Deborah was saved the pain of giving evidence against Amos Goodhare,
for that gentleman, having by his ruse of a sprained ankle, put the
policemen in whose charge he was a little off their guard, managed to
escape from their guardianship before they got to the end of the
court, and by means of the London fog which had helped him so much
already, got away, doubled on his pursuers, and took refuge, with
great astuteness, in the very house in which he had been caught, even
before the men who were now in charge of the body of the murdered man
had left the building with their burden.
Amos was never caught; indeed, the authorities seemed rather slack in
his pursuit; and as he had the astuteness to leave the country
immediately, nothing more was ever heard of him until two years later,
when he died in Paris, in abject poverty.
The sensational death of Lord St. Austell was never fully explained to
the public. As the recovered crown jewels were immediately re-set and
restored to their places among the rest, the temporary loss of them
was never widely known, and the country bumpkins who go to the Tower
to stare at the treasures, which many Londoners have never seen, are
still as much impressed as ever by the antiquity of the gold of King
Edward’s crown. So that the murder of the earl was generally believed
to have been merely the sequel to a commonplace affair of robbery,
affected by means of a decoy.
Rees and Sep also got off much more easily than they deserved, the
whole affair having died out of the public mind before the former was
in a fit condition to be moved from Lady Susan’s house to his mother’s
home in Carstow. But Rees was injured for life. No physician could
give him hopes of more than a sickly existence, with constant danger
of the re-opening of the wound. So much his excesses of the past year
had done to undermine a fine constitution. And another wound was in
store for him.
Sep crawled back one cool April evening, shivering, miserable, and
half crazy, from want on the one hand, and a guilty conscience on the
other, to his old aunt at Carstow, who took him in and nursed and
tended him with unquestioning goodness. But he was never the same man
again. Without suffering evidently from impaired reason, he fell into
a lethargic state, and was subject for the few remaining years of his
life to fits of nervous depression which nothing could cure. One sign
of the change in him was that he hated the sight of Rees, and would
turn hurriedly out of his way as soon as his formerly beloved
companion came in sight.
Rees, in spite of his wound, took things more easily, and was easily
nursed back, by the adoration of his mother and of Lady Marion, into
nearly his old belief in himself. Lady Marion, whose devotion was, if
possible, more pronounced than ever, returned to Llancader as soon as
he went back to Carstow, in order to be as near to him as possible.
His evident preference for Deborah did not disconcert her; she was
resigned to everything but losing sight of him, and accepted any small
crumbs of gratitude and kindness which he chose to throw to her with
humble joy.
Partly, perhaps, because Deborah showed no particular devotion, but
more of a kindly and even contemptuous pity in her ministrations to
his comfort, Rees showed for her something nearer to genuine affection
than he had ever showed to a girl before. Nothing was done rightly for
him except by her; and as Mrs. Pennant had not resolution enough to
interfere with any caprice of her darling boy’s, the young girl was in
danger of losing her health by the close confinement his demands upon
her care involved.
At last Godwin, whose disgust was unbounded at the fuss made over the
returned prodigal, stepped in to say a necessary word for Deborah.
Since his brother’s arrival, Godwin had been on very distant terms
with her, having given Rees a colder welcome than she thought right.
They had, therefore, not held any conversation together except of the
most formal kind, when, finding, an one of his fortnightly visits,
that she began to look pale and dull-eyed, he ordered her out for a
walk in such an angry and peremptory tone that his mother backed up
his command with coaxing words of entreaty.
“Yes, dear, go, do go,” said the old lady, who had now almost
recovered from her paralytic stroke, but who had been, since that
misfortune, more afraid of masculine wrath than ever. “Godwin is quite
right. You do want a walk. Rees will let you go, I’m sure; he’s never
selfish.”
The poor old lady really believed this; and Godwin’s grunt on hearing
her ingenuous remark was not likely to undeceive her.
Rees, who was still confined a great deal to the house, gave an
unwilling consent to Deborah’s going out “for an hour.”
“Only for an hour, mind,” he added, as she went out of the room. “I
shan’t drink my tea unless you make it. I don’t want to be poisoned.”
“All right, Rees, only an hour,” sang out Deborah good-humoredly, as
Godwin closed the door for her.
As soon as he had done so, Godwin walked over abruptly to the armchair
in which Rees was leaning back.
“Do you know that you ought to be ashamed of yourself not to give more
thought to that girl’s comfort?” he said, in what both Rees and his
mother considered a cruelly sharp tone. “How is she to keep her health
if she is stuck in the house all day attending to your fads?”
“Godwin, Godwin,” remonstrated Mrs. Pennant, shocked beyond measure at
this irreverent treatment of her divinity, “you must not speak like
that to our dear Rees! He knows there is nothing we would not, any of
us, gladly do to help him to get well, and to wile away the tedious
hours before he does get well.”
“You don’t quite seem to understand, Godwin, my boy,” said Rees, with
a touch of haughtiness, holding up his hand languidly to stop his
mother. “I should be the last man in the world to take advantage of
any girl’s devotion to me. I am going to marry Deborah.”
“Indeed! Well it’s very good of you, I must say,” said Godwin, with a
bitterly ironical tone. “Of course, then, it’s much easier for her to
be a slave to your whims, since she knows it is to be for life!”
“Godwin, Godwin, my poor darling will be ill again if you speak so and
excite him,” wailed the mother.
“Serve him right. I never heard of such a pitiful sham martyr in my
life,” said Godwin, shortly; and not daring to trust himself to
deliver such a lecture as he had in his mind, he went quickly out of
the room, leaving Mrs. Pennant to sob on her darling’s neck, and to
assure him that he must forget every word of what his brother had so
cruelly said.
“Remember, Rees dear,” she went on tenderly, “he only speaks like that
because he wanted to marry Deborah himself. But, of course, she
preferred my own boy, my darling eldest son.”
And she passed tremulous fingers through his curly hair.
“Have you told her yet that you mean to marry her?”
“Not yet, mother. I think I will to-night, after what that young cub
said.”
“Do, dearest. I suppose she knows what you mean to say to her; but
she’s been really very good and devoted to you, so why should you
defer the pleasure it will give her?”
“All right, dear mother, I’ll speak to her to-night--that is, if she’s
not too late to make my tea,” he added, with the petulance of a spoilt
child.
Meanwhile, Deborah, unmindful of the honor which was in store for her,
was revelling in the fresh, sweet air of a spring afternoon. After a
moment’s debate as to where she should go, she turned her steps
towards the river, crossed the bridge, and almost ran down to the
meadow where, twenty months ago, the three confederates had found the
second entrance to the underground passage.
She wandered along the river bank, looking now at the grey towers of
the castle, and now at the pale green foliage which sparsely covered
the trees on the opposite bank, when suddenly she was startled by two
rapid steps behind her and a sharp touch, which was almost a light
blow, on her shoulder.
Turning quickly, she saw Godwin, who looked angry and harassed. He
stopped short, so she had to do the same.
“So you’re to be my sister-in-law,” he said, abruptly.
“Well?” said Deborah, quietly.
“I wish you joy of your post as wife to such a man as Rees has
become.”
“Is that kind of you?”
“I can’t help it. I must say what I think for once. I’ll never mention
the subject again. If you like to be the slave of a man who hasn’t it
in him to care for you, what right have I to object?”
“What right, indeed,” said Deborah.
“There, that’s enough. I didn’t know whether you, being a woman, could
understand what a wreck, morally even more than physically, that
unfortunate lad has become. So I thought I ought to warn you. Of
course, I find it is useless; I might have known it would be.”
“It is indeed,” said she, in a peculiar tone.
“Of course, you think I am speaking from a selfish motive. But I am
not. I gave up all hopes of you as soon as I knew that Rees was coming
back.”
“And devoted your attentions to the second Miss Brownlow?” asked
Deborah, rather archly.
“No, that was all nonsense. I never spoke to the girl in my life,
except to offer her a cup of tea,” said Godwin, despondently.
“Didn’t you?” asked Deborah slowly.
“No. Unlucky beggar that I am, I never can look at any other woman but
you, except to find fault with her. I suppose it will be different
when you are married. I hope so.”
“And I hope not,” said Deborah, laughing gaily.
Godwin looked at her with a rather puzzled expression.
“Don’t you remember telling me,” said she, saucily, “that a woman was
always sorry to lose an admirer? How much more must this be the case,
then, when that admirer is her own husband!”
Godwin stared at her in bewilderment. Deborah looked across at the
castle.
“What on earth _do_ you mean?” asked he, at last, slowly.
“Find out,” she answered, making the words come in to a tune she was
humming.
“Aren’t you going to marry Rees?” asked he, in a loud and stolid tone.
“Not if he were an emperor or an angel,” answered she, simply.
Godwin looked at her for a few moments as if he scarcely dared to take
in the meaning of the situation.
“Then you’ll have to marry me,” said he decidedly.
“‘Yes, if you please, kind sir, she said,’” answered Deborah, with a
smile and a deep curtsey.
“But you don’t love me,” whispered Godwin, whose voice had suddenly
broken and grown husky.
“Not more than I have done for the last six months. But then that’s a
good deal,” added Deborah below her breath.
Rees Pennant displayed the rage of a spoilt child thwarted when, on
the return of Godwin and Deborah together, the former announced their
engagement. He stormed all that evening at the fickleness and
insincerity of women, to a sympathetic accompaniment from his mother,
who never quite forgave Deborah for what she called “jilting poor
Rees.”
Still in a tumult of angry pique, Rees straightway proposed next day
to Lady Marion Cenarth, who accepted him with rapture. He duly married
her before many weeks were over, in spite of the opposition of her
relations. It was a fate much too good for him, but his punishment lay
in the fact that he never understood this, but really believed that
the abject sort of happiness Lady Marion found in ministering to his
lightest caprice was a more than ample recompense for any woman’s
devotion.
Godwin, whose services by this time had proved valuable, was, within a
few months of his marriage to Deborah, removed to Carstow, to take
charge of the large estates in that neighborhood, where they both
continued to lead the quiet life they liked best.
And so a second romance, of a brighter cast than the first, was ended
in the shadow of the old grey castle walls.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Florence Warden was the pseudonym of Florence Alice (Price) James.
The cover image is taken from the Ward & Downey edition (London,
1889).
Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ armchair/arm-chair,
good-humoredly/good humoredly, etc.) have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Add TOC.
Punctuation: missing periods, sentences ending with commas/colons,
quotation mark pairings, etc.
[Chapter I]
Change “_whisperedK ate_, glancing towards the dozing French” to
_whispered Kate_.
“Godwin, and _Harvey_--yes, and Rees too, whatever Marion” to
_Hervey_.
“given up, for its draughtiness, to the _bat_ and the mice” to _bats_.
“briefly described where and how she had found _hlm_” to _him_.
[Chapter II]
“mile of the castle that he _did’nt_ know, they said” to _didn’t_.
[Chapter IV]
“The fact was that Amos _Gooodhare_, having devoted” to _Goodhare_.
[Chapter V]
“growl of passionate, _hunger_ earnestness in the elder man’s hawk
eyes” to _hungry_.
“But the elder man had _appearently_ decided that to argue” to
_apparently_.
“by himself with slow steps and an _ususually_ reflective manner” to
_unusually_.
“He drew back hastily into the shadow of the _strees_” to _trees_.
[Chapter VII]
“_Bnt_ I can come and see you at the same place to-morrow” to _But_.
[Chapter VIII]
“under the fire of Goodhare’s _dicourses_, melted quite away” to
_discourses_.
“But at heart he was _blase_ and cynical, with a surprised feeling”
to _blasé_.
[Chapter IX]
“before dinner, brushing _Ree’s_ macintosh afterwards” to _Rees’s_.
“a _guant_ figure shivering in the damp, was waiting” to _gaunt_.
“his arm round her in his _facinatingly_ affectionate way” to
_fascinatingly_.
[Chapter X]
“_Skaking_ off the stupor, which again seemed to be overpowering” to
_Shaking_.
(“You need not come _agian_,” he said. “But I shall come here…) to
_again_.
[Chapter XI]
“to scale the outer wall of the _casle_ with the help of the ivy” to
_castle_.
“his tone which made her blush _crimsom_, and feel afraid” to
_crimson_.
[Chapter XIV]
“Rees stamped his foot, and said haughtily;” change semicolon to
colon.
“and I _did’nt_ know whether you had yet fallen a victim” to _didn’t_.
“But now I must say good-bye to you, Mr Goodhare” add period after
_Mr_.
[Chapter XV]
(“No _snch_ luck as that you have give up thinking about him) to
_such_.
[Chapter XVII]
“a good look to right and left had _as ured_ the three men” to
_assured_.
“And with much _apparant_ reluctance, part of which was real” to
_apparent_.
[Chapter XIX]
(“_Is’nt_ that rather a low point of view to look at…) to _Isn’t_.
[Chapter XX]
(“_Bnt_ you are quite wrong if you think----”) to _But_.
[Chapter XXI]
“_Deporah_ was still holding his sleeve with no uncertain” to
_Deborah_.
[Chapter XXII]
“what interest have I in the matter except _your’s_ and Rees” to
_yours_.
“You were sent sent away with the jewels to dispose of them” delete
one _sent_.
[Chapter XXIII]
“It would not be safe for you to go near him _how_” to _now_.
(“A woman!” he growled out. “I’ll tear the heart out of _he_.”) to
_her_.
[Chapter XXIV.]
“hearing the tramp of footsteps on the pavement _ontside_” to
_outside_.
[Chapter XXV]
(“One of you infernal ruffians _mnst_ have done it…) to _must_.
[End of text]