that she had suffered.
Her calmness was so like indifference that he believed it less a maskthan a reality. As the lane widened he drew his horse aside, and lether ride on in front of him.
When they reached the open road she stopped. "I think I know the waynow, and I need not trouble you to come any further."
"Your road is mine also," he said curtly. "I shall keep you in sight,unless you absolutely forbid it."
"I could scarcely do that," she said quietly, "if our ways are thesame."
"For a little while. For the last time, Lyle."
She made no answer, but he saw her lids droop, and caught the suddenquiver of her lips.
"It is too late for happiness," he said, "but don't let us part inanger. Life after to-day will be hard enough without that added to it."
So they rode on side by side, speaking now and then in toneless, evenvoice, yet making no haste to shorten the distance that lay betweenthem and the last "good-bye."
It seemed to Lyle that she must have dreamt of those other impassionedfarewells as she stole a look at the stern coldness of his face. Hadhis hand ever sought hers tenderly, his eyes claimed look for look witha lover's pleading, his lips——
She drew herself up suddenly. Her thoughts must not stray over groundso dangerous. Allthat was over for ever. They were drawing nearerto the gulf of silence and separation that no love might bridge withhope.
They drew rein involuntarily at the cross-roads. Here there was nolonger excuse for his escort. She was within two minutes of her owngates. Try as she might she could not keep the sorrow from her eyes,nor he the pain from his.
The tired horses drooped their heads. She saw him shift the huntingcrop into his left hand, leaving the right free. A spasm ofheart-sickness shook the forced composure from her face and bearing.She was, after all, only a girl, and life's lessons are bitter.
"Good-bye," he said, under his breath.
A little gasping sob caught hers.
"Good-bye—Derrick!"
"Oh, Lyle, Lyle," he cried passionately, "youdo care, you can't goback on what has been! Your heartache answers mine, though it can't beas hard to bear. Are you sorry it has ended—like this?"
"Yes," she said sadly. "Nothing will ever seem quite the same. Onecan't give love and take it back at will."
"That's true enough," he said moodily. "It's but a poor starved futureI have to face. I think sometimes I shall never see this country again."
"At least," she said, "you will live—not stagnate."
He laughed sharply.
"If it's life to feel one is minus a limb, dead to peace and content,haunted by a memory that fills one's days and dreams! That's about whatit means to me. But I'll make no more moan over it. You have acted asyou thought best. Even had it been otherwise, had I been the faultlessbeing you desired, we should never have broken down your father'sopposition.—Best so!"
He held out his hand. It was ungloved. Some impulse prompted her todraw the white gauntlet from her own. Palm touched palm, close pressedand loth to part. Suddenly he raised the warm white wrist to his lipsand kissed it with lingering sadness. Then he released it, looking allhis soul into her tear-filled eyes.
"God bless you—always," he whispered.
The hand fell numb and loose to her side. She saw him wrench the rein,turn, and—the lonely road was not more desolate than her heart as sherealised he was gone from out her life for ever.
LYLE was in her room and changing her habit before she suddenly thoughtof Nora. She called her name, but there was no answer. She threw ona dressing-gown, and opened the communicating door between the tworooms—Nora's was empty.
"I wonder what has detained her? Surely her horse didn't bolt also,"she thought, as she returned and finished her dressing. She felt sickand bruised and weary, but she knew it would be better to put in anappearance at the luncheon table than to let her father hear a garbledversion of her hunting adventure. There was no need to mention DerrickMallory's name. But what could have happened to Nora? She ought to havebeen home by this time.
As soon as Lyle was dressed she rang her bell and inquired of Mollywhether Miss Callaghan had returned. The answer was "No"—whenseparated from the usual formula of circumlocution indispensable to allIrish replies. Lyle began to feel alarmed.
The luncheon bell was ringing, so she went downstairs and related herstory. Sir Anthony was full of consternation. Nora's absence increasedhis uneasiness, and he was full of self-blame for a suggestion that hadbeen so unexpectedly disastrous.
"You ought to have had the groom," he said.
"My dear dad, twenty grooms could not have prevented Meteor's bolt,"she answered.
"Where was Nora when you last saw her?"
"Talking to Jasper Standish."
"Oh! then she's all right. He would be sure to look after her."
"You seem to have great faith in Mr. Standish?"
"Why should I not? I've never had any reason to suspect his probity."
Lyle was silent. Her head was aching violently after the excitement ofthe morning. Her heart kept it company. Conversation was an effort.
Luncheon was over, but still came no signs of Nora. Sir Anthony at lastdespatched a groom to see if he could ascertain what had delayed her.Lyle went to her own room to lie down. She felt utterly prostrate, andthe pain in her head was so intense that every movement was agony.
It seemed as if hours passed. Everything was vague and dim, boundedonly by heart misery. Then a soft tap at the door roused her. She heardNora's voice speaking.
"Lyle, I've come back. I'm all right. Your father said you wereanxious."
"Come in," she answered, feebly.
The girl obeyed the summons. She was still in her habit, but even inthat dim room the radiance and glory of her face struck Lyle withsudden wonder.
"How happy you look!" she said, enviously.
"Do I? Perhaps I am. But never mind me. What's this about yourself? DidMeteor really go after the hounds?"
"Yes—whether I would or no."
"You weren't thrown, Lyle, or hurt?"
"No—very nearly though. He took that big jump by Aylmer's Field. I hadno idea what it was like till I was over. Then he had had about enough."
"It's a mercy you weren't thrown," exclaimed Nora. "But why are youlying down?"
"I have a racking headache."
"Then I won't talk to you. Just lie quietly there till tea-time. ShallI order it up in my room?"
"Do, dear. Then I can sit there in my dressing-gown."
She sank down again amongst the pillows, and Nora withdrew. She fellinto a heavy sleep, or stupor, the result of pain and fatigue, and whenshe awoke the room was dusk. Through the open door she caught the gleamof firelight and lamplight, and rising from the bed she joined Nora.
"The tea is not made; I was waiting for you. I did not like to disturbyou. By the way, Lyle, do you know where Jane is? Molly says no one hasseen her since morning."
"That's strange. But perhaps she went into the town to order things."
"It doesn't take six hours to do that."
"No. It is rather odd."
"Well, at any rate she can't be on a runaway horse," said Nora,laughing. "Molly says she was carrying a small bag; but she told no onewhere she was going."
"Oh, she's all right. She will be home before long," said Lyle. "Now,what were your adventures this morning? They seem to have improved yourspirits."
"I? Oh! I am so much happier, Lyle. I was wrong about—about what Ithought and said of Jasper, and—you. He has not really changed."
Lyle looked at the sweet, happy face, and her heart sank.
"I wish he had," she said to herself, but she kept silence. Nora'scheeks were glowing. Hope's starshine filled the violet of her eyes.
"I don't know how I could have been so stupid," she went on, too happyfor discouragement. "But it's all right now. I shall never distrust himagain."
"Are you so sure as all that?" asked Lyle, putting down her cup, andlooking with sad wonder at the girl's changed face.
"Yes."
She said no more. That one simple affirmative meant everything.
"Answer me truly, Nora. Are you going to marry Jasper Standish?"
"Not yet. . . . . Not for a long time. When he has a better position,and a little more money——"
"He has asked you?"
"He conveyed as much as hints can convey. Oh! Lyle, I wish I was richlike you. I would give him everything I had in the world."
"You can better test his worth without riches, Nora."
"I don't wish to test it. I am quite content to believe in it. Itdistresses me, Lyle, that you are so prejudiced. You only. Sir Anthonylikes him, so does everyone in the county. I cannot understand why youdon't."
"Well, my darling, if you vouch so strongly for his merits, I must tryand conquer that prejudice. It need not make you unhappy. It is my ownmisfortune that I don't believe in men."
"Or in love?"
"No—it is a false thing. It means too much or too little."
"That is to say, you have found it disappointing?"
"Yes," she said quietly.
"I was afraid of it," said Nora, gently. "But I did not like to ask. Heis going back to India—I heard so to-day."
"I know. He told me himself."
"But you never spoke to him; at least, not when I was there."
"No. I did not wish to speak to him. It was all owing to that huntingfreak of Meteor's."
She related the incident briefly, and Nora gave it astonished attention.
"Poor fellow!" she said at last. "I think you are rather hard on men,Lyle. We must take them as they are—not heroes or gods, but ordinaryflesh and blood, made up of good and bad just like ourselves. Whyshould one human being expect perfection of another?"
"Because it is best to look for the highest, and natural to want it inone we love."
Nora was silent. Well enough she knew that her ideal was very far frombeing the highest; that he fell miles below Lyle Orcheton's standard ofmanly perfection; but she asked for nothing better than what he was orseemed.
She poured out some more tea and drank it silently.
"Do you know," she said at last, "Mrs. O'Neil has asked me to stay withher for a week or two. She says it is so lonely—and will be more sowhen her nephew leaves."
Lyle started ever so slightly. "Are you going?"
"If you don't mind," said Nora. "I would like to stay there for a weekor two. She is such an old friend, and so kind."
"Dearest, you must do exactly as you please here, or I shall be mostunhappy. And, indeed, I'm not very lively company for you or anyone,just now."
"Oh, Lyle, it's not that. You and I are not at the stage of friendshipwhen we need to entertain each other. But she has been ill, and dull,and moped, and begged me so hard——"
"When do you go?"
"To-morrow, if you are sure you won't mind being left alone for alittle while. We can still see each other nearly every day."
"Yes, of course. And I must finish my room, and take up my music again.It's a long time since I practised."
"Indeed it is. You've been neglecting everything of late. Lyle——"
"What is it?"
"I've just remembered. We never found that secret staircase, did we?"
"No-o," said Lyle, faintly.
She thought of the day when its history had been discussed. How muchhad happened since!
"Would you like to find it?" continued Nora.
Lyle shook her head. "No. I have lost all interest in it. Have you everthought how strangely my presentiment about that room came true, Nora?The very first day I was arranging it sorrow overtook me, as I felt itwould—and ever since, trouble has followed trouble."
"You have never been well or happy, you mean?"
"Yes."
"But, Lyle, it may not end with this. You have said very little to me,but I suppose it is your father's opposition that is the barrier, is itnot?"
"One of them. There is a worse—and I can't speak of it."
"I think I know—another woman, is it not?"
"It is common gossip, no doubt," said Lyle, bitterly. "I might haveexpected it."
"But are you quite sure? If it weren't true——"
"It is true. He could not deny it."
"It is very hard. I do not think you, of all people, deserve it.But perhaps you will not always care like this. There are other menworthier, more suitable."
"Oh! Nora, Nora, 'with a little hoard of maxims preaching down' a—abroken heart shall we say? Only mine is not broken. Hurt and sore Igrant, but it will recover. Itmust be possible to forget in time ifone tries very hard."
"Yes; if we really try."
"I shall try—and succeed. In a year it will be all quite different."
"A year?" Nora shook her head somewhat sadly. "Not if I know anythingof you, Lyle."
"Twelve long months. Fifty-two weeks. Oh! a great deal can be conqueredin that time. I shall try, as I said."
She bent down and held her hands towards the fire, as if suddenly cold.Her eyes fell on the wrist Derrick had kissed. The blue veins showedthrough the white skin where his lips had lingered.
"And it all meant nothing!" she cried suddenly. "Nothing—the faith,the hope, the waiting—those long anxious weeks! Nothing!"
From the standpoint of recovered hope, Nora uttered cheeringprophecies. They fell on heedless ears. They seemed to belong to a timeLyle wanted to forget. To-morrow he would be gone out of her world, herlife. How long before he would be out of her heart also!
She sank back in her chair in a wearied attitude. Nora looked at herwith soft compassion.
"If I were you," she said, "I would not come down to dinner to-night.You look as white as a ghost; and your eyes tell you are in pain. Isn'tyour head better?"
"A little. It is at the dull stage of aching. I really think I willtake your advice. Tell dad I had a splitting headache after thismorning's escapade."
"I'll send you up some dinner."
"I couldn't touch it."
"Some soup?" pleaded Nora. "It's all nonsense giving way like this.You'll be ill; and what good will that do to anyone!"
"Very well," said Lyle, "you don't mind my taking possession of yourroom in this fashion?"
"Mind!" Nora laughed, and pulled the big, chintz-covered Chesterfieldover near the fire. "Just you lie there and don't move, while I dress.And after dinner I'll come up and sit with you. Oh! by-the-bye, I mustask Jane to do my packing."
"And I'll lie here and watch it. You'd better dress, dear. It onlywants half-an-hour of dinner time."
She lay there amidst the soft cushions wearied and spent. The acutestage of mental and physical suffering had been reached. It was thehour of the ebb-tide, and the strain and stress relaxed. Her eyesclosed. Nora thought she slept, but it was not sleep—only exhaustion.
Molly brought up soup and wine, and she took both, and felt the betterfor them.
The girl hovered round the room as if anxious and yet reluctant tospeak. At last she burst out: "Av ye, plaze, miss, I think I ought totell you that Mrs. Grapnell has been away wid herself the whole av thisday, an' no wurrd to inyone; an' that's not all, miss. There's been apoliceman watching the house since an hour before dark, an' not fiveminutes ago Mister Standish, the county Inspector, rode over an' askedto see the master, an' the two av thim are in the study. It was biznessav the greatest importance he said, an' the master left his dinneran' wint to him; an' axin' yer pardon, miss, I'm afraid something hashappened, for t'was mighty grave and stern he looked. And whin hepassed into the study—Mister Standish I mane—I happened to be passin'by the door, an' I heard him whisper to the man outside. Shure, MissLyle, as I'm a livin' sowl this minnit t'was 'handcuffs' was the wurrd!"
STARTLED and amazed, Lyle sat up and looked at the girl. At the samemoment the door opened, and Sir Anthony entered. He bade Molly leavethe room and shut the door on her reluctant exit.
"Lyle, my dear," he then said, "something extraordinary has happened.Mr. Standish has come here to arrest Jane Grapnell on suspicion of themurder of Nora's father."
Lyle gazed at him in wide-eyed incredulity.
"Arrest Jane! What an idea! Why she was devoted to Mr. Callaghan."
"It seemed so; but I am bound to tell you, my dear, this woman has avery strange history. I've only heard a small portion, but that's queerenough. It also appears that while at Dr. Dan's, and also during theshort time she has been here, she was in the habit of going out atnight—it is supposed to meet—— Why, Lyle, what's the matter?"
For Lyle had given a sudden start. She remembered that mysteriousfigure crossing the park, and the after-discovery that it had been noneof the younger servants.
"I—I can't believe it," she said. "Jane suspected ofmurder—impossible!"
"Standish makes out a very strong case. It is a horrible thing tohappen here. Have you any idea where she is, by the way?"
Lyle grew very pale. She thought of Jane's strange absence allday—unasked, unexplained. Yet her faith clung to the poor huntedcreature.
"She went into the town, and has not yet returned," she answered."Where—where is Mr. Standish?"
"In my study. The house has been watched all day."
She rose unsteadily. Her temples throbbed violently at the movement.
"I should like to see him," she said. "I will come down. Remember,father, Jane is not a mere servant. Nora and I have known her since ourschooldays. I can't believe she could have done such a thing. It is aridiculous charge. I should say it could not hold ground; that it wasmade to screen someone else."
"That is an absurd and unreasonable idea," said Sir Anthony, sternly."You women are so illogical."
"It may be illogical," said Lyle, "it is also intuition. I would stakemy life on Jane's honour and Jane's innocence."
"There can be no use in your seeing Mr. Standish," continued herfather. "I only came up to ask if you could give us any information asto Jane's whereabouts?"
"I cannot." Her lips closed firmly. "And I would not if I could," shesaid in her heart.
"Very well, I will tell him."
He turned away, when the door suddenly burst open, and Nora entered ina whirl of excitement. "Lyle!" she cried. "Oh! Sir Anthony, surely it'snot true! It's like a wild dream. Jane, my faithful old Jane, accusedof murdering my father? Impossible!"
She burst into a flood of tears. Her whole frame was shaking.
"Hush! my child, hush!" said Sir Anthony kindly. "After all, accusationand conviction are widely different things."
"Oh! but the shame—the disgrace!" sobbed Nora, wildly. "They willcling to her always. And she has never been liked, never been friendlywith the people here, and not one will have a good word for her!Oh! surely, surely this can be stopped. I can't bear it. It is toohorrible!"
Sir Anthony looked deeply distressed. It was not the first time thathe had found himself wishing he had never come to Ireland. Nothingbut disaster and ill-luck had befallen him since he had bought theHermitage.
"Try to calm her, Lyle," he said. "I must go down to Standish. Thisaffair cannot rest, and Jane's flight makes it the more suspicious."
He hurried from the room. Nora fell weeping into Lyle's arms. Thissudden shock had brought back all the horror of that terrible timewhen she had faced her first grief. Everything else was forgotten. Thetwo girls cried, discussed, and argued, while Sir Anthony and JasperStandish were below, interviewing the other servants and trying to gainadditional evidence as to the cause of Jane's hurried departure.
Molly's story of red-haired Mickey's visit and the letter seemed todisconcert the Inspector visibly.
"How did she come to know him? Has he been here before?" he inquired.
"No, sir," answered the girl.
"But she seemed to know him," added Honora Mooney.
Jasper dismissed them, and shut up his note book.
"The affair's going to give us some trouble," he said to Sir Anthony."That boy Doolan is a half-witted, good-for-nothing vagabond. The factof his knowing this woman is not to her credit."
"I wonder what was in that letter?" said Sir Anthony, thoughtfully.
"With your permission I will make a search of her room," continuedJasper. "There may be evidence to be found there."
"Shall I accompany you?"
"No, thank you, I would rather go by myself. But I'll take my man aswitness."
Sir Anthony returned to the deserted dining-room. All appetite fordinner had vanished. What a miserable New Year's Day it had been! Hebade Woodman give him some wine and remove the dishes, and sat on therealone and dispirited awaiting Jasper's return.
One look at the Inspector's face showed him there had been morediscoveries.
"You have found out something?" he questioned anxiously.
"I am sorry to say so, Sir Anthony."
He opened his hand. In it glittered a small gold coin. "Look at that,"he said.
Sir Anthony fixed his glasses, and stared hard at the money. "Asovereign!" he said.
"Yes, but do you see that mark on it?"
Jasper pointed to a tiny mark scratched on the surface.
"It looks like a letter," said Sir Anthony.
"It is a letter—the letter 'D.' I ascertained from Donovan, beforehe went out to America, that ten of the gold pieces he paid into theBank that day of the murder were marked with his initial. He had savedthem up as profit from some bargain, and scratched this letter 'D' onthem to celebrate his good luck. He put them in with the other money.Sir Anthony, this was found in a corner of one of the drawers in thechest in Jane Grapnell's room. It may have escaped from her purse, androlled there; probably it did. In her hurried flight she took all themoney she had, but this piece lay between the paper and the wood of thedrawer where I found it. It is one of the ten marked pieces paid intothe Bank by Donovan."
"Good heaven's! You don't say so?"
"I do. I must. The case looked black enough before, it looks worsenow. I must issue a warrant for the arrest of this woman, and have ittelegraphed all over the kingdom. But she has had a good start. She maybe on the way to America—California—anywhere!"
"Yes, of course," faltered Sir Anthony.
"Well, in any case, I needn't take up any more of your time. I'velocked up everything in her room and taken the key. You will see no onegoes there."
"Of course. It's an awful thing, though, Standish—an awful thing tohave happened here, just as I thought we were comfortably settled."
"It is awful. But it can't be helped."
"It's a great shock to poor Nora. She was so attached to Jane. Upon mysoul, I can't credit her guilt. It looks so impossible."
"If crimes didn't look like that, very few would be brought home to thereal culprits. The more impossible, the greater the likelihood. That isthe ground I have gone upon."
"And all the dreadful business will be raked up again. And I supposeyou'll be wanting me to give evidence."
"Indeed I will."
Sir Anthony's brow clouded. "I wish to heaven," he said, in a lowtroubled voice, "that I'd never come to this country. Some evil fatehas been dodging my steps ever since. There's always some troubleor unpleasantness, and I so hoped for peace at last. Lyle is illand altered, Nora Callaghan's life is shadowed by this tragedy, andI myself am brought into it all by the fact of my unconsciouslyharbouring the suspected person under my roof."
"It is hard," said Jasper Standish, sympathetically. "But justice mustbe done, Sir Anthony, and it doesn't stand aside because of discomfortto others!"
He left then, and Sir Anthony went upstairs to talk the matter overwith Nora and his daughter.
* * * * * *
A sense of gloom and ever-deepening horror brooded over the Hermitage.
Nora had gone to Mrs. O'Neil's, and Lyle was left much alone. All thedelight and hope with which she had looked forward to settling inIreland had vanished. Those months seemed like years added to her life.She fulfilled her duties mechanically, taking up the house-keepingherself, for she had no desire to replace poor Jane. No trace of herhad been found. How she had accomplished that flight so secretly andhastily was a mystery. Suspicion looked black against her, and yetLyle's faith never wavered, even when Nora's was shaken.
Derrick had left on the second, as he had said. She knew it byreceiving a small packet on that morning, containing a spray ofshamrock, and the one word "Farewell."
She locked them away in a tray of her jewel case, the only mementoes ofher brief love dream.
Brief indeed it had been, and with a resolution and submission that hadlittle of girlhood left, she put it from her into that sad vault thatmeant the past.
"There is one comfort," she told herself, "I shall never suffer likethis again. I could not. They say a first grief is always the hardestto bear, and after that shock of disillusion it is no longer anagony to think of the seas between us. The fear of meeting him is atleast over. To wake up in the morning and know he is gone is almostconsolation."
But the consolation was a very poor one. It did not give the old lightto her eye and joy to her face. It could not restore the ringinggladness to voice and laugh, of which sorrow had taken such heavytoll. The life of girlhood was gone. She had faced the ignominy ofself-deception. It seemed to her that the shame of it had turned herheart to stone.
But she did battle bravely, and threw herself into active life as faras was possible. Brooding and tears could never restore that fallenidol to its pedestal. When she had recognised that fact she was moreunhappy but less intolerant.
Nora had been gone about a fortnight when one night she went up toher room a little earlier than usual. Her father was busy over someliterary work, and usually spent the evenings in his study.
The moon was flooding the pretty bedchamber with radiance. A small woodfire burnt in the grate, for the rooms at the Hermitage were alwaysmore or less chilly. Lyle looked out on the park and saw the distantriver lying like a silver mirror between its dark banks, the belt oflaurels and holly, the shadows of the leafless elms upon the grass.
As she stood at the window there flashed back to her mind the memoryof that night when she had seen that flitting figure pass under theshadows of those same trees.
Had it been Jane? And whom had she gone to meet? The dreadful storycame back to her. She traced it step by step. It had come to a fullstop now. Jasper Standish had failed to discover his desired victim.Nothing on earth could shake Lyle's belief that Jane was a victim,destined to be the scapegoat of another's misdeeds, until such time asher innocence or that other's guilt should be proved.
To-night she could not get away from her memories of this strange, sad,reserved woman; unpopular because of that sadness, unloved becauseof that reserve. That some great sorrow burdened her life Lyle knew,though of its nature she was entirely ignorant.
She turned away from the window at last and let the curtains fallbefore it.
The fire leaped suddenly up and one ray of light shone on achintz-covered dress ottoman standing at the foot of the bed. It heldLyle's evening dresses, and as her eye followed unthinkingly the flashof light, she noticed that a fragment of lace was hanging out betweenthe lid and the floor. It was an unimportant matter, so unimportantthat unless Lyle had been innately tidy of habit she would not havetroubled her head about it. As it was, she lit the candles on themantel-shelf, and then going over to the box, lifted the lid to put thelace back in its place.
It had caught in the latch of the ottoman, and but for that fact Lylewould not have knelt down and pushed back the lid. So do trifles makeup histories.
Kneeling there she looked at the dress lying on the top. She rememberedit was the very dress she was to have worn at Mrs. O'Neil's New Year'sparty. She remembered also that Jane Grapnell had been working at itthe night of Mr. Callaghan's murder. The whole of the events of thatnight flashed back to her. How much had come and gone and happenedsince the dress had been laid aside, forgotten in the horrors of afterevents!
She had hoped Derrick would have returned for that party. She hadbeen secretly anxious that the gown should be very pretty, and verybecoming. Now the pearly gleam of satin and lace came as an added shockin an unexpected moment. She felt the scorch of tears in her eyes asshe laid the strip of lace back in its place. There lay the needle andcotton, just as Jane had left them.
She drew the needle out.
As she did so something rustled and cracked. Lyle felt among the filmyfolds of lace and satin, and drew out a sheet of ruled paper. It wasthe sort of paper used for exercise books. She looked at it curiously.It was folded like a square envelope, and addressed to herself. Insurprise she opened it, and saw it was covered with very fine smallwriting.
Rising hastily she went over to the light and began to read it.
This is what Lyle read:
"DEAR MISS LYLE,—"I am writing this in great distress and in greatterror. I cannot explain more. I have a powerful enemy and he isdogging my steps and watching my actions. The time is not yet ripe orI could turn the tables on him; but the day will come, and until itcomes I throw myself on your mercy. Do not, I pray of you, believe whatis said of me, and will be said of me, when it is known I am gone. Forgo I must. If I stay here he will deprive me of freedom, and withoutfreedom I cannot act. It may be months, it may be less, before I canbring my proofs to bear against this enemy. In those months what maynot happen! That is my dread; that is why at all risks I write to you.
"At the bottom of this dress box of yours I have placed a sealedpacket. I dared not leave it in my own room for fear it should besearched. May I beseech you to keep this safe until I claim it,unless one thing should happen. That one thing which I so greatlyfear and can so weakly guard against, is the event of Jasper Standishproposing to, or marrying, Miss Nora. If such a thing should happen,or appear likely to happen, you must open the packet. I must riskeverything, even death, to save her. I know I can trust you.
"My time is short, I have to leave here within an hour. I am going toput this letter in your dressing-table drawer, where you will be sureto find it. I shall——"
The letter broke off. There was no signature, no date, and it had notbeen sealed, not even placed in an envelope. Lyle gazed at it, whiteand trembling. It was as if someone had suddenly risen from the deadand confronted her. The writing looked like Jane Grapnell's, thoughsomewhat smaller and more cramped than her usual calligraphy in accountbooks and orders.
The letter was unfinished. Something must have happened to prevent hercarrying out her intention. Lyle could only suppose that some suddeninterruption had prevented her sealing it; that, afraid to put it openin the dressing-table drawer, she had slipped it into this box, knowingthat the moment Lyle went there for any of her evening dresses shewould find it.
But what was that about a packet? About Nora and Jasper Standish? Againshe perused the small cramped writing. A thrill of horror ran throughher. Whatever the woman meant had been realised. Nora was ostensiblyengaged to this man, who was hounding down a defenceless woman—thisman whom she had always distrusted, who had proved himself fickle anduntrue!
Nora and Jasper Standish! What could it mean? Not that he—Jasper—hadbeen concerned in the crime?—that to save himself—— Her brainreeled at the awfulness of the thought. No, it could not be. He wasbad, unprincipled, but surely no fiend out of hell itself could haveconceived an outrage so diabolical.
She sank into a chair, the letter clenched in her trembling fingers.
What could she do? What must be done? Keep Jane's secret, yet saveNora? It seemed impossible. Only too well she knew the strength of thegirl's infatuation. Nothing short of absolute invincible proof wouldconvince her that this man was unworthy, and worse than that, perhaps.A criminal—reckless, diabolical, blood-stained.
The moments passed, and she could only sit there saying over thosewords, yet conscious all the time that Nora must be saved at any cost.She put the letter down and went over to the box. She lifted out thedresses, the lace, and silken petticoats one by one. Underneath lay thesealed packet of which the letter spoke. The wax had made blood-redsplashes on the paper, as if a hurried hand had used it.
She took up the packet. It was square and heavy, and loosely woundround it was a thin silver chain, to which a key was attached
"A box!" thought Lyle. "Ought I to open it? She says, 'If such a thingshould happen or be likely to happen . . .' But ithas happened. Icannot prevent it now. No one can. Yet she is not married to him; theremay be something here to save her. Surely that was what Jane meant."
Perplexed with doubt she looked again at the sealed packet, then put itdown on the floor and replaced the dresses in the ottoman. That done,she crossed over to the door and locked it. Then she drew her chair upto the fire and once more read the letter. As she finished it for thethird time a look of resolution flashed over her pale face.
"God knows, Jane, I don't want your secrets," she half whispered, "butif another life is in peril I must risk all."
She broke the seals and tore off the paper. A flat leather box orportfolio lay before her. She opened the lock with the key attached tothe silver chain. The case was full of papers, in single sheets closelywritten on one side, and tied at the top of the pages with red tape.This kept them together so that they could easily be read.
Lyle saw that every page was numbered. This was evidently a thoughtfuland methodical record, put together for a purpose. She made up the fireand glanced at the clock. It was only ten.
Then she commenced the task of reading those closely covered sheets.
* * * * * *
"I am writing this story of a woman's suffering for two purposes. Oneis to relieve my own brain from its pressure of trouble, the other tokeep ever fresh and green in my memory the vengeance I have sworn onone man.
"I do not know the man yet, but I shall know him. I do not even knowwhere to seek him, but I shall find him. There never yet was a resolutewill that failed to gain its purpose, and mine is resolute as rock, andneither time nor chance shall alter it.
"Partly to keep the facts in my memory, partly to leave somevindication of my actions behind me in case of accident, or ill fate,I write these records. I began them on that awful day when all mylife turned to black despair, when the news came from the prisonthat—she—was dying.
"I never was a lovable woman, or an attractive woman; the hearthunger of my life was never to be satisfied by man's love or woman'sfriendship. Yet I married. There was no need to confide in thesepages why, or whom I married. I was badly used, hardly tried, andsoon forsaken for a fairer face. But Providence understood a woman'sneed when He made us mothers, and with motherhood came to me my firsthappiness, and my first consolation.
"My little girl was very delicate and frail. So much the more need hadshe of me, and I of her. I worked hard. I was a good needlewoman andthe big shops gave me regular employment. I and my little one werenever separated, and at last a great stroke of luck overtook me. An oldwidower living in Wales, rich and somewhat eccentric, engaged me ashousekeeper. I told him I was a widow and could not leave my child. Heallowed me to have her with me.
"Years of peace and prosperity came then. I was perfectly content. Mylittle Hester was educated at the village school, and grew up strongand healthy and beautiful. Yes—plain and homely as I was, my childblossomed into beauty that any lady might have envied.
"When she was about sixteen, a rich lady travelling through Walesstopped at H——, and saw her. She was an Irish lady, very pleasantand homely, and she wanted to engage Hester as her maid. The girl wasa beautiful worker, besides being quick and handy, and adaptable. Shewas delighted at the idea of going into service, of seeing life, forthe lady travelled about a great deal, she told us, and finally I waspersuaded to let her go for a year.
"I had letters from her from time to time. She always wrote in goodspirits. She was happy and well. Her mistress was kindness itself.
"Just about that time my master fell ill, and I was much taken up withnursing and attending to him. His illness was brief, and he died. Inhis will he left me a sum of three hundred pounds for my services. Iwas surprised. I little guessed then the need I should have for thatmoney.
"When the funeral was over, the servants dismissed, and his heir hadcome to take possession, I began to remember the long time that hadelapsed since Hessie had written. I looked at the address of herlast letter, and found she had left Ireland and was somewhere on theFrench coast. I wished she had been nearer, for I could have gone tosee her. However, she said she would soon be coming to England, soI had to content myself with writing and telling her of my piece ofgood fortune. I also sent her ten pounds as a present. The rest of mymoney I invested, and after a short holiday I looked out for anothersituation. I succeeded in obtaining one without much difficulty, for mylate master's name was well known, and his written testimonial was onlytoo kind and flattering to my poor abilities.
"I had received only a short letter from my daughter gratefullyacknowledging the money, but giving no further information aboutherself. I was with one of the county families of H——, Llewellyanby name. I had a very easy and very comfortable place. We were somedistance from the town, and news travelled slowly and posts were few.
"One morning I opened a local newspaper of some days old, and inglancing at the contents I saw that a woman had been arrested andimprisoned for child murder. It seemed so shocking and so awful a crimeto me that I could hardly bring myself to read it. When I did, my firsthorror gave way to pity.
"The girl was very young, only seventeen, they said. She had crossedover in a little barque from the French Coast to Holyhead. Arrivedthere she had made her way on foot to the little village of H——. Shehad gone to a farmhouse and asked for a night's rest which had beengiven her. That night her child was born—a little sickly prematurecreature. The farmer's wife attended her and next day she declared herintention of pursuing her journey. She said she was going to friendsonly a few miles off. She seemed a little light-headed and queer, thewoman thought, and she tried to dissuade her from getting up. Finallythe girl agreed to wait there another day.
"That night, however, she must have dressed herself and got out ofthe house. She was found wandering about near the river at dawn nextmorning. The child was not with her, and as she seemed 'queer' the menwho found her took her to the police station. She gave her name asHester Sands, and was sent to the workhouse.
"The suspicions of the matron led to inquiries, and she was tracedback to the farm house. They asked what she had done with the infant,but she denied ever having had a child. She was then brought up beforethe magistrates and accused of having made away with it. Search wasmade, and the body was found in the river close to the bank—dead. Sheobstinately denied it was hers, or that she had killed it. The case wasremanded, and she was committed to prison. Baldly stated, these werethe facts.
"I put the paper down with an uncomfortable feeling. The age ofthe accused girl was the age of Hester. The name was the same. Acoincidence, but one that left behind it a sense of sadness anddiscomfort. I wondered what lay behind the story. The old, old tragedyof woman's wrongs and man's deception? I wondered also whether the girlhad any friends. I took up the paper again and looked at the concludingnotice. She was to be tried at the Assizes. They opened the followingweek. I made up my mind to be present, and hear the story as it wouldbe told in Court.
"I write calmly of this now. Death is calm; so I think is despair. Itis despair that helps me to put into written words the sorrow that hasbeen worse than death to me. The fewer words, the easier the task. Iwent to the Court. I saw the prisoner brought into the dock—a slight,frail creature, with bent head and downcast eyes. The head was lifted,the eyes looked in terrified question at the cold crowd of men andwomen.
"They were the eyes of my own child. . . . .
* * * * * *
"They say I fainted; fell like a log from my seat. I don't know, Icalled on death, but my time had not yet come.
"Let me hasten on. There are some griefs no words can paint, noheart can speak; such grief was mine. I will only say I went to theprison, day after day. I paid every farthing I had for her defence. Ipleaded as one pleads for life for some clue to this awful tragedy.She still maintained that she had had no child. It was plain her mindwas unhinged, and the lawyer could only build her defence on that onefoundation.
"I wrote to the lady with whom she had lived in Ireland. She answeredthat Hester had left her suddenly without notice or warning, sayingshe was summoned by me. That was two months before I had received herletter saying she was going to France. There was no trace of her at theplace named in her letter. She would not say where she had been. It wasa poor case, and my heart was filled with agony and shame and terror asI saw how it went against her. I had no hope; no more had her counsel.
"The day came, the last day. I heard the verdict—Guilty. There wasa recommendation to mercy at the end of it. They bore me home out ofcourt senseless. She still seemed totally unmoved.
"For weeks she lay in prison while the recommendation was beingconsidered. I was allowed to see her, but never alone. Each time sheseemed to me a little paler, a little thinner, a little more frail.I could not weep, I could not grieve. I was glad to think that deathmight seize her before that last horrible indignity should befall her.At last she was too ill to be in her cell, and was taken to the prisoninfirmary. There she died.
"I swore on her dead body that I would find her betrayer, if I had tosearch the world through for him.
"They gave me her poor clothes and a little worn Testament that hadlain in her bosom. Nothing more. No letter, no scrap of writing. Withthese I had to work my way to the vengeance I had sworn. For thatpurpose alone I lived.
"My first difficulty was money. Almost all my three hundred pounds hadgone to pay lawyers and gain for her some poor comforts or kindness inthat awful time of imprisonment. I took another situation, changingmy name so that I should not be identified with this awful tragedy. Iworked hard, saved every penny, and then began my quest. The person Iemployed, however, at length came to a dead wall in his discoveries.He had had all my money and left me with only one clue. I resolved tofollow it up myself.
"Instincts are strange things. What prompts us to like one person anddislike another? What drew me to Miss Nora and made me love her as Ihad loved no one but my ill-fated child? I cannot tell. What made meturn cold and faint the first time I ever set eyes on Jasper Standish?What made me shrink from him as one shrinks from some loathsome andcorrupt thing? Again I cannot tell. Both these facts are true. Thereason of them is still unexplained.
"When Miss Nora was leaving school she asked me to come to Ireland withher and be her housekeeper. I went gladly. The more so as I knew thecounty that her home was in the county where my daughter had lived, theplace but a few miles from the town where Miss Nora's father was bankmanager. I had been very patient. Now it seemed to me that Fate wasplaying into my hands, that I might find out the truth at last.
"I have said that I felt a curious antipathy to Jasper Standish, thecounty Inspector. He was a handsome man, a popular man, a great friendof Mr. Callaghan's, and a great admirer of Miss Nora's. Yet I hatedhim. Above all, I hated to see him beside her. His every look and touchseemed to me a desecration of her innocent girlish grace and beauty.Perhaps it was that hatred that set me on the track of discovery.
"I watched him furtively, as one watches an enemy. I bribed theservices of a rough, half-witted Irish lad, who was his spy andcreature. I made him mine. Where his master gave him ha'pence, I gavehim silver. Instead of kicks and oaths he had kind words. He would doanything for me, and I knew I could nowhere have found a more usefultool. No one knew that I had any communication with him. I used to meethim secretly at night, and never twice in the same place.
"On two occasions my absence was discovered. Once by Dr. Dan, when Iwas staying there after the murder, and once by Miss Lyle, shortlyafter we had all come to the Hermitage. But she did not recogniseme. She thought it was one of the younger servants. Who wouldhave suspected plain, middle-aged, ill-favoured Jane of midnightassignations? I incurred Dr. Dan's suspicions. He has distrusted meever since. He little knew for what purpose I was working.
"I come now to the dread and awful discovery I have made respectingthis man—Jasper Standish. I come to the reason of his secret animositytowards me. I come also to the reason of my terror lest Miss Nora'sgirlish fancy should become something deeper. (Pray God that it maynot!) My heart grows cold with deadly fear as here I put down inwritten words the suspicion that before long I mean to turn intoaccusation, and to build up which I have been watching, waiting,working so patiently:-
"I believe Jasper Standish to be the murderer of Mr. Callaghan, andI can prove it!"
LYLE gave a faint horrified cry. The papers dropped from her hand andlay upon the floor. She sat looking at them with a sort of terror. Theroom seemed chill and full of shadows. The fire had died down whileshe had been occupied in reading, and the candles on the mantel-shelfburned low in their sockets.
She looked about her with a sudden dull wonder, asking dumbly why thishorror had been thrust upon her; why, suddenly, all peace and joy oflife had passed from illusion to tragedy; why that coveted experiencehad brought so much in its train of woe and gloom and desolation; whyshe should be the chosen recipient of these confidences; that it shouldfall to her lot to crush Nora's heart with a suspicion so hateful; thather own instinctive dislike to Jasper Standish must suddenly arraignand condemn him? All this rushed dimly and confusedly over her, andmade her senses reel and her heart grow faint.
She replenished the fire. A horror of the darkness and loneliness cameover her. That man who had sat at her father's table, touched her hand,whispered odious and enamoured compliments in her unwilling ears—thatman—a murderer!
She thought of Nora's ignorance, Nora's peril, Nora's love. It was tooawful, seen by the light of these written records. Every love-word,every kiss, every look were tainted with a new horror. There was notime to be lost.
Then she remembered there was more to read. She lit fresh candles, andpicked up the M.S. from the rug where it had fallen. Once more she setherself to read those close, cramped lines.
It was no easy task to decipher them. It was a harder one to connecthastily jotted fragments. Notes of meeting with Mickey, scraps ofconversations he had overheard, the story of the blood-stained shirt,of Jasper's midnight ride to the old Jew miser, of his drinking-bouts,his seeming terror of loneliness or darkness. Then came the story ofsuspicion against herself, and Mickey's warning and her sudden flight.
There it ended, only at the bottom was written:—
"I shall not be far. I cannot leave until my task is accomplished,until I have the proofs complete and Jasper Standish is caught in thenet of his own setting."
"I shall not be far!" Lyle repeated the words mechanically.Not far! Then Jane had not left the country. Perhaps not even theneighbourhood. Where could she go? Who would give her hiding-place?Bills were out everywhere, offering reward for her arrest. Far andwide the rumour had spread that, if not actually the criminal, she wasimplicated very deeply in the murder of the bank manager. The story ofthe marked money was on every tongue. Sir Anthony himself believed inher guilt!
Not far! Lyle's heart grew sick with fear. What new horrors might nothappen, what fresh discoveries might not be made?
She looked at those closely written sheets with ever-growing terror.That they were in her keeping, that she must guard them, conceal them,use them perhaps at some future time, filled her with apprehension.Her eyes sought a hiding-place, but no lock seemed secure enough, noreceptacle safe enough to hold that incriminating story.
She remembered at last that in the turret room among her collection ofart treasures was a little inlaid cabinet—a thing of many drawers andcomplicated locks. She resolved to put these papers in it. The keyshung on her chatelaine, quaint, tiny things of brass and steel.
In the morning—yet why wait for morning? Why not hide them at once?
She rose. A clock in the distance struck one. She had been three hoursover the perusal of Jane's confessions. Everyone in the house must bein bed and asleep long since.
She hastily removed her dress, and wrapped herself in her soft cashmeredressing-gown, slipped her feet into velvet slippers, and taking thecandle in her hand, opened the door and looked out. All was darkand quiet. Shaking with sudden nervous fear, she flitted across thecarpeted corridor, and up the stairs.
At the door of the turret room she paused, overcome again by thatchilling sense of terror which had visited her the first time she hadentered it. Her hand touched the handle and cautiously turned it.
The door was locked, and the key wason the inside!
She stood there as if unable to believe her senses. Had the key beenwithout, as usual, she could have believed someone had turned it forsecurity; but there was no key to be seen. Many days had passed sinceshe had been in the room. Was it possible one of the servants hadlocked it, and removed the key?
As she stood there, cold and motionless, asking herself thesequestions, her strained ears caught a sound. It was the sound ofsustained and regular breathing in the room—the breathing of a heavysleeper. Almost paralysed with terror, her knees gave way, and she sankon the mat before the door. Someone was in the room—asleep. Of thatshe felt sure. In her new position her ear was close to the keyhole.She heard the sound distinctly.
The candle was on the floor beside her. She still held the leathercase containing the M.S. in her hand. Quite suddenly she heard the softpat-pat of her little terrier's paws on the staircase behind her. Heran up to her side, and the sense of his presence seemed to bring backher courage.
She pointed to the door, and he put his nose to the crack below, andsniffed two or three times. Then he wagged his tail reassuringly, andlooked at her. That wag and that look were eloquent of meaning. Whoeverwas in the room was no stranger, or no housebreaker, otherwise the dogwould have barked.
It was a mystery certainly; but a mystery she must wait for the morningto explain. She patted the dog softly, and rose from her knees somewhatunsteadily. In doing so she lurched against the door; the handlerattled. At the same moment a half-subdued cry came from within.
"Who's there?" it said.
Lyle's heart beat like a sledge-hammer. It was Jane Grapnell's voice!
Jane Grapnell must be in that room.
She cried her name softly. "Don't be afraid, Jane. It's I—Lyle."
"There was the rustle of a dress across the floor, a hand upon the keywithin.
"Miss Lyle, is it you, really?"
"Yes, Jane, yes. In God's name open the door. What are you doing inthat room at this hour of night?"
The key turned, the door opened. Lyle was looking at the pale, wornface of her lost housekeeper. Jane drew her in, closed the door, andagain turned the key. She took the light from the girl's tremblinghand, and set it on the table. Lyle sank into a chair, and looked ather for explanation.
"You are wondering how I came here. Ah——"
She drew a quick breath. Her eyes had fallen on the leather caseclapped in Lyle's hand.
"You have read it. You had to read it?"
"I found it to-night. I brought it here to hide. I was afraid to trustit anywhere in my bedroom."
"Then the necessity has arisen?"
"Nora is engaged to Jasper Standish. She told me so with her own lips."
Jane's face grew ashy grey, and she caught at the table to steadyherself.
"Already!" she whispered faintly. "Already! Oh, what can I do? The timeis not ripe; the trap not baited."
"Are you sure of what you say—here?" asked Lyle. "It is an awfulcharge to bring against anyone."
"I am as sure as that I live; but I can't prove everything yet."
"And you are hiding, and a warrant is out against you, and yet I findyou locked up here, in my room. How did you get here unobserved? Howhave you lived these three weeks?"
"Ah! forgive me, Miss Lyle. I can only trust to your mercy. Look here."
She crossed the room, went up to the wall, and touched a panel. ToLyle's amazement it slid back, and showed a wide space. She rose andlooked down.
It was the stairway of which Jasper Standish had spoken.
"There?" gasped Lyle. "Do you mean to say you have lived there?"
"Yes. You see there is this little sort of chamber. I brought some rugsand shawls and here I used to sit. At night I came out and used yourroom. You may remember you have not entered it since Miss Nora wentaway."
"But what did you do for food?"
"I took the liberty of visiting the larder now and then. Bread andwater and a little cooked meat were enough for me. If I wanted exerciseI lit a lantern and walked up and down the stairway. It leads to a longnarrow passage, like a tunnel. It is lined with brick. The end of it isa sort of cave close to the river."
"Good heavens! But Jasper Standish knows of this secret passage. Hemight have searched it—have found you at any moment."
She turned her white face to Lyle. "How does he know of it?"
"How can I tell? Perhaps he discovered it accidentally; he said he wassearching for an escaped criminal. How did you discover it yourself,Jane?"
"The day Miss Nora and you were fixing up the room. You said you werecoming back to tea, if you remember, and we waited a long time. At lastMiss Nora went to look for you. I was here alone. I was dusting thepanels, and I rubbed this one rather hard. It moved. I then found therewas a spring. It looked only like a bit of the carving on the panels.I pressed it and it flew open. I took a light and looked down, and sawwhat a safe hiding-place it was. I tried the opening from the innerside and found it answered easily. Then I closed it up again. I meantto tell you, but so many things happened, and you were in trouble, andMiss Nora sick, and I put it off.
"When I got word of what this villain intended, when I saw that myliberty was threatened, the idea came to hide here, and throw him offthe scent. He would never think I was remaining in the country, stillless that I had a spy of his own to report to me."
"You still see Mickey? You trusted him?"
"I had to, Miss. I used to meet him in the cave. He did not know whereI came from. That secret was too dangerous to let out."
They were back in the room now. Lyle told her of the terror atdiscovering the locked door, and hearing the heavy breathing.
"It is the first time for many nights I've slept, Miss," she said,humbly. "I had no right to be here, but it was so cold and damp in thatcell."
"It's awful to think of it," said Lyle, with a shudder. "But what areyou going to do, Jane? You can't remain here always. Someone mightdiscover you. Think of the risk you ran, going down to the kitchen toget yourself food."
"I know, Miss. I often wondered the dog did not bark and alarm thehouse, but he never did, and I never met a soul."
"How long do you think it will be before you have your evidencecomplete?"
She shook her head sadly. "It's hard work, and slow work."
Lyle told her then of the search in her room, and the discovery of themarked piece of money. "Of course he put it there himself," she added."But think how cleverly he planned it."
Jane started. The blood rushed to her pale face.
"Miss Lyle," she said, "I don't believe there was any marked money atall. He knows Donovan's safe out of the way, and no one likely to callhim as witness. He just invented that to ruin me. Perhaps he's been alittle too clever, and over-reached himself."
"It is an awful business, Jane, however we look at it. And I must tellNora. She is not here now. She is staying at Mrs. O'Neil's. I will goover the first thing to-morrow morning—to-day, rather, for the wholenight has gone. Now, look here, Jane, you can use this room, and Iwill see that no one enters it except to light the fire. Always turnthe key, and I will pretend to lock it on account of some painting I'mdoing. Then every night I'll bring up supplies for the day. You'll beperfectly safe unless——"
Her eyes went to the secret panel. "Unless he takes it into his headto search that entrance. But I hardly think he will. If he did, itwould be from the other side—the cave. How would you know? Could youpossibly escape?"
"I must bring my rugs and things in here," said Jane. "I should becertain to hear footsteps or voices a long way off, if I happened to bein the little chamber. I could slip in here." Her eyes turned from sideto side. "You would not allow him to search this room, Miss Lyle?"
"Certainly not. But supposing I was out? I should not even know he washere, if he entered that way."
"No, miss, of course not. Well, he could but arrest me. I must trust toProvidence."
Lyle shivered. There was a moment's silence. Then she went to thelittle cabinet and placed the leather case and papers in one of thedrawers and locked it.
"I shall have to show these to Nora," she said, "but I shall saynothing of your being here, Jane. She is so infatuated with this manthat she might betray your secret. And now I'll go back to my room.Remember you may trust me to the death."
"God bless you, Miss Lyle. I always knew you were true as steel."
The tears rushed to her eyes. She took the girl's slender hands andkissed them humbly. Lyle's own eyes were wet with sympathy.
The revelations of this night had been a series of mental shocks. Shefelt unnerved and unstrung; and the morrow had yet to be faced, and itwould bring another ordeal. Something told her that that, too, would beterrible; would wring her heart and test her courage.
She had lost her lover, was she also to lose her friend?
FROM restless sleep and troubled dreams Lyle Orcheton woke to brightsunshine and to—memory.
At first she could hardly realise that the events of the past nightwere absolute facts. They seemed too fantastic and unreal. But as shelay there, watching Molly's movements about the room, the whole strangestory came back again; the discovery of the letter, the sealed packet,the turret room and its occupant, and the peril to Nora. She sprang uphastily and made her toilet; then, going downstairs, ordered her horseto be brought round within an hour.
Sir Anthony was surprised to find her at the breakfast table in herhabit. She explained that she was in haste to see Nora on a matterof importance, and was going to ride over as soon as breakfast wasfinished.
Before leaving she ran up to the turret room. The door was unlocked.She entered, closing it carefully behind her. Then she lit the fire,which was laid ready in the grate, and, going over to the secret doorknocked gently.
"Are you there, Jane?" she asked.
"Yes, miss," was whispered back.
"I am going now to see Miss Callaghan," said Lyle. "You will be quitesafe here. No one is likely to come. If the door is locked, they willthink I locked it. You will find tea and sugar in the cupboard, and Ihave brought up a jug of milk and some biscuits. You must be perishedwith cold. Will you come out now?"
The panel slipped back, and Jane entered. She looked worn and ill, andhalf-starved. Lyle's heart ached at sight of her.
"You poor soul," she said pityingly. "I hope this will soon end."
"You can't hope it more than I do, miss," said Jane, huskily.
"Now to make all safe," said Lyle. "Bring in your rugs and throw themon the couch. Now, if we push that book-case against the panel, no onecan open it without making a noise."
It was a dwarf book-case of carved oak. They moved it into place, andJane agreed to fill it with the heaviest volumes scattered about theroom.
"I will come here as soon as I return," continued Lyle. "I will alwaysgive two taps at the door, pause, and then a third—so," She rapped onthe table. "Don't open to anyone else. If any of the servants come,which is most unlikely, they'll find the door locked, and will go away.Now make yourself some tea, and be as comfortable as you can. This isbetter than your voluntary prison, at all events."
"May God bless you, Miss Lyle. I'll never forget your kindness."
Tears rushed to her eyes as the girl pressed her hand and then left theroom. She turned the key and then went back to the fire, thankful forthe warmth and companionship of it.
Lyle mounted "Meteor" and rode off on her errand to Nora with a sinkingheart. The fresh, sweet air, the glitter on grass and leaf, left noglow on her face or hope in her heart. A crushing sense of misery, ofthe vileness and wickedness that lurked beneath Nature's smiles, wereall of which she was conscious.
She was told Nora was in, and dismounting, gave her horse to one of themen. "I shall be here about an hour," she said.
Nora came to her in the sunny little boudoir which was Mrs. O'Neil'sfavourite room. She looked startled when she saw Lyle's face.
"Has anything happened?" she asked quickly.
Lyle kissed her gravely. "Yes; I have something very serious to tellyou. We must not be interrupted. Is there any chance of Mrs. O'Neil'scoming in?"
"Hardly. She is not up yet."
"Sit down there, and please, dear, don't interrupt. It is a long story,but I will try to make it as short as possible."
Nora sat down. There was a look of apprehension in her face, at whichLyle wondered. Its roses and baby dimples, and charm of smiles andblushes had faded into something hard and resolute that seemed scarcelyallied to girlhood.
She took a seat facing the window, and looked straight out at an elmtree, waving newly budding branches, before it.
Lyle began her story.
As simply, as shortly as possible she told it. The face before herwhitened into ghastliness, and something in the eyes stayed her words.
"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" came in a cracked, huskyvoice from Nora's white lips. "The woman is mad to accuse him of sucha thing. His position, character, everything—gives her the lie. Grieffor her daughter has turned her head."
"I will tell you something, Nora," said Lyle, in a low pained voice,"something that I did not breathe even to Jane. Mrs. O'Neil once had afavourite maid called Hester, 'My little Hester' she called her. Shetold me about her once. This girl left her suddenly, without giving anyreason. She learnt afterwards that she was in some dreadful trouble.What happened must have happened while she was here at Rathfurley. Oneof her fellow-servants told Mrs. O'Neil that she knew the girl used tomeet, secretly, the County Inspector. He had just been newly appointed."
The young face grew almost fierce; the lines hardened round the paleset lips.
"It is all false—all! I don't believe it!"
"Nora!" cried Lyle. "You say youdon't because youwon't. Forheaven's sake try and conquer this infatuation before it is too late.Think if the proof is at hand, if link by link the chain of evidence iscompleted—if Jasper Standish murdered your father for that money——"
The cry that burst from Nora's lips was so awful, the livid face sofull of terror, that Lyle shrank back in her chair aghast. Wild handsbeat the air in frenzy, the slight young form was convulsed.
"It's not true!" she screamed again. "I tell you it's a lie—framed byspite—a lie! My father——"
She sprang to her feet and flung herself across the floor, ravingincoherently. Lyle bent over her, horrified at this frantic outburst.She lifted her on to the couch, and emptying some water from a flowervase, bathed her temples and chafed her cold hands. The girl's sensescame gradually back. She grew quieter, save for tearless, convulsivesobs that shook her from time to time. Lyle tried to loosen her dressat the throat, but she clutched it so tightly that it was impossible.Then as suddenly as the paroxysm had seized her it died away. She satup and looked at Lyle.
"If it's false," she said, "I'll never forgive you. If it's true, it'stoo late to save—me."
"To—save you?" gasped Lyle.
"Yes. Look!"
She wrenched hooks and eyes and buttons with ruthless fingers. Themadness of passion and despair rang in her voice, and flashed in hereyes. She seized the ribbon at her neck and held it out. At the end ofit hung a plain gold ring.
Lyle shrank back as though some horror were pursuing her. "Dear God inHeaven!" she cried. "Notthat, Nora. You're not married?"
"I was married yesterday to the man you call my father's—murderer."
Stunned and half-stupefied, Lyle sat there—absolutely speechless. Hertemples throbbed, but all thought seemed crushed and paralysed. Shecould only sit staring at the figure on the couch, with its eyes hiddenfrom sight, and one quivering hand still holding out that ring.
Married! Married to Jasper Standish! The warning had come too late.One day—only twenty-four hours—but years could not have meant moreor saved less. One day! Had her eyes only caught that scrap of lace alittle sooner!
But what use to talk of "if's" now? The blow had fallen. The worst hadhappened. It was no longer Nora, her girlish friend, whom she couldsave, with whom she might plead; it was Jasper Standish's wife.
Suddenly Nora lifted her head and shook back the loosened hair.
"Oh! I hate you!" she cried. "And I hate Jane! Yesterday I was thehappiest, proudest girl in all the country round. To-day what have youand your hateful story made of me? I was to join him in Dublin—he iseven there now—waiting for me. Do you hear? Waiting for me! And Idaren't go. I mustn't go. True or false, I must abide by its issue. Oh!I wish I had died yesterday when I was so happy."
Lyle's heart went out to the poor stricken girl. Had she not sufferedtoo? Had she not also learnt the lesson of a man's unworthiness? Butbeside this burden, her own looked light. A mistake is not a crime.
Then a pitiful wail broke forth, and Nora hid her face in her hands,and rocked herself to and fro.
"Oh! dad, if you could only speak—if you could only tell us," shemoaned. "You called him friend; he was with you that last night——"
She broke off and looked again at Lyle. "You forget," she cried. "Hewent to the barracks on his way home; he sent a special man to guardthe bank. Would he have done that if—if—— Oh! I can't say it. It istoo awful!"
"It is—awful," said Lyle, faintly. "For your sake, Nora, I could hopehe is guiltless. You have faith in him, he loves you, he has marriedyou. No one, save a fiend incarnate, would have made the child of hismurdered victim his wife."
But even as she said it a thought flashed to her mind. A wife cannotgive evidence against her husband. Jane loved Nora devotedly. Nora washer own special friend. What better buffer could he have chosen toparry the blows of chance, to close the mouth of suspicion, than thishelpless girl? Who, as she herself had said, would credit anyone shortof a devil incarnate, taking to his arms and heart the child of the manwhose blood stained his hands, and cried still for vengeance on hisguilty head!
"What to do!" moaned Nora again. "What to do. My brain reels when Ithink of it. I can't think, I can't act. Oh, Lyle, pity me, help me. Ithink I shall go mad, or kill myself."
"I do pity you, darling, with all my heart and soul I do; but you havethrown everything and everyone aside for this man's sake. You havegiven him the chief and only right over you. What can I or anyone dofor you—now?"
"I loved him so!"
"Where were you married? Perhaps——" The sudden eagerness of her voicegave quick translation to an unuttered hope.
"It is quite right, you need not think of that. I am responsible to noone. We were married at the registrar's——"
"And afterwards?"
"I came back here. He went to Dublin on business. I was to join himthere."
"Was the marriage to be a secret?"
"No. From Dublin I would have written."
Lyle's face took back its look of hopelessness.
"Then nothing can be done. The moment Jane is arrested she will tellher story, and bring her witnesses. There is the shirt with itsblood-stained cuff, the Jew to whom he owed that large sum of money,and who received it next day; Mickey Doolan, who has been his jackaland spied out his secrets. Jane herself——"
"Where is Jane?"
Lyle started. She had determined not to divulge the secret of herhiding-place.
"From her letter I should say she was still in this country," sheanswered, evasively. "It is almost impossible she can conceal herselfmuch longer."
"If I could see her——," cried Nora. "She is fond of me. She would notdesire my unhappiness."
Lyle stared at her in amazement. "You surely would not compromisematters? Let them stand as they are? Go to this man as his wife whileeven a shadow of suspicion hovers over him? Nora, you would never knowan hour's peace."
Nora wrung her hands in agony.
"What have I ever done that I should be tortured like this? It is toohard, too cruel."
The tears were streaming down her face. The eyes that looked up atLyle's were the eyes of one well nigh desperate.
"What to do?" she cried, looking from side to side like a huntedanimal. "What to do? And he is waiting for me in Dublin."
"Telegraph that you are ill—that you can't come. I will take it to thestation as I go home. And, Nora, you mustn't stay here. Either comeback to us, or go to Dr. Dan."
"I will come back to you," she said. "It doesn't matter. Nothingmatters now. My heart is broken!"
She fell back on the cushions of the couch like a dead thing.
TO her dying day Lyle Orcheton felt she should never forget that awfultime.
What she telegraphed to Jasper Standish was only truth, for Nora whenshe arrived was in a high fever. Lyle sent for Dr. Dan, but saidnothing of the marriage. It must come out, she knew, but at present itseemed wiser to keep it secret.
Indeed, she was too terrified and bewildered to think calmly, andadopted the prudent course of saying nothing that was not absolutelynecessary.
"She has had some mental shock," said Dr. Dan, as he felt the racingpulse and looked at the flushed face, and listened to the pitifulmoaning that never ceased. "She only returned to-day, you say?"
"Yes. She was staying with Mrs. O'Neil for a fortnight. I know—I havereason to think that she has had bad news of—someone for whom shecares very much."
"I thought so. A love affair. And it wouldn't be hard to fix upon theother side, or I'm no judge of appearances. Well, my dear young lady,what's to be done? She is in for a sharp attack of fever. I can onlyhope it won't touch the brain. She will want careful nursing, andincessant watchfulness. I'll send you in a good capable nurse. We musttrust to Providence and youth and a good constitution for the rest, butthe poor child has been sorely tried. She really never got over theshock of her father's death."
After he had left, Lyle stole up to the turret room, and gave thesignal.
"The worst has happened, Jane," she said. "I was too late. She hasmarried him. The shock of your story and accusation nearly killed her.I brought her back here. Dr. Dan fears brain fever."
Jane's face grew rigid. "Married! Married to that villain! God help thepoor child. Oh, Miss Lyle, if I had only warned her, only spoken intime!"
"She is absolutely infatuated with him. She refused to believe a wordof what I told her. Jane, what is to be done now?"
"There is only one thing, only one. I must give myself up at last. Heis in Dublin you say? I will go to the magistrate and tell my story.Then—I must take my chance."
"Oh! Jane," cried Lyle, panting with fright. "The risk—have youthought of it?"
"In those long, solitary hours I have thought of everything. Besides,you ought not to harbour me, Miss Lyle. You are making yourself myaccomplice in the eyes of the law."
"I can't think, or advise, or judge," cried poor Lyle, desperately. "Mybrain seems dazed."
"It has been too hard on you, and you are so young too. But a littlepatience, and all will be right. I feel sure of that. God does notpunish the innocent for the guilty, though he makes them suffer. Wehave suffered enough, Miss Lyle—I, and you, and that poor strickenchild."
"I must go to her now, Jane. I daren't leave her long. The nurse comesto-night. I shall give up my room and take the spare one. That willleave me free to come here unobserved. Do nothing till I see you again;rest, sleep if you can to-night. You will need all your strength, allyour courage."
"God knows I shall, Miss Lyle; but I have come to the end of mypatience. In my dreams—and I am something of a fatalist, Miss Lyle—Ihave always seen him with the rope round his neck, and I am putting itthere. I have woven it strand by strand. It is almost strong enough atlast."
With those words ringing in her ears Lyle went down to Nora's bedside."It is almost strong enough at last."
"And I blamed Derrick," she thought. "I called him harsh names, andjudged him as though a fault were sin. Sin! My God! Beside this vilewretch, his very sins seem innocence."
* * * * * *
Left alone, and sure now that Jasper Standish was too far away to causeher any immediate fear, Jane set to work to write out briefly andclearly the story of her discovery, her suspicions, her proofs. Thisdocument she resolved to take with her to the magistrate. She wouldleave her confessions in Lyle's care.
It was dusk before she had finished her self-imposed task, and she wasafraid to light a lamp. She drew the thick curtains across the windows,and sat down by the fire. Then she took from her pocket the little wornTestament that had belonged to her daughter. It had never left her dayor night since on it she had sworn that oath of vengeance.
She gazed on it now, and thought of a happy school-girl carrying it tolessons and to church, a bright head bending over it in the firelight,conning favourite texts. With tear-filled eyes she opened the tiny bookand turned over the pages, as she had often done before. The print wassmall, the paper very thin. Here and there on the margin of texts wouldbe marks or initials. In the dull glow of the firelight Jane couldscarcely decipher them. Hester had had a trick of marking of scoringpassages that were favourite in any book she used, and this littleTestament was full of such marks.
As Jane's fingers mechanically turned the leaves she came to one wherethe writing was infinitesimally small. It ran down one side of thepage. She would have thought nothing of it if a vivid tongue of flamehad not chanced to leap out from the fire at the same moment and lightup a word at the end of the sentence. The word was "Standish."
Jane's heart gave one suffocating throb. She held the page close to thelittle spurt of flame, but the writing was so fine she could not readit distinctly. Yet that one word stood out, and letter by letter shespelt it to assure herself there was no mistake. The tongue of flamedied down, but now her mind was wholly set on deciphering that writing.
She gently stirred the coals to brightness, but the closeness of thelines, and the wavering light made reading a hard task for sight thatwas none of the best. At last she remembered that among the things Lylehad unpacked and left scattered about was a large magnifying glass. Shecarefully laid the book down on that open page and began to search.Before long she found it. The fire burnt now with a steady glow.Kneeling on the rug she applied the glass to the writing, and read asfollows:—
". . . In peril of my life. He swears to murder me if I ever breathehis name. Yet on this very book he swore to marry me. If I could reachEngland. . . . If—Jasper Standish——"
The writing broke off at the end of the page. In a frenzy of anxietyJane turned the next leaf. Nothing. Then slowly, one by one, she partedand scanned them. At the foot of another page came some more.
"My mother—if I could only reach her! But not even she must knowthe truth. . . . No proof he says. No one would believe a disgraced,friendless woman. . . Has God no pity. . . . ?"
That was all. All Jane's patient search could discover no more. As faras she herself was concerned, it was enough. She knew now why she hadinstinctively shunned and disliked Jasper Standish. She could imaginein what bonds of shame and terror he had held her poor frightened anddeceived child.
She thought of the distraught, half-dying creature whom his sin haddriven into the hands of the law; of those awful weeks of suspense; ofthat death in the prison infirmary; that dishonoured grave beside whichno love might mourn. She thought—and blind and burning rage throbbedin every pulse, and thrilled every sense with but one craving fiercedesire for vengeance.
He was the wrong-doer. He had betrayed this poor innocent child; he hadsent her to prison, and to death; and yet he lived, and was honouredand respected, and prospered. She threw herself on her knees, claspingto her heart the God-sent testimony for which she had prayed so long.
"Deal unto him such punishment as he deserves, O Lord of Power andJustice," she prayed. "Let not such crimes escape Thy vengeance. In ThyHands lie the issues of wrong and right, of life and death. Can guiltlike this escape the penalty it has defied?"
A storm of sobs mingled with the ejaculations. For the first time sinceshe had set out on her quest she was shaken to the core. She held theclue; she recognised the purpose that had guided her thither. She waspoor and obscure, and of no account, and she had to face a powerfuland relentless foe, yet she never quailed. The proof for which she hadprayed and searched so long was here at last before her. Often as shehad turned over the leaves of that Testament she had never opened it atthat one place, never noticed those written lines.
They had been revealed to her at the very moment when she had despairedof finding proof as to who had absolutely been the child's betrayer.She looked upon that revelation as a miracle. She thanked Heaven forit. She took it as a sign that she was indeed destined to bring thatman's sin home to him, and her failing courage revived.
When she rose from her knees her face was calm, her eyes held a newresolve, and a new hope. She thrust the little volume into the bosomof her gown. It was too precious to be trusted anywhere out of her ownpossession. Then she carefully folded together the statement she hadprepared for the magistrate.
To-night she was to meet Mickey Doolan. To-night he had promised tobring the shirt with him. She slowly paced the room, going over herstory bit by bit. Mickey was uncertain, and easily terrified. She hadtaken down his testimony carefully. He had promised to swear to itwhen called upon, but she wondered whether he could be depended on.Everything now hinged upon the strength of her case, and her abilityto persuade the magistrate to grant a warrant for the arrest of JasperStandish.
She was running a great risk, she knew. She would bedetained—imprisoned perhaps. She did not know the power or extent ofthe law, but at any risk to herself the truth must be told. JasperStandish was in Dublin. If his room was searched, if incriminatingevidence could be found there, the case was clear. But she had to facethe difficulties of suspicion cast on herself; of his popularity andpower in the country; of the possible refusal to grant a warrant; ofher own immediate arrest.
She felt faint and giddy. She knew she would need all her strength,all the coolness of brain and heart. She was to meet a foe ruthlessand unscrupulous, who had shown himself without conscience or remorse.She had to save Nora from his clutches. She had to avenge her child'sdishonour, her master's cruel murder.
That last thought steadied her.
She needed food and rest. She must compose herself; keep herself-control at any cost. So much was at stake now. Life, honour,justice, all in one weak woman's hands. Jasper's power and Jasper'streachery would be arrayed against her. The keeping of his secret meantthe safety of his own neck. He would hesitate at nothing.
Her only chance lay in being first in the field; in persuading themagistrate to grant that warrant while her enemy was away in Dublin.
THE night closed in dark and misty.
Lyle stood by Nora's bedside watching her with anxious eyes. The nursehad come and was putting the room into regulation sick-room order. Dr.Dan had administered a sleeping draught, and it was just beginning totake effect; the restless head lay quiet, the fevered eyes were closed,the quick breathing was growing calm.
Lyle moved noiselessly across the room. "If she sleeps to-night," shewhispered, "there is hope she will escape brain fever, is there not?"
"Yes, Miss Orcheton," said the woman, cheerfully. "But perhaps in twohours she'll wake, and it will all commence over again. I shall watchher all night."
"I don't feel as if I could sleep," said Lyle. "If you hear me about inthe night, don't be surprised. I am fearfully anxious."
"Do you occupy the next room, miss?"
"No. But I am on the same floor. I will come to the outer door andlisten. If all is quiet, I shall know she is sleeping. I won't disturbyou."
"I may need you. If she should be violent—sometimes they are."
Lyle shuddered. Poor Nora! Great indeed was her punishment; awful wouldbe her suffering when she woke again to consciousness.
She left the room and went to her newly-chosen one at the end of thecorridor.
There was a bright fire burning. Her dressing-gown lay on the chair.She put it on and unloosened her heavy hair and began to brush itsgleaming silken lengths. At one o'clock she was to go to Jane in orderto receive her last instructions. At daybreak Jane would leave theturret room, by the secret door, and make her way by a circuitous routeto the magistrate's house. She had to evade detection or pursuit. Itwas important no one should see her leave the Hermitage, or arrest heron her way to Mount Urris.
To Lyle the time seemed endless. She tried to read, but her eyesscanned only meaningless words. She went to the window and leanedout into the misty coolness of the night. Neither star nor moon wasvisible. The trees stood like shadowy sentinels on either side of theavenue where her glad feet had once sped to meet Derrick. Derrick! Herheart throbbed as she thought of him.
Had he been but what she thought him, how she could have trusted hisstrength and asked his help! But he was far away now, and the joy ofher life had gone with him.
How hardly Fate had served Nora and herself! Their dream of "fairyprinces" had turned out a tale of demons and disappointments. Throughno enchanted vale had their feet been guided, but rather through darkforests of trouble and terror and disaster. A few golden hours, andthen all succeeding ones had seemed weighted with lead. A few happydays, and the months and years to come all shadow and loneliness andheart-sickness!
She learnt her head on her hands, and cried silently for sheer misery.The heavy clouds above seemed no darker than the clouds about her ownlife and Nora's. Poor, unhappy Nora! Her fate was the worst. No wondershe had asked so pitifully what had she ever done that she should be sotried. No wonder her brain and strength had given way beneath a shockso terrible.
She dried the falling tears and turned away from the window. The housewas very still, everyone had retired to rest. She glided softly downthe thickly-carpeted corridor, and listened at the door of her ownroom. All was still. Evidently Nora had slept on. The nurse's fearswere as yet unrealised.
Once more she returned to the fireside and tried to read. If wasmidnight now. Another hour to be passed—another hour of waiting andimagining.
The night had grown cold, or else her fears had chilled her blood. Shewent to the wardrobe and took down a long dark cloak, and threw itround her. Surely she might venture now.
Again she paused to listen.
Not a sound anywhere. Darkness and stillness kept watch with her.Nothing else.
Like a shadow she stole along the corridor and reached the stairs.Again she paused. A low faint whine reached her ears. She glanced down,and saw her little dog sitting there. His ears were pricked, his eyesglanced up the narrowing stairway that led to the turret room. Shelistened intently, but all was still. "Come, Tim," she whispered, andthe little creature followed her silently.
She reached the door and gave the signal. There was no answer. Againshe knocked. Neither sound nor movement from within. She tried thehandle, and to her surprise the door opened. She entered the room. Herown candle was the only light. The fire had died down; it was dark andsolitary. Evidently Jane had not returned from that meeting with Mickey.
Her eyes went next to the secret entrance. The book-case was pushedaside, the panel half open. The little terrier sprang suddenly forward,laid his nose to the ground, and gave a low uneasy whine. She calledhim back, and he came obediently, but his eyes and ears spoke ofdistress, and that soft whimper of remonstrance broke from him again.
Lyle tried to stir the fire into life, and bent down, feeding it withwood and paper. The ruddy blaze leaped up, and she held her cold handsto its welcome warmth.
Suddenly a sound startled her. She sprang to her feet, her heartbeating madly with terror. She heard the sound of flying feet, ofpanting breath.
A moment, and a figure rushed in, slamming the panel behind it.
It was Jane. Her face was white as death, her eyes were scared and wild.
"Pursued!" she panted.
It told Lyle all. Quick as lightning she opened the door. "Go to myroom," she whispered. Then closed it and blew out the light.
A hurried knocking came at the secret panel, then a heavy blow.
"Who's there?" demanded Lyle.
The answer came in the voice she expected, the voice she dreaded."Open!" it said. "Open in the name of the law!"
She stood there rooted to the spot. Movement and speech wereimpossible. Then there was a crash, a rush of cold air, the splinteredpanel flew back and she was face to face with Jasper Standish. He helda lantern in his hand. Jane had dropped it in her hurried flight. Thelight flashed on Lyle, on the dark cloak, its hood encircling her whiteface, on the anger and defiance in her eyes.
The Inspector staggered back a step, and then looked from her round theroom.
"You!" he said. "Was it you I followed!" and then a brutal oath escapedhim.
Lyle looked at his flushed face and wild, savage eyes with a suddenterror of her own helplessness. He had evidently been drinking heavily.It was no pleasant situation for any girl alone, far removed fromassistance, at this hour of the night, with a man whom she knew to beconscienceless, criminal, desperate.
"What brings you here?" she demanded, trying bravely to keep the fearof her heart from her voice. "What do you mean by this intrusion?"
"I've reason to suspect you've someone hiding here," he said. "Sheslipped through my fingers before, she shan't escape now. I saw her."
He paused abruptly. Lyle's sarcastic smile cut short his words.
"Are you quite sure who it was you did see, Mr. Standish?" she asked."This is my room, and if I choose to use that staircase, I fail to seewhat right you have to prevent it, still less what right you have tofollow me."
He looked at her with lowering eyes, with reluctant admiration andbaffled rage commingled.
"You!" he repeated. "You, the proud Miss Orcheton. You use thisentrance for private assignations!—for I saw the man as he ran off,mind you. A pretty scandal ! A fine tale for the county! Either youtell me whom you're screening, or I'll give this news to the gossipsto-morrow morning, if only to pay you out for your airs and insolenceto me!"
All Lyle's pride and spirit rose to arms at that insult. The mask wasoff at last. The man stood out in his true colours, and with somethingof relief she snatched at the chance that revelation gave her.
"I have no doubt," she said, "that you are capable of doing that oranything that would injure or traduce a helpless woman. But you have noweak fool to reckon with now, Mr. Standish. I am a different type fromNora Callaghan or—Hester Sands."
That shot went home. Ghastly fear looked out of his face, the lanternfell from his shaking hand. Lyle still held the matches with which shehad rekindled the fire. She struck one and lit the candle on the table.He tried to recover himself, but his agitation was plain to see.
"I don't know what you mean," he said, stooping for the lantern.
"I think you do," she answered, and her courage revived. "The womanyou are hunting down is the mother of Hester Sands; and you are HesterSands' murderer."
He recoiled as if struck by a blow. Of all accusations he had expected,of all dangers for which he was prepared, this accusation and thisdanger he alone had overlooked. That old sin, that long-forgottenpassion, had sprung into life to face and condemn him in the very spotwhere his guilty assignations had been made—where his false vows hadbeen uttered.
Lyle was unconscious of that—unconscious of the use to which thisroom had been put, unconscious why that sense of misery and tears andunhappiness had haunted it and impressed her. But the guilty face, thelurking glance that seemed to seek confirmation of that charge amidstthese changed surroundings, told a tale of their own.
He looked at the girl who had braved him, and into his eyes leapt afierce devouring light.
"You shall prove your words," he said, "or by the heaven above——"
She drew close to the door with a sudden swift movement. Her hand wason the latch.
"If you move, or threaten," she said, "I will alarm the house.The butler sleeps close at hand, the nurse, who is watching yourunfortunate wife, is awake, within call. I am not afraid of you, JasperStandish."
The cruel light in his eyes changed to an unwilling admiration. Shelooked so dauntless and so fair in her girlish defiance. Half-sullenlyhe retreated, and stood leaning with one hand on the table that stoodbetween them. As he so leant his eyes fell on the papers Jane hadcompiled.
"My wife?" he repeated. "Do you know—that? Is she here?"
"Yes. I brought her back to-day. She is ill—dangerously ill!"
"And she has told you all—of course?" he sneered.
"Yes."
His eyes fell again on the papers. He saw they were addressed to SirGeorge Ffolliott, of Mount Urris.
"What is it you're going to do?"
"I shall not tell you."
Again that evil look flashed, again his lips panted, and closed on amuttered oath.
To be baffled, opposed, defied by a helpless girl at once roused hisworst instincts, and his worst fears. How much she knew, or how shehad learnt his secrets, puzzled him. Whether she was screening Jane,whether it was Jane or herself he had followed he could not decide.That her innate hostility against himself had suddenly flamed out atsuch a moment was not surprising. He knew she had always hated him, butnow he was her friend's husband. She must not be allowed to forget that.
"Nora is here then," he said, sullenly. "And you, I suppose, have doneyour best to traduce me; but she is mine now, and no one can take herfrom me. As for what you mean by that reference to another woman, orwhy you are making yourself an accomplice of your guilty servant I amunable to imagine. Accusation is not proof——"
"Not yet," she interposed. "But the proof will follow."
The cold sweat broke out on his brow, his hand went involuntarily tohis breast pocket, his lips whitened.
Then in a flash the hand was withdrawn. She saw a revolver pointing ather head. She knew now that she had driven him to bay, that her lifewould not be worth a moment's purchase if she showed a sign of fear.
"If you move," he said hoarsely, "if you open that door, or give a cryfor help, I'll shoot you!"
LYLE ORCHETON stood perfectly passive, facing that little murderousbarrel. He was desperate enough to carry out his threat she felt sure;to add yet another crime to his list; clever enough, perhaps, to makesome story of accident cover this one, since no witness could possiblygive him the lie.
Her life hung by a thread, and she knew it; yet no flutter of fearstirred her pulse. Her hand rested on the handle, as it had rested fromthe moment when she had defied him. Calmly, fearlessly she looked athis evil face, his outstretched arm, and her heart had only room forone thought—"Poor Nora!"
Seeing her so motionless, Jasper came nearer, covering her still withthat little deadly barrel. Her heart-beats quickened. The silence wasso intense that a low growl at her feet came to her ears as startinglyas a thunderclap. Whether Jasper heard it or not she could not tell,but in another moment the little terrier leaped forward and caught himby the leg.
"Call him off!" he shouted; but ere Lyle could speak the handle waswrenched from her hand, the door burst open from without, and as shefell forward, propelled by the shock, there rang out a sharp report.
A thud, a heavy fall, and all was darkness.
Half-stunned she raised herself on her knees and stared into the gloom.A dark figure lay motionless by her side. She could hear the growlingof the dog, blows, oaths, then silence.
"Jane," she cried, "is it you, Jane?"
There was no answer. Half-paralysed with terror, Lyle groped her way tothe fire-place, and stirred the dying embers. Then she lit the candleagain, and approached the motionless figure. It was Jane. She lay onher face, her arms outstretched. Lyle tried to raise her, and turnedher on her side. The blood was pouring from a wound, and in terror Lyletried to discover it. At the same moment she heard steps approaching. Avoice called out. It was the voice of the nurse. Lyle shouted back, andthe woman ran up the stairs and entered.
She uttered a cry of horror. "I thought I heard a pistol shot."
"Yes; this woman has been shot," said Lyle. "For God's sake help, anddon't ask questions."
The woman knelt down and rapidly tore open the dress and linen, allsoaked with blood. In doing so she touched the little Testament, Janehad thrust into her bosom.
"That's saved her," said the nurse, drawing it out. "The bullet'sglanced aside and struck her in the shoulder. See, miss?"
She wiped away the streaming blood, and Lyle, faint and sick andoverwrought as she was, did her best to help her. There was warm waterin the little kettle by the fire, and the nurse bathed and dressedthe wound. By that time Jane had recovered consciousness and openedher eyes. They assisted her to the couch, and laid her down. Utterlyspent and exhausted, Lyle sank into a chair unable to speak. The nurseglanced around the disordered room and noted the shattered panel.
"What was it, miss?" she asked. "Robbers?"
Lyle laughed hysterically. "The police," she said. "In discharge oftheir duty. This is one of the little surprises of—Ireland."
The woman saw she was overwrought.
"Let me get you some wine, miss," she said. "You look scared to death."
"No; help me to my room, and then bring her," said Lyle, summoningall her resolution. "I have been frightened, but I shall be all rightdirectly."
When she reached her room she remembered the unprotected state of theturret now that the panel had been broken. Also that those importantpapers were there. Mastering her weakness and her fears, she sent thenurse down to the dining-room for some wine, and as soon as she wasgone, returned once more to the room.
She seized the little cabinet. At the same moment she remembered thepapers Jane had written and prepared for the magistrate. They had beenon the table. She had noticed them when she put down the candle.
They were gone.
Jane still lay on the couch with closed eyes, white as death. She couldunderstand or answer nothing. It was useless to question her. Takingthe little cabinet in her hand, Lyle returned to her bedroom. She hadonly time to place it in the wardrobe when the nurse entered.
Lyle was thankful now for the stimulant. It steadied her nerves andbrought back her strength. As she recovered, she told the woman brieflywhat had happened; of Jane's concealment, of the pursuit, of how shehad held the man at bay, as it was important the housekeeper shouldnot be arrested until she had seen the magistrate, of her unexpectedreturn, and the shot.
The woman looked bewildered. She had read in the papers of the BankMurder, also that a woman was accused of it. She could scarcely creditthat she was under the same roof as that notorious person.
"But is she guilty, miss?" she gasped, at the first pause in Lyle'shurried recital.
"As guilty as you or I," cried the girl, indignantly. "The realcriminal is trying to shield himself behind his accusation of her.Had she been able to act as she intended, he would have been arrestedto-day. Now, God knows how it will end—what she will have to endure!"
She dropped into a chair and hid her face in her hands, trying to calmherself, trying to think what was best to do.
Should she take up Jane's task? Should she go to Mount Urris with thefirst gleam of daylight, and lay this statement before Sir GeorgeFfolliott, the magistrate. Then she remembered the papers had gone;that she had learnt nothing of the purport of Jane's last interviewwith Mickey Doolan. It was scarcely possible that Sir George wouldhave a warrant issued against so important a personage as the CountyInspector without very strong proofs.
Her brain was in a whirl. So much had happened. Events had followedin such tragic and rapid succession, it was little wonder that calmjudgment was for a time suspended. Yet action of some sort wasimperative, and she felt there was not an hour to lose.
Jasper Standish knew that Jane Grapnell was here. Knew that Lyle hadbeen guilty of concealing her. He had stolen those papers, and wouldbe aware of her intentions. His first act would certainly be to haveJane arrested. In her critical condition the result might be fatal.Lyle attributed unknown powers to the arms of the law, and saw femininehelplessness in its iron grasp—powerless.
At last she lifted her head. "You have left Miss Callaghan all thistime!" she exclaimed.
"She was sleeping soundly," the nurse answered.
"Could we possibly get the housekeeper into this room?" asked Lyleagain.
"I think so, miss. She has recovered from the shock and is conscious.We must be very careful for fear of the wound bleeding, that is all."
"I cannot leave her there," said Lyle. "The panel has been broken andanyone who knows the outlet into the grounds could get into the roomthat way."
"I will just give a look at Miss Callaghan and then come back," saidthe nurse. "Between us we could get her down, I think."
"I will go to her now," said Lyle, "and prepare her."
"Take the wine with you, miss; she will need it."
Jane was quite conscious, but very weak. Lyle gave her the wine andtold her of her plan. It was to ride with all possible speed to MountUrris and lay the case before Sir George, entreating him to have JasperStandish arrested on suspicion.
"He never will—now," said poor Jane. "Those papers give the case bitby bit up to to-night. You cannot possibly put it as strongly or asclearly."
"I have your confessions. Shall I take them?"
"Yes, miss, I forgot. They will be some help."
"And to-night, Jane?" asked the girl, eagerly. "Did you learn nothing?What about Mickey? What about the shirt? Have you got that?"
"Yes, Miss Lyle. When I found I was being followed and I rushed in hereand you sent me down the stairs, my first thought was that. It's in thebox, as Mickey brought it, in the spare room where you were."
"I never noticed it. Where?"
"The corner between the dressing-table and the window. For God's sake,take care of it, miss. It's our only hope now."
"I'll see about it at once. Now, Jane, one effort more. I can't leaveyou here. I'm going to put you into the room where I was to sleep. Youmust get to bed, and keep as quiet as possible. I fear the police willbe here before I return from Mount Urris. But surely they would notdream of moving you, ill and wounded as you are. I'll send one of thestable men for Dr. Dan as soon as my horse is ready."
She looked at the clock. "Four o'clock already! How the time has flown!It is quite dark still, but I must risk it. I daren't delay. He wouldhave to ride into the barracks. We may baffle him yet."
"God help us, miss. I fear we'll get the worst of it."
"Here's the nurse now," said Lyle. "Come, Jane—slowly—carefully.That's it. Lean on us, and don't move that arm whatever you do."
"What's that by the panel?" asked the nurse, suddenly.
Lyle turned and looked, then gave a little heart-broken cry. It was thebody of the little terrier, stiff and dead. She took it in her arms.The tears she had not shed for terror or weakness, or pain, burst fromher eyes now as she saw the glazed eyes and motionless form of herbrave little defender.
"If I owed you nothing else, Jasper Standish," she cried fiercely, "Iowe you this. If I had never hated you before I hate you now!"
She laid the brave little body gently down on the rug, then shook thetears from her eyes, and turned away. The last throb of weakness, thelast thrill of pity seemed to die out of her heart. There was somethingin her face now that might have made even Jasper Standish quail had heseen it.
THROUGH the chill grey dawn, heavy with clouds, obscure with mist thatthe yet unrisen sun had not scattered, Lyle Orcheton rode as one rideswhen life or death is at stake. There could be no more halting, no moreindecision. The gauntlet of defiance had been thrown, and the listsentered—woman against man, patience against cunning, weakness againstpower. An unfair match, yet she did not quail.
"The right must win," she told herself. "The right—that only."
Oh, to be first in the field! To gain one powerful friend to her side.But she dared not dwell too hopefully on success, dared not flatterherself that her enemy was to be circumvented by a girl's wit.
Mile after mile was passed. She would soon be there. She was almost insight of the lodge gates. At that moment something, someone, sprang outof the hedge she was passing, and her horse shied violently. Steadyinghim with the curb, she called out angrily to a ragged, unkempt figureto get out of her way. The uncouth object held up a warning hand. Shedrew rein.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Miss darlin', a wurrd. It's the good luck as I've seen ye. Are ye forhis honour beyant at the big house?"
"Yes; why do you ask?"
"Bekase, 'twas someone else I was expectin'. Maybe ye know. Her as Imate promiscus wid the news av matters."
"Yes—yes!" she cried impatiently.
"Maybe ye're on her errand."
"Well?"
"Thin I sez this to yer ladyship. Him as we don't name got sight avme—Mickey Doolan, at yer sarvice, miss. An' sez he, 'Be off this sameinstant,' he sez, 'to the barracks and tell thim to sind over two menwithin an hour,' he sez."
"How long ago was that?"
"Shure, thin, miss, not to be particular to a minit, it might have beenthe matther av an hour or more. But divil a bit I wint, miss. And nivera sight av a purlis officer will be at the Grey Lodge for my sinding."
"God bless you!" cried Lyle, convulsively. "You've saved a life,perhaps, Mickey. You won't be sorry for this day I promise you."
"Shure an' I knew yer ladyship would be the ginerous binefactyer. Thedew av Heaven lighten yer purty face, an' the swate good luck to yenow."
"But if Mr. Standish——"
"Whist, miss! Don't be namin' no names."
"Ifhe," continued Lyle, "gets tired of waiting and goes himself?"
"Ah! thin, there's a little matther av lameness betwixt his horse anmeself; not to mention, savin' yer ladyship's prisence, that 'twas thewhiskey bottle an' hisself as were the best av company whin he sentme off. An' if I know inything av that same gintleman, it's not aisypartin' company av that sor. So just set yer mind aisy, miss, an' tellthe good lady that same."
"You've taken a weight off my mind. But I can't waste another minute.Come round to-night and ask for me."
"Faith an' I will, yer ladyship, wid all the pleasure av life. God'sblessin' go wid ye, and may yer errand prosper."
She dashed on again, hope in her heart. If she was first, if Sir Georgewould only believe her, if he would come and take Jane's depositions,all might yet be saved.
The lodge gate swung open; she was cantering up the drive. Anothermoment, and she was before the great house. There was no sign of life.The blinds were down, the doors closed. She dismounted and rang thebell. It rang loudly on the stillness of the sleeping household. Itseemed to Lyle as if no one would ever answer it.
Again she rang. After what seemed endless waiting the chain rattled,bolts were withdrawn, and a sleepy-eyed, astonished man-servant openedthe door.
"Is your master in?" asked Lyle.
"In bed you mane, miss?"
"In the house. I want to see him at once. My business is important."
"Will ye step in, miss, an' I'll be wakin' the masther?"
"My horse?" she said. "Is there anyone could hold him?"
"I'll be sendin' a bhoy round to ye, miss. There's no one about yet,but I'll rouse them up, ave ye don't mind a bit av waitin'."
Lyle minded it very much, but there was no help for it. She walkedMeteor slowly up and down till the "bhoy" appeared.
Then the footman showed her into the library, unclosed the shutters,and told her Sir George would be down "immaydiate."
The genial magistrate knew her but very slightly. He looked hisastonishment when she told her story, putting it as briefly andconcisely as possible.
"A warrant to arrest the County Inspector? My dear Miss Orcheton,impossible! You must be making some grave mistake."
Patiently she went over her story again. But she was quite unable toconvince Sir George of Jasper Standish's guilt.
"My dear young lady, do think of what you are saying," he urged. "Mr.Standish holds a responsible position. He is highly esteemed andrespected; and you accuse him of murdering a friend of his own—aharmless, kindly old gentleman, whose hospitality he had just shared;of murdering him for the base motive of robbery. Pray, pray think ofwhat an awful crime you accuse him. I cannot accede to your requestwithout very much stronger evidence than you have laid before me. Yourinformant is a woman half-crazed by long brooding over a wrong herdaughter suffered——"
"At this man's hands!" interrupted Lyle.
"That, pardon me, is supposition, not proof. This woman is herselfsuspected of the crime of which she accuses him, and has been hidingfrom justice. The fact of her being concealed in your house, MissOrcheton, is a graver matter than you suppose. As witness she offersthe evidence of a rascally ne'er-do-weel who has been playing the partof spy, and she confesses he has stolen and hidden all this time hischief proof—the blood-stained shirt. But that means very little. Ascratch—a wound—would have occasioned the stain. As for the reasonyou give for such a crime—robbery—it is preposterous, my dear younglady."
"You forget the money owing to Benjamin Myers, the Jew," said Lyle,"the money paid the night after the murder."
Sir George smiled. "Ah, Miss Orcheton, you should never have botheredyour pretty head with crimes and penalties and legal affairs. You'velet your feelings run away with you out of pure sympathy for yourhousekeeper. I am sorry I cannot offer you any assistance. She is undersuspicion. She will have to be arrested, and answer this charge at theproper time and place. If she is innocent she has nothing to fear. Thelaw will give her all possible assistance."
"I beg your pardon," said Lyle, hotly, "that is just what the lawwillnot do. As for having nothing to fear, how often innocentpeople suffer for legal mistakes and legal prejudices! To be poor andfriendless, and accused, with a merciless enemy at the back of itall, is by no means an enviable or a safe position. The law has mademistakes often and often. It is slow to confess them, and slower toamend them. The law may make mistakes again. This woman is as innocentas I am myself, but she has to deal with a cunning and powerfulantagonist. I told you of the outrage last night. Had that shot killedher, who would have been responsible? What could the law have done thento help or avenge her wrongs? Mr. Standish intruded on my own privateroom, threatened me, and then fired at Mrs. Grapnell the moment sheentered. No doubt he will say he did it accidentally. He can't prove itwas in the execution of his duty, for she made no resistance; he gaveher no time. Besides, why did he not arrest her on the spot? Insteadhe rushed away through the secret entrance, taking with him the verypapers Mrs. Grapnell had prepared for you."
Sir George began to feel uncomfortable.
"Do you wish to accuse Mr. Standish of trespass and violence then?" heasked. "That, of course, you can do, and he must answer the charge. ButI refuse to grant a warrant for his arrest on your present proofs."
"Then I will go to someone else."
Sir George smiled compassionately.
"My dear young lady, take my advice and let wiser heads than yourssettle this business. Where is your father? Why does he not appear inthe matter? It does credit to your warm heart and your kindness thatyou have taken it up so enthusiastically, but to come to me with such astory and expect me to act upon it, well—as I've said, I cannot do it.No magistrate would consent to what you ask."
Lyle looked at him helplessly. She had never expected such a refusal.The situation was critical. Jasper Standish was a powerful foe, and sheand Jane had shown their hand plainly at last.
She seemed to have come to a deadlock. The magistrate's refusal leftJasper free; gave him all the power, the time, the means for securinghis own safety, and for complicating matters with regard to Jane. Theproofs on which she relied seemed less convincing after Sir GeorgeFfolliott's contemptuous disregard of their importance. Jane, onceimprisoned and arraigned as a criminal, lost the strength of herposition, and became merely a discredited or revengeful victim.
Could the law be depended on to set her right? Would it fathomsuspicion, and make every possible inquiry, and aid, not impede, hersteps? She had always appeared to hold it in wholesome dread. Thememory of her outraged child, martyred by its strong powers, condemnedto an awful death while her moral murderer got off scot-free, was amemory that gave her scant belief in moral justice.
To stand up in face of day and her fellows, and publicly accuse JasperStandish of the bank manager's murder, was a very different thing fromstanding in the prisoner's dock with her own innocence to prove, andher own character to vindicate.
The patience of years, the toil and struggle and endurance that hadstamped her face and hardened her nature, these were all to be of noeffect. Her child had suffered indignity—she would have to suffer thesame; her child had known the taint of prison, the lash of shame, thehorror of suspense—and she would know them too. By the same hand themother and the child were led to the same fate—the one innocently, theother blindly.
Death had saved the one, but what would save the other?
SLOWLY and disheartenedly Lyle Orcheton rode home. For the first timein her life she was in a position where youth and enthusiasm are madeto look foolish; when stern logic faces an unproved conviction, whenfaith and trust meet with no encouragement.
She did not like the position. The glow and fervour died out of herheart, and chill despondency reigned in their place. To her truthseemed plainly intelligible. To eyes accustomed to stern facts it hadnot even the presentment of truth.
She had no hope now of saving Jane from arrest. Whether she could beremoved or charged in her present condition remained to be seen. But nodoubt, considering the gravity of that charge, she would not be allowedto remain at the Hermitage. A leaden weight seemed to rest on thegirl's heart. She threw the reins to the stableman, who was watchingfor her, and dismounting, went listlessly into the house.
The servants were up. Everyone was alert and excited. Sir Anthony mether in the hall. "Why, Lyle," he exclaimed, "where have you been?"
She sat down wearily and told him. He listened with alternateindignation and horror to the accounts of the past night. The nurse hadtold him something, and Dr. Dan, who was still with Jane, had done hisbest to unravel the skein of complications. But Lyle's story made allplain.
His anger was extreme. So were his regrets for the folly he haddisplayed in taking a place that had brought him nothing but troubleand misfortune since he had chosen to become its owner. Lyle had neverseen him so angered and disturbed.
When he heard of her errand to Sir George, he was still more incensed.
That his daughter should mix herself up in an affair so scandalous,so disgraceful, so full of awful possibilities, drove him well-nighdistracted. He was violently thrust from peaceful hours, from hisstudious life, his placid enjoyment of all that soothed mind andspirit. Instead of it he found his house invaded by police, coveredwith notoriety, and scandalised by accusations of harbouring asuspected murderess! There seemed no vocabulary strong enough toexpress his sentiments, and no sentiments forcible enough to convey hisfeelings.
Lyle listened silently. No doubt she had been foolish and imprudent. Nodoubt she had let her heart lead instead of allowing her head to judge.No two people looked at the same thing in the same way. It was hopelessto argue. She had done all she could do. The situation had turned frompassivity to action; now she could only stand aside and wait.
* * * * * *
The time of waiting was not long. Events marched with startlingrapidity, once given the impetus of discovery. Jasper Standish hadmarshalled facts for his own purpose; the time was at hand for action,and he seized it. The arrest of Jane Grapnell and her appearancebefore the magistrate enabled him to present a case strong enough andsuspicious enough to terrify Lyle, and to still further exasperate SirAnthony.
He proved that Jane had been up when he left the Bank House the nightof the murder. He had heard Mr. Callaghan speaking to her. He had thengone to the manager's room to inspect its security, and finally lefthim sitting there to work over his books. He stated that he had warnedMr. Callaghan of the insecurity of that broken window, and of hisintention to send one of his own men down on special guard. This hadbeen done, and completed his evidence, so far as the events of thatnight were concerned.
Then came the evidence of Jane's fellow-servants as to her secret waysand odd habits; of Dr. Dan as to that night he had met her returningsecretly after an absence she refused to explain; the finding of themissing and marked money; her flight and her concealment. The meansby which Jasper Standish had traced her to the secret passage of theHermitage was plausibly told. The discharge of his revolver was, hedeclared, an accident. The dog had flown at him, and his hand being onthe trigger the shot was fired without purpose or premeditation.
This was a weak point on which Jane's counsel scored. There seemed noreason for his revolver being in his hand. A helpless woman was noformidable opponent.
Lyle, when her time came, gave very damaging evidence as to the eventsof that night in the turret, and Jasper felt that his case sufferedconsiderably. Notwithstanding all this, however, the magistrate sent itfor trial, and poor Jane, ill and weak, was taken to the county gaolto await that ordeal. Needless to say, the town revelled in all this.Every sort of story was rife, and Mickey Doolan would have been a herocould he have been found.
Sir Anthony, annoyed and disturbed as he was, could not but yieldto Lyle's passionate entreaties, and the best available counselwas procured for Jane. To him Lyle confided the housekeeper'sstory—the betrayal of her daughter, her meetings with Mickey, and hisacquaintance with Jasper Standish's doings. Unlike Sir George, thisgentleman thought the case against the Inspector a very strong one. Bitby bit he pieced it together like a puzzle map.
"If we could find that Jew and ascertain that Standish was indifficulties, that he owed money, that the same was part or whollypaid on the night succeeding the murder, if amongst that money was asingle piece of those ten he says were marked, we should have him.But, remember, Miss Orcheton, the greatest prudence and secrecy areimperative. I shall take care to have him watched, for fear he shouldescape before the trial. You see, it was absolutely necessary heshould make someone responsible for the crime. He selected the weakestand most unpopular of those under suspicion. His case against JaneGrapnell is strong, but only strong enough to put her out of the way,so that he may gain time for his own security. She has to await hertrial. He knows as well as I do that no jury would convict her on suchevidence, but that the shadow of guilt will lurk about her, and in ameasure render her powerless. I can see his game is to pretend she wasan accomplice of this ne'er-do-weel Doolan, who has so mysteriouslydisappeared. He will make it appear that he broke the window, and gotinto the manager's room, that they shared the plunder, and that hehas gone off leaving her to bear the brunt of discovery. The doctor'sevidence was very damaging. The servants at your father's also spoke ofher secret goings-out at night. We cannot be too careful not to showour hands. But, before the trial comes on, you'll find Jasper Standishwill try to leave the country. He has gained his point. He has hadsomeone arrested, accused, and half condemned by popular prejudice. Hehas thrown off suspicion from himself, and with all due regard to mycountrymen, Miss Orcheton, I should be sorry for this poor woman if shehad to be tried by a jury from Rathfurley. No one seems to have a goodword for her there."
"No," said Lyle. "She was a reserved, proud woman. She carried in herbreast a terrible sorrow and a terrible purpose. That sort of womandoes not readily make friends."
"Well, rely upon me to do my best. The case promises to be a bigsensation, but I am sure I can promise you that whoever suffers thepenalty of the law it won't be Jane Grapnell."
This conversation took place in Dublin, where Sir Anthony and hisdaughter had gone.
Nora remained at the Hermitage, still in the charge of the nurse. Brainfever had been averted, but the shock and grief through which shehad passed had left her utterly prostrate, and Dr. Dan was seriouslyalarmed about her. She could not endure to hear Jasper Standish's namementioned; it sent her into a paroxysm of nervous terror that ended inhysteria. So weak, so broken down was she, that Lyle almost despairedof her reason.
Jasper had not confessed to their marriage, and Lyle made no mentionof it. She waited for his assertion or claim, but neither wasforthcoming. Sometimes she thought Nora must have fancied it; but whenthe recollection of that ring—of the night in the turret when JasperStandish had corroborated the statement—would flash back to her mind,and she thought with mingled pity and dread of the awful fate that laybefore the unfortunate girl.
As soon as she had placed Jane's confession in her counsel's hands, andtold him the whole facts that had come to her knowledge, she and SirAnthony returned to Rathfurley.
There was nothing more to be done until the time came for the trial.Only she had the satisfaction of knowing that Jasper Standish would bewatched, and that Mickey Doolan was being privately searched for. Allthat was in human power to do to save Jane she had done. Now she couldonly wait and hope.
* * * * * *
Slowly, wearily the days drifted by, and with untiring patience andunwearied devotion, Lyle watched and tended Nora.
It nearly broke her heart to see the change in her. The bright andlovely girl, who had been so courted and admired, was now but a poorfrail shadow, filled with nervous terrors, haunted by perpetual dread.Her face was drawn and anxious. Instead of its old bloom, it wore thepainful expression peculiar to troubled youth—an expression pitiful tosee.
"Don't you worry about me, Lyle," she said one day, when her friend hadbeen urging her to come out for a little while. Out to the sunshine,and the spring's budding glories, and the new life waking in the sadold world—the life that is the promise of hope, and keeps hope alivein hearts that might otherwise despair.
"Don't you worry," she went on, "I am not going to die. No such luck.And I shall bear it. I have brought it all on myself. But I can neverhave faith in anything again. I have lost all I cared for, all but you.And you will go, too, some day—it is only natural. And then I shall bealone—always. If I were a Catholic I should enter a convent. Oh! thepeace and comfort of such a retreat when life has shown its hollownessand worthlessness."
In vain Lyle tried to combat this depression, and rouse her to somehopefulness again. Dr. Dan advised change of scene—an entirelydifferent life amid new surroundings; but until Jane's trial was overLyle could not bring herself to leave Ireland, and nothing would induceNora to go away without her.
So the days came and went, long and hopeless and dreary enough,weighted with anxiety and destitute of all the mirth and brightness ofcareless girlhood.
Jasper Standish never came now to the Hermitage. Why he did not claimNora was a perpetual puzzle to Lyle. She only feared some deeperscheme of villainy lay beneath his unaccountable silence. The mixtureof bravado and far-sighted cunning with which he had presented hiscase, and turned the tables on Jane and herself, had proved he was noordinary foe. The bravado would have to be met with stern purpose, thecunning with strategy.
She was not allowed to see Jane, but Mr. Roach, the solicitor engagedfor her, took cheering messages from time to time. He came frequentlyto the Hermitage and held long consultations with Lyle. Sometimes hesaw Nora, but it had been agreed that the name of Jasper Standish wasnever to be mentioned before her.
As the daughter of the murdered man, and the one person most interestedin bringing the criminal to justice, he naturally took a great interestin the frail suffering girl. It seemed to Lyle sometimes that theinterest was growing into something warmer and deeper than merelybusiness talks warranted.
In any case no one yet had had the power to lift her mind from out itsheavy darkness as this genial, sympathetic solicitor appeared to have.
His cheery voice, his ugly rugged face always won a smile of welcomefrom her pale lips. He brought a breath of the outer world into herseclusion, and it was he who at last persuaded her to leave the houseand walk, leaning on his strong arm, under the new green leafage of thetrees. Lyle noted, and her heart grew warm with gratitude towards him.He was so manly, so strong, so full of kindly thought and sympathy,that sometimes she wondered why he had taken up a profession thatcertainly was not calculated to give any man a great belief in thevirtues of his fellows.
However, the fact of his interest in Nora, and of his power to rouseher from her long despondent attitude to all in and about her life, wasenough at present. The sapling was only bent, not broken. The flowercrushed by rough hailstones may still revive and lift its bruisedbeauty in the warmth of sunlight. She hoped and prayed that that firstfierce unworthy passion had burnt itself out; that the very violence ofher grief had exhausted its sources. It is not natural to the young tosorrow long. If the sorrow is violent, so also is the reaction.
Watching the girl's languid footsteps, pacing to and fro under thetrees, noting the kindly face bent down to her, the strong yet gentlearm supporting her, Lyle smiled, half sadly, half hopefully.
"Who knows?" she said, and sighed—and yet looked again and smiled."Who knows?"
For she thought of possible consolation in time to come.
MRS. O'NEIL, returning from a visit to the Riviera, was greeted by thenews of recent events. She drove over to the Hermitage at once, and sawLyle and heard Jane's story.
"Then sheis Hester's mother? Why did she deny it? If she had toldme her suspicions, I might have helped her."
"I think," said Lyle, "she had determined on finding out this man'sguilt in her own way. Naturally she wished to hide her story. It wouldhave been an added shame had it been made public."
"Do you remember that afternoon when I questioned her, and her denial?Oh! if she had only confessed, I would have been her friend throughall. Poor Hester! poor pretty child! What an awful fate!"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I shall always reproach myself. I ought tohave looked after her better. But there was something of the mother'sreserve in her. One never seemed to get sight into her heart."
"This fiend managed it, at all events."
"The greater his sin," exclaimed Mrs. O'Neil with passion. "Oh! Lyle,I can't bear to think of it. A prison grave, and that bright, lovelycreature. No wonder it broke her mother's heart."
"Her courage has been wonderful," said Lyle sadly; "but now she has toface a new tragedy."
"And Nora—how is she? May I see her?"
"You will find her awfully changed. Sorrow has followed sorrow, andshock, shock. She is quite broken down."
"I must try and cheer her up. Dear, dear! how much has happened! Shewon't have to appear at the trial, Lyle?"
"Thank goodness, no. She could never face such an ordeal."
"My dear, you'll be hating Ireland after this. There's been nothing butmisfortunes for you since you came here. They always said the Hermitagewas an unlucky house."
Lyle's lip quivered. She turned away.
"It was I who persuaded my father to take it," she said, "and assuredlysome malignant fate has dogged our footsteps ever since. When I thinkthat only a year ago we were two happy, ignorant girls, dreaming asgirls dream, hoping as girls hope, and now——"
"Don't cry, dear, don't. Remember my philosophy. Things will getbetter. The clouds are bound to roll away in time. Come, Lyle, showa brave face, and trouble will slink away. You are young. You have afuture. I have only a past. But I can laugh still. I won't allow thatlife is over, even when one's heart is almost broken."
"That is your happy temperament," said Lyle.
"Perhaps. But take me to see Nora now. Oh! what a fool I was toencourage that man's attentions! If I had only dreamed——"
The tears rose to her kindly eyes. She followed Lyle in silence.
* * * * * *
It was the first day of the trial of Jane Grapnell, accused of themurder of Thomas Callaghan, bank manager of Rathfurley.
The crucial hour had come at last. The long suspense was over. Asad, worn woman faced that crowded court, those curious, excited,unsympathetic faces, and looking from them to the judge in his statelyrobes, the jurymen in whose hands lay her fate, uttered calmly anddistinctly her denial of the charge—"Not Guilty."
A momentary silence followed. Then came a rustle of papers, a flutterof leaves, as reporters and barristers settled themselves to business.The counsel for the prosecution rose to open the case, and amidstbreathless silence laid his facts before the court.
He commenced by saying that the prisoner was charged with the murder ofMr. Thomas Callaghan, of Rathfurley, on the night of Nov.—th, 1888.
He thought that the evidence would clearly show the murder had not beenpremeditated, that the motive of the accused was robbery, and discoveryhad led to a violent assault that had resulted in death. The accusationas made before the magistrate's court was then detailed, and the samewitnesses called upon.
Of these, Jasper Standish was the principal. He looked pale andnervous. His eyes were bloodshot, and his trembling lips and thetremour of his hands told a tale of dissipation. He never looked at theprisoner while giving his evidence, which was identical with that hehad previously sworn before the magistrate. He was cross-examined byJane's counsel, and the various weak points scored against him.
Then came Dr. Dan with his statement of Jane's unexplained absence, andthe servant's account of Mickey Doolan hanging about the place to getspeech with her.
Lyle was called upon last; and her coolness and straight-forwardnessmade a great impression. Her account of the incidents in the turretroom, the revolver, and the flight of Jasper Standish, who stated hehad come there to arrest Jane, utterly confuted the testimony of theInspector himself.
He had made a great blunder. He had subpœnaed her as witness on hisside, to prevent her giving evidence for the defence. But her evidencewent so dead against his story that it only weakened his case. In vainthe prosecution tried to shake her statements, to confuse or bewilderher. They made the most of Jane's concealment being known and aided byherself, of her setting her "ferocious" dog at the Inspector, who hadthen retired to fetch one of his officers, of her attempts to prejudicethe magistrate. But with all this they could not do away with theimpression she had made. The case against the accused ended for thatday, leaving everyone in a state of indecision as to what the resultwould be.
Dr. Dan, Sir Anthony, and Lyle were staying at the hotel. Nora had notbeen required, and remained behind at the Hermitage, where Lyle hadpromised to telegraph accounts of the trial each day.
There was a long and serious consultation that night over theforthcoming complications. Lyle and her counsel had almost won SirAnthony over to their belief in Jasper Standish's guilt. Dr. Danremained severely neutral. The man had been his friend; had alwaysshown himself liberal, convivial, good-hearted. It was impossible hecould have committed a crime so dastardly.
Till long into the night they sat and talked it over, sometimeshopeful, sometimes despondent. When Lyle rose at last and bade themgood-night, the barrister looked earnestly at her troubled face.
"I can work it over the second day," he said, "but, 'pon my faith, MissOrcheton, it's a bad look-out for us if we can't lay hands on thatyoung scamp Mickey Doolan by the morning of the third."
Jasper Standish had left Dublin by the last train that night. He wasignorant of the fact that he was being watched, or that the smallinoffensive-looking individual who had gone into the next compartmenthad been following his movements for many weeks with great interest.
When he reached the little station he got into a car and drove to hishouse. He had a purpose in view. Nora was alone at the Hermitage now.He resolved to go and see her.
The detective called another car. There was a brief colloquy, and acurious, shock-headed individual with a slouched hat almost concealinghis features undertook the job of keeping the foremost car in sight,with suspicious alacrity.
During the drive there was a good deal of conversation between the"jarvey" and his fare. It showed that this was not their first meeting,and the boy displayed a powerful interest in the events of the trial.
They drove cautiously, not wishing the leading vehicle to discover theywere following. At a special place the second car drew up, and thefare got down. The driver fastened his horse to a post, and gave himhis nose-bag. Then the two figures left the road and entered the wood,through which twisted a narrow little foot-track, evidently well-knownto them. It ended in sight of the County Inspector's house. Arrivedthere the two figures crouched in the shadow of the bushes, and waitedsilently for events.
"There's the light, sor," whispered one of the watchers. "Ah! bad cessto that ground glass av the windy panes. 'Tis divil a sight av inythingone gets. Shure an' I've tried it often."
"Stop here till I return," said the other. And he glided cautiouslyforward to where a little patch of light shone through the window on tothe ragged grass that was by courtesy styled the lawn.
But as the boy had said the glass baffled inspection. As he stoodthere, however, the man suddenly noticed that the window was notperfectly closed at the top. This left a tiny aperture between thewindow and the sill, and by kneeling down so that his eyes were levelwith the opening he could see a certain portion of the room.
The Inspector must have been unusually pre-occupied not to have noticedthis aperture. When the detective caught sight of him within the roomhe was occupied in examining some papers that he had taken apparentlyfrom an open drawer. These he tore up one by one, then approached thefire-place and threw the fragments among the ashes. The fire had goneout, but apparently that did not concern him. The old woman could notread. She would light the fire next morning with these scraps of paper.
He next went to a cupboard and took out a bottle and glass. He pouredout nearly a tumblerful of raw spirit, and drank it off withouttroubling to adulterate it with water. Then he commenced to talk. Hiswords were rapid and incoherent, and the listener could not make senseout of them. Sometimes he laughed—the meaningless laughter of theinebriate. It was evident that the strong spirit was affecting him.
He put his revolver in his pocket, locked the drawer from which he hadtaken the papers, and then eyed the bottle once more as if doubtfulwhether to test its soothing properties. Finally he locked it up.
"Better not," he muttered. "I've a stiff lot of business before me. Imust keep a steady hand and brain."
Seeing that he was about to leave the house, the detective creptquietly back to the shelter of the bushes. He whispered a warning tohis companion, and the two again followed on his track as he took ashort cut across the intervening grounds that lay between the Lodge andthe Hermitage.
"He's for the big house," whispered the carman. "Shure an' what's thatfor? Isn't ivery one av the family away? What can he be wantin' thereat all, at all?"
What he was wanting puzzled them still more as Jasper made a turntowards the river. Here he paused, and they watched him light a darklantern.
"It's the cave he's goin' to. Now saints and angels, what's takin' himthere?"
"What cave?" asked the detective.
"The Holy Hermit's—God rest his sowl. It's there the saycret way iswhere he followed the lady, as came out in the first trial. Now, glorybe, what are we to do wid ourselves, sor? I'd not be afther followin'him through that same tunnel av a place, not for a hundred pounds, Iwouldn't. He's a desprit man is Mister Inspector, and handy wid hispistol shots too!"
"I shall follow him," said the detective. "I have a revolver also. Youneedn't fear."
"Ah! but it's meself has no great likings for bullets flyin' aboutme head. Axin' yer pardon, sir, couldn't ye be lavin' me to waitconvaynient here till the matter's settled between yer two selvescomfortable?"
"No, you must come too," said the officer, sternly. "I may need you asa witness, as well as help. Recollect, you're under the power of thelaw, and I order you to obey."
"Shure an' yer honour knows I've bin like wax in yer hands iver sinceyou found me out, an' mighty clever you was about that same, an' it'sa great man you'll be, I'm thinkin'. So lead the way, yer honour,an' it's Mickey Doolan won't be far off, seein' as we're the best avfrinds, an' no occasion in life to quarrel over a small matter av thissort."
"It's dark as pitch; I can't see the light," whispered the detectivepresently, as they groped their way through the tunnel, which seemed toslope upwards.
"He's got a long start av us. Whisht! I hear his steps."
They paused and listened. They could hear the heavy tread echoingthrough the distant passage. Supposing the man they were pursuing couldhear them!
Very slowly, very cautiously they crept on till they came to astairway. Here they again paused to listen. There was no sound offootsteps now, but a faint flicker of light stole down from above,and showed the steep stone stairs mounting upwards like a ladder. Notdaring to move or speak, they crouched in the darkness and heard thesound of heavy blows on wood. The panel had been boarded up by SirAnthony's orders, and the old mode of entrance rendered impossible. Noone slept at this side of the house, as Jasper had taken care to assurehimself.
He succeeded at last in forcing an entrance, and taking the lantern,disappeared into the turret room. Softly and slowly the detective andMickey followed. He had forced the lock of the door, and they caughtsight of him as he flashed the lantern cautiously towards the stairsthat led into the corridor.
Not till the light vanished did they venture to creep into the room.There was a faint gleam of moonlight through the window, and by itslight they managed to grope their way across to the door. The staircasewas dark, but the detective made cautious progress step by step untilhe reached the next corridor.
A whisper from Mickey stayed his feet and both instantly listenedintently. Afar off in the silence of the night came a woman's cry ofterror. They followed its direction. Door after door they passed. Allwere shut, all silent within.
Another flight of stairs, another corridor. Again they listened.
A sound of voices guided them. They reached a door. A light streamedfrom beneath. The sound of a voice low and threatening reached then.They remained without—motionless, intently listening. The detective'shand stole forward. He turned the handle softly. It was evidentlylocked within. The tones of the voice rose to a louder key.
"I tell you I must have the money, or its worth. You know where SirAnthony keeps it. You must fetch it."
A woman's voice, faint with terror, pleaded. It was drowned by brutaloaths.
"Tell me the place, and I'll fetch it myself. Come, there's no time tolose. I want to get off before daybreak. You and your friend—curseher—have made it too hot for me. Now, are you going to do what I ask?"
"Jasper, I cannot; I'd sooner die."
"Then tell me, where's the safe? I've no time to hunt the house.Library or dressing-room?"
"Dressing-room," she said faintly.
"Which way?"
"Through that door, into the next room, across the corridor and thelast on the right-hand side."
"You're not tricking me? Your life shall answer for it if you are."
"It is the truth."
Coldly, despairingly, the words fell. It was for this she had wreckedher life, made shipwreck of youth's beauty and hope. For the sake of aruthless villain, who had neither honour nor heart; who had never lovedher, who had only made her a tool to serve his purpose, and screen hiscrimes.
She cowered back among the pillows, white as they. She heard his brutallaugh as he turned to the door, and the sound of his retreating stepsfell upon her heart as earth falls upon a closed coffin. With a shuddershe closed her eyes. She was near fainting with terror, but somethingseemed to control her failing senses, and she strove to overcome thatdeadly weakness.
At that moment a low tap came at the door, and a voice spoke.
"Open in the name of the law!" It said. "I am in pursuit of a thief. Hewas here a moment ago."
She sat up in bed too frightened to speak. A second demand followed thefirst. Still she was silent.
Give him up? See him humiliated, captured in the act of robbery?She could not do it. He was her husband. She had loved him blindly,devotedly. She must make one effort to save him.
"Wait then," she cried boldly. "I am in bed. I will open the door in aminute."
Then she sprang out of bed, snatched up a dressing-gown, and spedlike the wind across the intervening rooms. She caught him as he wasabout to force the little safe where Sir Anthony kept such cash andsecurities as he did not care to put in the bank.
"Fly, Jasper!" she cried entreatingly. "The police are here. They havetracked you."
He turned his white face to her—the face of a coward and criminal. Sheshuddered at its awful ferocity, and its yet more awful fear.
"Go!" she implored. "Another moment and you will be too late. Listen!"
A sharp imperative rap echoed from the room she had left. He saw therewas no time to lose.
"Keep them back or there'll be murder," he said with a brutal laugh.Then he flung open the door of the room and concealed himself behindthe wide chintz draperies of the bed. She saw what he meant and flewback. She opened the door and admitted the detective and Mickey.
"You were a long time," he said suspiciously.
"I had to find my dressing-gown. But a safe takes a long time to open."
"Is that the way?"
"Yes," she said breathlessly.
They hurried on. She waited, her heart beating wildly. She knewJasper's plan now.
It happened as he had supposed. They saw the lantern and the skeletonkeys, the open door, and ran down the stairs, taking the lantern withthem. Jasper rushed from his hiding-place, through Nora's room, and upthe staircase to the turret. He locked the door behind him, and withall speed made for the secret passage, dashed down it, through thetunnel, across the grounds, back to the Lodge and the stable where hishorse stood ready saddled.
He led it out, mounted, and while the detectives and Mickey werehunting and searching the great rooms and passages of the Hermitage hewas off and away across country, flying for his life.
He knew his horse. Nothing to be hired or borrowed could match itfor speed and endurance. His plans had long been laid for such anemergency. He had a fair start, and yet he urged the spirited animalwith voice and spur. It did not like such treatment, and showed signsof temper.
Jasper was now utterly incapable of self-control or cool thought.
Semi-intoxicated, maddened with rage, and pursued by a sudden strangefrenzy that led him to fancy pursuit was close at hand, he struck theanimal brutally with his whip. It reared and nearly unseated him, thenstarted off like an arrow from a bow, across the long level road. Thethunder of its hoofs seemed to Jasper's ears like the sound of otherhoofs gaining on him. The blood raced madly through his veins, andcoursed through his brain. It was more mania than drunkenness that nowpossessed him.
Faster and faster they flew.
The moon's pale gleam made the hedgerows like one continuous thread,the stars whirled giddily above him, sky and earth and shadowy treesturned into a blurred mist. The foam from the horse's nostrils lay likeflakes of snow tossed here and there, its sides were red and torn wherethe cruel spurs still pressed.
On, still on, he urged the half-maddened creature. Across country now,taking fence after fence in flying leaps that seemed to race and touchthe clouds, and meet a hundred other strange and rushing objects. On,still on, with the thundering hoofs behind and the paling sky above.On, till with a wild cheer he called on earth and heaven both to joinin that mad flight and cheat pursuit that meant the hangman's ropeabout his neck.
On, till with a plunge, a gasp, a crash of broken bars came suddendarkness, and horse and rider lay bleeding and unconscious side by side.
AFTER a prolonged search the detective came suddenly to the conclusionthat Jasper had doubled on them and escaped. Groping about in darkrooms and unknown passages was not lively work. He called to Mickey,and told them his conviction.
"I'll go back," he added, "to the Lodge. We may catch him there, thoughI doubt it. He's had too good a start."
Mickey's explanations and suggestions were plentiful, but the detectivewas in an ill-humour and paid scant attention to him. If it hadoccurred to his mind that Nora had any interest in the man, or couldhave connived at his escape, he would have questioned her. As it was heleft the Hermitage by the proper entrance and made his way to the GreyLodge as speedily as the darkness permitted.
When they reached it, he paused a moment, wondering whether to effectan entrance without ceremony, or rouse the servant and ask for Jasper.Mickey saved him the trouble of a decision by pushing up the window ofJasper's little office, and flashing the light of the lantern around.It was dark and deserted.
The boy sprang in, and the detective followed. His eager glance tookin every detail of the room. Then with sudden remembrance of itsoccupant's recent employment, he went to the fire-place and collectedall the torn papers he had thrown there.
The drawers of the writing-table were locked. He did not trouble toforce them. It was hardly likely the astute Inspector would have leftincriminating evidence behind him.
They then proceeded to search the house, terrifying the old woman, whowas asleep in the kitchen, and who could or would tell them nothing ofher master's affairs. His bed had not been disturbed, but there wasnothing in his room to show intention of flight.
After a brief search, they next proceeded to the stables. Mickey knewboth the horses, and drew conclusions.
"Shure an' he's gone, yer honour, safe enough," he exclaimed. "An' 'tisLightnin' Flash he's taken. An' devil a baste this side the Countycan bate him for speed. We might as well be gettin' to our beds, sor,now. It's little chance we have av seein' anythin' but a clean pair avheels."
"You're sure the two horses were here to-day?"
"This same blessed morning, sor, they was there, the pair av thim; an'the master away the whole av the day. Sorra a sowl in the place aswould dare to touch thim. But there's Dan somewhere about; in the loftmaybe. We might be axin' him a question as to the ways av it."
The detective smiled contemptuously. "The ways av it," were plainenough. "He's got off, no doubt," he said. "The question is whether totrace and pursue him, or wait till the morning and set the wires towork."
"If it's a race yer honours manin', I'm yer man," said Mickey,joyfully. "Shure an' I'd take the little mare there as soon as look atit, an' divil a bit av saddle or stirrup I'm wantin'."
The man eyed him doubtfully. "How are we to know which road he'staken?" he said. "Besides, Mickey, it's a desperate man you're after.He's taken life before now."
"Shure an' yer honour can give me that bit av a pistol, an' 'twill beshot for shot av he's after tryin' that game on wid me. You'll not beneedin' it yerself, an' ye can take the car an' drive into the town,an' be settin' thim wires to work as ye was spakin' av, as soon as theday breaks. Faith, it's not far off that same. Am I to go, yer honour?"
"Yes, but be careful. He's likely to make for the coast. He'll getoff in some little vessel. He'd know the liners and steamers would besearched."
"Faith, an' I'll be careful. It's none too fond av that gintleman I am;I give ye me wurrd av that."
"Track him, but don't come up with him," continued the detective."Wire me if you have news, and go to the nearest police station andinform them this man is under arrest for murder. You'll be no usesingle-handed."
Mickey promised joyfully, then saddled the little mare, and rode off onthe track of his enemy.
"Mind," came the last warning, "the day after to-morrow, the third dayof the trial, you're to report yourself. You'll be wanted as witness."
"Troth an' I'm not likely to forget that! It's long enough I've beenwaiting my turn. Begorra, whin I get in an' say me say in the opencourt, it's the black face av his will be lookin' as white as apennorth av curds in a sweep's fist!"
And with a wild "hurroo" to the astonished chestnut, he dashed offalong the road that Jasper Standish had taken.
* * * * * *
The second day of the trial was of more importance to all concernedthan the first.
Jane Grapnell looked paler and more anxious as she entered the dock,and her eyes turned to where Lyle was seated beside Sir Anthony,as if she sought some re-assuring sign. Lyle smiled in sympatheticrecognition of that anxious inquiry. But her own mind was far from easy.
Jane's counsel opened his case with a long introduction, and thenproceeded to call witnesses. He seemed to play into the hands of theprosecution, and to force prolonged cross-examination on every littlepoint. The Court adjourned for lunch. It was impossible the case couldarrive at summing-up point that day.
In the afternoon the defence called up Jasper Standish forcross-examination. After an interval it was announced that thatimportant witness was not in court. He had been telegraphed for, and ananswer had just come to hand.
He was not at Ranfurley. No one knew where he was.
Affairs came to a standstill. There was a hurried consultation ofbarristers, solicitors and counsel. The defence suggested adjournmentuntil the missing witness was discovered. And so ended the proceedingsof the second day.
When Lyle returned to the hotel she was informed that a lady wasawaiting her in her sitting-room. She ran hastily up the stairs, andfound Nora there. One look at the agitated face told her something hadhappened.
"What is it?" she asked breathlessly.
"Jasper—is he here? Did he appear to-day?"
"No," said Lyle. "He was called upon, but no one knew where he was. Hasanything happened, Nora? Do you——"
"Yes; I know something. He came to the house last night, Lyle, by thesecret way. I woke up to find him in my room. He wanted money; hethreatened to kill me if I would not tell him where Sir Anthony kepthis. I had to tell him, Lyle."
"Nora! Oh! my poor dear."
"That isn't all. He had scarcely left me when there came a knockingat the door. The police had tracked him and demanded admission. Lyle,I could not help it. I rushed down and warned him. I helped him toescape."
She wrung her hands helplessly. The tears were streaming down her face.
"And he got off?" asked Lyle.
"I don't know. I heard no more. The officer searched the house, and,not finding him, left. I lay awake all night in terror. As soon as theservants were up, I rose. The safe had not been touched, so that lastcrime was spared him. But your room had been broken open, Lyle."
"That fatal turret?"
"Yes. The new panel was smashed to pieces. I told the servants to sendto the barracks, and when the man came I explained that the house hadbeen broken into, and begged that someone might be left to guard itwhile I came here to tell Sir Anthony. There is a policeman there now.The Irish servants were terrified out of their wits. Lyle, what hashappened to Jasper? Has no one heard anything?"
"I believe not. I am expecting Mr. Roach and Mr. Galloway, Jane'scounsel, this evening. They may have heard. It's very extraordinary,Nora. Why has he run off like this?"
"He must have been watched. The other side know the story. He saidthat you and Jane had made the place too hot for him, and he was goingabroad. Oh, Lyle, he looked so awful, and he was half mad with drink."
She hid her face in her shuddering hands, and Lyle could only murmurcompassion. In her heart she rejoiced. Jasper Standish was guilty. Hemust be; else why this sudden flight!
She trembled with excitement. This was no mean triumph. She hadbefriended Jane to good purpose, and between them they had forcedtheir adversary's hand. Surely now the prosecution would fail, Jane'sinnocence be declared, and Jasper Standish would stand in the dockwhere he had placed a helpless woman.
It was terrible for Nora, but then no one knew that fatal secret. Itmight never be known.
She tried to soothe the poor girl, and took her to her bedroom toremove her hat and cloak, and persuaded her to lie down and rest. Thenshe returned to see if Sir Anthony had yet come in. He was there withMr. Roach, and was occupied in reading a telegram. Lyle shook handswith the solicitor.
"I have strange news," she said eagerly. "Nora is here. She saysthat this man, Jasper Standish, broke into the house last night andattempted to rob my father's safe."
Sir Anthony let the telegram drop. "What?" he exclaimed.
"He came to rob you previous to leaving the country," continued Lyle."He was interrupted by the police, but escaped. She knows nothing more.Now, father, will you believe me? If he were not guilty would he haveacted like that?"
The old baronet took her hand and pressed it gently. "Forgive me, mydear. I was an obstinate old fool. You were right all the time. But hehas escaped justice, even as he escaped suspicion. Read that."
She took the flimsy paper from him which he handed to her and read asfollows:—
"Standish found dead, thrown from horse. Body at police station,Middleton. Wire instructions.
Doolan."
Lyle gave a faint cry. "Dead! And Mickey sent this? Mickey found him?"
"Yes. The young rascal has been acting amateur detective under theguidance of James Marlitt, a man we had from Scotland Yard. Marlittwires that he traced Standish to the Hermitage, lost him, found he hadtaken a fleet horse and gone off. This boy went in pursuit. You seewhat he says."
"Dead!" faltered Lyle once more. "With all his sins, all hiscrimes—oh! thank God, Nora is safe at last."
"Nora? Why, what has she to do with it?" exclaimed Sir Anthony.
"I can tell you now, father, but do not breathe it to a living soul.She was married secretly to Jasper Standish. He persuaded her to it inorder that she might not be a witness against him. It has nearly killedher since she found out his villainy."
"My God! how awful. What possessed the girl——"
"It is all over and done with now," said Lyle, stealing a glance ofsympathy at the pale face of poor Tom Roach. "Don't blame her, dad.He was a very fascinating man. Nora was so young, and quite at hismercy. Besides," she added, hurriedly, "it was no sort of a marriage.He neither claimed nor acknowledged it. She told me, and I brought herhome. That was when she fell ill, dad."
"Yes, I see it all now. Poor girl! Poor, deluded child! Still she mighthave told you, Lyle."
"Dear father, 'mights' and 'ifs' won't alter things now. Thank God thatdeath has spared her further horror of this trial and its revelations.She will recover; she will forget. It has been an awful experience."
The rugged, kindly face of the solicitor told of his sympathy with suchan experience, but said nothing. Lyle understood his silence, and shechanged the subject skilfully. Presently, when she had ordered tea, shewent up to Nora.
Very gently she told her the news of Jasper's death. The girl took itwith strange calmness. She had suffered so much, and borne so much,that her powers of endurance had reached a climax.
"He has been spared a worse fate, and I a worse shame," she said.
Then she covered her face with trembling hands, and Lyle saw her lipsmove. That worthless life was not worth a girl's forgiving prayer, butas that gentle pardon followed it to another world, something of peaceand rest fell on the aching heart.
She looked up at last, and in spite of the change of these last awfulweeks, it seemed to Lyle that her face wore a look which seemed tobelong to the old girlish days. Involuntarily her arms went round herin the way that had belonged to those old days, too.
"You have come back to me," she said, softly, "and I shall never playyou false, Nora."
* * * * * *
The last day of Jane Grapnell's trial was a day to be long rememberedin the county; a day to make journalists rejoice, and be as rain afterlong drought to the gossips' tongues; a day the like of which hadnever been known since Barney O'Gorman had roasted his grandmother asa witch in a sudden fit of pious hilarity; whose end had been somewhatdisastrous for the grandmother—and Barney.
There was a stir, an excitement about the very opening of the Court.The crowd that tried for admission was double and treble in number towhat it had previously been.
Lyle's face was radiant, her father's very grave. The defendingcounsel, Mr. Galloway, looked serenely triumphant. The proceedingsto-day meant a big sensation, and no small fame for himself. Jane, whoknew nothing of what had transpired, yet gathered hope from her firstglance at her staunch friend.
After the usual preliminaries Mr. Galloway called his first witness,Mickey Doolan. Jane started and changed colour as she heard the name,and her eyes looked half-fearfully, half-doubtfully, to the little boxwhere the witnesses appeared. Yes—there was no doubt about it. Theshock head, the impish face, the furtive glance—it was Mickey. He hadbeen found. Her case was sure now.
Her heart throbbed so violently that she could scarcely stand as shethought of all that his discovery and his evidence meant. Her brainwhirled dizzily, and for a moment the faces and figures swam mistilybefore her eyes. With a great effort she recovered herself, and sankinto the seat provided for her. Then, with tear-filled eyes, andstraining ears she gave her attention to the proceedings of the Court.
As no pen could do justice to Mickey's phraseology, his ramblings,his quaint terms of speech, and his general content with himself inthe position of a celebrity, it is sufficient to say here that histestimony to Jane's innocence was conclusive.
He told the story of their first meeting, of the odd bargain betweenthem, and how he had since watched the "quare doings of MisterInspector Standish."
Then came the question as to that morning after the bank manager'smurder, and his discovery of the blood-stained shirt, which nowsemi-historical garment was at last displayed in Court, and created theexpected sensation.
Step by step the story went on, and plainer grew the proofs thatwhoever was guilty it could not be Jane Grapnell.
A fierce fire of cross-examination brought out Mickey at his best. Ifhe was a spy, well, what was the "gintleman from Scotland Yard?" If onestatement was to be discredited, why not the other?
The Court roared, the prosecution looked foolish, and long before thebrilliant and forcible summing-up of the defence, the verdict was aforegone conclusion.
Pale, calm, and resolute, Jane Grapnell sat there and heard it all.Her heart swelled with gratitude and triumph. The battle had not beento the strong, nor the race to the swift. Endurance and patience andcourage had fought their way through every difficulty. Hester's wrongswere at last avenged!
* * * * * *
The summing-up of the judge was a mere formality, but Jane had tobe released by a verdict before the new accusation could be broughtforward. The present inquiry was concerned with the establishment ofher innocence, not with the proofs of another person's guilt.
The judge gave it as his opinion that the present prisoner should neverhave been placed in the dock at all; that no proof as to her committalof this brutal murder of an inoffensive and beloved master had beenbrought. A few suspicious circumstances certainly went against her, butthese had now been explained by the last witness. He sent the case tothe jury with perfect confidence in their verdict; there could be nodoubt that that verdict would coincide with his own opinion.
The jury, without leaving the court, arrived at their decision. Theusual question was asked, and the foreman answered, without a moment'shesitation, "Not guilty, my lord."
There was one long-drawn breath of relief, a faint cheer instantlysuppressed.
But Jane heard nothing more. The long tension of nerve and strengthsnapped at last. She fell forward like a log into the arms of thewarder. Then she was carried out, amid a murmur of sympathy, to awaitthe formality of release, while the detective laid before the Court hisevidence of the guilt of Jasper Standish.
The fragments of paper were the I.O.U.'s he had released from old BenjyMyers. The Jew had confessed to the receipt of the money the nightafter the murder. Among his hoarded treasure still lay the markedpieces of which one had been placed in Jane's drawer at the Hermitage.
But the story that set her free had no sequel of justice on thewrong-doer. He had to face a higher tribunal; to hear a sterner sentence.
A POOR broken-down wreck of womanhood came out of that ordeal. Her hairhad turned white in those days of agony and suspense. She had knownhow awful a thing it is to stand in the Shadow of Death; how the brainreels, and the heart grows sick, and reason totters on its throne. Shehad faced the ordeal her child had faced, and gone down into depths asdeep and well-nigh as hopeless.
Yet the oath sworn over her child's deathbed had been unavailing.Never once had she accused Jasper Standish as she had meant to accusehim. Never once had they stood face to face as she had determined theyshould stand, while with relentless hand she pointed to his name inthat blood-stained Testament.
In a totally different manner and by totally unexpected means she hadworked out this man's awful fate. It seemed as if Heaven had chosen heras the instrument by which his crime should be detected, and his sinagainst Hester avenged.
Had he not directed his animosity against her helplessness, she wouldonly have been in the position to prove him guilty of her daughter'sbetrayal, on moral grounds. The law would have given her no aid there.The law would have inflicted no penalty on the murderer of innocence.But his instinctive dislike of her and her instinctive distrust of himhad been the standpoint from which a mutual antagonism had battled forvengeance and for justice.
Jane Grapnell came out of prison a free woman, a blameless woman, whoselife's purpose was achieved, but a woman of shattered nerves and brokenspirit, whose feet were set on the path of sorrow, and by that pathwould tread their feeble way to the gates that close on life. No love,nor care, nor kindliness could make amends for those years of silentagony and unflinching purpose.
With the accomplishment of that purpose the brave spirit seemed tobreak down at last. She had saved Nora from a worse fate than that ofher own child, and Nora's love and devotion repaid her with unfailingtenderness; but the shadow had already fallen, and no hand could liftit.
Not six months from the day when she had faced that dreaded sentence,when her life had hung on the verdict of men prejudiced and unfriendly,yet keenly critical of justice, Jane Grapnell was laid to rest in thelittle burial-ground of Rathfurley, and those who had once blamed herfor pride and reserve dropped kindly words now over the heart they haddone their best to wound.
To hurt the living, and give useless pity to the dead, that is the wayof life.
Rathfurley does not stand alone. It has its counterpart the world over,even as poor Jane has hers.
* * * * * *
As soon as he could persuade the girls to leave Ireland for change ofscene, Sir Anthony took them abroad.
They travelled slowly and enjoyably, taking their fill of noveltyand beauty, and rejoicing in them with youth's recovered buoyancy—achastened and tempered buoyancy, but still one that gave life a newzest, and could cast aside the shadows of sorrow for longer and longerperiods.
The wonder of cities that had made history for the world, of arttreasures garnered through centuries of change, of towering mountainssnow-crowned in lonely majesty, of magic lakes and sombre palaces, ofpeopled yesterdays contrasted with the reality of modern to-days. Allthese appealed as nothing had ever appealed to girlish romance andintelligence.
Their minds embraced the strangeness of unimagined scenes, and revelledin idylls made eloquent by every peasant's face in golden sunsets,and every mountaineer's call in rosy dawns. It was all so new, sobeautiful, so strange, and the bruised and broken flowers in the gardenof their hearts raised drooping heads once more to the sunshine ofhope, and the dew of blessed peace.
Sir Anthony noted the change with some content. He found Lyle a moresympathetic and intelligent companion, and Nora a sweeter and moreunselfish one. They were both dear to him, and his pity for the"adopted daughter," as he called her, had long given place to a verytender affection.
So the months drifted by, happily, uneventfully, and in gratefulcontrast to that awful year marked tragic from its first month.
The spring found them still loitering in Venice, to which most mysticand alluring of cities they had paid a second visit. They gave lesstime to galleries and churches now, and loved better the lingeringhours on the lagoons, the red glow of sunset on the Lido, the mysticmoonlight when their gondola floated silently on the dark waters of theGrand Canal, and music broke across the air from some hidden gardenor lighted balcony above the grey stone walls. To float through roselights and shadows, and silver gleam of moonlit skies, was entrancingenough, even if the subtle poetry inseparable from such scenes andhours awoke in each heart that thrill of longing which is Nature's callto youth.
Then would Lyle Orcheton's thoughts turn to that day of days when shehad said Life was perfected in Love; and then, too, would Nora shudderand grow pale at memory of that frenzied passion burnt now to cold greyashes; ashamed and bitterly regretful, yet capable still of provingLove's existence.
They never spoke of girlhood's romance now, never mentioned those falseand disappointing fairy princes whose advent they had once believedwould ennoble and glorify existence. Alas! it is given to few fairyprinces to do that.
The glamour of youth and its dreams no longer obscured their eyes, butthey would be none the worse women or wives for that foregone illusion.
Sometimes Lyle watched the sky-line, and thought of far-off lands anddividing seas and wondered if "he" still remembered. Her heart hadgrown more merciful now to men's faults and failings. She had readand thought, and in a measure lived, since those days of indignantjealousy. She would have been able now to say those words for which hehad once vainly pleaded: "I forgive you, Derrick."
She could also have added: "Because I understand you."
But the sky-line came no nearer, and the far seas stretched theirtossing width between her longing and his despair; and she realisedslowly, yet by sure degrees, that love may outlive anger, and outlasthope.
"There will never be anyone else," she told herself, "never! I knowthat. I wish I had been a little kinder when I had the chance."
THE spring was fading into summer warmth. A buzz of mosquitoes rousedSir Anthony from placid dreams of the stones of Venice and longblissful hours amidst the storied treasures of ancient palazzos. Therewas heat, there were odours; above all, there were mosquitoes. It wastime to issue marching orders.
The girls pleaded for one week more—only one. They might never cometo this enchanted city again, and its spell was strong upon them. Helaughed, and grumbled, and agreed, on condition they should go straightto Switzerland. No more dallying. He knew Italy in summer-time. Burningskies, chill nights, drought, stench, flies, and other horrors. Theromance would turn to prose. Best leave it while, as yet, it wasromance.
The girls had an old and friendly and highly entertaining gondolierentirely at their service. It was owing to his guidance, and variedstores of information that Venice had ceased to be for them the Veniceof the tourist, and the Cockney, and the curious and restless American.
One morning, the first of that promised week, Nora excused herself fromgoing out with Lyle on the plea of letters to write. It was a plea thathad come lately with amusing regularity, for the letters generallyconsisted of one, and that one always bore the same name and address.
It was plain to Lyle that Nora's Irish friends had not forgotten orneglected her, but she made no remark on the subject.
The gondola was waiting at the hotel steps; the patient Tonio waswaiting also. Lyle got in and bade him take her through the GrandCanal, and then out towards the islands.
It was a lovely morning, balmy and full of the fragrance of fruit andflowers from the heaped-up baskets of the girls on quay and bridge, andthe flat-bottomed"barcas" going to and from the Lido. They shotpast gondolas, barques, yachts, fishing boats, all the picturesquesea-life that floats from port and quay to the world beyond Venice andits half-forgotten glories. Then, relaxing energy, Tonio contentedhimself with keeping the gondola to its slow and stately motion.
Lyle in her white dress, leaning back among piles of orange and scarletcushions, made a lovely picture in that lovely scene, and so apparentlythought two men leaning over the rails of a large steam-yacht moored inthe broad lagoon over which they were drifting.
It was an exclamation from one of them in her own language that madeLyle look up. The gondola was close to the yacht. She saw the face ofDerrick Mallory gazing down at her own.
For a moment the shock and surprise were painful in theirunexpectedness. She could only stare blindly, stupidly, finding neitherwords nor greeting.
He recovered himself first, and, bending down, began explanations.Tonio steadied the gondola, and waited. Lyle had to listen. She was toobewildered to follow all he said. Something about a recall to Ireland,a friend and a steam-yacht, and Brindisi.
No doubt it was all very conclusive, but it looked of small accountbeside his actual nearness, his presence when she had pictured him faraway, and dwelt on a life-long separation.
She summoned enough composure to answer a question or two. She gave thename of their hotel and the length of their stay. She bowed a graciousacknowledgment of introduction to the owner of the steam-yacht, ayouthful millionaire, with a face somewhatblasé, and indifferentto life's good things, of which Fortune had given him more than a fairshare.
Then she signed to Tonio to proceed, and the gondola skimmed its wayover the sunny water, and in her heart a little bird sang of hope oncemore.
That one glimpse of him had been as food after long famine. That lookwith which his eyes had met and spoken to her own was only too eloquentof the unforgotten past. True, nothing was altered, or very little.Only herself and her narrow judgment and her self-bound pride. But inspite of that assurance, she felt that anything was preferable to thatdead wall of silence which had meant a year of life.
Would he come to the hotel? How would her father receive him? Shetrembled as she thought of that last scene between them. His name hadnever been spoken since.
But though she remembered all, and told herself she could not haveacted otherwise, her heart thrilled with new warm life. If Fate hadsent him back, if he still cared, if she forgave, surely they mightconquer her father's prejudice in time.
She closed her eyes in a blissful dream.
It was so good to feel happy again. So humbled and so content was she,that she could only breathe little thankful prayers, as one to whom agreat and wonderful blessing has been sent. The whole world was changedto-day. Air and space and sea and solitude held new delight. Her eyesswept the azure sky, and her parted lips drank in the buoyant air. Themagic of this wonder-city was in her heart and soul for the first time.For Venice is a city of enchantment still, when youth and love andhopeful life float over its tideless waters.
Lyle told Nora of that unexpected meeting, and Nora expressed surprise,and "pondered these things in her heart."
The surprise, however, led to eloquent conjectures, explanations,wonderment. What could he do? Would he dare to call after that awfulscene with Sir Anthony—after Lyle's own treatment of him?
What Derrick dared and Derrick did was to appear attable d'hotethat evening, with his friend, and secure a seat almost opposite Lyleand her party. Sir Anthony looked his amazement, but could not avoidrecognition of the young man's courteous bow, and apparently surprisedgreeting. When dinner was over, he followed them into the salon, andexplained why and how he chanced to be in Venice.
By that time Lyle was perfectly composed, and Sir Anthony, who felt heowed the young man some amends for lending too ready an ear to JasperStandish's malignant stories, was his old kind and cheery self. Therewas much to tell Derrick, too. The awful story of the Inspector'scrime; the use that had been made of the secret passage to theHermitage; the history of poor Jane, and her patient pursuit of thisman, and its results.
Then Derrick spoke frankly, yet timidly, of a sudden change in his ownfortune. A distant relative, who had only been known to the family asa miser and recluse, had died suddenly and left his entire fortune tohis nephew Derrick Mallory, on condition that he should release theHermitage from its burden of debt and mortgage, and once more livethere as its owner.
"So you see, Sir Anthony, I was bound to have a meeting with you soonor late," he explained. "Of course, I can't turn you out. You boughta lease of the place, and have gone to great expense putting it intorepair. I shall wait your own time and conditions. It's a queer will,and made by a queer individual who might, had he wished it, saved theproperty long ago. However——"
"My dear sir," exclaimed Sir Anthony, eagerly, "pray don't consider meat all. To tell you the truth, I should not be sorry to be relieved ofmy purchase. I'm not a superstitious man by any means, nor did I everattribute any special meaning to such terms as 'good and bad luck;'but, upon my soul, since I've lived in Ireland I've become a convert tothe theory. Anything like my experience since I took your house, or setfoot in your country, could not be found outside the pages of a novel.I shan't be sorry to get back to England again, I can tell you. Soyou and your lawyers may arrange as you please to release me, and thesooner red tape and parchment, and 'Victoria by the Grace of God' havesettled the business, the more pleased I shall be. As for Lyle——"
He looked round but Lyle was not there. She had slipped from the roomand followed Nora, and theblasé young millionaire out into thebalcony overlooking the Grand Canal.
It was a favourite resort in the evening. A crowd of gondolas floatedto and fro, some hung with lanterns, and filled with singers, who sangItalian melodies to lute or guitar or violin. Far and wide over thegliding waters lights streamed and twinkled. The gondolier's calls,the laughter and chatter of voices of all nationalities made endlesssounds, as the weird "water carriages" passed to and fro.
Above in the deep soft blue of the sky the moon sailed stately andserene, flooding all the scene with a new and magical beauty, relievingalmost that touch of commonplace in the gaudy-coloured posts, andthe shabby gondolas, and the unpicturesque dress of their owners andoccupants.
Lyle stood a little apart from Nora, and watched it all with that newsense of dreamy content that had been with her the whole day through.
"There is Tonio!" said Nora, suddenly. "Oh, Lyle, do let us go up anddown the canal. It is such a perfect night."
"Do!" said a voice close to Lyle's ear.
She started slightly.
"Sir Anthony is in the reading-room," the voice continued, "and we arefriends again; and I have much to say, Lyle, and you—much to forgive.But forgiveness will be less hard now. Let conventionalities slip by.The night is young and hope is in my heart, and we have met once moreand this is—Venice."
"I have often felt sorry I refused it," she said.
"That is good to hear. If you only knew how that refusal hurt me"!
She was silent—her eyes on the gliding water, her heart throbbing atthe old tenderness in his voice.
Nora's head was discreetly turned away. There were two gondolas at thesteps. One had been engaged by the young owner of the steam-yacht; inthe other stood Tonio, balancing his long oar with picturesque patience.
A touch on Lyle's hand, a whisper, and they were down the steps.
She and he were together once again beneath the shining stars,breathless with a happy silence that neither dared to break. The painof the old yesterdays was a forgotten thing. Who could be sad, or hard,or unforgiving in such a scene, at such an hour!
Tonio, discreet and comprehending, shot his gondola out of the beatentrack into a space of soft, hushed darkness, to which the singingvoices floated musically. Derrick drew a deep breath. His hand warm,yet tremulous with its own audacity, touched the white hand lying idlyon the cushioned seat.
"Am I forgiven?" he asked gently.
"Yes," she said, in a shaken voice.
"Forgotten?"
"No—oh no!" The words came so quickly that he seemed to hear herheart's throb in their sound.
"God be thanked for that!" he said reverently. "If you only knew whatI have suffered. Oh, Sweetheart, is hope impossible? Must our lives befor ever apart? You—dearest thing in life to me, will you make thatlife an endless joy, or an endless regret?"
There was silence, save for the melody of a laughing voice, the splashof the moonlit waters.
"Lyle," he entreated, "won't you speak? If you send me from youagain——"
"Derrick," she said, suddenly, "will you swear, you never loved—her?"
"Her? That woman, you mean, for whose vile sake I lost you? Never! Asthere is a God above to hear me, Lyle—never! Never for one singlemoment of my life!"
"And if——"
"If what, sweetheart?"
The little hand trembled in his. He caught a sudden vision of flushingcheek, radiant eyes, such a look.
And patient Tonio found the gondola somewhat unevenly balanced for amoment.
* * * * * *
So at last the gossips of Rathfurley had enough to content them. Forthe Hermitage came back to its original owner, and the "luck" changedfor good and all; and the sweet young English lady became more andmore Irish every day and every year, for had she not whispered in herlover's ear: "Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God!"
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