DID YOU KILL SIR GEOFFREY KYNASTON?
At the extremity of the plantation they came to a small wicket-gate
opening out on to the cliff top. From here there was a path inland to
the Court, whilst Falcon's Nest was straight in front of them. At the
parting of the ways they hesitated, for it seemed necessary that they
should part.
And whilst they looked around a little dazzled, having just emerged from
the darkness of the plantation, they were conscious of a new glory in
the heavens. Far away across the moorland the autumn sun had shot its
last rays over the level plain and sea, and had sunk quietly to rest. It
was not one of Turner's wild sunsets. There were no banks of angry
clouds full of lurid coloring, flashing their glory all over the western
sky. But in a different fashion it was equally beautiful. Long level
streaks of transparent light, emerging from an ethereal green to a deep
orange, lay stretched across the heavens, and a faint golden haze rising
from the land seemed to mingle with them, and form one harmonious mass
of coloring. And the air too was different--purer and rarer than the
enervating atmosphere of the drowsy afternoon. Together they stood and
became subject to the subtle charm of their environment. It seemed to
Helen Thurwell then that a change was creeping into her life. Impersonal
thought had attained a new strength and a new sweetness. But at that
time she had no knowledge of what it meant.
"See!" he exclaimed softly, pointly westward, "there is what Coleridge
made dear to us for ever, and Byron vainly scoffed at--the 'green light
that lingers in the west.'"
He repeated the stanza absently, and half to himself, with a sudden
oblivion of her presence--
"It were a vain endeavor,
Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west.
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life whose fountains are within."
She watched him as his voice sank lower and lower, and though his eyes
were dry and bright, she saw a look of intense sadness sweep across his
face. Almost she felt inclined to let her natural sympathy escape
her--to let loose the kind and tender words which had leapt up from her
heart, and even trembled upon her lips. But a rush of consciousness
came, and she choked them back. Thus much she could do, but no more. She
could not at that moment look upon him as the man already suspected in
many quarters of a most brutal murder. For the instant, all was blotted
out. Had she tried she could not at that moment have revived her own
suspicions. They seemed to her like some grotesque fungi of the
mind--poisonous weeds to be crushed and destroyed. But the seed was
there.
"Those are the saddest lines I ever read," she said quietly. "It is a
true ode to dejection."
"And therefore they are very precious," he answered. "It is always sweet
to find your own emotions so exquisitely expressed. It is like a
spiritual narcotic."
"And yet--yet such poems encourage sadness, and that is morbid."
He shook his head.
"To be sad is not necessarily to be unhappy," he answered. "That sounds
like a paradox, but it isn't! You remember the 'gentle melancholy' which
Milton loved. There is something sweet in that, is there not?"
"But it is not like that with you," she said quickly.
He threw his arms up into the air with a sudden wild gesture of absolute
despair. She had touched a chord in his nature too roughly, and it had
not stood the strain. For a moment he had thrown off his mask. His white
face was ghastly, and his eyes were burning with a hopeless passion.
"My God! No!" he cried. "I am in the depths of hell, with never a gleam
of hope to lead me on. And the sin--the sin----"
He stopped suddenly, and his hands fell to his side. Slowly he turned
round and looked at her, half doubtfully, half fearfully. What had he
said? What had she heard? What did that look in her face mean--that look
of anguish, of fear, of horror? Why did she not speak, even though it
were to accuse him? Anything rather than that awful silence.
Twice she moved her white lips, but no sound came. The power of
articulation seemed gone. Then she caught him by the arm, and turned him
slowly round so that he faced his cottage. Only a few yards below them
was the spot where she and her sister-in-law that was to have been had
lolled in their low chairs by the luncheon-table, and had begun to feel
impatient for the coming of one who had never come. Further away still,
across the moor, was that dark circular patch of plantation behind which
Sir Geoffrey Kynaston had been found, and away upon the cliffs
overlooking the scene of the murder was Falcon's Nest.
The grasp on his arm tightened. Then she stretched out her other hand,
and with shaking fingers pointed downwards--pointed to the very spot
where the deed had been done. The memory of it all came back to her, and
hardened her set white face. She looked him straight in the eyes without
a quiver, and clenched her teeth.
"Did you--do that?" she asked in a firm, hard tone.
A curious mind slumber seemed to have crept over him. His eyes followed
her outstretched hand, and his lips idly repeated her words.
"Did you kill Sir Geoffrey Kynaston?"
Her words fell sharp and clear upon the still air. A tremor passed
through his whole frame, and the light of a sudden understanding flashed
across his face. He was his old self again, and more than his old self.
"You are joking, of course, Miss Thurwell?" he said quietly. "You do not
mean that seriously?"
She caught her breath, and looked at him. After all, it is only a step
from tragedy to commonplace. He was deathly pale, but calm and composed.
He had conquered himself just in time. Another moment, and she felt
assured that she would have known all. Never mind! it should come, she
told herself. The end was not yet.
"No; of course I did not mean it seriously," she repeated slowly. "Who
are those men coming up the hill? Can you see?"
He moved a little nearer to her, and looked downward. On the slope of
the hill were three men. She had recognized them already, and she
watched him steadily.
"Your father is one," he said quietly. "The other two are strangers to
me."
"Perhaps I can tell you something about them," she said, still watching
him intently. "One is the constable from Mallory, and the other is a
detective."
There was a slight hardening of his face, and she fancied that she saw
his under lip quiver for a moment. Had he shown any guilty fear, had he
shrunk back, or uttered a single moan, her sympathy would never have
been aroused. But as it was, she was a woman, and her face softened,
and the tears stood in her eyes. There was something almost grand
in the composure with which he was waiting for what seemed
inevitable--something of the magnificent resignation with which the
noblemen of France one by one took their place at the block, and the
simile was heightened by the slightly contemptuous, slightly defiant
poise of his finely shaped head. She saw him cast one lingering glance
around at the still sea, with its far-off motionless sails; at the clear
sky, from which the brilliancy of coloring was fading away, and at the
long sweep of moorland with its brilliant patches of heather and gorse,
now slightly blurred by the mists rising from the earth. It was as
though he were saying a last farewell to things which he had loved, and
which he would see no more--and it had a strange effect upon her. The
memory of that hideous crime left her. She could think only of the
abstract pathos of the present situation, and she felt very miserable.
It was wrong, unnatural of her; but at that moment, if she could have
helped him to escape, she would have done her best in the face of them
all.
They were almost at hand now, and she lifted her eyes, in which the
tears were fast gathering. She thought nothing of her own situation--of
their finding her alone with the murderer. With characteristic
unselfishness she thought only of him.
She met her father's surprised gaze with indifference. She had a sort of
feeling that nothing mattered much. What was going to happen eclipsed
everything else.
And so it did. Her apathy changed in a moment to amazement, and her
heart stood still. Her father had raised his hat to Mr. Brown with even
more than the usual courtesy of his salute, and the two officials had
saluted in the most correct fashion.
"Mr. Brown," he said, "we have all come in search of you to tender our
most sincere apologies for an unfortunate mistake. Police Constable
Chopping here is mostly to blame, and next to him, I am."
She glanced at the man by her side. His face was absolutely
impenetrable. It showed no signs of the relief which was creeping into
hers. His composure was simply wonderful.
"The fact is," her father continued, "Chopping came to see me with a
long tale and a certain request which, under the circumstances--which I
will explain to you afterwards--I could not as a magistrate refuse. I
was compelled to sign a search warrant for him to go over Falcon's Nest.
It was against my inclination, and a most unpleasant duty for me to
perform. But I considered it my duty, and I attended there myself in
order that it might not be abused. I hope to have your forgiveness for
the liberty which we were compelled to take."
There was still no change in Mr. Brown's face, but, standing close to
him, she heard him take a quick deep breath. Curiously enough, it was a
relief to her to hear it. Such great self-restraint was almost
unnatural.
"You only did your duty, Mr. Thurwell," he answered quietly. "You owe me
no apology."
"I am very glad that you see it in that light," Mr. Thurwell said, "very
glad indeed. But I have a further confession to make."
He drew Mr. Brown a little on one side, out of hearing of the others,
but nearer to her than any of them, and commenced talking earnestly to
him. This time she could tell that he was disturbed and uneasy, but she
could not follow connectedly all her father said. Only a few stray words
reached her.
"Very sorry indeed.... Quite accidental.... Will preserve ...
discovery."
"Then I may rely upon you to keep this absolutely to yourself?" she
heard Mr. Brown say earnestly.
"I give you my word, sir!" her father answered. Then they turned round,
and she saw that Mr. Brown looked distinctly annoyed.
"However did you come here, Helen?" her father asked, suddenly
remembering her presence.
"I came for a walk, and met Mr. Brown in the plantation," she explained.
"Well, since you are here," he remarked good humoredly, "you must help
me to induce Mr. Brown to come back to the Court. So far, we have been
wretched neighbors. We shall insist upon his dining with us, just to
show that there's no ill-feeling," he added, smiling. "Now, no excuses."
"Thank you, but I never go out," Mr. Brown answered. "I have not even
any clothes here. So----"
"Please come, Mr. Brown," she said softly.
He flashed a sudden glance at her from his dark eyes, which brought the
color streaming into her cheeks. Fortunately, twilight was commencing to
fall, and she was standing a little back in the shadow of the
plantation.
"If Miss Thurwell wishes it," he said, in a tone of a man who offers
himself to lead a forlorn hope, "it is settled. I will come."