THE EIGHTH OF MAY.
The eighth of May had come round at last.
Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George
intended least to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell out,
he could not well avoid doing so.
After the death and burial of Mother Mim—the expenses of the last-named
ceremony being defrayed out of Kester’s pocket—it had been his
intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so fell out
that in the document purloined by him from the pocket of Skeggs when
that individual lay dead on the moor, there was given the name of a
certain person, still living, who could depose, of his own personal
knowledge, to the truth of the facts as put down in the dying woman’s
confession. This person was the only witness to the facts there stated
who was now alive. The name of the man in question was William Bendall,
and the point that Kester had now to clear up was: Who was this William
Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was no address given in
the Confession, nor any hint as to the man’s whereabouts; but Skeggs
had doubtless known where he was to be found, and had, in fact, told
Kester that he could put his hand on the man at a day’s notice.
With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it
was impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn
that Mother Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of a
few days, and when the restraining power which had doubtless kept him
silent should be removed for ever, what was to prevent him from telling
all that he knew, or, at least, from giving such broad hints as to the
information in his possession as might lead to inquiry—to many
inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would care to
encounter—unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven to
bay?
But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It behoved
him, therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain cautious
inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with the view
of ascertaining what kind of a man he was, or whether there was any
danger to be apprehended from him. And if so, how could the danger best
be met?
It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave
Park Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at any
hour should Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he stayed on
at the old place, very much against his will in other respects. But, to
a certain extent, his patience had already been rewarded. Mr. Bendall’s
address had been discovered, and Mr. Bendall himself had been found to
be first cousin to Mother Mim, and a railway ganger by profession. But
just at this time he was away from home—his home being at Swarkstone, a
great centre of railway industry, about twenty miles from Duxley—he
having been sent out to Russia in charge of a cargo of railway plant.
He was now expected back in the course of a few days, and Kester
determined not to leave the neighbourhood till he had found out for
himself what manner of man he was.
We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two
days after Kester’s visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg,
so that the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen,
and it was at once understood how he had come by his death. No one
except the girl Nell had seen Kester St. George in his company, so, as
it fell out, that gentleman’s name was never even whispered in
connexion with the affair.
The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously
discussed in his own mind, after Mother Mim’s death. What to do with
such a strange girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence.
Did she really know anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she
not? If anything, how much did she know, and to what use did she intend
to put her knowledge? Kester had no opportunity of talking to her in
private before the funeral, so he made an appointment with her for the
morning following that event. She was to meet him at a certain
milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o’clock. Kester was there to the
minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all. Kester
went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to Mother
Mim’s cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the old
woman who had been looking after matters previously to the funeral:
From her he ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two hours after
her return from seeing the last of her grandmother, taking with her her
new black frock and a few other things tied up in a bundle, and had
given no hint as to where she was going, or whether it was her
intention ever to come back.
The girl’s disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude
to Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any
sign of her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness
gradually wore itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself
that from that quarter at least there was no possible danger to be
apprehended.
But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester
St. George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park
Newton, not even though he could not have left it till the seventh, and
had been compelled to come back to it on the ninth. He would have gone
somewhere—anywhere if only for a dozen hours—if only from sunset till
sunrise, had it in anyway been possible for him to do so. But it so
happened that it was not possible for him to do so. On the fifth he
received a letter from his uncle, which astonished him very much.
General St. George was still staying at Salisbury with his sick friend,
Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:
“All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant,
but for a few hours only. I don’t know whether your cousin Richard has
told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out to
New Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him.”
“The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of life!”
muttered Kester. “Of course, it’s Master Richard’s dodge to take him
with him, so as to make sure of his money when he dies. Well, if I can
only get rid of the young one, the old one may go with him, and
welcome.” Then he went on with his uncle’s letter.
“I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope
to spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old
place, and there are several things I wish to talk to you about.
We—that is, Richard and I, leave by the eight o’clock train next
morning direct for Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us. By
this day next week, I shall have bidden a final farewell to dear Old
England.”
“So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it,” said Kester, as
he folded up the letter. “I would give much if it was any other day
than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But there’s no
help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company than to
spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that.”
“Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there’s no
chance of any of his money coming to me,” he said to himself later on.
“That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I
don’t suppose he’s got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I
wouldn’t mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for
ever.”
The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often
are. Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and
away he started without telling any one where he was going. He was out
all day, and did not get back till five o’clock, an hour after the
arrival of his uncle, with whom had come Mr. Perrins, the family
lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not seen for a long time. He
was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester that his uncle
had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving England,
in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.
“This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England,” said Kester.
“Yes, it is very sudden,” replied the General. “It is not more than
three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The reasons
he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not
blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel
left us, I seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I
presently made up my mind to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of
living alone. I have only you and him—and you; Kester, are too much of
a Bohemian, too much a citizen of the world—a wandering Arab who
strikes his tent a dozen times a year—for me ever to think of staying
with you. Dick is far more of an old fogey than you are, and he and I—I
don’t doubt—will get on very well together.”
“All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you.”
Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to
dinner, for there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton,
the octogenarian Vicar of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally
during the course of the trial, but not since. The vicar he had known
from boyhood.
It was by Lionel’s express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar
had been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell
Kester to-night should be told to them also. They were all, in a
certain sense, friends of the family; they were all men of honour; with
them his secret would be safe. In simple justice to himself, he felt
that it was not enough that his uncle and Bristow should be the sole
depositories of that secret. There ought to be at least two or three
family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly trusted, and
whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in exile.
None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular
reason why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had
any suspicion that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom
they all so sincerely mourned. They had simply been invited to a little
dinner party given by General St. George on the eve of his departure
from England for ever.
The last to arrive at Park Newton—and he did not arrive till two
minutes before dinner was served—was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven
Miss Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking
with Edith till the last minute.
Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General introduced
them to each other. Tom had seen Kester several times, knowing well who
he was, but the latter had no recollection of having ever seen Tom.
Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as
to the particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin
that which he had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had
kept his own counsel, having spoken no word to any one. It was a
subject on which even his wife felt that she could not question him.
During the past week he had been even more silent and distrait than
usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one subject, to the
exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be aware of,
what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious
one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon her:
that she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed for was
that the fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come and go
without any encounter between her husband and his cousin. Lionel and
Tom were to ride across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at the close
of the evening—Tom, in order that he might escort Jane back to Pincote:
Lionel, because he should then have bidden the old house a last
farewell, because he should then have done with the past for ever, and
because he should then be ready to start with his wife for their new
home on the other side of the world.
“And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to
reconsider your determination?” said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand
in hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had
gone into Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little
parlour all to themselves.
“I’m afraid not,” answered Edith with a melancholy smile
“It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight
and clear—just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the
world! Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it
aloud on the housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which he
deserves to pay. I would never banish myself from my native country for
his sake; he is not worthy of such a sacrifice.”
“You must not talk like that,” said Edith, with a little extra squeeze
of Jane’s hand; “but it is easy to see who has been inoculating you
with his wild doctrines.”
“They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones,” said
Jane emphatically. “There’s nothing wild about them; they are plain
common sense.”
“There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow
the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are
about to do is best for all concerned.”
“I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in this
way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you.”
“I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I’m afraid
Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear
transplanting to a foreign clime.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Jane, with a little sigh. “Only I should so
like to travel: I should so like a six months’ voyage to somewhere.”
“The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel
so.”
“You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand,
some place within four or five days’ journey, where one could run over
for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous of
you to go so far away.”
“When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the case.
If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be the
least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a
perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable.
He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his
face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without
fear of detection.”
“I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to you to get
away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful associations—to hide
yourself in some remote valley where no shadow of the past can darken
your door; but it seems to me that you need not go quite so far away in
order to do that.”
“It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it.”
“No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one
would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for
me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make
it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that
effect. But, New Zealand!”
As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith’s uneasiness increase, but
she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had told
her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to the
time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share in
the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she was
unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might not
even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her
husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly
chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be
a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers
of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait—wait—wait! If she
went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the sound
of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be possible
to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance away. To and
fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned leopardess.
White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping and
unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess of
old, who sees in her mind’s eye a vision of doom—a vision of things to
come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched her in
silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but there
was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.
“I can bear this no longer,” said Edith, at last; “the room suffocates
me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel.” She
snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside’s, that lay on the sofa, and flung
it over her head and shoulders.
“Let me go with you,” cried Jane, “I am almost as anxious as you are.”
“Hush! hush!” cried Edith, suddenly, “I hear them coming!”
Hardly breathing, they all listened.
“I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind,” cried Mrs.
Garside, after a few moments.
“Nor I,” said Jane.
“I tell you they are coming,” said Edith. “There are two of them.
Listen! Surely you can hear them now!” She flung open the window as she
spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard
highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage
door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the
top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them.
Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed
by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was
no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour.
To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all of
them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave.
Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith’s white arms
were round his neck.
“My darling: what is it?” she said. “What dreadful thing has happened?”
He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something in her ear.
She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms tightened
suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.
At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom
and Mr. Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar,
did their best to keep the conversation from flagging, but at times
with only indifferent success. None of them could forget what day it
was—could forget what took place that night twelve months ago, only a
few yards from where they were sitting; and so remembering, who could
wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless and the wines without flavour,
that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to the imagination of more
than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the room, invisible
to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking when they
drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing well all
the time which one of the company would be the first to join it in that
Land of Shadows to which it now belonged.
Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke
at all except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep up
some show of conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no one
but himself knew how irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel intend to
do? Would there be a scene—a fracas—between the two cousins? What would
be the end of the wretched business? How fervently he wished that the
morrow was safely come, that he had seen that unhappy man’s face for
the last time, and that he, and Lionel, and Edith were fairly started
on their long journey to the other side of the world!
The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party
would break up by ten o’clock at the latest. Not that it mattered
greatly to either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton
all night. But the vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in
decent time, so that when he began to fidget and look at his watch,
Lionel, who was only waiting for him to make a move, knew that it would
be impossible to detain him much longer.
“I must really ask you to excuse me, General,” said the old man at
last. “But I see that it is past ten o’clock, and quite time for gay
young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps.”
“I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar,” said Lionel.
“I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my uncle’s
permission, we will all adjourn there.”
“You must not keep me long,” said the vicar.
“I will not,” said Lionel. “But I know that you like to finish up your
evening with a little café noir; and I have, besides, a picture which I
want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much—a
picture—which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all
the other gentlemen who are here to-night.”
They all rose and made a move towards the door.
“As I don’t care for café noir, and don’t understand pictures, you will
perhaps excuse me,” said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing
himself to his uncle.
“You had better go with us,” said Lionel, turning to his cousin. “You
are surely not going to be the first to break up the party.”
“I don’t want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come
back,” answered Kester, doggedly.
“You had better go with us,” said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so
that the others could not hear him.
“Pray who made you dictator here?” said Kester haughtily. “I don’t
choose to go with you. That is enough.”
“You had better go with us,” said Lionel for the third time. “If you
still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go.”
“Afraid!” sneered Kester. “Of whom and what should I be afraid?”
“That is best known to yourself.”
“Anyhow, I’m neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do.”
“If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are
kept away by some abject fear.”
“Lead on.—I’ll follow.—But mark my words, you and I will have this
little matter out in the morning—alone.”
“Willingly.”
The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to
those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and
no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered:
a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as
possible.
Lionel’s sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided
into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on
the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.
“Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” said
Lionel. “My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it
to you.” So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of
the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.
Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were
bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now,
as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his
shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that
one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. “Come!”
was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little
malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his heart
there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to him; a
dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating on some
far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know that he was
there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable bitterness, how
utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human being anywhere
who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret him—not one
single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his grave.—But such
thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away somehow. He rose and
went to the table, poured himself out half a tumbler of brandy, and
drank it off without water. “It puts fresh life into me as it goes
down,” he muttered to himself.
He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden
noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were
being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they
stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness.
Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel—or, as most
there took it to be, the voice of Richard—but Lionel himself was
unseen.
“Gentlemen,” said the voice, “you all know what day this is. It is the
eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered.
About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed
about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how
the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have
painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you.”
The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open.
The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that
every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed canvas,
on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel Dering’s Dream.
The scene was Percy Osmond’s bedroom, and the moment selected by the
artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and
Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while
pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other
hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent’s heart. Peeping from
behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of
Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses
takable.
Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at
the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely
accused was one of themselves.
“Now you see how the murder really happened—now you know who the
murderer really was,” said Lionel, speaking from some place in the
farther room where he could not be seen. “This is no dream but a most
dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs—ample
proofs—of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy
Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!”
At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was
still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right
hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported
himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face;
his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one face
to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to speak, but
could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy. Tom
interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it greedily
and then he spoke.
“What you have just been told,” he said, “is nothing but a cruel,
cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he
hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar—because he dare not
face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer—we all know
that Lionel Dering——”
“Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you to
your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!”
Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood
Lionel, no longer disguised—the dye washed off his face, his hands, his
hair—the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from the
dead—his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at a
glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair
beard.
For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue, glaring
across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.
One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so.
That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his
face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half
round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.
“He has fainted,” said the General.
“He is dead,” said Tom.
“Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this,” said Lionel.
“None whatever!”