“It is the trees,” he said; “it is the trees that make it look well.

Trees are really far more beautiful than flowers. I planted most of

them; you have heard the Eastern saying, Mr Malet—that those who plant

trees live long. That yew-hedge?—no; I did not plant that. Such hedges

are rare now—that hedge has been growing fully a hundred years—the

stems, if you will look, are of immense size. To my mind, the old

English yew is a greater favourite than the many foreign evergreens now

introduced. The filbert walk?—yes; I planted that. Come and see me in a

few months’ time, and you shall crack as many as you choose. The old

house picturesque?—it is: I wish I had a sketch of it. You draw?—a

little; now try. Take out your pocket-book—ah! I see you have a regular

artist’s sketchbook.”

To tell the honest truth, Aymer was not a little pleased to have the

opportunity of exhibiting his skill before some one who could

appreciate it. He was a natural draughtsman. I do not think he ever,

even in later and more fortunate days, attempted colours; but with

pencil and crayon, or pen and ink, he was inimitable. Once at work with

his pencil, Aymer grew absorbed and forgot everything—even the presence

of the invalid, who watched him with interest. The gables and the roof,

the curious mullioned windows, the chimney-stacks, the coat of arms and

fantastic gargoyles, then the trees and arbours grew upon the paper.

“Ah! that’s my window,” said a low voice.

His pencil slipped and made a thick stroke—he looked round, it was

Violet.

For the first time he looked into her eyes and met her face to face. He

could not draw. His hand would not keep steady; he blamed it to the

heat of the summer sun. Violet declared it was her fault.

Mr Waldron seized the incomplete sketch, and insisted upon Mr Malet

(the title, humble as it was, was pleasant to Aymer’s ears) returning

to finish it next day.

In his confusion Aymer somehow got away, and then remembered that the

sketchbook he had left behind was full of drawings, and amongst them

there were two that brought a flush to his brow as he thought of them.

One was Violet on horseback; the other a profile of her face. He wished

to return and claim his book, and yet he hesitated. A sweet uncertainty

as to what she would think mastered him. He dared not venture back. The

next day passed, and the next—still he did not go—a week, a fortnight.

He could not summon up courage. Then came a note for “A. Malet,

Esq”—that “Esq” subjected him to bitter ridicule from rude old

Martin—from Mr Waldron, inquiring if he had been ill, and begging him

to visit at The Place, according to promise.

There was no escape. He went; and from that hour the intimacy increased

and ripened till not a day passed without some part of it being spent

with the Waldrons. Violet had seen her portrait in the sketchbook, but

she said not a word. She made Aymer draw everything that took her

fancy. Once he was bold enough to ask to sketch her hand. She blushed,

and became all dignity; Aymer cowered. He was not bold enough. How

could he be? With barely a shilling in his pocket, rough corduroy

trousers, an old battered hat, a black coat almost green from long

exposure to sun and rain;—after years of ridicule and jeering how could

he face her?

His heart was full, but his lips dared not speak. His timidity and

over-sensitiveness made him blind to signs and tokens that would have

been instantly apparent to others of harder mould. He never saw the

overtures that the growing love in Violet’s breast compelled her to

offer. He tormented himself day and night with thinking how to compass

and obtain her love, when it was his already.

The one great difficulty was his poverty. Think how he would, he could

discover no method by which it could be remedied. He had no means of

obtaining employment, and employment would imply absence from her. How

could he make her love him? He turned to his faithful friend and

adviser, dear old Will. The tiny volume of poems was carefully scanned,

and he lit upon those verses commencing—

When as thine eye hath chose the dame

And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike.

He asked himself if he had done as the lover was advised—

And when thou com’st thy tale to tell

Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk.

Certainly he had not attempted to beguile her with insinuating

flattery—

But plainly say thou lov’st her well,

And set her person forth to sale.

This he had not done. How dare he say he loved her well? He had not the

courage to praise her person.

And to her will frame all thy ways.

This he was willing and ready enough to do. He believed he had done so

already; but read on—

Spare not to spend, and chiefly there

Where thy desert may merit praise

By ringing in thy lady’s ear.

Here he was at a standstill. He could not spend; he could not even

dress as a gentleman. He could not make her rich and beautiful

presents.

The strongest castle, tower, and town

The golden bullet beats it down.

He had no golden bullets—to him the castle was therefore impregnable.

Serve always with assured trust,

And in thy suit be humble, true—

Advice such as this last he could and did follow conscientiously.

Have you not heard it said full oft,

A woman’s nay doth stand for nought?—

Encouraging to those who could press the question, but he had not even

courage to get the first nay. It was the “golden bullet”—the lack of

the power to spend—the miserable poverty which pressed upon him with a

leaden weight. He did his best to follow infallible Will’s advice. He

snared twenty hares and sold them; he had still a small gold

pencil-case left—it had belonged to his mother. He sold that also.

On foot he walked forty miles to Reading, and spent the whole proceeds

in the purchase of a pair of fine jet bracelets, which his instinct

told him would look well upon Violet’s white wrist. When he had got

them, came the difficulty—how could he give them to her? At last he

employed a shepherd lad to leave a parcel for Miss Waldron.

He kept away several days, but love was more powerful than shame. He

went.

With Violet he strolled up the long shady filbert walk, with the

clusters, now ripe, hanging overhead. His heart beat fast, but he said

nothing. On her part she was silent. Suddenly she lifted up her arm and

reached after a cluster of the nuts high up. Her sleeve fell down; the

beautiful arm was bare to the elbow, and there was the bracelet!

Her eyes met his; a lovely colour suffused her cheek. An uncontrollable

impulse seized him. He caught her hand and kissed it. Why linger? No

one can tell how these things come about. Their lips met, and it is

enough.

That was the happiest autumn Aymer ever knew. Even now he looks back at

its sweetness with a species of regret. The sunshine was warmer, the

blue of the sky richer, the yellow mist that hung over the landscape

softer, the bee went by with a joyous hum, the crimson-and-gold of the

dying leaves was more brilliant than ever it had been before or since.

Love lent his palette to Nature, and the world was aglow with colour.

How delicious it is to see everything through the medium, and in the

company of a noble girl just ripening into womanhood! I remember one

such summer—

But age with his stealing steps

Has clawed me in his clutch.

She was very beautiful; it is hard to describe her. It was not perhaps

so much the features, the hue of the hair, the colour of the eye, the

complexion, or even the shape, as the life, the vitality, the wonderful

freshness which seemed to throw a sudden light over her, as when the

sunshine falls upon a bed of flowers:—

Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful,

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells,

With rosy, slender fingers backward drew

From her warm brows and bosom, her deep hair

Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat

And shoulder: from the violets her light foot

Shone rosy-white, and o’er her rounded form

Between the shadows of the vine-bunches

Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved.

The modern taste for catalogues compels me to name the colour of her

eye and hair. Her eye was full, large, and lustrous; that deep black so

rarely seen—an eye that gave quick expression to the emotions of the

heart—that flashed with laughter, or melted with tenderness. Her hair

was not quite golden; it was properly brown, but so near the true

golden that a little sunlight lit it up with a glossy radiance

impossible to express in words. The complexion was that lovely mingling

of red and white, which the prince in the fairy tale prayed his

lady-love might have, when he saw the crimson blood of a raven he had

slain, staining the translucent marble slab upon which it had fallen.

The nose was nearly straight; the lips full and scarlet. She was tall,

but not too tall. It is difficult for a woman to have a good carriage

unless she be of moderate height. Enough of the catalogue system.

They visited all the places in the neighbourhood where Aymer’s pencil

could find a subject. Now it was a grand old beech tree; now only a

grey stone, set up centuries and centuries since as a “stone of

memorial” by races long reduced to ashes; now The Towers, the home of

Lady Lechester. With them always went Dando, Waldron’s favourite dog, a

huge mastiff, who gambolled about in unwieldly antics at Violet’s feet.

Aymer listened to her as she played. He sat by the invalid under the

shadow of the sycamore tree near the open window, where he could see

her sitting at the piano, pouring forth the music of Mendelssohn in

that peculiar monotonous cadence which marks the master’s works and

fills the mind with a pleasant melancholy. Now and then her head

turned, a glance met his, and then the long eyelashes drooped again.

Presently out she would come with a rush, making old Dando (short for

Dandolo) bound and bark with delight as he raced her round the green,

tearing her flowing dress with his teeth, and whisking away when she

tried to catch him.

The grace of her motions, the suppleness of her lithe form, filled

Aymer’s heart with a fierce desire to clasp her waist and devour her

lips, while the invalid laughed aloud at the heavy bounds of his dog.

The old man saw clearly what was going forward, yet he did not put

forth his hand to stay it. They were a happy trio that summer and

autumn at World’s End.

Chapter Three.

The summer passed away, as all things do, the winter, and the spring

blossomed afresh, and still the course of true love ran smooth with

Aymer and Violet.

The winter had been only one degree less pleasant than the summer.

Violet had a beautiful voice; Aymer’s was not nearly so fine: still, it

was fairly good, and scarcely an evening passed without duets and solos

on the pianoforte, while old Waldron, animated for the time beyond his

wont, accompanied them upon the violin. He had an instrument which,

next to his daughter and his dog Dando, he valued above all things. It

was by Guarnerius, and he handled it with more care than a mother does

her infant, expatiating upon the quality of the wood, the sycamore and

pine, the beauty of the varnish, the peculiar, inimitable curl of the

scroll, which had genius in its very twist.

Aymer was a ready listener. In the first place, he had grown to look

upon Waldron in the light that he would have regarded an affectionate

and beneficent father. Then he was, above all things, anxious to please

Violet, and he knew that she adored the Silver Fleece, as she called

him, in laughing allusion to his odd Christian name, Jason, and to his

grey hairs. And, lastly, he really did feel a curiosity and a desire to

learn.

Sometimes Aymer gave Violet lessons in drawing, and she repaid him with

lessons in French and music, being proficient in both.

After a while Waldron discovered that this boy, without means or

friends, had made himself acquainted with the classics, and had even

journeyed as a pilgrim to the shrines of ancient art at Florence.

At this he was highly pleased. He at once set to work to ground Aymer

in the original languages in which Plato and Livy wrote. He taught him

to appreciate the delicate allusions, and exquisite turn of diction, of

Horace. He corrected the crude ideas which the self-instructed student

had formed, and opened to him the wide field of modern criticism. The

effect upon Aymer’s mind was most beneficial, and the old man, while

teaching the youth, felt his heart, already predisposed, yearning

towards him more and more.

To Violet this was especially a happy omen, for she, above all things,

loved her only parent, and had not ceased to fear lest her affection

for Aymer should be met by his disapproval. As time went on, the ties

of intimacy still further strengthened.

Waldron was now often seen in deep thought, and left the young people

more to themselves. He busied himself with pen and ink, with

calculations and figures, to the subject-matter of which he did not ask

their attention.

Even yet Aymer had not thought of marriage; even yet he had not

overcome his constitutional sensitiveness so much as to contemplate

such a possibility. It was enough to dwell in the sunshine of her

presence. Thoroughly happy in her love, he never thought of to-morrow.

Perhaps it is a matter to be regretted that we cannot always remain in

this state—ever enjoying the ideal without approaching nearer to the

realisation, for the realisation, let it be never so glorious, is of

the earth, earthy.

It is quite true that women like courage, and that boldness often goes

a long way; but it is questionable whether with high-bred natures a

subdued, quiet, and delicate manner does not go still further. Aymer

was incapable of self-laudation, of that detestable conceit which some

think it proper to show when they have made what they are pleased to

call “a conquest.” Pity the poor castles that have stooped to them!

His happiness had but one alloy—the perpetual remembrance of his own

unworthiness, the immeasurable difference in his worldly position,

which made it a presumption in him even to frequent her presence, much

less to bask in her love. There were plenty who did not fail to remind

him of this discrepancy in their mutual positions, for his intimacy at

The Place could not, of course, pass unnoticed.

Martin Brown said nothing whatever. If there was any alteration in his

manner as the truth dawned on him, it was in favour of Aymer. With such

men everything is judged by results. While Aymer went about sketching

alone, he despised him and his pencil; the moment the very same talent

obtained him the notice of those in a superior station, then Aymer was

do longer such a fool. Martin said nothing. He refrained from his

former jeers, and abstained from telling Aymer to go and mind the

sheep.

It was also to his advantage that Aymer should get rich acquaintances,

and so possibly obtain a livelihood, and relieve him of an expense,

which, however small, was always a bitter subject with him.

But there were others—farmers’ sons—in the district who did not spare

Aymer. They despised him; they could not understand him; and they hated

him for his luck in carrying off the squire’s daughter. They credited

him with the most mercenary motives, and called him a beggarly upstart.

If Aymer chanced to pass near them he was saluted with ironical bows

and cheers, and hats were obsequiously doffed to “My Lord Muck,” or “My

Lord Would-Be.”

He made no reply, but the insult went home. He knew that there was a

great deal of ground for this treatment. He knew that his conduct must

appear in such a light to others; and yet how welcome they always made

him at The Place. He questioned himself if he was doing right;

sometimes his pride said “Go; carve yourself a fortune, and then return

for her;” but love, strong love always conquered and drove him forward.

He deemed that, with the exception of Violet and Waldron, all the world

looked upon him with contempt. He was wrong.

In the spring, Violet began to ride again over the Downs. This habit

for a moment again lowered Aymer in his own estimation, for he had no

horse to accompany her. What was his delight and astonishment when one

day Violet took him to the stables and asked him how he liked the new

grey horse. It was a handsome animal—Aymer admired it, as in duty

bound, and as, indeed, he could not help, yet with a heart full of

mortification, when Violet whispered that papa had bought it for him to

ride with her. She flung her arms, in her own impulsive way, round his

neck, kissed him, and rushed away to don her riding-habit before he

could recover from his astonishment.

It was true. In an hour’s time they were galloping over the soft

springy turf of the Downs, trying the paces of the grey, who proved

faster than the black. The rides were repeated day by day; and it often

happened that, while thus enjoying themselves, they passed one or more

of those very persons who had so often insulted Aymer.

Instead of sitting firmer and with pride in his saddle, Aymer felt that

he all the more deserved their censure, and looked the other way as he

went by.

He did not know that there was one eye at least that watched him with

pleasure, and with something like a quiet envy. It was the same grey

eye that had observed, him in the Palazzo at Florence.

Agnes Lechester had returned to England to spend some time at the old

Towers, and had not failed to make inquiries for the young pilgrim who,

in coarse garb, she had seen at the shrine of art. She heard of the

intimacy with Waldron, whom she had once or twice spoken to; and as the

lovers rode slowly beneath her grand and comfortless home, she sat at

her window, and paused in her art-work, and looked down upon them and

sighed. She could not but envy them their joy and youth, their path

strewn with roses and lighted by love. She had no need to envy Violet’s

beauty, for, although no longer young, Agnes Lechester was a fine

woman. It was the life, the full glowing life, she deemed so desirable.

And she rejoiced that the poor pilgrim had found so fair a lady-love.

So that there was one eye at least which, unknown to Aymer, watched him

with a quiet pleasure and approval. Had he known it, it would have

encouraged him greatly. By precipitating matters it might have

prevented—but let us proceed.

Jason Waldron knew that his daughter loved, and was beloved. He was no

ordinary man. His life had been spent far from those money-making

centres where, in time, the best of natures loses its original bias,

and sees nothing but gold. Age, he believed, had given him some power

of penetration; and in Aymer he thought he had found one in a

thousand—one with whom his darling daughter’s future would be safe. “He

will not follow the universal idol,” thought the old man. “He will be

content with art and literature, with nature and with Violet. I can see

nothing in store for them but the happiest of lives.” He waited long,

expecting Aymer to approach the subject in some distant manner. At last

he comprehended his reluctance. “He is poor and proud—he is afraid, and

no wonder,” he thought. “He shall not suffer for that.”

The benevolent old man, anxious only to complete the happiness of those

he loved, resolved to be the first, and to hold out a welcoming hand.

One day he called for Aymer to his study, and motioning him to a seat,

averted his face, not to confuse him, and said that he had long seen

the mutual affection between Violet and him. He understood why Aymer

had refrained from taking him into his confidence—he could appreciate

the difficulties of his position. Without any hesitation, he approved

of Violet’s choice. His own years had now begun to weigh upon him, and

he grew daily more anxious that Violet should be settled. He proposed,

therefore, that if Aymer would not mind the arrangement, they should be

united as speedily as possible, and that after a short trip they should

return and live with him at The Place. He could not spare Violet

entirely—he must hear the sound of her voice, and see the light of her

eyes, while yet the power to do so remained with him. He was not really

rich. In that poor district, indeed, he appeared so, but it was only by

comparison. Were he to be placed in some great city, side by side with

the men whose trade was gold, his little all would sink into the utmost

insignificance. Beside rude rustics, who lived from hand to mouth,

content if they paid the rent, and perhaps put by a hundred guineas in

the county bant, he was well off; but not when weighed against the

world.

He had but the house he dwelt in, a few acres of surrounding pasture,

and three thousand pounds placed out on loan. This money brought in a

good interest, but he had lately thought of calling it in for greater

safety, as he felt himself to be getting old in every sense of the

term.

It was obvious, therefore, that on the score of expense alone it would

be difficult for him to give a dower to Violet sufficient to support a

second home. If they could be happy with him, why he should be content.

He turned and held out his hand to Aymer. Aymer took it, but could say

nothing. He was literally overwhelmed. To him, after so long a

solitude, after so much contempt, this marvellous good fortune was

overpowering. Jason pretended not to notice his confusion.

“We understand one another,” he said. “It is agreed, is it not?”

Despite all his attempts, Aymer could but incline his head.

“It is a lovely day—take Violet for a ride to Berbury camp.”

How Aymer managed to convey what had passed to Violet he never knew,

but that was the longest ride they ever had together, and it was dark

before The Place was reached.

Aymer did not go home after quitting Violet. He walked away upon the

Downs until safe from observation, then threw himself upon the sward,

and poured out his heart in thanksgiving. When he had grown a little

calmer he leant against a beech-trunk and gazed at the stars. In that

short hour upon the solitary Downs he lived a whole lifetime of

happiness. There are some of us who can remember such hours—they occur

but once to any human being.

To do the rough residents of the district justice, so soon as it was

understood to be settled that they were to be married, then the tone of

the place changed, and they no longer insulted and annoyed him. Some

wished him joy and happiness: not without a tinge of envy at his good

fortune, expressed in the rude language of the hills, “I wish I had

thee luck, lad.”

It was generally agreed that when the marriage took place there should

be an arch erected and decorated with flowers, for the bride and

bridegroom to pass under; that the path through the churchyard should

be strewn with roses, that volleys of firearms should be discharged,

and the day kept as a holiday. This was settled at the Shepherd’s Bush

over foaming jugs of ale.

“Arter all,” said an old fellow, “he bean’t such a bad sort o’ chap. A’

mind a’ tuk a main bit o’ trouble loike to pull a ewe o’ mine out of a

ditch where hur laid on hur back.”

“Ay, ay!” said another; “and a’ drawed my little Kittie on the kitchen

wall wi’ a bit o’ charcoal as natural as ever hur walked—zo let’s gie

’un a rouser, chaps, and no mistake!”

This was how it happened that at World’s End Races that fateful year,

early in October, a delicate-looking young man, commonly dressed, stood

beside the pretty pony-carriage under the hawthorn tree. The marriage

was fixed for that day week.

Chapter Four.

The marriage would have taken place earlier but for two circumstances:

first, the difficulty of obtaining the wedding outfit for Violet in

that out-of-the-way place; and secondly, because Jason insisted upon

some important alterations being made in the old house, in order to

render it more comfortable for his children.

There is no event in life which causes so much discussion, such

pleasant anticipation, as the marriage-day; and at The Place there was

not a single thing left unmentioned; every detail of the ceremony was

talked over, and it was a standing joke of Jason’s to tell Violet to

study her prayer-book, a remark that never failed to make the blood

mount to her forehead.

She grew somewhat pensive as the final moment approached—with all her

youth and spirits, with all the happy omens that accompanied the course

of her love, she could not view this, the most important step she would

ever take, always with thoughtless levity. She became silent and

thoughtful, gave up riding, and devoted herself almost exclusively to

attending upon Jason, till Aymer—silly fellow!—grew jealous, and

declared it was unkind of her to look forward to the wedding-day as if

it was a sentence of imprisonment.

Mr Waldron had lived so retired that there was some little difficulty

in fixing upon a representative to give Violet away, for as an invalid

he could not himself go to the church; and this was the only thing he

was heard to regret—that he should not see Violet married. However, he

consoled himself with the thought that he should see her immediately

afterwards, as the church was hardly half a mile distant, down in a

narrow combe or valley. After some reflection, Mr Waldron decided upon

asking his solicitor, Mr Merton, of Barnham, to act as his

representative and give the bride away.

Merton, who was an old bachelor, was really delighted at the idea, but

with true professional mendacity made an immense virtue of the

sacrifice of time it entailed. He really was so busy with a great law

case just coming on that really—but then his old friend Waldron, and

lovely Miss Violet—duty pulled him one way and inclination another, and

beauty, as was proper, triumphed.

Violet had few acquaintances, and it was more difficult still to find

her a bridesmaid—not that there were not plenty ready to fill that

onerous post—but she disliked the idea of a stranger. Mr Merton, the

solicitor, solved the difficulty by suggesting a niece of his, a merry

girl whom Violet had met once or twice.

Aymer could not do less than ask old Martin Brown to stand as his best

man, never dreaming that he would accept the task. But what was his

surprise when Martin declared that he should enjoy the fun, and would

rather miss Barnham fair than not be there. He came out tolerably

handsome for him; he offered Aymer a five-pound note to purchase a

suitable dress! This note Aymer very respectfully declined to take, and

the farmer, half repenting of his generosity, did not press him too

hard. Yet he could not help expressing his wonder as to how Aymer meant

to appear at church. “Thee bisn’t a-goin’ to marry th’ squire’s darter

in thee ould hat?”

Aymer smiled and said nothing. Fortune had aided him in this way too.

After endless disappointments and “returned with thanks,” he had

suddenly received a cheque for a sketch of his which had been accepted

by an illustrated paper. Immediately afterwards came another cheque for

a short story accepted by a magazine. This success, small as it was,

elated him, if anything, more than the approaching marriage-day. He had

tried, and tried, and tried, and failed again and again, till he

despaired and ceased to make the attempt, till the necessity of

obtaining some clothes drove him to the last desperate venture. He was

elated beyond measure. A successful author, a successful artist, and

just about to marry the most beautiful woman in the world!

He resolved to tell Violet nothing about it, but to show her the sketch

and the story as they were upon their trip. Thus it was that he was

independent of Martini grudging generosity. Fortune did not stop even

here. As if determined to shower delight upon him—to make up at one

blow for the cruel isolation, the miserable restraint he had

undergone—she never seemed to tire of opening up fresh vistas of

pleasure. Both Violet and Aymer would have been satisfied, and more

than satisfied, with a simple visit to the seaside; but Jason was not

so easily pleased. His daughter was his life—nothing was too good for

her—and, besides, such an event happened but once in a lifetime, and it

was fit and proper that it be accompanied with memorable circumstances.

He announced his intention of sending his children to Florence.

To Florence, the beautiful city, which dwelt for ever in Aymer’s

dreams—the city he had described time after time to Violet, till the

girl thought it the finest upon earth. He was to revisit Florence, and

to revisit it with Violet! His heart was full—it would have been

impossible to add another blessing.

Violet raced about the house and the garden, teasing Dando to

distraction—all her pensiveness dispelled, murmuring “Florence” at

every turn. What further joy could there be in store?—it was

impossible. It is almost safe to say that these two were the happiest

in England. Well they might be. They had all upon their side—i.e.,

youth.

Violet was to be married upon her twenty-first birthday; Aymer was

twenty-three only. Money—not riches—but sufficient for an easy life.

Italy in view—the land of the artist and the poet! It was like a fairy

dream!

The days flew by. The dresses came—oh, what eager discussions and

conferences there were over the dresses! All the farmers’ daughters and

wives in the neighbourhood to whom Violet was even distantly known,

claimed the privilege to see the trousseau. In London it would have

been overlooked—there all things are upon a grand scale.

At World’s End the ladies were never tired of descanting upon the

glories of the silk and satin, the lace and tulle. How can a wretched,

unsympathising man describe the sensation produced by Violet’s wedding

outfit?

The dear girl was in ecstasies. Waldron had gone to the utmost limit of

his purse—his friend Merton even frowned a little—but he argued it was

only for once—just this once—he must be permitted a little extravagance

on Violet’s marriage-day.

Aymer was again plagued with his old tormentors—they did not sneer or

jeer at him, but he had to run the gauntlet of rude jokes and rustic

wit. He forgave them, and asked as many as he could to the breakfast.

The breakfast was to be laid out in that very apartment the window of

which opened upon the garden near the sycamore tree, where he had sat

so many times listening to Violet playing upon the pianoforte. There

was of course a cake, and there was to be what had never before been

seen or tasted at World’s End from time immemorial—i.e., several dozens

of champagne.

If the wedding outfit caused a sensation among the ladies, this

champagne was all the talk among the men. They thought of nothing

else—it was the subject of endless allusions and unabating

anticipation. Here and there was one who could say he had tasted the

wine—when after a good hunting spin Lord So-and-So had asked the

sportsmen to refresh themselves at his mansion. But the majority had

not the faintest notion of what it was like, and formed the most

fantastic expectations. There were a few who doubted whether there

would be any champagne, and treated it as a myth, till the servants at

The Place, proud of their importance, admitted some favoured

individuals who were regaled in secret with—the taste?—no, but the view

only of certain tall bottles dressed in rosy tissue paper, upon the

removal of which stood out the far-famed silver-foil, and doubt was no

more. World’s End was full of its first champagne treat.

Old Martin Brown swelled up into a person of enormous importance, as

being the nearest relative of the bridegroom; he was looked upon as an

oracle, and his remarks listened to with intense interest at the

nightly tobacco parliament at the Shepherd’s Bush.

The carriers took fabulous reports of what was to happen at World’s End

all over the district, and scores of honest people made up their minds

to trudge to Bury Wick Church.

Aymer was no longer knocked up at five in the morning, as was the

custom, to breakfast at six. He was undisturbed. No more jeers and

contempt—he was treated with deference. “My nevvy” was a success;

Martin spoke of his “nevvy” as if the connection did him honour.

I hope among the readers of this history there will be many ladies who

can remember their feelings on the approach of the marriage-day. Let

them kindly recall those moments of wild excitement, of trepidation

lest some accident should happen, of a half-hesitation, of a desire to

plunge at once and get it over—and approximately they will understand

Violet’s heart.

Even yet Fortune had not exhausted her favours. On the morning of

World’s End Races, just one short week before the day, there came a

letter in an unknown handwriting, addressed to Aymer Malet, Esq,

enclosing five ten-pound notes from an anonymous donor, who wished him

every felicity, and advised him to persevere in his art studies.

This extraordinary gift, so totally unexpected, filled Aymer with

astonishment. It seemed as if it had dropped from the skies, for he had

not the remotest suspicion that Lady Lechester was watching him with

interest.

At last the day came. Violet was awake at the earliest dawn, and saw

the sun rise, clear and cloudless, from the window. It was one of those

days which sometimes occur in autumn, with all the beauty and warmth of

summer, without its burning heat, and made still more delicious by the

sensation of idle drowsiness—a day for lotos eating. The beech trees

already showed an orange tint in places; the maples were turning

scarlet; the oaks had a trace of buff. The rooks lazily cawed as they

flew off with the acorns, the hills were half hidden with a yellowy

vapour, and a few distant fleecy clouds, far up, floated in the azure.

A dream-like, luxurious day, such as happens but once a year!

Violet was up with the sun—how could she rest? Miss Merton was with

her, chatting gaily. Oh, the mysteries of the toilet! my feeble pen

must leave that topic to imagination. All I can say is, that it seemed

as if it never would be completed, notwithstanding the reiterated

warnings of Jason that the time was going fast.

There came one more pleasant surprise.

A strange man on horseback was seen riding up to The Place. This was so

rare an event that Violet’s heart beat fast, fearing lest even at the

eleventh hour something should happen to cause delay. She waited; her

hands trembled. Even the delicious toilet had to be suspended.

Footsteps came up the staircase, and then the maidservant, bearing in

her hand a small parcel, advanced to Miss Waldron. With trembling

fingers she cut the string—it was a delicate casket of mother-of-pearl.

The key was in it; she opened the lid, and an involuntary exclamation

of surprise and admiration burst from her lips.

There lay the loveliest necklace of pearls that ever the sun had shone

upon. Rich, costly pearls—pearls that were exactly fitted above all

jewels for her—pearls that she had always wished for—pearls! They were

round her neck in a moment.

Miss Merton was in raptures; the maidservant lost her wits, and ran

downstairs calling every one to go up and see Miss Vi’let “in them

shiners!”

For a while, in the surprise and wonder, the donor had been forgotten.

Under the necklace was a delicate pink note, offering Lady Lechester’s

sincere desire that Miss Waldron would long wear her little present,

and wishing her every good thing. When the wedding trip was over, would

_Mrs_ Aymer Malet let her know that she might call?

Violet was not perfect any more than other girls; she had naturally a

vein of pride; she did feel no little elation at this auspicious mark

of attention and regard from a person in Lady Lechester’s position. The

rank of the donor added to the value of the gift.

Mr Waldron was much affected by this token of esteem. He could not

express his pleasure to the giver, because her messenger had galloped

off the moment he had delivered the parcel. The importance of the

bride, great enough before, immediately rose ninety per cent, in the

eyes of Miss Merton, and a hundred and fifty per cent, in the eyes of

the lower classes.

Mr Waldron, examining the pearls with the eye of a connoisseur, valued

them at the very lowest at two hundred guineas. The involuntary tears

of the poor pilgrim at the shrine of art had indeed solidified into

gems!

The news flew over the adjacent village of Bury Wick; the servants at

The Place spread it abroad, and in ten minutes it was known far and

wide. The excitement was intense. Champagne was grand enough—but

pearls! World’s End went wild! Champagne and pearls in one day! The

whole place turned out to give the bride a triumphant reception.

Aymer was forgotten in the excitement over Violet: forgotten, but not

by the bride. All she wished was to be able to show him her present—but

etiquette forbade his being sent for on that particular morning; he

must meet her at the church.

At the church—goodness! these pearls had delayed the toilet, and ten

o’clock had struck. At eleven—ah! at eleven!

Mr Merton had not arrived yet. He had arranged to bring his carriage;

at The Place they had nothing grander than the pony-carriage. Mr

Merton, anxious to do the thing well, as he expressed it, had sent word

that he should bring his carriage and pair of greys, to take the bride

to the church.

From the earliest dawn the bells at Bury Church had been going from

time to time; and every now and then there was a scattered fire of

musketry, like skirmishing; it was the young farmers and their friends

arriving with their guns, and saluting.

But at a quarter-past ten there was a commotion. The bells burst out

merrier than ever; there was volley after volley of musketry, and

cheering which penetrated even to the chamber of the bride, where she

sat before the mirror with the pearls round her neck. It was Merton

driving up in style, with his greys decorated with wedding favours.

Bang! clang! shout, and hurrah! The hand from Barnham struck up. “See

the Conquering Hero comes!” There never was such a glorious day before

or since at World’s End.

“Nevvy,” said old Martin, already a little warm, and slapping Aymer on

the back, “nevvy, my buoy! Thee bist th’ luckiest dog in

Inglandt—champagne and purls—Ha! ha! ha!”

Chapter Five.

There was an attempt at order, but it was an utter failure. The men

came crowding after Merton’s carriage shouting and firing guns, the

horses snorted, and when Violet glanced from the window, the excitement

of the scene made her hesitate and draw back.

Merton—a regular _lady’s bachelor_, so to say—was equal to the

occasion; it was not the first at which he had assisted. He at once

became the soul of the ceremonies. He congratulated Waldron, hastened

everybody, went into the apartment where the breakfast was laid out,

and with his own hands re-arranged it to his satisfaction, shouting out

all the time to the bride to make haste.

She came at last. How few brides look well in their wedding-dresses.

Even girls who are undeniably handsome fail to stand the trying ordeal;

but Violet was so happy, so radiant, she could not help but appear to

the best advantage.

Poor old Jason’s lip quivered as he gazed at his girl’s face—for the

last time as _his_—his lip quivered, and the words of his blessing

would not come; his throat swelled, and a tear gathered in his eye. She

bent and kissed him, turned and crossed the threshold.

Waldron wheeled himself to the large open window, and watched her walk

to the carriage along the carpet, put down that her feet might not

touch the ground.

Who shall presume to analyse the feelings of that proud and happy old

man? The carriage moved, the crowd shouted, the guns fired; he wheeled

his chair a little round, and his head leant forward. Was he thinking

of a day twenty-two years ago, when he—not a young man, but still full

of hope—led another fair bride to the altar; a bride who had long since

left him?

It was an ovation—a triumph all the way along that short half-mile to

the church: particularly as they entered the village. The greys pranced

slowly, lifting their hoofs well up, champing the bit, proud of their

burden. The bride and Miss Merton sat on one seat, Mr Merton on the

other. All the men and boys and children, all the shepherds and

ploughboys for miles and miles, who had gathered together, set up a

shout. The bells rang merrily, the guns popped and banged,

handkerchiefs were waved. Across the village street, but a few yards

from the churchyard lych-gate, they had erected an arch—as had been

determined on at the Shepherd’s Bush—an arch that would have done

credit to more pretentious places, with the motto, “Joy be with you.”

The bride dismounted at the lych-gate, which was itself covered with

flowers, and set her foot upon the scarlet cloth which the good old

vicar had himself provided, and which was laid down right to the porch.

The churchyard was full of children, chiefly girls, all carrying roses

and flowers to strew the path of the happy couple when they emerged

united. In the porch the ringers stood, four on each side, with their

hands upon the ropes ready to clash forth the news that the deed was

done. The old old clerk was there, in his black suit, which had done

duty on so many occasions.

She entered the little church—small, but extremely ancient. She passed

the antique font, her light footstep pressed upon the recumbent brazen

image of a knight of other days. The venerable vicar advanced to meet

her, the sunshine falling on his grey head. But where was Aymer? Surely

all must be well: but she could not see him—not for the moment.

True-hearted, loving Violet had looked for Aymer with his old battered

hat, in the corduroy trousers and the green coat she had known him in

so long.

For the moment she barely recognised the handsome, gentlemanly man

before her. It was Aymer—oh yes, it was Aymer—and how noble he looked

now that he was dressed as became him. Her heart gave another bound of

joy—involuntarily she stepped forward; what could be wanting to

complete her happiness that day? Certainly it would have been hard to

have named one single thing as lacking—not one. The pews were full of

women of all classes—they had been mostly reserved for them—the men

finding standing room as best they could; and a buzz of admiration went

round the church as Violet came into fall view. Her dress was good—it

was nothing to belles who flourish in Belgravia; but at World’s

End—goodness, it was Paris itself.

That costume formed the one great topic of conversation for years

afterwards. I know nothing of these things; but Miss Merton told me a

few days ago that the bride wore a wreath of white rosebuds and myrtle

upon her lovely head, and a veil of real Brussels lace. Her earrings

were of rubies and diamonds—a present that morning from gallant Mr

Merton. She had a plain locket (with a portrait of Waldron), and wore

the splendid necklace of pearls, the gift of Lady Lechester.

Her dress was white satin, trimmed with Brussels lace, and her feet

were shod in satin boots. Of course the “rosy, slender fingers” were

cased in the traditional white kid, and around her wrist was a bracelet

of solid dull gold—the bridegroom’s present, only delivered just as she

stepped into the carriage. She carried a bouquet of stephanotis,

orange, and myrtle.

It is very likely I have misunderstood Miss Merton’s lively

description, but I think that the above was something like it. Miss

Merton herself wore a white silk trimmed with turquoise, blue, a gold

locket with monogram in turquoise and pearls, and earrings to match—a

gift from Mr Waldron—and a bouquet, I think, chiefly of white roses and

jessamine.

It was a lovely sight. The sunshine fell upon the bride as she advanced

up the aisle—fell upon her through the antique panes which softened and

mellowed the light. Never did a fairer bride mount the chancel steps.

Aymer waited for her. Till now Violet had been comparatively calm; but

now, face to face with the clergyman robed in white, near to the altar

and its holy associations, as the first tones of his sonorous voice

fell upon her ear, what wonder that her knees trembled and the blood

forsook her cheek. Aymer surreptitiously, and before he had a right in

etiquette to do so, touched her hand gently—it strengthened and revived

her; she blushed slightly, and the vicar’s voice, as he gazed upon her

beauty, involuntarily softened and fell. While his lips uttered the

oft-repeated words, so known by heart that the book in his hand was

unneeded, his soul offered up a prayer that this fair creature—yes,

just this one—should be spared those pains and miseries which were

ordained upon the human race.

The flag upon the church tower waved in the gentle breeze; the children

were marshalled beside the path in two long rows, with their hands full

of flowers; the women in the cottages were hunting up the old slippers

and shoes; the men looked to the caps upon the nipples of their guns;

the handsome greys snorted at the gate; and the grand old sun, above

all, bathed the village in a flood of light. I cannot linger over it

longer.

The solemn adjuration was put, the question asked, and Aymer in an

audible voice replied, “I will.” The still more solemn adjuration to

the woman was repeated—it is but a few words, but it conveys a world of

meaning, it sums up a lifetime—and Violet’s answer was upon her lips,

when, before she could form the words, the chancel side-door burst

open, and there—

There before her very eyes, before the bride to whom that day was

consecrated, who for that one day was by all law human and divine to be

kept from all miserable things, there stood an awe-struck, gasping man,

whose white shirt-front was one broad sheet of crimson blood.

It is difficult to gather together, from the confused narratives of

those who were present, what really happened in consecutive order, but

this is nearly it. Not only was his shirt-front blood, but his grey

hair and partially bald head were spotted that awful red, and his

trembling hands dripped—the blood literally dripped from them on to the

stone pavement. For one awful moment there was a pause—utter silence.

The man staggered forward and said in broken tones, but audible over

the whole church—

“Miss Violet; your father is _dead_!” And the bride dropped like a

stone before Aymer at her side, or Merton just behind, could grasp her

arm. She was down upon the cold stone floor, her wedding-dress all

crumpled up, her wreath fallen off, the light of life and love gone

from her eyes, the happy glow from her cheek. Even in that moment the

clergyman’s heart smote him. His impious prayer! That this one because

of her beauty should be spared—and struck down before his very eyes in

the midst of her joy and triumph. All that they could see in the body

of the church was a shapeless heap of satin where but a moment before

had stood the most envied of them all.

Aymer knelt and lifted her head; it lay helpless upon his hands. As he

did so the wedding-ring, which he had ready, slipped unnoticed from his

grasp and was lost. When it was missed, days afterwards, and a search

was instituted, it could not be found, and this the superstitious

treasured up as a remarkable fact.

Merton raised her up; her frame was limp and helpless in their arms.

They carried her to the vestry and brought water. Miss Merton,

trembling as she was, did not faint; but, good, brave girl, did her

best.

In the excitement over the bride, even the man who had brought this

awful news was for the moment forgotten. When they looked for him he

was leaning against the altar-rails, as if about to fall, and some of

the blood was spotted on the sacred altar-cloth. The men rushed at him;

the women, afraid, held back and watched what new harm must come. They

deemed that it was some horrible creature; they could not believe that

it was only the old gardener at The Place—Waldron’s oldest servant.

Only the gardener. He was as helpless as themselves. He had

over-exerted himself running to the church with his dreadful tidings,

and being subject to heart disease, he could barely stand, and only

gasp out that “Master was killed, and quite dead!”

The men, finding nothing could be got from him, ran out, and made

direct for The Place. Some leapt on their horses, but those on foot

crossing the meadow, as the gardener had done, got there first. All the

men made for The Place—all the women stayed to see what would become of

the bride.

It was a dead faint, but it was not long before she came to, and

immediately insisted upon being taken home. They would have detained

her in the vestry till at least confirmation of the dreadful

intelligence had arrived. But no, she begged and prayed them to take

her; and fearing lest uncertainty should do more harm than certainty,

they half-led, half-carried her from the church.

There was not a dry eye among the sympathising women who had

remained—not one among those rude, half-educated people whose heart was

not bursting with sorrow for the poor shrinking form that was borne

through their midst.

But a few short moments since, and how proud and happy had she been

advancing up the aisle! The children were gone from the churchyard;

their flowers cast away, not in the pathway of the bride, but on the

graves. In their haste, they had trod upon the scarlet cloth laid down,

and discoloured and stained it. The ringers had deserted the

bell-ropes, the village street was empty and silent—only the

unconscious flag waved upon the tower, and the arch stood for them to

pass beneath, with its motto—now a bitter mockery—“Joy be with you!”

The carriage rolled along the road, and as they approached The Place,

Merton began to recover his professional calm; and the return of his

mind to a more normal state was marked by doubt—Was it true?

But no sooner had they entered the garden than he saw it was. The faces

of the knots of men, their low, hushed voices, all told but one

tale—death had been there!

They tried to get Violet to go upstairs to her own room, but she would

not. “I must see him!” was her cry. “I must see him!”

She pushed through them. All gave way before her. Not _there_, surely?

Yes, there—in the very room where the wedding-breakfast was laid out,

where the cake stood upon the table, and the champagne-bottles at the

side; there, in the place of joy, was the dead—dead in his armchair,

close to the window, with a ghastly wound upon the once-peaceful brow!

She threw up her hands—she uttered a great cry. Those that heard it say

it rings even now in their ears. She threw herself upon him. The

crimson blood dyed her veil, as it hung loose and torn, and tinged the

innocent pearls around her neck with its terrible hue. She fainted the

second time, and would have fallen, but Aymer caught her; and they bore

her upstairs, unconscious even of her misery.

The Place was silent. The guns were not fired, the bells were stilled.

Men moved with careful footsteps, women hushed their voices, and in the

stillness they heard the church clock slowly striking the hour of noon.

At that moment she should have been returning, radiant and blissful in

triumph, to meet the welcome from her father’s lips.

There was one that could not understand it—one dumb beast that could

not be driven away. It was Dando, the mastiff dog. Strangely enough, he

avoided the chamber of the dead, and crouched at the door of Violet’s

room.

When Merton saw it he said, “Let the dog go in; maybe, he will relieve

her a little.”

But Violet, lying on a couch, conscious now and tearless, despairing in

the darkened room, motioned him away. “Take him away,” she said. “If he

had been faithful, he would have watched and guarded.”

It was a natural thought, but it was not just. Poor Dando, like the

rest, had gone to the church with the crowd; and just at the moment

when he was most wanted, then he was absent from his duty.

The great sun still bathed the village in a flood of light, the fleecy

clouds sailed slowly in the azure, the yellow mist hung over the

distant hills, and the leaves now and again rustled to the ground. But

the chamber that should have resounded with laughter and joy was

darkened. One more human leaf had fallen from the earthly tree of life.

Once more those that were left behind were worse off than those that

were taken. In the words of the dear old ballad—

My summer’s day, in lusty May,

Is darked afore the noon.

Chapter Six.

Great horror fell upon the whole neighbourhood of World’s End. Not the

oldest man or woman could remember such a deed in their midst. Hitherto

the spectre of Murder had avoided those grand old hills. There was no

memory of such a thing. The nearest approach to it, which the gossips

at the Shepherd’s Bush could recall to mind, had happened long before

the days of the oldest of them all.

There was one, and one only, who declared that in his youth his father

left him in charge of the hayfield one beautiful summer’s day, to go

and see a man hung on the gallows. It was the custom then to erect the

gallows at, or very near, the spot where the crime was supposed to have

been committed; often at the cross roads.

His father told him—and having heard the tale so often it was still

fresh in his memory—that the gallows in this case was built in a narrow

lane, close to a gateway, through which the murderer had fired the

fatal shot at his victim. The spot was known to that day as Deadman’s

Gate.

There was an immense crowd collected to witness the execution, and the

sun shone brilliantly on the ghastly machine. The murderer, as seems to

have been the fashion in those times, at the foot of the gallows

declared his innocence; and there were not wanting people who, in

despite of the evidence, believed him.

Just after the horrible ceremony was finished, and the lifeless body

swung to and fro, there burst a thunderstorm upon the crowd, which

scattered in all directions.

Two men took refuge under a tall tree. One said, “This is dangerous,”

and went out into the field; before the other could follow he was

struck dead by the lightning, so that there were now two corpses.

This man chanced to be one of the principal witnesses against the

murderer, and superstition firmly believed that the thunderstorm marked

the Divine wrath at the execution of an innocent man.

“The moment before,” said the narrator, “the sky was perfectly clear;

the storm came without the slightest warning.” The fact being that the

crowd were so intent upon the spectacle before them that they had not

noticed the gathering clouds.

“Ay,” concluded the narrator, who evidently shared in the superstition,

“it be an awful thing to bear witness about blood. There be them about

here as I wouldn’t stand in their shoes!”

A dead silence followed. Men understood what he meant. Already public

suspicion had fallen upon the gardener.

And Violet? Violet was calm and tearless, but heart-broken. She would

not see Aymer till the third day—it was the morning of the inquest,

though she did not know it. She saw him in her own room, still

darkened. A thrush was singing loud and clear in the tree below the

window. The sun still shone as it had done upon the bridal day, but the

room was dark.

Miss Merton, despite her horror, had remained by her friend. She left

the apartment as Aymer entered, Violet could not speak to him. Her head

drooped on his shoulder, and convulsive sobs shook her form.

It is better to leave them together. The soled wedding-dress, the

beautiful pearl necklace tinged with the horrible hue of blood, had

been carefully put out of sight. People were searching for the

wedding-ring in the chancel at the church, but could not find it.

The inquest was held at the Shepherd’s Bush. As had been the case at

another inquest a century before, held at a place then almost as

retired—at Wolf’s Glow—so here the jury was formed of the farmers of

the district.

Bury Wick village was so small it had no inn, which was accounted for

by the fact that no through road ran by it. The village inn was half a

mile from the houses, alone by itself, on the edge of the highway. The

Shepherd’s Bush was small, merely a cottage made into a tavern, and the

largest room barely held the jury.

It is not material to us to go into every detail; the main features of

that painful inquiry will be sufficient.

The jury having been sworn, proceeded in solemn procession to The

Place. They entered noiselessly, not to disturb “Miss Vi’let,” for whom

the sympathy was heartfelt. They viewed the body of the good old man,

cut down at the very hour when the crowning desire of his heart was in

the act of realisation.

Such juries usually hurry through their task, shrinking from the view

of the dead which the law compels upon them—a miserable duty, and often

quite useless. But in this case they lingered in the room.

Saying little or nothing, they collected in groups of two or three

around the coffin, wistfully gazing upon the features of the dead. For

the features were placid, notwithstanding the terrible wound upon the

top of the head. The peace of his life clung to him even in a violent

death.

There was not one man there who could remember a single word or deed by

which the dead had injured any human being. Quiet, retired, benevolent,

largely subscribing in an unostentatious manner to the village

charities, ready always with a helping hand to the poor—surely he ought

to have been secure? What motive could there be?

They returned to the Shepherd’s Bush. The Coroner asked for the

evidence of the person who had last seen the deceased alive. It was at

once apparent that numbers had seen him.

Mr Merton, who attended, self-employed, to watch the case for Violet,

and from attachment to his deceased friend—was selected as a

representative of the many. He deposed that he had last seen the

deceased alive at quarter to eleven on the marriage-day, at the moment

that the bride took leave of her father, and received his blessing.

This simple statement produced a profound impression. The deceased, who

little thought that that parting would last for ever, was then sitting

as usual in his armchair, which he could wheel about as he chose, close

to the open window—almost _in_ the window—and as witness escorted the

bride to her carriage, he looked back and saw the deceased had partly

turned round, so that the back of his head was towards the window. He

had then his velvet skullcap off, and witness believed that he was

engaged in silent prayer. This statement also naturally produced a

profound effect. The deceased’s head was partially bald, and the little

hair he had was grey. The day was very warm and sultry.

Mr Merton paused, and the next witness was the first person who had

seen the deceased after the fatal attack. This was the gardener. He

appeared in court, visibly shaking, bearing the marks of recent

excitement upon his countenance. He was an aged man, clad in corduroys

and grey, much-worn coat—not the suit he had worn on the wedding-day.

His name was Edward Jenkins. His wife pressed hard to be admitted to

the court, but was forbidden, and remained without, wringing her hands

and sobbing. This witness was much confused, and his answers were

difficult to get—not from reluctance to speak, but from excitement and

fear. He produced an unfavourable impression upon the Coroner, which

the medical man in court observing, remarked that he had recently

attended the witness for heart disease at the request of the deceased,

who took a great interest in his old servant. Even this, however, did

not altogether succeed—there was an evident feeling against the man.

His evidence, when reduced to writing, was singularly simple, vague,

and unsatisfactory. Why had he not gone to the church to see the

wedding, as it appeared every single person had done, not even

excepting the dog Dando? He had much desired to see the marriage of his

young mistress; but being the only man-servant, it was his duty to see

to the wines and to the table; and at the time when the carriage

started he was in the garden cutting fresh flowers, for the purpose of

strewing the lady’s footpath when she returned and descended from the

carriage, and also to decorate the breakfast table. How long was it

after the carriage started that anything happened? It seemed barely a

minute. He was in a remote part of the garden, hastily working,

when—almost immediately after the carriage started—he happened to look

up, and saw a stranger on the green in front of the house.

“Stay,” said the Coroner. “Describe that person.”

This he could not do. The glimpse he had caught was obtained through

the boughs and branches of several trees and shrubs. He could not say

whether the stranger was tall or short, dark or light, or what dress he

wore; but he had a vague idea that he had a dirty, grey coat on.

This was an unfortunate remark, for the witness at that moment wore

such a coat.

He could not say whether he had a hat or a cap on, nor what colour

trousers he wore. The stranger appeared to cross the green diagonally

towards the house.

“What did witness do?”

For a moment he did nothing—it did not strike him as anything

extraordinary. That morning there had been scores of people about the

house, and numbers of strangers whom he did not know. They were

attracted by the talk about the wedding, and he thought no harm. He

went on with his work as hastily as he could, for he still hoped to

have finished in time to make a short cut across the fields, and see a

part of the marriage ceremony.

He became so excited with the wish to see the ceremony that he left

part of his work undone. As he went he had to pass the open window of

the dining-room, where “master” was sitting. He was running, and

actually passed the window without noticing anything; but before he had

got to the front door he heard a groan. He ran back, and found his

master prone on the floor of the apartment, in a pool of blood. He had

evidently fallen out of his armchair forwards—started up and fallen.

Witness, excessively frightened, lifted him up, and placed him in the

chair, and it was in so doing that his shirt-front became saturated

with the sanguinary stream, which also dyed his hands. He had on a

shirt-front and a black suit, in order to wait at table at the

wedding-breakfast. “Master” never spoke or groaned again. So soon as he

was placed in the armchair his head dropped on one side as if quite

dead, and witness then ran as fast as he could to the church, and

crossed the fields by a short cut which brought him to the

chancel-door.

The stranger, who had crossed, the narrow “green” or lawn before the

house, had entirely disappeared, and he saw nothing of him in the

house. In his haste and confusion, he did not see with what the deed

had been committed.

This was the substance of his evidence. Cross-examine him as they

might, neither the Coroner nor the jury, nor Mr Merton, could get any

further light. The witness was evidently much perturbed. There were

those who thought his manner that of a guilty man—or, at least, of a

man who knew more than he chose to tell. On the other hand, it might be

the manner of an aged and weakly man, greatly upset in mind and body by

the frightful discovery he had made. All the jury knew the relations

between the witness and the deceased. Jenkins had lived in the service

of the Waldrons all his life, as had his father before him, and the

deceased had always exhibited the greatest interest in his welfare. He

had good wages, an easy occupation, and was well cared for in every

way. The most suspicious could conceive of no ground of quarrel or

ill-will.

The Coroner directed the witness to remain in attendance, and the first

person who had seen the deceased after the alarm was given was called.

This was Phillip Lewis, a farmer’s son (one of the stewards at World’s

End Races), who being swift of foot had outstripped the others in the

run from the church to The Place.

Phillip Lewis found the deceased in his armchair, with his head

drooping on one side—just as the gardener Jenkins described; only this

witness at once caught sight of the weapon with which the fatal blow

was given. It was lying on the ground, just outside the open window,

stained with blood, and was now produced by the constable who had taken

charge of it. It was a small bill-hook, not so large as would be used

in cutting hedges, but much the same shape.

The edge of a bill-hook, as every one knows, curves inward like a

sickle, and at the end the blade forms a sharp point, or spike. It is,

therefore, a fearful instrument with which to deliver a blow upon a

bare head.

Phillip Lewis said that the gardener Jenkins recognised this hook as

his—the one he usually employed to lop the yew trees, and other

favourite trees of the deceased, and for general work in the

shrubberies.

This piece of evidence made the jury look very sternly upon Jenkins. He

was asked if it was his, and at once admitted it. Where had he left it

last? He would not be quite sure, but he believed in the tool-house,

which was close to the gate in the garden wall, which led out into the

fields. He had used it that morning.

There was a distinct movement among the jury. They evidently began to

suspect Jenkins.

The medical man, Dr Parker, was the last witness. He had examined the

wound the deceased had received. There was first an incised wound,

three inches long, on the top of the skull, extending along the very

crown of the head. This wound was not deep, and, though serious, might

not have proved mortal. At the end of this wound there was a small

space not cut at all, but an inch farther, just at the top of the

forehead, was a deep wound, which had penetrated to the brain, and must

have caused almost instantaneous death.

These peculiar wounds were precisely such as would have been made if a

person had approached the deceased from behind, and struck him on the

bare head with the bill-hook produced. He did not think that there was

more than one blow. He thought that the deceased when he received the

blow must have started up mechanically, and, losing power, fell forward

on to the floor. He did not think that the deceased had suffered much

pain. There would not be time. The point or spike-like end of the hook

had stuck deep into the brain. He had examined the hook, and found

clotted gore and a few grey hairs upon the blade.

This concluded the evidence, and the court was cleared—after the

Coroner had whispered a few words to the police, several members of

which force were present.

The Coroner then summed up the evidence, and in a few brief but

terribly powerful sentences pointed out that suspicion could only

attach to one man. This man was left alone. He had every opportunity.

The tale of the alleged stranger on the lawn bore every mark of being

apocryphal. It was obviously a clumsy invention. The witness, who at

first could not give any idea whatever as to how the stranger was

dressed, had, when pressed, in a manner identified himself as the

stranger, by describing him as wearing a grey coat.

In conclusion, he would add that the country had been scoured by the

police in the three days that had elapsed, and they had failed to find

any trace of the supposed stranger. He then left the jury to

deliberate, and going out into the air, met Mr Merton, who was more

firmly convinced than the Coroner as to the guilt of Jenkins.

“There was no motive,” he admitted, as they talked it over, walking

slowly down the road; “but crimes were not always committed from

apparent motives. On the contrary, out of ten such crimes seven would,

if investigated, seem to be committed from very inadequate motives. How

could they tell that Waldron had not called to the gardener _after_ the

carriage had left, and that then a quarrel took place?” He was

determined to see that justice was done to his dead friend.

But while the Coroner and Merton thus strolled along together a new

complexion had been put upon affairs. The wretched wife of Jenkins, who

had heard the muttered communications of the police, and saw that they

kept a close look-out upon her husband, had listened as near the door

as she could get, and so heard the summing-up of the Coroner.

Distracted and out of her mind with terror, a resource occurred to her

that would never have been thought of by one less excited. She rushed

from the place like mad. “Poor old Sally has lost her head,” said the

hangers about. She ran across the fields, scrambled through the hedges,

reached The Place, tore upstairs, and threw herself upon Violet,

beseeching her for the love of God to save her poor husband.

Till that moment Violet had not the least idea that Jenkins, who had

carried her in his arms many a time when she was a child, and was more

like an old friend than a servant, was under any suspicion. She rose up

at once and went downstairs, the first time since the wedding-day.

Aymer and Miss Merton tried to stay her.

“Hush!” she said; “it is my duty.”

She was obliged to pass the fatal window; she burst into tears, but

hurried on. Aymer went with her, and assisted her along the very same

route that Sally had come—over ditches and through the gaps in the

hedges. Violet reached the Shepherd’s Bush bareheaded, panting.

Involuntarily, the crowd hanging about, one and all, boors that they

were, took off their hats. She knocked at the door where the jury sat

astounded, they admitted her. Strung up to the highest pitch she burst

upon them, cowed them, overcame them.

“He is innocent!” she cried, in the full tones of her beautiful voice.

“He is innocent; let him go free! He served the dead for fifty years;

they never quarrelled; they were, like old friends, not master and man.

I am the daughter of the dead. I tell you with my whole heart and soul

that that man _must_ be innocent; if you injure him, it is you who are

murderers!”

She turned and left the room; many started forward to help her, but she

clung to Aymer’s arm and he got her home as quickly as he might.

It was a noble thing. It was a truly great spectacle to see that young

girl standing there and defending the poor fellow upon whom cruel

suspicion had fallen, notwithstanding her own irreparable loss. Its

effect upon the jury was immediate and irremovable. They were silent

for a time. Then one after another found twenty loopholes of doubt

where before they had been so positive. After all, why should not the

gardener’s story be true? It was a simple, artless tale; not one that

would be concocted.

One juryman, who had served on the jury at the Quarter Sessions,

remembered a great counsel in some important case laying it down as an

axiom, that if a man made up a story to defend himself it was always

too complete, too full of detail. Said the juryman: “If Jenkins had

made up his story, he would have told us what the stranger wore, what

colour hat, what sort of trousers, and every particular. There was a

total absence of motive. Jenkins was a quiet, inoffensive man, whom

they had all known for years and years. Very likely, indeed, for

strangers to come to The Place on that day, the fame of which had been

talked of everywhere. Perhaps the fellow wished to steal the plate on

the breakfast table, and was surprised to find the invalid there.

Hearing the gardener coming, he would make off at once, which accounted

for the fact that not a single thing was stolen. Why should they

condemn one of their own parish on such trivial evidence?” This was the

right key, the _local_ one.

When the Coroner was at last called in, he was astounded at the verdict

delivered to him by the foreman—“Wilful murder against a person, or

persons, unknown.” He argued with them, but in vain; the twelve had

made up their minds and were firm as a rock. He had to submit with a

bad grace!

Poor Sally had a moment of joy, and clasped her husband’s neck, but it

was of brief duration. A minute afterwards the police sergeant present

tapped Jenkins on the shoulder, and took him in custody on a charge of

murder.

This is the peculiarity of the law in such cases. A suspected person

has to run the gauntlet of two bodies—first, the coroner’s jury; next,

the magistrates. Many a wretch who has escaped the one has been trapped

by the other to his doom.

The handcuffs were slipped on the gardener’s wrists and he was led away

unresistingly, followed by his weeping wife and a crowd of the

villagers.

As the jury emerged from the Shepherd’s Bush, which was not till

afternoon—for they had stayed to spend their ninepenny fees—there

struck on their ears a mournful sound. It was the tolling of the

village bell. The medical man had recommended immediate interment. Only

three days before those bells had merrily rung for the daughter’s

bridal; now they tolled for the father’s burial. They hastened to the

church and watched the solemn ceremony. The low broken voice of the

vicar failed at the words, as they stood by the open vault—“He cometh

up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow... In

the midst of life we are in death;” and the rest of the service was

nearly inaudible.

Chapter Seven.

Every one knows what a dull monotony of sorrow succeeds to a great

loss. Perhaps it was fortunate for Violet that her mind was in some

small measure withdrawn from too consuming grief by the unfortunate

position of the poor old gardener. Over the very grave of the dead, as

it were, she quarrelled—the word is hardly too strong—with Merton.

Mr Merton was bitter against Jenkins. His professional mind, always

ready to put the worst aspect upon anything, quick to suspect and slow

to relinquish an idea, was convinced of the gardener’s guilt. In his

zeal for the memory of his poor friend, he forgot that he might be

injuring an innocent man. He even went so far as to speak strongly to

Violet about her visit to the jury. Surely she should have been the

last to protect the murderer. He said something like this in the heat

of his temper, and regretted it afterwards. It was cruel, unjust, and

inconsiderate. Violet simply left the room and refused to see him.

Merton left the house in a rage, and resolved to spare nothing to

convict the miserable gardener. Now this quarrel produced certain

events—it set on foot another chain of circumstances. Violet was now

alone at The Place. Miss Merton could not stay longer. Before she went

she asked if she should send back the dog Dando, which Merton had taken

to Barnham. Violet, still bitter, in an unreasoning way, against the

dog, said no.

“Then,” said Miss Merton, “may I take him with me to Torquay?”

She had taken a fancy to the dog. Violet was quite willing—anything so

that he did not return to vex her with memories of the dead. Miss

Merton took him home, sorry for her friend, and yet glad to quit that

dismal house and neighbourhood.

Next day there came a note from Mr Merton, in which the writer, in a

formal way, expressed regret if he had uttered anything which had

annoyed her, and asked her to accompany Miss Merton to Torquay for

change of scene. Violet thanked him, but refused.

Aymer saw her every day. She did not give way to tears and fits of

excited sorrow, but a dull weakness seemed to have taken possession of

her. All the old spirit and joy had left her. She wandered about

listlessly, stunned, in fact. All the interest she took was in poor

Jenkins’ fate. Aymer, at her wish, went to Barnham, and engaged a

lawyer to defend him. This soon reached Merton’s ears, and annoyed him

exceedingly; though, to do him justice, he was at that very hour

striving to put Violet’s affairs into order.

Those affairs were—unknown to her—in a most critical state. The

deceased, as he had told Aymer, had three thousand pounds out at

interest, as he believed, upon good security, but which he thought of

calling in. This money had been advanced to a Mr Joseph Herring, a

large farmer at Belthrop, some ten miles from World’s End.

Mr Herring was a successful man and a good man; at all events he had no

worse failing than an inordinate love of foxhunting. He had a large

family, six sons and eight daughters, but there always seemed to be

plenty for them. They lived and dressed well, rode out to the Meet, and

one by one, as the sons grew older, they were placed in farms.

Foxhunting men, with the reputation of some means, can always find

favour in the eyes of landlords. If any one had been asked to point out

a fortunate family in that county, he would at once have placed his

finger upon the name of Herring.

The original home farm, where dwelt old Herring and his wife, four of

the daughters, and one son, who really managed it, was of good size,

fertile, and easily rented. The eldest son, Albert Herring, who was

married and had children, occupied a fine farm at no great distance;

and the two other sons had a smaller farm between them, and with them

lived the other four sisters. Of course it was understood that these

farms had been stocked partly with borrowed money; but that was a

common thing, and there was every indication that all the family were

prospering.

It was to this Joseph Herring that Mr Waldron had advanced three

thousand pounds, taking ample security, as was believed, upon stock,

and upon a small estate which belonged to Herring’s wife. Merton

recommended this Herring as a client of his, and conducted the

operation. Waldron had given Merton notice that he wished to withdraw

the money; but Merton, not thinking there was any hurry, had not

mentioned it to Joseph, when there came this awful catastrophe at

World’s End and drove the matter entirely out of his head. But his

attention was drawn back to it in an equally sudden manner. Old Joseph

Herring, the foxhunter, while out with the hounds, put his horse at a

double mound where there appeared to be a gap. This gap had been caused

by cutting down an elm tree, and he imagined that the trunk had been

removed.

The morning had been cold, and although the ground was not hard there

had been what is called a “duck’s frost” in places. The horse’s hoofs

slipped upon the level butt of the tree, which had been sawn off; the

animal fell heavily, and upon his side.

In all probability, even then he would not have been much injured—for

falls in the hunting-field are as common as blackberries—had it not

been for the trunk of the elm tree. His back, in some way, came against

and across the trunk with the weight of the horse upon him, and the

spine was broken. He was carried home upon a hurdle, still living, and

quite conscious.

A more terrible spectacle could not be conceived than this strong burly

man lying upon his bed, conscious, and speaking at times faintly,

without a visible wound, and yet with the certainty of death.

His sons and daughters gathered round him; all were at hand except the

eldest, Albert, and he was sent for. Joseph, who had seen too many

accidents not to know he was doomed, even if it had not been visible

upon the faces of his wife and children, betrayed the greatest

uneasiness. He kept asking for “Albert” and for “Merton.” Messenger

after messenger was despatched after both, and still they did not come.

Merton, when the messenger reached him, was in the Petty Sessional

Court at Barnham, watching the preliminary proceedings against poor

Jenkins, which happened to take place that day. He was much excited.

The lawyer whom Aymer had engaged to defend Jenkins was a professional

rival—a keen and clever man, and he had so worked up the case, and

suggested so many doubts and probabilities that the Bench of

magistrates hesitated to commit him.

It was in the thick of the fight that the messenger from the death-bed

arrived. Will it be believed, so great was the professional rivalry

between these men, and so determined was Merton to succeed in

committing poor Jenkins, that he paused, he hesitated, finally he

waited till the case was finished.

“After all,” he said to himself, “very likely the accident to Joseph is

much exaggerated—people always lose their heads at such times. At all

events his neck’s not broken, and he’s alive; the messenger doesn’t

know exactly where he’s hurt. There’s no particular hurry.”

But it so happened that there _was_ a particular cause for hurry. While

Merton persuaded himself that he was looking after the cause of his

murdered friend and revenging him, that friend’s dearest one—his

Violet—was fast losing her patrimony. Even when the second messenger

came with more exact intelligence, Merton thought—“Sometimes men lie

for days with broken backs, and what does he want me for? His will is

made; I’ve got it in my office, and a very just will it is. All his

affairs are arranged, I believe. It’s all fuss and fidget.”

However, he ordered his carriage to wait at the door of the Court, and

half an hour afterwards the Bench reappeared.

The Chairman said that although there was very little evidence against

the prisoner Jenkins, although his character had been proved excellent,

and although his solicitor had most ably conducted the defence, yet the

Bench felt that the crime was one too serious for them to think of

dismissing a suspected person. The prisoner would be committed for

trial at the Assizes, which fortunately for him came on that day

fortnight.

A smile of triumph lit up Merton’s face as he gathered up his papers.

The rival solicitor smiled too, and assured Aymer who was present to

tell Violet what happened, that the grand jury would be certain to

throw out the bill. There was not a tittle of evidence against the

prisoner.

With this assurance Aymer mounted and rode back to Violet. At the same

time Merton, telling his coachman not to distress the horses, drove

leisurely towards the death-bed, where he had been so anxiously

expected for hours.

The scene at that death-bed was extremely dreadful. The poor dying man

gradually became more and more restless and excited; nor could all the

efforts of Dr Parker, the persuasions of the clergyman, nor the tears

of his wife and children, keep him calm.

The thought of death—the idea of preparing for the hereafter never

seemed to occur to him. His one wish was to see “Albert” and “Merton;”

till feverish and his eye glittering with excitement, all that he could

ejaculate was those two names.

He remained for four hours quite conscious, and able to converse; then

suddenly there was a change, and he lost the power of answering

questions, though still faintly repeating those names. The scene was

very shocking.

“Why doesn’t Albert come?” said poor Mrs Herring. “He might have been

here two hours ago. If Merton would not, Albert, my son, might have

come.”

What do you suppose Albert was doing at that moment? It is incredible,

but it is true. He was in the field superintending the placing of two

new steam ploughing engines and their tackle, watching the trial of the

new engines, as they tore up the soil with the deep plough. They had

arrived that morning, just purchased; and had it not been for their

coming, he would have been in the hunting-field with his father when

the accident happened.

He could not, or would not, leave his engines. He busied about with

them—now riding himself upon the plough, now watching the drivers of

the engines, now causing experiments to be made with the scarifier. He

paid little attention to the first messenger. “Tell them I’ll be

there,” he said. Another and another messenger, still Albert remained

with his plough.

“He asks for me, does he?” he said. “I’ll be there directly.” Still he

made no haste. After quitting the engines he went out of his path to

visit a flock of fat sheep, and putting up a covey of partridges in the

stubble, stayed to mark them down.

At the house he calmly refreshed himself with cheese and ale. As he

mounted his horse another messenger came, this time with a note from Dr

Parker. Albert mounted with much bustle, and made off at a gallop. Two

miles on the way he pulled up to a walk, met his shepherd, and had a

talk with him about the ewes; then the farrier on his nag, and

described to him the lameness of a carthorse. All this time his father

lay dying. Strange and unaccountable indifference!

Merton reached Belthrop Farm first, and was too late. Joseph Herring

was dead. He had died without even so much as listening to the words of

the clergyman—yet he had to all appearance been a good, and even pious

man while in health. Why was he so strangely warped upon his death-bed?

“Oh! Albert—Albert, my son, my son! Why did you linger?” cried poor Mrs

Herring as he entered.

“Father?” said Albert, questioningly.

She shook her head.

“Ah!” said the son; and it sounded like a sigh of relief.

Let the grief for the dead be never so great, there quickly follows the

commonplace realities of money and affairs to be settled.

The dead man’s will was read by Merton. It was a fair and just will.

Next came the investigation into his effects, and then came the

revelation. Joseph Herring left no effects. This discovery fell upon

his wife, three of the sons, and all the daughters, like a thunderbolt.

They had always believed they should be left tolerably provided for.

But when all the debts were paid there would not be a ten-pound note.

They began to murmur, and to question, as well they might. What had

become of the three thousand pounds Herring had had of Waldron? They

did not know that their father had borrowed so much as that; they knew

there was a loan from Waldron, but never suspected the amount.

Merton, hard as it was, felt that he must draw that money in; and who

was to pay it? Why, there were no effects whatever. To pay the other

debts would take all the money that could be got, and part of the stock

must be sold even then.

But this three thousand pounds. To make that good all the stock, the

corn, the implements—everything would have to be sold; including Mrs

Herring’s little estate, and the small sums that had been advanced to

the two sons who lived on one farm must be withdrawn. It was complete

ruin—ruin without reserve.

They were literally stunned, and knew not which way to turn. They could

not understand, neither could Merton, what had become of the three

thousand pounds; there was not a scrap of paper to show. Joseph had

never been a good accountant—few farmers are; but one would have

thought that he would have preserved some record of such a sum. But

no—not a scrap.

Then, as said before, these children began to murmur, as well they

might. Then they began to understand, or guess dimly at the

extraordinary excitement of the dying man. It was this that weighed

upon his mind, and caused him to continually call for his eldest son

and for Merton, in order that he might make some provision.

There grew up a certain feeling against Albert. Why had he not come at

once—if he had done so, perhaps this might have been averted. A vague

distrust and suspicion of him arose. It was intensified by the

knowledge that he alone was safe. He had had a longer start and a

better farm; he had the reputation of having even saved a little money.

No injury could befall him. Yet they had not got the slightest evidence

against him in any way; but a coolness—a decided coolness arose between

the brothers and sisters, and Albert, which Albert, on his part, made

no effort to remove. Ill-natured people said he was only too glad to

quarrel with them, so as to have a pretext for refusing them

assistance.

It happened, however, that one day a strange gentleman called upon

Robert and John, the two brothers, who worked one farm together. He was

an agent of an agricultural implement manufactory in a distant county,

and his object was to induce them to purchase implements of

him—especially steam traction engines. The poor brothers smiled in a

melancholy way at the very idea. They buy engines—they should soon

scarcely be able to buy bread! The agent expressed his surprise.

“But your brother seems a wealthy man,” he said. “He paid for his

engines in cash.”

“In cash!” they cried. “He told us that he paid one-fifth only, and the

rest remained in bills.”

The agent saw he had got on delicate ground; but they pressed him, and

he could not very well escape. It then came out that Albert had paid

sixteen hundred pounds in hard cash for the engines, by which, as the

factory had been pressed for money, he got them at little more than

two-thirds of the value, which was considered to be two thousand three

hundred pounds.

The brothers were simply astounded. They went home and talked it over

with the fourth son, who managed the Belthrop Farm. They could not

understand how Albert came to have so much ready cash. At last the

conclusion forced itself upon them—the three thousand pounds borrowed

from Waldron must have been lent by their father to Albert. They

remembered that something had been said of an opening Albert had heard

of, to add another farm to his already large tenancy.

This was the secret—poor old Joseph, a bad accountant, had given the

money to Albert, and, never thinking of dying, had postponed drawing up

the proper deeds. Without a moment’s delay they proceeded in a body to

Albert’s residence. He received them in an off-hand manner—utterly

denied that he had had the money, challenged them to find the proof,

and finally threatened if they set such a tale about the county to

prosecute them for slander. This was too much.

It is wretched to chronicle these things; but they must be written.

High words were followed by blows; there was a fight between the eldest

and the next in succession, and both being strong men, they were much

knocked about. The other brothers, maddened with their loss, actually

cheered on their representative, and stripped to take his place as soon

as he should be fatigued. But at that moment poor old Mrs Joseph

Herring, who had feared this, arrived, driving up in a pony-carriage,

and sprang between the combatants. She received a severe blow, but she

separated them, and they parted with menacing gestures.

Once back at Belthrop, a kind of family council was held. Merton was

sent for, but nothing could be done. There was not a scrap of proof

that Albert had had the money. Mrs Joseph, went to him, reasoned with

him, entreated him. He turned a deaf ear to her remonstrances, and

cursed her to her face. The miserable woman returned to her despairing

younger children, and never recovered the terrible blow which the

selfish, and inhuman conduct of her eldest son had inflicted upon her.

Ruin stared them in the face. Waldron’s loan was due, and everything

was already advertised for sale.

Chapter Eight.

How suddenly the leaves go in the autumn! They linger on the trees till

we almost cheat ourselves into the belief that we shall escape the

inevitable winter; that for once the inexorable march of events will be

stayed, till some morning we wake up and look forth, and lo! a wind has

arisen, and the leaves are gone.

Absorbed in the one miserable topic—the one thought of Waldron’s

terrible fate—Violet and Aymer spent several weeks almost

unconsciously. When at last they, as it were, woke up and looked forth,

the actual tangible leaves upon the trees had disappeared, and, like

them, the green leaves of their lives had been shaken down and had

perished.

Even yet they had one consolation—they had themselves. The catastrophe

that had happened at the very eleventh hour, at the moment when their

affection and their hope was about to be realised, after all had only

drawn them closer together. She was more dependent upon him than ever.

There was no kind Jason to fly to now; the resources he could command

were gone for ever. Had Aymer been as selfish as he was unselfish, that

very fact would not have been without its pleasure. She could come to

him only now in trouble, and she did come to him.

It may be that all that happy summer which they had spent together,

strolling about, sketching under the beech and fir; all that happy

winter, with its music and song; all the merry spring, with its rides,

had not called forth such deep and abiding love between these two as

was brought into existence by these weeks of sorrow, the first frosts

of their year. They were constantly together; they were both orphans

now; they had nothing but themselves. It was natural that they should

grow all in all to each other.

There was one subject that was never alluded to between them, and that

was the interrupted marriage. It was too painful for Violet, too

delicate a subject for Aymer to mention. It was in both their minds,

yet neither spoke of it. They were, and they were not, married. In a

sense—in the sense of the publication of the banns; in the sense of the

public procession to the church, the sanction of friends, the presence

of the people—in this sense they were married. But the words “I will”

had never left Violet’s lips, however willing they were to utter the

phrase; and, above all, the ring had never been placed upon her finger.

Nor could that ring be found. They were half married.

It was a strange and exceptional case, perhaps unequalled. Morally,

Violet felt that she was his legally, Aymer feared that she was not

his. He feared it, because he knew that it would be impossible to

persuade Violet to undergo the ceremony a second time, till the memory

of that dreadful day had softened and somewhat faded. It might be

months, perhaps years. The disappointment to him was almost more than

he could bear. To be so near, to have the prize within his reach, and

then to be dashed aside with the merciless hand of fate.

It would not be well that the ancient belief in destiny should again

bear sway in our time; it is contrary to the thought of the period, and

yet hourly, daily, weekly, all our lives, we seem to move, and live,

and have our being amidst circumstances that march on and on, and are

utterly beyond our power to control or guide. “Circumstances beyond my

power to control” is a household phrase—we hear it at the hearth, on

the mart, in the council-chamber. And what _are_ circumstances? Why are

these apparently trivial things out of our power? Why do they

perpetually evolve other circumstances, till a chain forms itself—a

net, a web—as visible, and as tangible, as if it had been actually

woven by the three sisters of antique mythology.

The unseen, awful, inscrutable _necessity_ which, heedless alike of

gods and men, marches with irresistible tread through the wonderful

dramas of Sophocles, seems to have survived the twilight of the gods,

survived the age of miracles and supernatural events. Of all that the

ancients venerated and feared, necessity alone remains a factor in

modern life. What can our brightest flashes of intelligence, our

inventions, our steam engine and telegraph, effect when confronted with

those “circumstances over which we have no control?” It is our

nineteenth-century euphemism for the Fate of the ancient world.

It is not well that we should scrutinise too closely the state of poor

Aymer’s mind. His joy and elation before that terrible day were too

great not for the fall to be felt severely. The iron of it entered into

his soul. For one moment he almost hoped against hope.

The clergyman who had officiated at the interrupted bridal came daily

to see Violet, and his true piety, his quiet parental manner, soothed

and comforted her. He whispered to Aymer that it would be well if the

marriage ceremony were completed in private, as could be done by

special licence.

Aymer naturally grasped at the idea. He had still twenty pounds left of

the gift which had been sent to him anonymously. He was eager to spend

it upon the special licence, but he confessed that he dared not mention

it to Violet.

The vicar undertook that task, but failed completely. Violet begged him

to spare her—to desist; she could not—not yet.

After that day she was more and more tender and affectionate to Aymer,

as if to make up to him for his loss. She said that he must take

heart—they had no need to be unhappy. In a little while, but not

yet—not yet, while that fearful vision was still floating before her

eyes. But Aymer must be happy. They had sufficient. _He_ had left them

all he had. That was another reason why they should wait, in affection

for his memory. They could see each other daily—their future would be

together. And Aymer, miserable as he was, was forced to be content.

Merton had not been to The Place. Not one word had he said about the

difficulty in Herring’s affairs, and the loss of the three thousand

pounds. Violet was utterly ignorant that her fortune was gone. She

spoke very bitterly of Merton. “If he had loved poor papa,” she said,

“he would never have persecuted his faithful servant,” for nothing

could shake her belief in Jenkins’ innocence, and she did all she could

to comfort the poor gardener’s desolate wife.

Merton, on his part, did not care to approach her after the share he

had had in the commitment of Jenkins, and because he hesitated, he

dreaded to face her, and to tell her that her fortune, entrusted to his

hands, was gone. He blamed himself greatly, and yet he would not own

it. He ought to have hastened to Herring’s death-bed. Had that dying

man but left one written word, to say that Albert had had the money,

all would have been well.

In the fierce attempt to revenge his old friend, he had irreparably

injured that friend’s daughter, and he dreaded the inevitable

disclosure. He put it off till the last, hoping against hope, and doing

all that his lawyer’s ingenuity could suggest to recover some part of

the amount. In endeavouring to succeed in this, he pressed hard—very

hard—upon the Herring family. He pushed them sorely, and spared not. He

was bitterly exasperated against them. Unjustly, he openly accused them

of a plot to rob his client and dishonour him.

He abused the dead man as one who had repented too late upon his

death-bed. He would take everything—down to the smallest article.

Neither the persuasions of the sons, the tears of the daughters, nor

the silent despair of the widow could move him. Of all this Violet knew

nothing.

It happened that one evening not long after the lamp had been lit at

The Place, that there was heard a slight tapping or knocking at the

front door. Now, this door was close to the window where the terrible

deed had been committed. By this door the bride had stepped forth in

all her gay attire; by this door the corpse of her father had been

carried forth. Villagers, and all isolated people, are superstitious;

the beliefs of those days, when all people were more isolated than they

are now, linger amongst them. By common consent, this door was avoided

by day and night. A dread destiny seemed to hang over those who passed

beneath its portal. It had been kept locked since the funeral—no one

had used it.

Violet and Aymer, sitting in the breakfast-parlour—which was the most

comfortable room in the house—were reading, and looked up mutually at

the sound of those unwonted knocks. They listened. There was a pause;

and then the taps were repeated. They were so gentle, so muffled, that

they doubted the evidence of their ears—and yet surely it was a

knocking.

The servants in the kitchen heard the taps, and they cowered over the

fire and looked fearfully at each other.

One thing was certain—no person who knew The Place, no one from the

village, would come to that door. If it was any mortal man or woman, it

must be a stranger; and the last time a stranger had crossed the

“green,” all knew what had happened. If it was not a stranger, then it

must be the spirit of poor “master.” They were determined not to hear.

The taps were repeated. Violet and Aymer looked at each other.

Something very like a moan penetrated into the apartment. Aymer

immediately rose and went to the front door. He asked if any one was

without; there was no answer. He opened the door; the bitter wind,

bearing with it flakes of snow, drove into his face. For a moment, in

the darkness, he could distinguish nothing; the next, brave as he was,

he recoiled; for there lay what looked like a body at his feet.

Overcoming his dread he stooped and touched—a woman’s dress. He lifted

her up—the form was heavy and inanimate in his hands.

“Violet, dear!” he said, “it is a woman—she has fainted; may I bring

her in?”

Violet’s sympathies were at once on the alert. The woman was carried in

and laid upon the rug before the fire, the servant came crowding in to

render assistance brandy was brought, and the stranger opened her eyes

and moaned faintly. Then they saw that, although stained with travel

and damp from exposure to the drifting snow her dress was that of a

lady.

Under the influence of the warm fire and the brandy she soon recovered

sufficiently to sit up. She was not handsome nor young her best

features were a broad, intellectual looking forehead, and fine dark

eyes. So soon as ever she was strong enough to speak she turned to

Violet, and begged to be alone with her for a little while.

Aymer, with all a lover’s suspicions, demurred, but Violet insisted,

and he had to be content with remaining within easy call.

He had no sooner left the room than the lady, for such she appeared to

be, fell upon her knees at Violet’s feet, and begged her for the sake

of her father’s memory to show mercy.

“Oh! spare us,” cried the unhappy creature, bursting into tears, and

wringing her hands, “spare us—we are penniless. Indeed we did not do it

purposely. We never knew—I am Esther Herring!”

It was long before Violet could gather her meaning from these

incoherent sentences. At last, under her kind words and gentle

questions, Esther became calmer and explained the miserable state of

affairs. Violet sighed deeply. In one moment her hopes were dashed to

the ground: her money was gone; how could she and Aymer—

But she bore up bravely, and listened patiently to Esther’s story. How

the widow’s heart was breaking, how the sons were despairing, and the

daughters looking forward to begging their bread. How the sale

approached—only five days more; and that thinking, and thinking day and

night over the misery of it, Esther had at last fled to Violet for

mercy—to Violet, who was ignorant of the whole matter. Fled on foot—for

all their horses were seized—on that wild winter afternoon, facing the

bitter wind, the snow, and the steep hills for ten long miles to

World’s End. Fled to fling herself at Violet’s feet, and beg for mercy

upon the widow and the fatherless children. The fatigue and her

excitement had proved too much, and she had fainted at the very door.

Esther dwelt much upon Mr Merton’s cruelty, for his insults had out her

to the quick.

Violet became very pale. She went to the door and called softly,

“Aymer.” He came, and Esther attempted to dry her tears. Violet told

him all, and took his hand.

“This cannot be,” she said; “this surely must not be. I will do—we will

do—as of a surety my father would have done. The innocent shall not

suffer for the guilty. We, Aymer and I, will give up our claim. Tell

them at your home to be comforted and to fear not.”

Esther saw that her mission was accomplished, and the reaction set in.

She became ill and feverish. Violet had her taken upstairs and waited

upon her. Aymer was left alone. He walked to the window, opened the

shutters, and looked forth. The scud flew over the sky, and the wan

moon was now hidden, and now shone forth with a pale feeble light. The

heart within him was very bitter. He did not repent the renunciation

which he had confirmed; he felt that it was right and just. But it was

a terrible blow. It cut away the very ground from beneath his feet.

The poor fellow—he was poor Aymer again now—looked forward to the

future. What could he do? The talents he possessed were useless, or

nearly useless, in a pecuniary sense. Unable to earn sufficient to

support himself, how could he marry Violet? The thought was maddening.

To continue in the old, old life at Wick Farm without a prospect was

impossible. To wander a beggar from door to door would be preferable.

When he found that Violet could not leave Esther, he walked home to

Wick Farm; over the wild and open Downs, and his heart went up in a

great and bitter cry.

The blow that had struck down poor Waldron had struck him down also. It

is ever thus with evil. The circle widens, and no man knows where it

will end. Yet he did not falter.

Next day Violet wrote a curt letter to Mr Merton, requesting him to

forbear proceedings, and upbraiding him for his cruelty. She desired

that he would relinquish the charge of her affairs.

Merton, had he so chosen, might have made a difficulty about this—under

the will of Waldron—but he did not. He was, to say truth, glad of a

pretext to wash his hands of a matter in which he had figured so ill.

Violet sent for the same solicitor who had defended Jenkins, Mr

Broughton, and desired him to see that proceedings were stayed. The

Herrings were saved. Esther was sent home in the pony-carriage with the

good tidings. Other debts, unsuspected before, ate up most of the

effects of Joseph Herring. The widow’s little property had to be sold

to meet them. With the trifle that was left they removed to the farm

where the two brothers worked together, and by dint of careful

management escaped starvation. Neither were they unhappy, for

misfortune and a common injury bound them closer together—all but the

widow, who never overcame the duplicity of her eldest son.

Their conduct towards Violet appears extremely selfish, but it must be

remembered that Waldron had borne the reputation of being a rich man.

They never dreamt that they had taken Violet’s all. But so it was. The

dear, dear ponies had to be sold, the servants dismissed; Violet could

not keep the house on, and in that isolated position it was difficult

to let it, even at a nominal rent.

Her friends in London made no sign. She had been a favoured guest while

Waldron lived and was reputed wealthy. Now they had lost sight of her.

To Aymer all this was as gall and wormwood. It was a comment upon his

own weakness, and impotency to aid the only one he loved. He wrote, he

sketched; but now with the strange inconsistency of fortune these works

were returned, as “not up to the standard required.” Perhaps his

misfortunes affected his skilfulness. He knew not which way to turn. At

home—if Wick Farm could be called home—the old state of things began to

gradually return. The old covert sneers and hints at his uselessness

crept again into the daily conversation. Martin, like Hercules—

Rude, unrefined in speech.

Judging all wisdom by its last results,

looked upon him as a failure, and treated him accordingly. To do the

young men justice, those who had formerly taunted him now never lost an

opportunity of expressing their regret. Poor Aymer felt this worse than

their sneers and gibes. He had the fault of pride, and yet he

depreciated himself habitually. He was punished severely for his brief

period of elation. What hurt him most was his helplessness to aid

Violet. And Violet, noble girl! was calm, resigned, fearless in her

trust—strong in her love of Aymer.

But the inevitable approached—“the circumstances over which we have no

control.” The day was coming when she must go, and go—whither?

Chapter Nine.

Down to one firm faith in this day of scepticism and cynicism. It may

be a despicable weakness—that cannot be helped—but nothing will ever

overthrow it. My faith is firm in the good which is possible in woman.

There is much vice, much evil, much folly; but, after all, these faults

are chiefly caused by weakness, therefore they are more or less

excusable. It is difficult for women to do good—so many and so complex

are the restraints which surround them as in a net—yet they do it. Were

I in sorrow, in trouble, or in fear, to them I should go, as

hundreds—ay, countless numbers—have previously gone, certain of

assistance if assistance were possible, and of compassion and sympathy,

even if my crimes were too evil to speak of.

There was heard one afternoon at The Place the roll of

carriage-wheels—a sound that had not been heard since the fatal bridal

day. It was a damp, cold day, and Violet had been unable to go out. A

fog hung over the fields, creeping slowly along the fallows, clinging

in shapeless clouds upon the hill tops. There was no rain, but the bare

hedges were dripping large drops of water condensed from the mist, and

the dead leaves upon the ground were soddened with damp. On such days

as these, when she could not walk out and dispel her gloom by exercise,

Violet naturally felt the loss of poor Jason the more.

Aymer could not be always with her. Although their intercourse was

little, if at all, fettered by the etiquette which would have barred it

in more civilised neighbourhoods, yet he could not be always at The

Place, and of late he had been working hard at sketches and literary

matters, which occupied time and kept him from her side.

She was very lonely, longing for the evening, when he would be certain

to come. The roll of these carriage-wheels was therefore an event.

Looking from the window upstairs—that very window whence, in all the

splendour of her beauty and her wedding-dress, she had timidly glanced

forth to watch the approach of the greys—she saw a stylish brougham

rapidly nearing the house, and as it came nearer recognised the horses,

and knew it was Lady Lechester’s.

Agnes, not waiting for the footman to announce her visit, sprang out,

and walked at once to the front door. Once more there came a tapping at

that dread portal.

Conquering her fluttering heart, Violet, in a maze of bewilderment,

opened it herself. Agnes held out her hand, and kissed her twice upon

the cheek and forehead.

“Forgive me!” she said. “Forgive me for coming so soon after—. But I

wanted to see you; I had much to say to you.”

Violet began to thank her in a confused way for the pearl necklace.

Agnes stopped her; it was not that—it was about Violet herself that she

had come to talk. Even in her surprise and confusion, Violet could not

help thinking that Agnes was very beautiful. It was a species of beauty

that was precisely the opposite of Violet’s. Both gained by the

contrast of the other’s style.

Agnes Lechester was at least thirty—she might have been a year or two

older—and there hovered over her countenance an indefinable air of

melancholy, as if the memory of a past sorrow was for ever before her

mind. There was not a wrinkle, not a groove upon her pale brow, but the

impress of pain was none the less unmistakable upon her features. Her

hair was very dark, as near as possible to the raven’s hue, so often

spoken of, so rarely seen. Her eyes were large and grey, deep-set under

delicate eyebrows, well-marked, and slightly arching. Her forehead high

and intellectual. The features, the nose and mouth, were small and

well-made, the ears especially delicate. High blood and long descent

spoke out clearly in her every aspect, down even to the quiet subdued

manner—the exquisite tact, and consideration for others, which

distinguished her in conversation and in daily life.

She was about the same height as Violet, but appeared taller, being

more slightly made. She wore a simple black-silk, extremely plain, and

one mourning-ring—no other jewellery.

Violet, whose position was not a little embarrassing, found herself in

a few moments entirely at her ease, and conversing as with an old

friend. Agnes did not in a direct manner recall the terrible past, but

she had a way of asking what may be called sympathising questions,

which quickly drew forth Violet’s confidence.

For the first time she found a sister to whom she could express her

feelings unrestrainedly; and even that brief hour of companionship did

her much good. Not till all trace of distant formality had been

removed, not till there had been a certain degree of familiarity

established between them, did Agnes allude to the real object of her

visit. She had come to ask Violet as a favour—so she put it—to spend a

little time with her. The Towers were so very, very lonely—she said

this in a tone that was evidently sincere—she had so few visitors,

practically none, and she should be so glad if Violet would come.

Violet saw in an instant that it was really out of kindness to her that

the invitation was given; she wished to accept it, and yet hesitated.

Agnes pressed her. Then she remembered Aymer—what would he say? If she

went, he would be alone—he would not see her, and she would not see

him. Thinking of him, a slight blush rose to her cheek. Perhaps Agnes

guessed what was passing in her mind, for she said—

“Mr Malet will, of course, come and see us—often. You must ask his

permission, you know. I will come again to-morrow and fetch you in the

brougham.”

So it was practically settled, and Agnes, after a warm farewell,

departed. Violet waited for Aymer, almost fearing he would upbraid her;

but then the separation would only be for a little time. A little time!

When Agnes Lechester came to ask her to The Towers, she came with a

full knowledge of Violet’s position—of her monetary loss, and of the

noble self-sacrifice she had made.

It chanced—“circumstances over which we have no control” again—that Mr

Broughton, to whom Violet had transferred her affairs, had succeeded to

the business of an uncle, an elder Mr Broughton, who was almost the

hereditary solicitor of the Lechester family. The position was one of

great emolument, and gave some social precedence; hence, perhaps, part

of the jealousy exhibited towards him by Mr Merton—an older man, and

not so fortunate. From him Agnes learnt the whole of the details. The

frightful catastrophe—the mystery of the murder of poor Waldron—had

greatly impressed her, and the sad circumstances of the interrupted

bridal trebled the interest she had taken in Violet and Aymer. She had

instructed Broughton to inform her of everything, and especially of how

matters stood with Violet now her father was no more. As he had now the

charge of Violet’s affairs, it was easy for him to do this; and being a

comparatively young man, and with a heart not yet quite dead to

feeling, he was himself much interested in the woman who could so

willingly give up the last fragment of her fortune.

Agnes Lechester was deeply impressed by Violet’s generosity and

abrogation of self—she felt the warmest sympathy and desire to assist

her—she really was anxious to make her acquaintance, and the result was

her visit to The Place. Ostensibly the invitation was for a little time

only; but Agnes knew that the house, which alone was left to Violet,

could not support her, and intended to prolong the invitation

indefinitely. She really was lonely, and really did look forward to a

companion in whom she could trust.

Aymer was overjoyed when he heard what had happened, and insisted upon

Violet accepting the invitation. Violet’s isolation, and the daily

increasing awkwardness of her position, troubled him greatly. He knew

not what to do for her. Here was a resource—a haven of safety for a

while at least. Never mind about himself—doubtless he could see her

sometimes; so long as she was safe and comfortable he should be happy,

much happier even than in their present unrestricted intercourse—though

this was said with a sigh.