WHICH, AS THE READER OBSERVES, BEGINS AND ENDS WITH MY LORD SAYLE
My Lord Sayle tugged at the bell-rope and thereafter stared out into
the sunny garden again as he had done for so long; and presently, the
door opening softly, a man-servant entered who, beholding thus suddenly
my lord’s intent face, checked, shrank back, and stood, the door in his
hand, gazing with eyes of fearful wonder. At last, becoming aware of
the servant’s presence, my lord spoke, but preserving always his rapt
expression:
“Is Major Orme in the house?”
“No, my lord ... the Major left ... early this morning, my lord.”
“Well, Sir Roland Lingley?”
“My lord, he ... went with the Major.”
My Lord Sayle’s black brows twitched slightly, but he never moved,
staring always out upon the sunny garden like one who saw that which no
other eyes might behold.
“They left no message?”
“None, my lord,” answered the man-servant, drawing a soft pace backward
as he watched that rigid face.
“Send Sturton to me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And hark’ee! If I should ring again, see that Tom and Roger
answer—themselves only!”
“Yes, my lord!” murmured the servant, shrinking again as with a last
stealthy glance he went softly forth, closing the door gently behind him.
So Orme and Lingley had gone! Even they had deserted him at last! Well,
so much the better ... considering. But the smile that distorted my
lord’s mouth was evil to see.
And after some while the door opened and Mr. Sturton appeared, who, at
sign from my lord, entered and closed the door.
“So—o—o!” said his lordship, dwelling upon the word while he stared into
the haggard face before him. “You have failed—again, Sturton?”
“’Twas no fault o’ mine, my lord; in another ten minutes we should ha’
had him safe aboard ship——”
“Ship?” The word was almost a whisper, and yet James Sturton recoiled and
his face seemed even more livid as he met the speaker’s glance. “Fool!”
continued my lord in the same dreadful, hushed voice. “Fool, in the
corner yonder you will find a sheet o’ crumpled paper ... open and read
it ... read it—aloud!”
Looking whither my lord pointed, Mr. Sturton took up and smoothed the
crumpled sheet, glanced at it and hesitated.
“Aloud, my lord?”
“Aloud, fool!”
Then, mumbling somewhat, Mr. Sturton read as follows:
“Sir John Dering begs to say that unless my Lord Sayle is out
of the country within forty-eight hours, Sir John proposes
calling upon my Lord Sayle with the stoutest horse-whip to be
found.”
“And you said ‘ship,’ I think?” inquired my lord in the same strangled
voice.
“My lord, once aboard that ship he would trouble your lordship never
again.”
“‘Trouble me never again!’” murmured Lord Sayle. “He never will ... he
never shall ... but a ship? No, no!... A ship? Pshaw! We know a better
way and a surer—eh, Sturton?”
“Your—your lordship means?”
“Exactly what you are thinking, Sturton!” As he spoke, my lord crossed to
a cabinet and, opening a drawer, came back with a brace of pistols in his
hands. Now, glancing from these murderous things to the face above, James
Sturton flung out wild hands and started back.
“No, no!” he cried. “Not this way, my lord; I cannot!”
“You will!” nodded my lord gently. “You know very well he walks or rides
frequently to High Dering of an evening—alone! It will be simple.”
“My lord, I ... I cannot!”
“Meaning you will not?”
James Sturton stared desperately about him at floor and ceiling and
walls, but never once at the speaker’s face; finally he spoke:
“I ... I cannot, my lord.”
“Ah!” said his lordship, and stood regarding Sturton with an expression
of mild curiosity. “So you—refuse?”
“I do, my lord!” mumbled the wretched man.
“Knowing that I can hang you for the murderer you already are? Still,
you—refuse?”
“My lord, I do.... I must.... I—I cannot do it!”
His lordship slowly and deliberately returned the weapons to the drawer,
locked it, and stood awhile staring at the key in his hand.
“Why, then,” said he at last, still intent upon the key, “perhaps
you will be good enough to pull the bell.” Mr. Sturton obeyed, but,
chancing to catch a glimpse of my lord’s face in the mirror, he glanced
apprehensively towards the door with the wild glare of one who suddenly
finds himself in a trap; but even as he stared at it, the door opened and
two men entered. For a moment was silence; then, without troubling to
turn, my lord spoke:
“You will take this white-livered cur ... strip him and—drive him out!
Strip him—you understand!” Ensued riot and confusion; but, despite his
cries and desperate struggles, James Sturton was seized and dragged away
at last; then my Lord Sayle, chin on breast, stared out into the sunny
garden again.
Slowly the glory faded and the shadows deepened as evening approached,
but surely never was there shadow so dark, so ominous, so evil to behold
as that upon the face of my Lord Sayle. Now if, by some coincidence, he
had chanced to be regarding the noble constellation of Orion, as was
Corporal Robert Doubleday, surely no two pairs of eyes ever gazed upon
Orion’s glittering belt with expression so vastly different! For this
evening the Corporal’s eyes held a light all their own, his lean, brown
face wore an expression of extraordinary gentleness, and as he strode
blithely across fragrant meadow he even essayed to sing; to be sure, his
voice was somewhat husky, and creaked a little uncertainly as by lack of
use, but he sang perseveringly, none the less, an old marching song he
had sung often in Flanders years ago, set to the tune of “Lilliburlero.”
But, all at once, in the very middle of a note, he checked voice and foot
together as forth from a hedge before him protruded a head and a pair of
stalwart shoulders clad in an old frieze coat.
“Ha! Is that you, George Potter?”
“My own self, Mus’ Robert. Might you ha’ chanced to see a man ... or,
say, two ... hereabouts, as you come along?”
“Not a soul!”
“Ah! An’ wheer might Sir John Dering be now, Mus’ Robert, d’ye s’pose?”
“I left him at ‘The Cross,’ but he usually walks abroad of an evening.”
“Aye, so ’e do, Mus’ Robert ... but ... doan’t ’ee let ’im goo out o’
your sight this night.”
“Why not? What d’ye mean, George?”
“Well, rackon it bean’t no-wise ’ealthy-like for Sir John to goo
a-walkin’ to-night alone, ah—an’ p’r’aps not then.”
“And why? Ah ... d’ye think——”
“Aye, I do think!” nodded Mr. Potter. “I think as mebbe Murder’ll be
a-walkin’ to-night.”
“Murder?” repeated the Corporal, falling back a step. “Murder? What d’ye
mean, man? Speak plain.”
“Why, then, I means plain murder.”
“Who d’ye mean, George?”
“Well, there be them as wishes others dead, d’ye see—but mum! Only I
should keep ’im safe indoors to-night if I was you.”
“By God, d’ye say so, George?” cried the Corporal; and staying for no
more, he set off at a run; and now, as he hasted thus, his feet seemed to
beat out the awful word: mur-der, mur-der, and his thoughts were full of
it.
Murder, indeed! But who shall plumb all the sullen deeps of a murderer’s
soul? Who comprehend the motives that speed him on? What ears but his
may catch those demon voices that have eternally wooed and urged, argued
and threatened, ceaselessly day and night, until he sees nothing, hears
nothing, is conscious of nothing but the one purpose so gradually decided
upon and, at last, so passionately desired. What normal intelligence may
comprehend the mind of a murderer?
Watch him as he creeps forth upon his awful business, a dreadful, furtive
creature seeking his unsuspecting victim.... Behold now the generous cock
of his hat, his neat wig, his full-skirted coat of sober hue! Looked at
from behind, he might be mistaken for an itinerant preacher of Quakerish
persuasion, but seen from in front he can be nothing under heaven but the
murderer he is in his soul.
Thus goes he, his every faculty so intent upon his ghastly work that he
sees nothing, hears nothing of the Nemesis that dogs him in the shadows,
pausing when he pauses, looking where he looks, going on again with him
step for step, silent, purposeful and so dreadfully patient.
So come they at last, the Murderer and his Nemesis, to a leafy grove that
all day long has rung with the joyous carolling of birds, but now, hushed
and silent, is a place of gloom meet for dark and stealthy deeds. Within
this place of shadow Murder creeps, seeking a place where, unseen, he may
destroy, but always unconscious of the lurking shape of the Nemesis that
flits ever behind him; suddenly he starts and crouches, to peer along the
glimmering road, for upon the silence is the sound of a man’s light tread
coming at slow, unhurried pace—the footsteps of a man who dreams....
Stay! What other feet are those that come at such wild speed, nearer and
nearer, until they slacken somewhat and a panting voice speaks:
“Your honour ... I was a-coming ... to meet ye.”
“And in mighty haste, Bob!”
“Why ... as to that, sir—’tis growing dark——”
“Since when were you afraid o’ the dark, Bob?”
“Why—it looks like rain, sir.”
“On the contrary, ’tis a very fine night.”
“Why, then—let us walk, your honour.”
“Nay, I’m minded to be alone.”
“But, sir, I——”
“So go you in, Bob, and order supper.”
“But, your honour, I——”
“Pray leave me, Robert.”
“Why, sir—George Potter ... he warned me that——”
“That what?”
“That ’twasn’t, as you might say, healthy for you hereabouts to-night,
sir, and——”
“The thought charms me, Robert. And now—pray be gone.”
“But, sir, if you’ll only——”
“Damme! Will ye go?”
A distressful sigh; the sound of heavy feet unwillingly retreating, feet
that hesitate more than once ere they finally die away. And presently the
light tread comes on again, slow and unhurried as before. Then Murder,
peering from the shadows, crouches low, raises and steadies right hand....
A ringing shot from the denser gloom, a cry of amazement lost in
strangling groan.... A second shot, louder, nearer ... a dreadful gasping
... a horrid thrashing among the underbrush ... silence. Then Sir John,
staring upon that place of horror, began to creep thither ... was aware
that men were running towards him, shouting to one another, and, without
looking, knew these for Robert and George Potter, which last bore a
small, covered lanthorn.
So, together, they entered the little grove, and presently came upon a
stilly shape crouched face down among the underbrush; and beholding the
three-cornered hat of generous cock, the neat wig, the wide-skirted coat,
Mr. Potter whistled softly.
“Rackon Sturton’s got it at last!” quoth he.
“Aye, but—there’s another over here!” cried the Corporal from the denser
shadows. “Aye—another o’ them ... and it looks—it looks like ... bring
the light!”
Coming where stood the Corporal, Mr. Potter bent down, lanthorn in hand,
only to start to his feet again very suddenly.
“Lord!” he exclaimed in awestruck voice. “Why, lord, sirs, this ’un be
Sturton, sure enough ... aye, an’ sure enough dead.... Rackon ’e won’t
never want no more.... But who—who lays over yonder?”
They came back to the first still form and, while Sir John held the
lanthorn, Potter and the Corporal turned it over and, recoiling, stood
mute a while and motionless; for there, scowling up at them in death as
he had so often done in life, was the dead face of my Lord Sayle.