Olivia hurried back towards the farm with the little packet in her hand
which was to release her father from his hateful indebtedness to Fred
Williams. It was true it rendered her herself indebted to somebody
else; but, with a woman’s perversity, she preferred the greater evil
to the less. It was rather an awkward matter, however, to acquaint
her father with what she had done, especially as she found him in the
lowest depths of despondency.
“Don’t speak to me, my dear; don’t speak to me,” was his greeting to
his daughter when she pounced upon him, with a light-hearted laugh,
from behind the hedge of one of his own cornfields.
He was contemplating the ripening crop with a most rueful face.
“Why not, papa? Perhaps I may have some good news for you.”
“Good news! Oh, no,” he answered, dolefully, shaking his head. “It must
be for somebody else if you have any good news. So go away, or I may be
cross; and I don’t want to speak crossly to you, my darling.”
There was not much fear of such a thing, evidently; for when she
persisted in coming to him, and giving him a hearty kiss, the wrinkles
in his forehead began immediately to clear away.
“It’s all your fault, you minx,” said he, looking affectionately at the
girl’s bonny face. “You’ve turned the heads of all the lads about here,
and then it’s your poor old father that they ‘wreak their vengeance
on,’ as the melodramas say.”
“Why, papa,” said the girl, blushing, “who’s been teasing you now?
Produce him, and let me whither him up with a glance.”
“Well, the first thing I heard this morning is that the old brute,
John Oldshaw, has been making all sorts of mischief about me to Lord
Stannington’s agent--says I’m ruining the land, and all that; and it’s
all because he’s angry at poor Mat’s humble admiration for you, I know.
He says I’m not fit to be a farmer. Now what do you think of that?”
The enormity of this allegation made Mr. Denison quite unable to
proceed. But Olivia shook her head and laughed.
“I think, papa, that if all Mr. Oldshaw’s statements were as veracious
as that, he would be a much honester man than he is.”
“Why, what do you mean, child?”
“That, if the whole world had been thoroughly scoured to find the one
man most unsuitable for the occupation of farming, they could not have
done better than light on you.”
“Olivia, I’m surprised at you!” said her father, assuming a tone of
great dignity, mingled with indignation.
“Ah, you may well be surprised to find a girl with as much common
sense as a man,” retorted she, merrily. For since her return from
Matherham her spirits had risen in an extraordinary manner. “Now, papa,
look at John Oldshaw. He’s a perfect type of a successful farmer. And
he’s mean, and he’s vulgar, and he’s industrious, and he’s economical;
while you, pardon me, are none of those things. I don’t say that all
good farmers are like John Oldshaw, but I’m certain none of them are a
bit like you. And if he can persuade you that you’ll never do anything
at farming but lose your money, and catch cold looking at oats that
won’t ripen and turnips that won’t come up, he’ll do you a very great
service.”
“But, my dear,” remonstrated her father, not quite certain whether
to be amused or offended by her wicked plain speaking, “you don’t
understand these things. Women never do, of course. It’s not their
province and we don’t expect it of them.” The poor old fellow’s tone
grew more confident when he got into these mild platitudes. “John
Oldshaw has always shown himself jealous of me: firstly, because I’m
a gentleman; and, secondly, because I conduct my farming on different
principles from his.”
“Yes, papa,” said Olivia, demurely, “on very different principles. He
gets large crops and you get small ones. And John Oldshaw wants to turn
you out, and apply his principles to your land. And I wish you would
let him.”
Mr. Denison sighed. He could not quite hide from himself that there
were grains of truth and good sense in his daughter’s suggestions. But
the secret admission made him impatient and irritable.
“Of course,” he said turning upon her, “I’m not likely to get on here
or anywhere while my people insult the friends who would help me to
tide over the bad time.”
“Do you mean that I’ve insulted Fred Williams, papa?” asked Olivia
who was too straightforward to allow the talk to be carried on by
innuendoes.
“Well, and what if I do?” asked Mr. Denison, taken aback. For he was
one of those persons who would walk round about a fact for ever without
facing it.
“Has the little reptile been worrying you about the money he lent you?”
“Reptile!” echoed Mr. Denison, trying to evade the question. “That is
a strong word for a young lady to use, my dear. Not but what I have
been disappointed in that young fellow. He seemed such a generous,
open-hearted lad that I own he induced me to break my rule and allow
him to accommodate me in a little difficulty I was in--”
“And are you out of the difficulty, papa?”
“Well, my dear, I am, in a sense out of that one. But difficulties have
such a way of clinging together; where they’ve been once they come
again.”
“And this wretched creature has been worrying you, then?”
“Well, he spoke to me about you in such a way that I was mad with
myself for having allowed him to oblige me.”
“I think I can free you from that obligation, papa,” said she, gently.
“Only you mustn’t ask where the money came from.”
“What?” cried he in astonishment. “My dear child, you are dreaming. I
owe him thirty pounds.”
“Look here.”
She opened her little packet, and unfolded before him six five pound
notes.
“But, Olivia, I can’t take these from you without knowing how you got
them,” said her father, trying to assume a rather severe paternal air.
“It’s very simple; I went into Matherham, followed a rich-looking old
gentleman into a quiet street, knocked him down, and robbed him,” she
answered, laughing. “But you needn’t have any qualms of conscience
about the proceeds of the deed, for I’m going to hand them over to Fred
Williams myself, with a message from you--which I shall make up.”
“But, Olivia, I really cannot permit--”
“It’s too late now; the power of permission is denied you. But,
remember, when you next meet that miserable little goose, you can
hold up your head and snap your fingers at him, for there will be no
obligation between you any longer.”
She nodded good-bye to him very brightly, checked his expostulations
with a kiss, and ran off over the fields in the direction of the Towers.
For Olivia was feverishly anxious to pay off the debt, and she had
little doubt that she would find Fred lounging on his father’s lawn,
softening what brains he had by the help of some fluid or other, and
a strong cigar. She met him, however, before she reached the gate
of the Towers. He had just come from Matherham in a hansom, and was
quarrelling with the cabman about his fare; but when he caught sight
of Olivia he changed his tone, and threw the man a handful of silver
with an ostentatious air. Then he came up to her with a manner full
of exaggerated respect, and an expression of face in which the girl
instantly detected a good deal of malice.
“Delighted to see you, Miss Denison; it isn’t often you do us the honor
of a visit up here. You wish to see my sister, I suppose.”
“No, I came to see you, and I won’t detain you long. I am commissioned
by my father to bring you the money you so kindly lent him, and to say
how deeply obliged he is for the graceful generosity you have shown him
in this matter.”
Fred Williams was annoyed, but he did not seem surprised.
“Oh, all right,” he said, gruffly. “You needn’t sneer. Your guv’nor
was precious glad to take it at the time: that’s all I know. And you
haven’t got me on toast as you think, for I saw you pass here this
morning, and I followed you into Matherham, and I know what you did
there,” he added, triumphantly.
“Nothing that I am ashamed of,” said the girl, quietly.
“Oh, no, you’ve too much cheek to be ashamed of anything. You’ve paid
me back to-day, and I’ll pay you back to-morrow. For to-morrow the
workmen begin to dig in St. Cuthbert’s churchyard, and if they should
come across anything that’ll upset your friend’s apple-cart, remember
you had the chance to stop it. And perhaps you won’t feel so proud then
of having got clear of debt to me by running into debt with a murderer.
Yes, a murderer, Miss High-and-Mighty,” he continued, with a little
dance of delight on the garden path. “And if you don’t feel jolly well
ashamed of yourself and your friend by about this time next week, why,
I’m a polished gentleman, that I am!”
“You couldn’t say anything stronger than that, Mr. Williams,” said
Olivia, ingenuously. “I suppose I shall have the pleasure of meeting
you to-morrow at St. Cuthbert’s. Good-morning.”
And, quite unaffected by his threats, she bowed to him with great
ceremony, and tripped away down the road as if greatly pleased with her
interview.
But Olivia was not at ease: she only appeared so because she was
excited to the pitch of recklessness. As the day drew on, and the time
for the commencement of the excavations at St. Cuthbert’s grew nearer,
she became restless, depressed, and so irritable that she had to pass
the time either out of doors or in her own rooms, to avoid the domestic
friction which she felt that to-day she could not bear. Next morning
she awoke with a deadening sense of being on the brink of some great
danger. At the breakfast table, at which she duly appeared to avoid
giving unnecessary alarm to her father, her looks again provoked much
comment, which she bore as patiently as she could, being particularly
anxious not to encourage a discussion which might lead to interference
with a project she had in view. She was so impatient to leave the house
that every trifling delay seemed to her to be part of a conspiracy to
keep her indoors. When her usual household duties were disposed of,
when Mrs. Denison’s request that she would make up a parcel for the
dyer’s had been complied with, she crept upstairs with a heart full
of anxiety, dressed, slipped out of the house, and sped away in the
direction of St. Cuthbert’s.
For all her haste, she could not reach the churchyard much before
twelve o’clock, when the workingmen, their morning’s labor almost
over, were slackening their efforts in anticipation of the dinner
hour. Already their invasion had entirely changed the aspect of the
churchyard. Piles of scaffolding poles, ladders, and boards lay just
inside the walls. Planks placed across the broken gravestones, formed
bridges for the passage of wheelbarrows to and from the scene of
operations. This, Olivia saw, was the ground at the foot of the tower,
extending to the crypt, the entrance to which had been freed from the
stones and bricks which had blocked it up for so long. The men seemed
to be at work in all directions: some were erecting a scaffolding
against the old tower, the upper part of which was to be taken down;
some carting away stones and rubbish from the east end; some removing
that corner of the roof of the south aisle which, in a crumbling and
dangerous condition, still remained. But it was upon the corner where
the old crypt was that Olivia’s attention at once fixed. For here,
listening perfunctorily with one ear to old Mr. Williams, who had
a self-made man’s veneration for his own utterances, and keeping a
sharp lookout upon two workmen whose labors within the crypt he was
superintending, was Ned Mitchell.
Nothing had happened so far, Olivia easily guessed; no discoveries had
been made; no alarm had been given. But to her fancy, there hung over
the whole place the hush of expectancy: the workmen scarcely spoke to
each other, the onlookers seemed to hold their breath. Another feature
of the scene was that these onlookers each seemed to have come by
stealth, and to wish to remain unnoticed by the rest. Olivia herself,
for instance, remained outside the churchyard wall, seeing only so much
of the operations as could be observed from the highest part of the
rough and broken ground. Then, lurking behind the hedge on the opposite
side of the lane, was the lame tramp, Abel Squires, who from this post
could see very little more than the scaffolding poles, but who had
remained there, nevertheless, since the moment, early that morning,
when the workmen from Sheffield first made their appearance. Vernon was
inside the church, keeping out of the way of everyone but the foreman,
to whom he was giving certain structural explanations, while Mrs.
Brander watched the proceedings from her pony carriage in the lane,
and Fred Williams from the church roof. A small crowd of the country
people, chiefly children and old pit women, filled up the spaces, and
made the isolation of the others less noticeable. Roaming about the
churchyard, in a somewhat impatient manner, was also a gentleman whom
Olivia did not immediately recognize as the doctor who had attended Ned
Mitchell in his illness.
It was a sultry day; sunless and heavy. The smoke of the Sheffield
chimneys hung over the hills in a thick black cloud, and appeared,
Olivia thought, to be coming nearer and nearer. The air seemed to choke
instead of invigorate; the leaves of the trees hung parched and still.
The girl’s excitement had all evaporated; she waited there without
hope, without fear, in a dull state of expectancy, her clearest thought
being a faint wish that she might be able to get quietly home again
without having to speak to any one. Still she stood there, and watched
the workmen slowly putting on their coats, the doctor as he flitted
about the churchyard, without quite knowing whether she was asleep or
awake, whether the figures, moving silently about, were flesh-and-blood
creatures, or images seen in a dream.
Suddenly a breath of air seemed to pass over every one, and the
stirring of a more active life was felt. It was a voice at the gate of
the churchyard which broke the hushed silence, and made every eye look
up, while the women and children curtseyed, and the workmen touched
their caps. The Vicar of Rishton, cheerful and smiling and bland, had
worked the change by his appearance alone. A certain listlessness,
which had begun to creep over watchers and workers at the end of an
eventless morning under a sullen sky, disappeared. There arose a hum of
talk; the workmen who had left off work hurried to their dinner cans;
the few who were still digging felt a spurt of fresh energy. It was
felt that the portly presence of the much-respected vicar gave _eclat_
to the proceedings, and new interest to a monotonous occupation. Only
Ned Mitchell remained entirely unmoved. He gave the clergyman a glance
and a nod, and then turned again to the two men at work in the crypt.
“Get on, you lazy devils!” he said, kicking a stone impatiently. “You
might be millionaires, both of you, not to think it worth while to work
harder for the chance of a ten-pound note.”
“Why, we’ve turned the whole place out, master, and blest if there’s a
bloomin’ thing to be found there except earth and stones,” said one, in
a rather grumbling tone.
“Hey, what?” asked Mr. Williams, in a surprised tone, “What’s that
they’re looking for, eh, Mitchell? Something lost? Something buried,
eh?”
“Both lost and buried,” said Ned, briefly. “What do you think, parson?”
And he turned quickly to the Reverend Meredith Brander, who had by
this time, after a triumphal progress between two lines of admiring
villagers, reached the group.
“Well, the churchyard is the place for the lost and buried, certainly,”
replied the vicar, whose bright complexion and serene smile were a
charming thing to see after the anxious and gloomy faces the rest of
the assembly had been wearing. “But, as we know, a time will come when
we shall recover our lost ones,” he added, with gentle solemnity.
“Some of us will recover ’em sooner than we bargain for, perhaps,” said
Ned, drily.
The vicar did not answer; indeed he looked as if he did not understand.
He nodded pleasantly, and looked round, smiling on such members of
his family and of his congregation as were in sight. For a curious
thing had happened since his coming; all those before-mentioned
spectators, who had been watching as it were by stealth, now with one
accord drew near to the entrance of the crypt, and cast at the vicar
sidelong glances of deep interest. Thus Olivia, Mrs. Brander, Vernon,
the doctor, and Abel Squires found themselves, as if by preconcerted
arrangement, within a few feet of each other, and yet seemed to be
unaware of this fact. The vicar also seemed not to notice this, but Ned
Mitchell took in the curious situation with a keen glance, and read
the varied expressions of curiosity, anxiety, and despondency on the
several faces with cynical swiftness.
The men in the crypt did not leave off work with the rest; on the
contrary, urged on by Ned Mitchell, whose tone grew sharper with every
order he gave, they used pickaxe and spade with renewed energy.
“I don’t quite understand the necessity for all this delving in the
crypt,” said old Mr. Williams, at last, rather pompously.
He was a man by habit too much occupied with himself to have troubled
his head about the stories and scandals of the neighborhood, and no
suggestion of any mystery connected with St. Cuthbert’s had ever
reached his ears.
“You’ll see presently, perhaps,” answered Ned, who betrayed his
ever-increasing excitement only by the growing curtness of his tone.
For he perceived, peering down into the gloom where the men were
working, that the digging and delving had suddenly ceased, and that,
in the remotest corner of the little crypt, both were kneeling down
examining the lower part of the wall. Then one of the men struck a
match, and a moment later his fellow workman came to the opening.
“We’ve found something, sir!” said he, in a low voice.
“Eh? What?” asked old Mr. Williams, who began to have an idea that he
was being made a fool of.
There was a sort of a rustle and flutter among the bystanders; for
though all had not heard the workman’s words all knew that something
had happened. Ned Mitchell, who was now so much excited that he dared
not trust himself to speak, beckoned to the doctor. The latter, who was
on the alert, came up immediately. He was an active, brisk little man,
sparing of words.
“I think we shall want you now, doctor, please,” said Ned, in a voice
which was getting hoarse and rasping. “What is it you have found,
mate?” he went on, turning to the workman.
“It’s a body, we think, your honor--the body of a woman.”
The vicar, on entering the churchyard, had locked the gate, to keep
out the swarm of unruly boys who always ooze out of the pores of the
earth when anything of an unusual nature is going on. So that few
people but those most interested in this discovery were present to
hear the announcement of it. These all pressed forward until they
stood--a silent, excited group--close to the crypt entrance. Mrs.
Brander, although she remained perfectly quiet, laid her hand, either
from sympathy or for support, on the arm of her brother-in-law. Vernon
himself looked if possible more pale and haggard than ever, but his
face wore its habitual expression when in repose, a look of grave
and somewhat cynical good humor. The only noticeable thing about his
demeanor was his careful avoidance of Olivia Denison; he would not
even meet her eyes. The girl herself was white to the lips and cold
from head to foot. Fred Williams, in a cheerful voice offered her the
support of his arm.
“These are nasty scenes for a lady to be present at,” said he, with a
little compunction in his voice. “Won’t you let me take you away?”
She shook her head, and signed for him to leave her, which he did
reluctantly and with some shame. In the meantime the gentlemen had
descended into the crypt, with the exception of Vernon, who was
detained by Mrs. Brander. By the light of a lantern and a torch, a
ghastly sight was soon disclosed to view.
In the lower part of the wall of the crypt, in the corner nearest the
entrance, to which no daylight could ever pierce its way, was unearthed
between the bases of two of the pillars supporting the roof, the almost
fleshless skeleton of a woman, the damp rags of whose dress, still
recognizable, hung around the bones in shrunken folds. The flaring and
flickering of the lights on what had once been a beautiful face, on the
remains of the finery which every other girl in the village had once
envied, made an ever-changing, hideous picture, upon which the men all
gazed with feelings of pity, horror, and disgust.
A savage exclamation burst from Ned’s lips. Old Mr. Williams was struck
dumb with horror; for to him the discovery was quite unforeseen. The
doctor bent over the skeleton, and taking a lantern into his own hand,
looked carefully at the horrible thing, touched it, removed part of
the ragged clothing, and muttered something the rest could not hear.
The Vicar of Rishton, accustomed to death in many forms, maintained
a demeanor of reverend gravity, tempered by amazement. As the doctor
stopped, however, he interposed with some haste, and, coming close
beside him, tried gently but firmly to thrust him aside.
“There must be an inquiry into this, I suppose,” he said; “though,
for the sake of the unhappy man who committed this deed, and whom we
know to have repented long ago, I trust it may be made as quietly as
possible. In the meantime the remains must be laid decently in some
suitable place. I would suggest the church itself.”
The doctor interrupted him brusquely. He, with the rest, had been
listening in dead silence to the clergyman’s words.
“Where you like, vicar: but I must make an examination first. If I’m
not mistaken, I’ve seen something just now which will be a positive
means of identifying the murderer.” Still the vicar insisted, gently,
but with becoming determination.
“I really think, in a matter touching the sanctity of the dead, that I,
as vicar, ought to have a voice.”
“But you’re not the vicar of this church,” said the doctor, standing
his ground. “The Vicar of St. Cuthbert’s is your brother Vernon,
and if, as you seem to say, he has had anything to do with this
business----”
There was a stir among the hearers, and old Mr. Williams burst out,
“What! What! Vernon Brander! Bless me! You don’t mean to say----”
The vicar was protesting; Ned Mitchell was swearing and muttering; Fred
Williams, who had crept in during the last few minutes, was whistling
softly to himself, to keep off the horrors.
Suddenly the doctor, who had again stooped over the skeleton, silenced
them all in imperious tones.
“Stand back, gentlemen! In two moments I can satisfy your curiosity as
to who murdered this woman.”
The vicar only attempted to resist this command; but the doctor, with a
skilful and most unceremonious thrust, forced him back into the rest of
the group; and the next moment the reverend arms were pinioned by Ned
Mitchell’s strong hands.
“Keep back, can’t you?” hissed Ned, roughly into his ear; “murder will
out, you know! And people might say such ugly things if they thought
you wanted to hide the truth.”
After this there was a sickening, death-like pause, while the doctor’s
hands moved rapidly about the horrible heap of human bones and tattered
finery. Then he sprang up, and made quickly for the light. The rest
followed, huddled together, panting, bewildered, like a flock of
frightened sheep. For the doctor’s face, old practitioner though he
was, was livid and tremulous with a great horror. Standing in the open
daylight they found him, looking at something he held half concealed in
his hand. Mrs. Brander, Vernon, and Olivia Denison stood a little way
off, watching him, but not daring to come near. He closed his hand as
the men gathered round him.
“Gentlemen,” he began, gravely, in a very low voice, “there are
circumstances in this case so revolting that I think that no good can
come of making them public. But you shall judge. I have found, inside
the remains of that poor girl, a ring which, there can be no doubt,
was the property of the murderer. In spite of the decayed state of the
body, I can undertake to say that this ring was swallowed by the girl
just before her death. Here,” and he held up his closed hand, “is the
ring. Shall I show it you?”
“No!” said the Vicar of Rishton, sharply. They all turned to look at
him.
“Why not?” asked the doctor, quietly.
Meredith Brander had recovered the composure which, indeed, he could
scarcely be said for a moment to have lost.
“What good would it do?” he asked, gazing blandly in the doctor’s face.
Doctor Harper returned his look with astonishment which became almost
admiration.
“Well,” he answered, “it would show up the most remarkably perfect
specimen of a consummate humbug that I have ever had the honor of
meeting.”
A curious thing had happened before this short colloquy was ended.
The rest of the group had gradually dispersed, and left the two men
alone together. As he uttered the last words, the doctor also turned
abruptly away, so that the vicar was left by himself. He did not
seem disconcerted, but walked, with a half smile on his face, in the
direction of the churchyard gate. His wife, whose handsome face was as
pale as that of a corpse, and whose limbs tottered under her, moved,
with faltering step, in the same direction. At the gate stood Abel
Squires, who stood back to allow the vicar to pass out first. But
Meredith Brander would not allow this. He turned to him with a kindly
nod.
“Well, Abel,” said he, “I’m afraid this is a sad business for somebody.”
“I’m afeard so too, sir,” replied Abel, with an immovable face.
“We must hush it up. I’m sure you would not like any harm to come to my
brother.”
“No fear o’ that, sir,” said Abel. “I could prevent that.”
“Why, how so?”
“Ah wur wi’ him all that evenin’. An’ if he hadn’t kept my tongue quiet
all these years hissen, truth would ha’ been aht long ago.”
The vicar went through the gate without another word. But before he had
taken many steps in the lane outside, he felt an arm thrust through
his. It was his brother Vernon, who pressed his arm warmly two or three
times before he spoke.
“Cheer up, old chap!” he whispered, huskily. “For Evelyn’s sake and the
children’s we can get it kept quiet still.”
Then, for the first time, Meredith threatened to break down. He wrung
his brother’s hand with a force which made Vernon turn white, and when
he answered, it was with sobs in his voice.
“I’m a scoundrel, Vernie,” he almost gasped. “But if you save me again,
on my soul I’ll be better to them than many an honest man.”