"What's that you say?" cried Jim, trying to appear as if he were
scarcely able to believe that he heard aright. "Do you mean to tell me
that Mr. Bursfield is dead?"
"Yes, sir," said the old man; "when I went into his study this morning
to open the shutters, I found him seated at his table in the arm-chair
stone dead. I ran up at once to Miss Helen's room to tell her, only to
find that her bed had not been slept in. Me and my wife searched the
house for her, but she is not to be found anywhere. Oh, sir, what does
it all mean?"
"It means that Miss Decie came to my house last night at about eleven
o'clock. Mr. Bursfield's condition was such that she was afraid to
remain in the house with him any longer. You must have noticed that he
has been very strange of late?"
"The poor old gentleman has been ailing for some days past," Isaac
replied. "He always was quick tempered, but for the last month or so he
doesn't seem to have been able to control himself. Perhaps it isn't
right for a servant to say it, sir, but there 'ave been times lately
when I 'ave been afraid that his reason 'ave been a-failing him. There
was a time when he couldn't make enough of Miss Helen, but lately he's
been scarce able to speak civil to her. It's a sad thing, sir, a very
sad thing, especially for a servant that's worked for him true and
faithful for nigh upon forty years."
"His fit of rage last night must have hastened the end," said Jim. "The
news you bring will affect Miss Decie very painfully. You had better go
back and send at once for the doctor; I will return to the Manor House
and tell Miss Decie."
"I humbly thank you for your kindness, sir," the man replied. "I will do
what you say, and perhaps you will be kind enough to come over later."
When he had extracted the other's promise he hobbled off, and Jim
returned to his own house. He found Helen and Alice in the hall,
standing before the great fireplace in earnest conversation. He bade
them as cheery a good morning as was possible under the circumstances,
and when he had done so his sister enquired why his throat was wrapped
up so closely.
"It's a trifle sore this morning," Jim replied, with some truth. "That's
all. It will be all right very soon."
He then suggested that they should go in to breakfast. He had determined
to break the news of Mr. Bursfield's death to Helen after the meal. This
he did with great gentleness. The shock, however, was a severe one,
nevertheless, but she did her best to meet it bravely.
"Poor old grandfather," she said after a while, "I always feared that
his death would come like this. Oh how sorry I am that he should have
died believing that I had ceased to love him."
"He could not have done that," Jim replied. "In his inmost heart he must
have known that your affection was one that could never change."
She shook her head, however.
"Will you take me to him?" she enquired, and Jim, feeling that it would
not be wise not to do so, consented to go with her to the Dower House.
Side by side they crossed the park by the path they had come to know so
well, entered the house by the little postern door, and were met in the
hall by the village doctor whom Isaac had summoned.
"My dear Miss Decie," he said as they shook hands, "will you accept my
heartfelt sympathy for you in your trouble. I fear it must have been a
terrible shock."
"It has affected me more than I can say," she answered. "I had no idea,
though I was aware that his heart was in a very weak state, that the end
was so near."
"One thing I can tell you if it will make you any happier," said the
doctor, "and that is, that I am certain his end was a peaceful and
painless one."
Thanking the doctor for his sympathy, Helen left the room and went
upstairs to the dead man's bedroom. Jim and the doctor went into the
study.
"I suppose it will be necessary to hold an Inquest," said Jim, when they
were alone together.
"I am very much afraid so," the doctor replied. "But it will be quite a
formal affair. There are two circumstances, however, Mr. Standerton,
about the affair, that I must confess puzzle me more than a little."
Jim felt himself turning cold. Had he left anything undone, or had he
made any mistake?
"What are those two circumstances?" he enquired.
"Well, in the first place," said the doctor, "the old gentleman seldom
went outside the house, not once a month at most, and only then on fine
days. Yesterday, his man-servant tells me, he did not stir beyond the
study door. Isaac is certain that he was wearing his carpet slippers at
dinner time, and also when he looked in upon him before retiring, yet
when he was found this morning he was wearing boots."
"That is most curious, certainly," said Jim, "but I must confess I fail
to see anything remarkable in it."
"Not perhaps in the fact of his wearing the boots," said the medical
gentleman, "but there is another point which, taken in conjunction with
it, makes one pause to think. On the first finger of the right hand I
found that the nail had been recently broken, and in a painful fashion.
What is more, the second and third fingers had smears of blood upon
them. Now with the exception of the nail to which I have alluded and
which did not bleed, he had not a trace of a wound on either finger.
That I am quite certain of, for I searched diligently. Moreover, there
is not a trace of blood upon the table at which he was seated. And there
is one thing stranger still."
"What is that?"
"As you are aware, it commenced to rain at a late hour last night.
Unfortunately I know it, for the reason that I was compelled to be out
in it. The roads were plastered with mud. Now though Mr. Bursfield, for
some reason of his own, had put on his boots, he could not have ventured
outside, for there is not a speck of mud upon them. In that case, why
the boots, and where did the blood come from?"
"You are perfectly sure that he died of heart disease?"
"As sure as I can be of anything," said the doctor. "Nevertheless, it's
altogether a mysterious affair."
This also proved to be the opinion of the Coroner's Jury, and as there
was no one forthcoming to clear it up, a mystery it was likely to remain
for all time. Had the Coroner and his Jury, however, known the history
of the bruises under the thick bandage which the young Squire of
Childerbridge wore round his throat, they would have been enlightened.
As nobody was able to account for anything save the doctor, however, a
verdict of "Death from Natural Causes" was returned, and three days
later, Abraham Bursfield was laid to rest with his forefathers in the
little churchyard, scarcely fifty paces away from the grave of the man
who had fallen by his hands.
"Jim," said Alice on the evening of the funeral, when they had brought
Helen back to the Manor House, "I have a proposal to make to you. I am
going to suggest that I should take Helen away for a few weeks to the
seaside. The anxieties and sorrow of the past two months have been too
much for her. I can see that she stands in need of a thorough change. If
you have no objection to raise, I thought we could start to-morrow
morning. We shall be away a month, and by that time she should be quite
restored to health."
"And pray what am I going to do with myself while you are away?" he
asked. "I gather you mean when you say that you are both going away that
I am not to accompany you?"
"No; all things considered, I think it would be better not," said Alice.
"But if you are very good you shall come down to us for two or three
days during the month. Then if Helen agrees, and I have no doubt you
will be able to induce her to do so, you could obtain a Special License,
and be quietly married at the end of that time."
Jim, who regarded it quite possible that the marriage might be postponed
for some time, clutched eagerly at the straw of hope held out to him,
and willingly agreed to her suggestion.
"And now one other matter, Alice," he said. "I, on my side, have a
proposal to make. Whether you will prove as complaisant as I have done
is another matter."
"What is your proposal?"
"It can be resolved into one word," he answered, "That word is
Mudrapilla."
He heard her catch her breath, and then she looked pleadingly at him.
"Jim," she whispered, "Oh Jim, dear, you don't mean it, do you?"
"If you and Helen will accompany me, I do," he answered. "Terence I am
quite sure will not object. Will you agree, my sister?"
The answer she vouchsafed might have meant anything or nothing. It
was:--
"Only to think of seeing dear old Mudrapilla again!"
So it was settled. Helen and Alice departed next day to a tiny seaside
place in Devonshire, where Jim was under orders to join them for three
days at the week end once during their stay. As soon as they were gone,
he in his turn set off for London. His first act on reaching the City,
and when he had deposited his bag at the hotel, was to drive to the
office of the Estate Agent with whom his father had negotiated the
purchase of Childerbridge. That portly, suave gentleman received him
with the respect due to a man worth half a million of money, and the
owner of such a palatial mansion and estate.
"But, my dear sir," he began, when he had heard what James had to say,
"you surely don't mean to say that you are desirous of selling
Childerbridge. You have only been there a few months."
"I am most anxious to be rid of the place as soon as possible," Jim
replied. "As you may suppose it has the most painful recollections for
me. Besides I am thinking of returning to Australia almost immediately,
and scarcely know when I shall visit England again."
"In that case I must do the best I can for you," said the other. "At the
same time I feel that I should warn you that the Estate Market is not in
a very flourishing condition at present, and that a large number of
properties that have been placed upon the market have not sold nearly as
well as they should have done."
"I must take my chance of not getting its value," said Jim. "Find me a
purchaser and I don't think he will be able to complain that I have not
met him fairly."
The agent promised to do his best, and for the next fortnight Jim amused
himself in a lazy fashion travelling about England, purchasing a variety
of stock for his Australian stations, and longing for the time to come
when he should be at liberty to present himself in Devonshire. At last,
however, the day arrived. It was morning when he left London, it was
evening when he reached his destination. It was winter when he left
Waterloo, dull, dismal and foggy; when he reached Devonshire it was, in
his eyes at least, perpetual summer. Both Helen and Alice were at the
railway station to greet him, and immediately he saw them he realised
the fact that a change for the better had taken place in his sweetheart.
The old colour had come back to her cheeks, the old sparkle was in her
eyes. She greeted him very lovingly, but if possible a little shyly.
There were such lots of news to hear, and still more to be told, that it
seemed as if they would never have done talking.
The village had proved itself a delightful little place. It was far from
the track of the tripper, and had not then been spoilt by the wealthy
tourist. High cliffs hemmed it in on either side, and the sea broke upon
the beach of shingles. They returned to their lodgings for tea, a
charming thatched cottage, within a stone's throw of the primitive
little jetty, beside which the fisher boats were moored. Afterwards the
lovers went for a walk upon the cliffs.
"Helen, my darling," said Jim, "I can scarcely realise that it is only a
fortnight since I saw you. It seems as if years had passed. You can have
no idea how happy it makes me to see you looking like your own dear self
once more."
"I could not help being well here," she answered. "Besides, Alice has
been so good and kind to me. I should be ungrateful indeed were I to
show no improvement."
But Jim had not brought his sweetheart out on the cliff to discuss his
sister's good qualities.
"Helen," he said at last, "is it possible for you to be my wife in a
fortnight's time?"
He took her little hand in his and looked into her eyes. The veriest
tyro might have seen that the young man was terribly in earnest.
"It might be possible," she said softly, but without looking at him.
"Are you quite sure you _do_ wish it?"
"If you talk like that I shall go back to London to-night," he answered.
"You know very well that to make you my wife has been my ambition ever
since I first saw you."
And then he went on to tell her of his dreams, winding up with this
question--"I wonder whether you will like Australia?"
"I shall like any place where you may be," she replied.
Could any young woman say more to her lover than that? At any rate Jim
appeared to be satisfied.
On the Monday following he returned to London to learn from the agent
that a probable, though unexpected, purchaser had been found for
Childerbridge. He proved to be a wealthy American, who was not only
prepared to take over the estate at a valuation, but also to purchase
the furniture and effects as they stood.
On the day following the receipt of this news, Jim travelled down with
the would-be buyer, conducted him over the property, and was in a
position to assure himself, when the other had departed, that
Childerbridge would be very soon off his hands. To the agent's horror
the matter was conducted on both sides with unusual promptness, and in
consequence, when, a fortnight later, Jim stepped into the Devonshire
train with a special marriage license in his pocket, the sale was as
good as effected.
The wedding was solemnised next day in the quaint little village church,
and excited no comment from the humble fisher folk. The only persons
present were the bride and bridegroom, Alice, and the family lawyer, who
had travelled down from London expressly to give the bride away. Then,
no impediment being offered, James Standerton, bachelor, took to himself
for wife Helen Decie, spinster. The worthy old gentleman pocketed his
fee with a smiling face, congratulated both parties, and then hurried
off to another parish to bury a fisherman who had been drowned in the
bay a few days before. An hour later Jim and Helen started for Exeter,
_en route_ for Scotland, while Alice accompanied the lawyer, whose
wife's guest she was to be, to London, to wait there until her brother
and sister-in-law should return from the north.
* * * * *
Four years have elapsed since that terrible night when Abraham Bursfield
was found dead in the secret passage leading from Childerbridge Manor
House to the Dower House in the corner of the Park. Those four years
have certainly worked wondrous changes in at least four lives. One short
sketch must serve to illustrate this fact, and to bring my story to a
conclusion. The scene is no longer laid in England but on a rough Bush
track on a very hot Australian afternoon. A tall good-looking man is
jogging contentedly along, apparently oblivious to all that goes on
around him. It is easily seen that he and his horse are on the very best
terms with each other. He passes the Pelican Lake, descends into the
hollow of what was perhaps a continuation of the same lake, and on
gaining the summit of the next rise finds himself looking upon what, at
first glance, would appear to be a small village. This village is the
station of Mudrapilla, and the giant gums which can just be discerned
some five miles or so to the right, indicate the spot where on a certain
eventful evening, James Standerton first came face to face with Richard
Murbridge. This same James Standerton, for it is he who is the rider of
the horse, increases his pace as soon as the station itself comes into
view. He passes the men's quarters, the store, the blacksmith's shop,
and finally approaches a long and extremely comfortable looking
one-storied residence, whose broad verandahs are confronted by orange
groves on the one side, and the brave old river on the other. As he
rides up one of the overseers emerges from the barracks, and hastens
forward to greet his employer, and to take his horse from him. That
overseer is no less a person than our old friend, Terence O'Riley,
looking just the same as ever. Jim gives him a few directions concerning
the sheep in the Mountain Paddock, which he has visited that afternoon,
and then dismounts and strolls on through the gates, and up the garden
path towards the house. In the broad verandah a lady is seated in a long
comfortable chair, and playing beside her on the floor is a chubby
urchin upwards of two years of age. Helen, for as may be supposed, it is
none other than she, rises on hearing her husband's step on the path,
and catching up the infant brings him forward to greet his father with a
kiss.
"I didn't expect you for half-an-hour at least, dear," she says, when
she in her turn has kissed him. "The boy and I have been patiently
awaiting your arrival. Did you meet the mail?"
"I did," he answered, "and I opened the bag upon the road. There are two
letters for you, one I see is from Alice."
"And you?" she asks, as she takes the letters from him.
"Well, I had one of some importance," he replied. "It is from
Fairlight--my old solicitor in England, you remember him--and what do
you think he tells me?"
Helen, very naturally, could not guess.
"Well, he says that Childerbridge Manor was burnt down by fire three
months ago and totally destroyed. The American, the owner, is going to
rebuild it at once on a scale of unparalleled magnificence."
There was a pause for a few moments, then Helen said:--
"What do you think about it, Jim?"
"All things considered I am not sorry," he answered. "Yet, perhaps, I
should not say that, for it brought me the greatest blessing a man can
have."
"And that blessing?" she asked innocently.
"Is a good wife," he answered, stooping to kiss her. After which he
disappeared into the house.
"And pray what does Alice say?" he asked, when he returned a few minutes
later.
"She gives us such good news," Helen replied. "She and Jack will spend
Christmas with us. She declares she is the happiest woman in the world.
Jack is a paragon."
In case the reader should fail to understand who Jack is, I might remark
that he is no less a person than Jack Riddington, the overseer,
mentioned at the commencement of my story, and who was supposed to be
Jim's best friend. Alice, after they were engaged, admitted that she had
always entertained a liking for him, while it was well known that he had
always been head over ears in love with her. During Jim's absence in
England he had come into a large sum of money, had purchased a station
one hundred and fifty miles south of Gundawurra, had married Alice
within six months of her return, and was now living a life of undoubted
felicity.
"They may be happy," said Helen, "but they can never be as happy as we
are. That is quite certain, husband mine."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Childerbridge Mystery, by Guy Boothby