GATHERED THREADS.
The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering with
two courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out his
original intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving the
world still to believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he could
give himself up to justice, under his real name, and, his first trial
never having been finished—take his stand at the bar again under the
original charge, and with the proofs he had gathered in his possession,
let his innocence of the crime imputed to him work itself out through a
legitimate channel to a verdict of Not Guilty. This latter course was
the only one open to him if he wished to clear himself in the eyes of
the world from the stain of blood, or even if he wished to assume his
own name and his position as the owner of Park Newton. But did he
really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad, of burying himself
and his wife in some far-away nook of the New World, had taken such
hold on his imagination, that even now it had by no means lost its
sweetness in his thoughts. Then, again, Kester having died without a
will, if he—Lionel were to leave himself undeclared, the estate would
go to General St. George, as next of kin, and after the old soldier’s
time it would go, in the natural course of events, to his brother
Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give himself into custody and
undergo the pain and annoyance of another term of imprisonment, and
another trial—and they would be both painful and annoying, even though
his innocence were proved at the end of them? Why not rather bind over
to silence those few trusted friends to whom his secret was already
known, and going abroad with Edith, spend the remainder of his days in
happy obscurity. Why re-open that bloodstained page of family history,
over which the world had of a surety gloated sufficiently already?
But in this latter view he was opposed by everybody except his wife; by
his uncle, by Tom, by the vicar, and by nobody more strongly than by
Messrs. Perrins and Hoskyns. The cry from all was—take your trial; let
your innocence be proved, as proved it must be, and assume the name and
position that are rightfully yours. Edith, with her head resting on his
shoulder, only said: “Do that which seems best to you in your own
heart, dearest, and that alone. Whether you go or stay, my place is by
your side—my love unalterable. Only to be with you—never to lose you
again—is all I ask. Give me that: I crave for nothing more.”
Strange to say, the person who brought matters to a climax, and finally
decided Lionel as to his future course of action, was the girl Nell,
Mother Mim’s plain-spoken grand-daughter. Through some channel or other
she had heard of the death of Mr. St. George, and one day she marched
up the steps at Park Newton, and rang the big bell, and asked, as bold
as brass, to see the General. The General was one of the most
accessible of men, and when told that the girl wanted to see him
privately, he marched off at once to the library, and ordered her to be
admitted.
It was a strange story the girl had to tell—so strange that the General
at first put her down as a common impostor. Fortunately Mr. Perrins
happened to be still at Park Newton, and he at once called the shrewd
old lawyer to his assistance.
But Miss Nell was now taken with a stubborn fit, and refused either to
say any more or to answer any more questions, till five pounds had been
given her as an earnest of more to follow, in case her information
should prove to be correct. The five pounds having been put into her
hands, she told all that she knew freely enough, and answered every
question that was put to her. Then she was dismissed for the time
being, having first left an address where she might be found when
wanted.
Nell had told them how the body of Dirty Jack had been found dead on
the moor, and the first point to ascertain was, what had become of the
confession which was known to have been in his possession when he left
Mother Mim’s cottage? Had it been found on his person? If so, where was
it now? It was rather singular that Mr. St. George should be the last
person known to have been seen in the company of Skeggs. The second
question was, where was Mr. Bendall to be found? Mr. Perrins set to
work without delay to solve this latter problem, by engaging one of Mr.
Hoskyns’s confidential clerks to make the requisite inquiries for him.
To the first question, the whereabouts of the confession, he determined
to give his own personal attention. But before he had an opportunity of
doing this, he found among the papers of Kester the very document
itself—the original confession, duly witnessed by Skeggs and the girl
Nell. A day or two later Mr. Bendall was also found, and—for a
consideration—had no objection to tell all he knew of the affair. His
evidence, and that given in the confession, tallied exactly. There
could no longer be any moral doubt as to the fact of Kester St. George
having been a son of Mother Mim.
This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was
still debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one
weapon more in favour of the course they were desirous that he should
pursue. If Kester St. George were not Lionel’s cousin, if he were not
related to the family in any way, there was less reason than ever why
Lionel should not declare himself, why he should not give himself up,
and let his own innocence be proved once and for ever, by proving the
guilt of this other man.
Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the
others, and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer.
Exactly a week after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well
continue to call him) Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at
Duxley, and gave himself up into the hands of the sergeant on duty.
Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. “How can you be Mr.
Dering?” he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with the
superintendent’s recollection of him. “I saw that gentleman lying dead
in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could have
sworn to him anywhere.”
“What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and
not the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without
recognizing me. At all events here I am, alive and well, and if you
will kindly lock me up, I shall esteem it a favour.”
“I was never so sold in the whole course of my life,” said Drayton.
“But there’s one comfort—Sergeant Whiffins was just as much sold as I
was.”
At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial
for the murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been
carefully looked after by a private detective in the guise of a guest
at his hotel, was admitted as evidence for the Crown, and without
leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty was found by the jury. Never
had such a scene been known in Duxley as was enacted that summer
afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the Court-house
a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by main
force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of the
crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company with
two brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster. Lionel’s
arm had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he had shaken
hands with a great multitude of his friends—and every man and boy
prided himself upon being Mr. Dering’s friend that day. As for the
ladies, they had their own way of showing their sympathy with him. Half
the children in the parish that came to light during the next twelve
months were christened either Edith or Lionel.
The post-mortem examination showed that heart disease of long standing
was the proximate cause of Kester St. George’s death. He was buried not
in the family vault where the St. Georges for two centuries lay in
silent state, but in the town cemetery. The grave was marked by a plain
slab, on which was engraved simply the initials of the name he had
always been known by, and the date of his death.
“I warned him of it long ago,” said Dr. Bolus to two or three fellows
at Kester’s old club, as he stood with his back to the fire and his
coat tails thrown over his arms. “But whose warnings are sooner
forgotten than a doctor’s? By living away from London, and leading a
perfectly quiet and temperate life, he might have been kept going for
years. But, above all things, he should have avoided excitement of
every kind.”
Lionel and Edith put off for a little while their long-talked-of tour
in order that they might be present at the wedding of Tom and Jane. The
ceremony took place in August. Tom and his bride went to Scotland for
their honeymoon. Lionel and his wife started for Switzerland, en route
for Italy, where they were to spend the ensuing winter.
Of late the Squire had recovered his health wonderfully. He seemed to
have grown ten years younger in a few weeks. In the working of that
wonderful coal-shaft, and in the prospect of his making a far larger
fortune for his daughter than the one he so foolishly lost, he found a
perpetual source of healthy excitement, which, by keeping both his mind
and body actively and legitimately employed, had an undoubted tendency
to lengthen his life. Besides this, Tom had asked him to superintend
the construction of his new house. It was just the sort of job that the
Squire delighted in—to look sharply after a lot of working men, and
while pretending that they were all in a league to cheat him, blowing
them up heartily all round one half-hour, and treating them to
unlimited beer the next.
“I should like to see you in the Town Council, Bristow,” said the
Squire one day to his son-in-law.
“Thank you, sir, all the same,” said Tom, “but it’s hardly good enough.
There will be a general election before we are much older, when I mean,
either by hook or by crook, to get into the House.”
“Bristow, you have the cheek of the Deuce himself,” was all that the
astonished Squire could say.
It may just be remarked that Tom’s ambition has since been gratified.
He is now, and has been for some time, member for W——. He is clever,
ambitious, and a tolerable orator, as oratory is reckoned nowadays.
What may not such a man aspire to?
Mr. Hoskyns is a frequent guest both of Tom and Lionel. Chatting with
the former one day over the “walnuts and the wine,” said the old man:
“I have often puzzled my brain over that affair of Baldry’s—that
positive assertion of his that he saw and spoke to me one night in the
Thornfield Road when I was most certainly not there. Have you ever
thought about it since?”
“Once or twice, I dare say, but I could have enlightened you at the
time had I chosen to do so. It was I whom Baldry met. I had made myself
up to resemble you, and previously to my visit to the prison in your
character, I thought I would try the effect of my disguise upon
somebody who had known you well for years. As it so happened, Baldry
was the first of your acquaintances whom I encountered on my nocturnal
ramble. The rest you know.”
“You young vagabond! And yet you have the audacity to call yourself a
respectable member of society. Perhaps you can explain the mystery of
the ghostly footsteps at Park Newton when poor Pearce, the butler, was
frightened out of the small quantity of wit that he could lay claim
to?”
“That, too, I can explain. The ghostly footsteps, as it happened, were
very corporeal footsteps, being those of none other than your humble
servant.”
“But how did you get into the room? It had been nailed up months
before.”
“The nailing up was more apparent than real. The nails were sham nails.
The door could be unlocked at any time, and the room entered in the
ordinary way.”
“But how about the cough—Mr. Osmond’s peculiar cough?”
“That was an imitation by me from lessons given me by Mr. Dering. It
answered the purpose admirably for which it was intended.”
“To hear such sounds at midnight in a room where a man had been
murdered was enough to shake the strongest nerves. I wonder you were
not frightened yourself to be in the room.”
“That would have been ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of.”
“In any extraordinary circumstances I shall never believe the evidence
of my own senses again.”
Mr. Cope was not long in perceiving that he had committed a grave error
of judgment in refusing Mr. Culpepper the assistance he had asked for.
There would be a splendid fortune for Jane after all. It was enough to
make a man tear his hair with vexation—only Mr. Cope hadn’t much hair
to tear—to think what a golden chance he had let slip through his
fingers. Edward was recalled at once on the slight chance that if a
meeting could anyhow be brought about between him and Jane, the old
flame might spring up with renewed ardour in the young lady’s bosom, in
which case she might insist upon her engagement with Edward being
carried out. But Edward bore his disappointment very philosophically,
and had not been three hours in Duxley before he found himself eating
pastry, and being ministered to by Miss Moggs, who was still unmarried,
and still as plump and smiling as ever.
Three weeks later the good people of Duxley were treated to a
delightful sensation. Mr. Cope, Junior, had run away with the daughter
of Mr. Moggs, the confectioner, and Mr. Cope, Senior, had threatened to
cut his son off with the well-known metaphorical shilling.
The latest news of young Mr. Cope is, that he is living in furnished
apartments in a cheap suburb of London. The late Miss Moggs, her
plumpness notwithstanding, has developed into a Tartar. They have six
children. Mr. Cope’s income is exactly two hundred a-year, left him by
his mother. His father will not give him a penny, and he is either too
lazy, or too incompetent, to attempt to add to his means by a little
honest work. He is very stout and very short of breath. When he has any
money he spends his time in a neighbouring billiard-room, smoking a
short pipe and drinking half-and-half, and watching other men play.
When he has no money he stops at home and rocks the cradle, and listens
to his wife’s reproaches. Mrs. Cope vows that she will buy a mangle and
make her husband turn it, and try whether she cannot shame him into
work that way. And all this is the result of eating pastry and being
waited upon by a pretty girl.
After the trial was over, Nell, by means of some speciously-concocted
tale, contrived to cozen General St. George out of twenty pounds. With
this she disappeared, and was never either seen or heard of in Duxley
or its neighbourhood again.
During the time that Lionel and his wife were abroad the General went
with his friend, Major Beauchamp, to Madeira, and wintered there.
It had been Lionel’s intention to stay abroad for about three years.
But as it fell out, he and Edith were back at Park Newton by the end of
twelve months, being brought thither by the expectation of an
all-important event. Lionel has not since then left home for more than
a month at a time. So full of painful memories was Park Newton to him,
that it was only by Edith’s persuasion that he was induced to settle
there at all. But years have come and gone since then, and nothing
would now induce him to live anywhere else. Whatever gloomy
associations might otherwise have clung to the old house have been
exorcised long ago by the merry laughter of children. It was difficult
at first for the Echoes of that murder-haunted roof to bring themselves
to mimic the soft syllables of childhood, but when one little stranger
after another came to teach them, then their voices, rusty and creaky
at first through long disuse, gradually won back to themselves a
long-forgotten sweetness; and now the Echoes follow the children
wherever they go, and all the grim old pile is musical with the
laughter and songs and free joyous shouts of childhood. Many a time
they have a bout together—the children and the Echoes—trying which of
them can make the more noise; and then the children call to the Echoes
and bid them come out of their hiding-places and show themselves in the
dusky twilight; but the Echoes only laugh back their answer, and are
ever too timid to let themselves be seen.
Who, of all people in the world, should be the children’s primest
favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the
nursery, and there he spends hours every day. He “keeps shop” with
them, he plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring
lion, their wild man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the
old warrior, whose very name was once a word of terror among the
lawless hill-tribes of the far East see him led about by one boy by
means of a piece of string tied round his arm, and while another
youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to watch him
imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing
bear. There can be no doubt on one point—that the old soldier enjoys
himself quite as much as the children do.
After his year’s imprisonment was at an end—to which mitigated
punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted
as witness for the Crown—he and his sister went over to Switzerland,
and opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist
travel. There, not long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking,
bowing, and rubbing his hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request
that Monsieur Dering would do him the honour of stopping at his hotel.
But Lionel would have nothing to do with him, and when Janvard could be
made to comprehend this, his face became a study of mortification and
surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently hurt. He
never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so
positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d’Or.
In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a
few things that change not. One of these is the friendship between
Lionel and Tom, which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of other
interests has power to alter in the least. When they both happen to be
in Midlandshire at the same time, a week never passes without their
seeing more or less of each other, and between their wives there is
almost as firm a friendship as there is between themselves. Four people
more united, more happy in each other’s society, it would be impossible
to find.
It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that
Edith and Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm
together, for the sake of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow
perpetually round the old house. They were sitting one day on the broad
yellow sands, idling through the glowing afternoon, with their
embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane’s little girls happened to
fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith’s little boy was
by her side in a moment.
“Don’t cry,” he said, as he stooped and kissed her. “I will marry you
when I grow to be a big man.”
The little girl’s tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked
up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.
“Such a thing is by no means improbable,” said Edith.
“I shall not be a bit surprised if it really comes to pass,” replied
Jane.
THE END.
BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY