THE WAGES OF SIN.
It was a dark night when Henderson slunk home after his accursed deed;
dark and late, yet his mother was waiting up for him and anxiously
listening for his return. She heard him turn the latch-key in the door,
and went out into the hall to meet him.
"You are late, Tom," she said.
He started violently when he saw her.
"You up!" he said, hoarsely.
"Yes, I waited to say good-night. Why, Tom," she added the next minute,
lifting her lighted candle higher, "whatever is the matter with your
coat? Where did you get that stain?"
A shudder ran through his strong stalwart frame as she asked the
question, and his guilty eyes fell on the red stain on his coat sleeve.
"I stumbled and fell; it is nothing," he said, yet more hoarsely;
"good-night, mother," and without another word he turned and hurried
up the unlighted staircase, leaving his mother looking after him in
absolute astonishment.
He always smoked before he went to bed, and usually he drank some
whisky, and therefore she could not account for his conduct. She grew
anxious about him, and after she had retired to her own bedroom she
thought she would go quietly to his room-door and see after him. As
she approached it she thought she felt a faint smell of burning. She
was afraid to go into his room, for he was spoilt and wayward and did
not care to be interfered with, so she knelt quietly down and peered
through the key-hole.
A strange sight met her startled gaze. Her son was standing by the
fireplace, without his shirt on, and he was burning it by degrees
in the grate! She saw him cut out one sleeve and then the other and
burn them, adding matches to the flaming linen to make it consume
more quickly. The coat that he had worn during the evening--a light
cloth summer one--was lying on a chair near. Presently he took this
up, and shuddered as he did so. Then he cut off the lower part of one
sleeve--and consigned this also to the flames. He watched it burn, and
then rolled up the coat, and put it into the drawer of his wardrobe and
locked the drawer. After this, he put on a dressing-gown and approached
the door of the room from which his mother had scarcely time to fly,
when he opened it and came out on the landing with a lighted candle in
his hand.
Mrs. Henderson had hurried unseen into an empty room next door, and she
now watched her son descend the staircase, and could see that he was
ghastly pale, his whole appearance denoting great agitation. A great
terror crept over the poor woman's heart, and a nameless dread took
possession of her mind. She dare not follow him, but stood hidden in
the shadow, and in a few minutes she heard him returning up the stairs.
This time he was carrying a bottle of whisky and a glass, and Mrs.
Henderson saw his hands were trembling as he did so.
He entered his bedroom and at once began drinking the whisky. He drank
glass after glass, though he was by no means in the habit of doing so,
and at last flung himself, half-undressed, stupefied, on the bed, and
speedily fell into a heavy slumber.
But Mrs. Henderson herself could not sleep for thinking of him.
Something had happened, at all events, greatly to disturb him, and Mrs.
Henderson felt ill at ease.
The next morning he did not come down to breakfast at the usual time,
and finally his mother went up to his room-door and rapped.
"It's late, Tom; are you not well?" she called.
"I've a beastly headache. I'll be down directly," he answered, and when
he did appear Mrs. Henderson was quite shocked at his appearance. He
looked ill, haggard, and nervous, and ate nothing, drinking his tea, in
sullen silence.
All the rest of the morning it was the same thing. He did not go
out, but seemed in a state of restless excitement that he could not
suppress. Then about twelve o'clock a rumor reached Stourton Grange
that a murder had been committed in Fern Dene. The gardener heard it
outside and hurried into the kitchen to tell his news. It was not
known at first who it was. A woman's body had been found in the Dene,
that was all, and when Mrs. Henderson went into her larder to inspect
its contents and order the dinner, her cook followed her and told her
mistress what she had heard.
Mrs. Henderson turned actually faint as she listened. Tom's strange
conduct instantly recurred to her mind. But no, what folly, she
told herself the next minute. But, nevertheless, she went into the
breakfast-room where Tom was sitting pretending to read the newspapers,
with trembling footsteps.
"Tom," she said, "they say something dreadful has happened in Fern
Dene--"
She was looking at her son's face as she spoke, and the ghastly pallor
that at once spread over it filled her own heart with terror.
"What has happened?" he asked, hoarsely.
"They--say a murder," answered Mrs. Henderson in a faltering voice.
"A murder! What folly!" repeated Tom, and he rose hastily and flung the
newspaper on the floor as he did so. His whole manner indicated extreme
agitation, and his mother grew pale as she watched him.
"What cock-and-bull story have you got hold of now, I wonder?" he went
on harshly, a few moments later.
"They say a woman's body has been found in the Dene," answered Mrs.
Henderson, slowly, and Tom Henderson visibly started as she spoke.
"I don't believe it," he said, abruptly, and a moment later he hastily
left the room, leaving his mother greatly agitated.
Henderson had not left the house the whole morning, but after pacing up
and down his own bedroom for some minutes an extreme restlessness came
over him, and he went toward the stables, and in the stable yard he
found Jack Reid, the groom, rubbing down a horse.
The man did not look around as his master approached him, but went on
with his task, while Henderson stood a moment or two looking on without
speaking.
"Billy looks very fresh this morning," he said, presently, with
affected carelessness, and the groom, still without looking around,
only nodded his head in answer to his master's remark.
Henderson moved uneasily, and then, after another pause and in an
uneven voice, he said:
"What's this story, Jack, my mother's been telling me about some woman
or other being found in Fern Dene?"
Then Jack did look around, and Henderson's eyes shifted and fell as he
did so.
"It's Miss Wray," he said, in a sullen tone; "she's been found dead in
the Dene."
"Miss Wray! Dead!--impossible!" exclaimed Henderson.
"It's true enough, though," answered Jack, roughly.
"How do you know? Who found her?" queried Henderson.
"Miss Churchill, from Woodside Farm, they say, and she ran and met the
young squire from the Hall. Anyhow, she's dead--she's been shot, and
they say an inquest will be held on her to-morrow."
Henderson turned absolutely livid as he listened to Jack's information.
He took two or three hasty strides down the stable yard, and then he
once more returned to the groom's side.
"Jack," he began, and then hesitated.
"Well," asked Jack, not over-respectfully.
"You remember," went on Henderson, forcing himself to speak, "taking a
note to her from me?"
Jack laconically nodded his head.
"That note," went on Henderson, desperately, "was to ask her to meet me
in Fern Dene, but I changed my mind and did not go. She had got some
folly into her head about marrying me, and so I thought afterward it
was better not to go. But she may have gone--do you see, Jack? Yes, to
be sure she may have gone," continued Henderson, wiping his dark brow.
"And, Jack, about that note? Did anyone see you give it to her?" he
went on.
"Yes, there were some fellows sitting at the bar saw me," answered
Jack, coolly.
"That's a pity--but it can't be helped," said Henderson, in increasing
agitation. "But--did anyone hear the answer she sent me?"
"Yes, she walked straight back into the bar with your letter in her
hand after she had read it, and her eyes were just blazing in her head.
'Tell him I will be there,' she said, and the fellows heard it as well
as me."
Again Henderson wiped his brow.
"She may have gone--I can't say anything about it, you know. I never
went near, but that note may get me into some trouble. Jack, I'll make
it worth your while to hold your tongue--to say nothing about the note,
as only you knew it was from me."
"I knew," answered Jack, doggedly.
"Yes, of course you knew, but you must not mention this to anyone. I'll
give you as much as five pounds--"
"Ten would suit me better."
"Well, I'll make it ten, then. If anyone asks who gave you the note,
say a stranger you met on the road gave you a shilling to deliver it to
Miss Wray. Do you understand? Put it on a stranger, and you shall have
ten pounds, for I do not wish to be mixed up in this matter at all."
"I can well understand that."
"You see, Jack, she may have gone to meet me, and when she found I was
not there she may have shot herself. She is shot, you say?"
"Yes, dead as a herring."
"It's a shocking affair; really a shocking affair," continued
Henderson, hastily; "poor girl!"
"Ay, poor lass!"
"It might have happened so--in her disappointment, you know, she may
have shot herself, that is if she had anything to shoot herself with?"
"They say her father's revolver was lying nigh her."
"Then I fear it has happened so. Don't you think so, Jack? How lucky
for me that I did not go near."
"Quite a close shave."
"Yes, quite a close shave indeed. Well, Jack, now we've arranged it,
I'll go into the house and get you the ten pounds--but remember you
were to say a stranger--that a stranger gave you the note."
Jack nodded and Henderson hastily returned to the house, and speedily
reappeared with two crisp five-pound bank notes in his pocket, which
he soon placed in Jack's horny hand, who at once deposited them in
his corduroys. But when they were safely there, he looked up with his
shrewd brown eyes in his master's face.
"About that note," he said. "Maybe the poor lass left it behind her,
and it was in yer writing."
Henderson's face fell.
"The devil it was!" he muttered.
"And maybe she's other letters, put by that ye wrote? I've taken other
letters, perhaps, signed by yer name. No, master, the story about the
stranger giving it to me won't wash. It would only make me out a big
liar, and not help ye. You'll ha' to face the letters, and stick to the
story that you did not go to meet the poor lass when she met her death."
"Of course, I did not go. After I wrote the letter, I got afraid to
meet her," said Henderson, in great agitation.
"Stick to that; ye got afraid to go, and the poor lass must ha' shot
herself because ye broke yer word; ye may make them believe that, not
the other, for lots o' folks knew what was between ye and poor Elsie."
Henderson's teeth almost chattered in his head.
"You think so?" he said, tremblingly.
"I'm sure; Alice the barmaid knew and others. Stick to the story that
ye did not go."
Jack's manner as he said this was very determined, and Henderson begun
to see the prudence of his advice.
"Perhaps you are right," he said, after thinking a moment or two. "The
letter I sent yesterday was not signed in full--only my initials--but
I have sent letters signed in full, and she may have kept them. It's a
confounded business altogether, and I wish I had never seen her."
"It's too late to wish that," replied Jack, significantly; and then he
resumed grooming the horse, while with a moody brow and an uneasy heart
Henderson returned to the house, feeling that he would be almost sure
to be called to account for the letter he had written the day before to
poor Elsie Wray.
And he was. The afternoon had not passed when a police-constable
arrived at Stourton Grange and asked to see Mr. Henderson. With a
sinking heart he went to this interview, and the policeman informed
him that he was the bearer of a summons for him to be present at the
inquiry to be held on the death of Elsie Wray during the following
morning.
"And I've one for your groom, Jack Reid, Mr. Henderson," continued the
policeman, with his eyes fixed searchingly on Henderson's changing
face; "he delivered a letter it seems to Miss Wray on the day of her
death."
"Yes," faltered Henderson; "but I did not go near."
"You must reserve your evidence until you are before the coroner, and
you had better give it carefully," and with these warning words the
policeman took his departure, leaving Henderson a prey to the most
morbid dread.
And scarcely had the constable gone when Mrs. Henderson crept into the
room with an almost colorless face.
"Tom," she said, in trembling accents, "what has that man been here
for?"
"I've to attend the inquest on that girl found in Fern Dene to-morrow
morning," answered Henderson, huskily, turning away his head.
"They say it's the girl from the Wayside Inn. Oh, Tom, did you go and
meet her?" asked Mrs. Henderson, piteously.
"I never went near her; but, mother, a confounded thing has happened.
I was ass enough to write to her to ask her to meet me; I wanted to
buy her off, in fact. When I was almost a boy I got entangled with
her, and she was always urging some claims or other that she thought
she had against me, and I wanted to pay her a big sum and be done
with it. Well, I asked her to meet me last night, but I did not go.
I went out for a short time, as you remember, and then I turned back
and came home. If you are questioned you must say I was home early, or
never out. Do you understand? They will want to throw suspicion on me
on account of the confounded letter I wrote. The girl must have gone,
I suppose, and shot herself because I did not go, for her father's
revolver was lying beside her."
Mrs. Henderson had turned absolutely white during this garbled
narrative. From this hour she never doubted her son's guilt. She looked
at him with terror-stricken eyes, but no word came from her trembling
lips.
"You must say I was home early; only out a few minutes," repeated
Henderson, doggedly, and almost with a gasp Mrs. Henderson whispered
out a few words.
"You were--at home early," she said.
"That's it; you mayn't be asked, but that's your answer, and now I'll
go out for a walk, for I've a disgusting headache still."
He turned and went out of the room as he spoke, and Mrs. Henderson
leaned against the table for support.
"Oh! my unhappy boy," she murmured with her white lips; "my miserable
boy!"
In a few minutes she saw him go down the avenue smoking, and then with
feeble, trembling footsteps, as though suddenly aged, she proceeded
to her son's bedroom. She locked the door, and then drew out her
housewifely bunch of keys. With these, one after the other, she tried
to unlock the drawer in Henderson's wardrobe, where she had seen him
hide the coat he had worn the night before, and from which he had cut
the stained sleeve. At last one of her keys opened the drawer, and with
shaking fingers Mrs. Henderson drew out the coat she had seen him roll
up and place there. With a sickening dread she now unrolled it. Half of
one of the sleeves was gone as she knew, but a faint stain--a smudge,
as it were, on the breast--quickly attracted her attention.
She shuddered as she looked at it; shuddered and turned faint, but with
an heroic effort she conquered this failing of her bodily powers. She
relocked the drawer, and wrapped her son's mutilated coat in some brown
paper she found lying on the table. She carried this parcel to her
own room, after carefully brushing out the grate in Henderson's; and
wrapping the burnt fragments it contained in paper, she carried these
away also.
When she reached her bedroom she concealed these two parcels, and then
rang for her housemaid. She bade this maid make up and light the fire,
for, as it was summer time, there were no coals in the room.
"I feel so chilly, Jane," she said; "I must have got cold, and will be
all the better for a fire."
The fire was soon lit, and when it had burnt up and the servant was
gone, Mrs. Henderson at once commenced to cut her son's coat to pieces,
and burnt it gradually. She was afraid to make a smell of burning by
doing it altogether. But every shred of it was at last consumed, and
Mrs. Henderson watched it disappear with a miserable heart.
In the meanwhile Henderson had once more strolled toward the stables,
and there, as he expected to find, was Jack Reid. The groom looked up
and nodded when he saw his master approaching.
"I wanted a word wi' ye, sir," he said; "I've been hanging about, and
all the country-side's up about the murder."
"I know nothing about it," said Henderson, doggedly, "but--you were
right, Jack, about the letter; the policeman who served the summons
about the inquest said something about you having taken one."
"I knew I was right; folks saw me gi' it to her, and there's a great
talk over it. And the police ha' been examining where she was found all
the day, and they say she must ha' shot herself, or been shot, on the
high ridge above the Dene. There's blood there, and she must either ha'
fallen into the Dene or been thrown, as the branches are broke all the
way down from the top to where she was found."
Henderson's face grew literally ghastly as he listened to these words,
and his groom watched him with a certain grim humor in his expression.
"I never went near," said Henderson, huskily.
"Ay, stick to that; ye never went near; ye only asked her to go; and
one good job is that the old man's pistol was found beside her."
"She must have shot herself. My mother will tell them I was in the
house all night; I never was out."
The groom made no answer to this, and after a few moments' silence
Henderson turned sullenly away. There was something in the groom's
manner that frightened him; a suppressed insolence and unbelief in the
man's tone.
And later in the day, as he sat moodily smoking after dinner, he
received a message by one of the maids that Jack Reid wished to speak
to him. He rose and went to the hall door, where he found the groom.
"May I ha' a word wi' ye, sir, about one of the horses?" he said, with
a significant look, and Henderson followed him out as he spoke.
"It's not about the horses, sir," he continued, as soon as they were
a little distance from the house, "but I didn't want any o' the women
folk to hear what I have got to say. But the missus mustn't say ye were
never out last night. Ben Wood, the carter, saw ye out about half-past
eight, and is ready to swear it. But I've sent for ye to say that ye'd
best say ye were down at the stables then, and I'll back ye out. Say ye
were on yer way to the stables when Ben met ye."
"Very well, Jack, you must swear this, or there'll be no end of
trouble," answered Henderson.
"Ay, trouble enough, anyhow; for, master, I've another word for
ye--ye're watched. The police ha' their eye on ye, and ye'll not go in
or out of the house now unless they know."