The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
WORDSWORTH.
The mellow coloring of the third evening which Claud Cranmer had spent
at Poole Farm was inundating the valley with its warm floods of light.
He was leaning meditatively against the stile which led from the farm
garden to the Waste, and his eyes were fixed on the stretch of summer
sea which, like a crystal gate, barred the entrance to the Combe. His
thoughts were busy with a two-fold anxiety--partly for the man who lay
fighting for life in the farmhouse behind him, partly concerning the
mystery which attended his fate.
Mr. Dickens of Scotland Yard had so far succeeded in discovering merely
what everybody knew before, and was in a state of complete bewilderment
which, he begged them to believe, was a most unusual circumstance in his
professional career. The mystery of the pudding-basin and the blue
dishcloth was as amazing and as incomprehensible to him as it was to
William Clapp himself and his scared "missus."
The good people of the district were sensible of a speedy dwindling of
courage and hope, when it became evident that the London detective could
see no farther through a brick wall than they could.
They did long to have the stigma lifted from their district by the
discovery that the murderer had been a stranger, an outlander, anybody
but a native of Edge Combe; but, if Mr. Dickens had an opinion at all in
the matter, it was that he was inclined to believe the crime perpetrated
by some one who knew where to find his victim, and had probably walked
out of the village purposely to give him his quietus. But why? What
possible animus could any dweller in the valley have against the
inoffensive young artist? The detective was privately certain that the
entire motive for this affair must be looked for under the surface.
"It's probable," said he to Mr. Cranmer, "that the victim himself is the
only person likely to tell us anything about it. If he has enemies, it
is to be supposed that he knew it. Mrs. Clapp has told us that he burnt
a letter he received. That letter may have contained a warning which he
thought fit to disregard. I have tried to make Mrs. Clapp recall any
particulars she may have noticed as to its appearance, handwriting, or
post-mark. But she seems to have noticed nothing; these rustics are very
unobservant. I should like to ask Miss Allonby a few questions. She
might be able to give us a clue."
But Miss Allonby, being summoned, could not help them in the least.
She came down from her brother's sick-room, with a tranquil composed
manner, which encouraged Mr. Dickens to hope great things of her. She
seated herself in one of the big kitchen chairs, and looked straight at
him.
"You want to ask me something?" said she.
Claud spoke to her.
"Yes," he said, "we want to ask you certain personal questions which
would be very rude if we had not a strong warrant for them. I am sure
you are as anxious as we are that the mystery of your brother's accident
should be cleared up?"
"Oh, yes," said Wyn.
"Well, Mr. Dickens thinks that the motive we have to search for was a
good deal deeper than mere robbery; he wants to know if Mr. Allonby had
enemies. Do you know of anyone who wished him ill?"
"No, certainly I don't," she replied at once. "Osmond is a most
good-natured fellow, he never quarrels with a creature--he is too lazy
to quarrel, I think. I don't know of a single enemy we have."
"Will you tell me your brother's motive in coming down here to Edge
Combe?"
"Certainly. He came here to sketch. He had sold his landscapes at the
Institute very well, and a friend of the gentleman who bought them
wanted two in the same style. Osmond thought a change to the country
would do him good. An artist friend of ours recommended Edge Combe, and
so he came here."
"Do you know the friend who recommended Edge Combe?"
A slight hint of extra color rose in the girl's cheeks.
"Yes, I know him; he is a Mr. Haldane, a student in the Academy
Schools."
"On good terms with your brother?"
"Yes, of course; but he knows my sister Jacqueline better than he knows
Osmond."
"Would he be likely to write to Mr. Allonby?"
"No, I hardly think so. He never has, that I know of. He sent the
address of the inn on a postcard. Mrs. Clapp would know him--he stayed
here several weeks last year."
The detective pondered.
"You are sure there was no quarrel--no jealousy--nothing that
could----"
"What, between my brother and Mr. Haldane? The idea is quite absurd.
They are only very slightly acquainted, and Osmond is at least six years
older than he is!"
"Will you tell me, on your honor, whether you yourself can account in
any way at all for what has occurred? Had you any reason whatever to
think it likely such a thing might happen? Or were you absolutely and
utterly horrified and surprised by such news?"
"I was horrified and surprised beyond measure; so were my sisters. We
are as much in the dark about the matter as you can possibly be. I can
offer no guess or conjecture on the subject; it is quite inexplicable to
me."
"And you would think it quite folly to connect it in any way with Mr.
Haldane?"
She laughed rather contemptuously.
"I'm afraid, even if he did cherish a secret grudge, Mr. Haldane is not
rich enough to employ paid agents to do his murders for him; and, as he
was at work in the R.A. schools when the crime was committed, it does
seem to me unlikely, to say the least of it, that he had anything to do
with the matter. What can make you think he had?"
"Merely," answered the detective, somewhat confused, "that in these
cases sometimes everything hangs on what seems such a trifling bit of
evidence; and as you said this gentleman recommended your brother to
come to this particular place----"
"You thought he had an _arriere pensee_. I am afraid you are quite
wrong. I cannot see how Mr. Haldane could possibly serve any ends of his
own by compassing my brother's destruction," she said, evidently with
ironical gravity. "Besides, I hardly think that either he or his agent
would have troubled to carry away an empty basin as a momento of the
deed."
"The people all declare that no stranger passed through the village on
that day," put in Claud.
"No; and none of the inhabitants walked out towards the farm in the
afternoon except Miss Brabourne and her maid. I have ascertained that
past a doubt. I don't see any daylight nowhere," said poor Mr. Dickens,
becoming ungrammatical in his despair.
Claud could not but echo the remark. He walked over to Edge Willoughby
in the afternoon with the same dreary bulletin. His sister was still
there; she was anxious not to leave till the crisis was over, and her
hostesses were proud to keep her. Elaine he scarcely saw; she was
practising. He declined to stay to tea, as the good ladies urgently
invited him. With a mind less absorbed he might have found them and
their niece most excellent entertainment for a few idle hours; but, as
it was, he was only anxious to get back to the farm, while every hour
might bring the final change and crisis in the young artist's condition.
Was everything to remain so shrouded in mystery? he wondered. Was there
to be no further light shed on the details of so mysterious a case?
Would Allonby die and go down in silence to the grave, unable to name
his murderer, or to give any hint as to the motive of so vile an
assault? Over all these things did he ponder as he leaned against the
stile, and saw with unseeing eyes the loveliness of the dying day change
and deepen over the misty hollow of the valley.
He looked at his watch. It was past eight o'clock, and the quiet of dusk
was settling over everything. He wondered what was passing in the
sick-room--he longed to be there, but did not like to go, lest he might
disturb the privacy of a brother and sister's last moments. But he did
wish he could persuade the pale Wynifred to take some rest--she had
never closed her eyes during the twenty-four hours she had been at
Poole.
As these thoughts travelled through his mind, he heard a slight sound,
and, raising his eyes, saw the subject of his meditations emerge from
the open farmhouse door. She did not see him, and moved slowly forward,
with her eyes fixed on the western sky. Down the little path she passed,
and then stepped upon the grass of the little lawn, and, with a long
sigh almost like a sob, sat down upon the turf, and buried her face in
her hands.
"Was it all over?" Claud wondered, as he stood hesitatingly by the
stile. "Should he go to her, or should he leave her to the privacy of
her grief?"
Unable to decide, he waited a few moments, and presently saw her raise
her head again, and look around her like one who took in for the first
time the fact of her surroundings.
Stretching her hand, she gathered some white pinks from the garden
border and inhaled their spicy fragrance; and Claud, slowly approaching,
diffidently crossed the grass to where she sat.
"Good evening," he said, raising his hat politely.
"Good evening," she said, "and good news at last. I know you will be
glad to hear. He is sleeping beautifully. Nurse and Dr. Forbes sent me
away to get some rest, and I came out here into this air--this reviving
air."
"You don't know how glad I am," said Claud, from the bottom of his
heart. "I was so anxious; it seemed as if that terrible fever must wear
him out. But he'll do well now. Let me wish you joy."
"Thank you," she said, with a smile, and her eyes fixed far away on the
distance. "I feel like thanking everyone to-night--my whole heart is
made up of thanksgiving. You don't know what Osmond is to us girls. We
are orphans."
"Ah! indeed!" said Claud, giving a sympathetic intonation to the
commonplace words.
"Yes; the loss of him would have been----"
She stopped short, and, after a pause, began to talk fast, as though the
relaxed strain of her feelings made it imperative that she should pour
out her heart to somebody.
"I had been sitting all the afternoon with my heart full of such
ingratitude," she said. "I felt as if all the beauty was gone out of the
world, and all the heart out of life. You know
'The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.'
I could not help thinking of that, and of how true it was, as I watched
the little red bits of cloud swimming in the blue, and it kept ringing
in my head till I thought I must say it out loud--
'Another race has been, and other palms are won.'
I do not want him, my brother, to win his palm yet; I wanted to look at
sunsets with him again, and hear him enjoy this beauty as he can enjoy
it--so thoroughly. Oh, we are very selfish in wanting to keep people we
love on earth, when they might win their palms! But it is only human
nature after all, you know; and I do think Osmond's life is a happy one,
though it is so full of care."
"I am sure it must be," said Claud, quietly, as he sat down on the grass
beside her. "Life is a pleasant thing to every man who is young and has
good health, more especially if he has love to brighten his lot. I think
your brother a fortunate man."
"You would think him a very brave one, if you knew him better."
"Fortitude runs in the family, apparently."
She looked at him a moment, but made no reply to his compliment; her manner seemed to convey the idea that she was rather annoyed.
"I am afraid I have offended you," he said.
"Oh, no," she answered, laughing a little; "only what you said gave me
a queer feeling of helplessness. It was not true; I have no fortitude;
but, just because you said it of me, it seemed to make it impossible
for me to set you right, because you would have thought my denial an
empty protestation, designed to make you say it again, with more
decision; so I thought it better to let it drop."
"Do you think we are the best judges of our own courage, or, in short,
of our own capabilities any way?" asked Mr. Cranmer, following her
example by gathering a few pinks and putting them in his button-hole.
"I don't know; I think we ought to be--what do you think about it?"
asked she, evidently with a genuine interest in the subject itself, and
none to spare for Claud Cranmer.
It was strange how this manner of hers non-plussed him. He was
accustomed enough to hear girls discuss abstract topics, inward
feelings, and the reciprocity of emotion--who in these days is not? But
in his experience the process was always intended to serve as a delicate
vehicle for flirtation, and however much the two people so occupied
might generalise verbally, they always mentally referred to the secret
feelings of their own two selves, and nobody else.
He felt that Miss Allonby expected him to give a well thought out and
adequate answer to her question, while he had been merely trifling with
the subject, and had absolutely no intention of entering upon a serious
discussion.
He hesitated, therefore, in his reply, and at last calmly remarked that
he believed he knew his faults, intimately--he saw so much of them; but
that his acquaintance with his virtues was so slight that he scarcely
knew them by sight much less by heart.
She laughed, a clear fresh laugh of appreciation; but objected that this
was not a fair answer.
"But, perhaps," said she, "you are one of those who don't think it right
to analyse their own emotions?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know about thinking it right," he said. "Of course I have to do
it, or pretend to do it, if I don't wish to be voted a fool by everyone
I meet. And that reminds me, I have discovered, here in these wilds, a
young lady who never even heard of the current topics of the day--who,
far from dissecting the sentiments of her inmost being, does not even
know herself the possessor of such a morbid luxury as an inmost being.
You ought to see her; she is the most curious sample of modern young
lady-hood it was ever my lot to meet. She has the mind and manners of
an intelligent girl of ten; my sister tells me she is nineteen, but I
really can scarcely believe it. She lives with some maiden aunts who
have brought her to this pass between them. My sister is enthusiastic
about her, and most anxious to have the pleasing task of teaching this
backward young idea how to shoot. If she is as free from the follies as
she is from the graces of girlhood, she is certainly unique."
"You make me very anxious to see her. She must be like one of Walter
Besant's heroines--Phyllis, in the "Golden Butterfly," or one of those.
I have often wondered if such a girl existed. Is she charming?"
"N--no. I don't think I could truthfully say I thought so; and yet she
has all the makings of a beauty in her; but you can't attempt
conversation--she wouldn't understand a word you said. She has seen
nothing, heard nothing, read nothing. That last remark is absolutely,
not relatively true; she really has read nothing. It gives, one an
oppressive sense of responsibility; one has to pick one's words, for
fear of being the first to suggest evil to such a primeval mind."
Wyn laughed softly, and took a deliberate look at him as he lay on the
turf. He had put up his arms over his head, and looked very contented
and a good deal amused. He enjoyed chattering to a girl who had some
sense, and was for the moment almost prepared to pardon the paleness and
thinness, and even the unconsciousness of his companion, which latter
characteristic affected him far the most seriously of the three.
"Most undeveloped heroines turn out very charming when some one takes
them in hand, and sophisticates them," said the girl. "I wonder if your
discovery would do the same?"
"I can't say. She has a very fine complexion," said Claud,
inconsequently. "Her skin is rather the color of that pinky reach of sky
yonder. What a night it is! It feels like Gray's elegy to me. I wonder
if you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I know. What an amount of quotations come swarming to one's mind
on such a night! It is a consolation, I think, in the midst of one's own
utter inadequacy to express one's feelings, to feel that some one else
has done it for you so beautifully as Gray."
A step behind them on the gravel, and, turning quickly, Wyn beheld Dr.
Forbes.
"Get up, young woman, get up this minute. I sent you to rest, not to
come and amuse this young sprig of nobility with your conversation. Very
nice for him, I've no manner of doubt; but, nice or not, you've got to
bid him good-night and go to bed."
Wyn rose at once, but attempted to plead.
"I have been resting, doctor, indeed--drinking in this lovely air. I had
to go out of doors--one must always go out of doors when one is feeling
strongly, I think--roofs are so in the way. I wanted to look right up as
far as that one star, and to send my heart up as far as my eyes could
reach!"
The doctor looked down at the face raised to him--pale with watching,
but alive with happiness.
"I'm of the opinion, Miss Allonby," said he, with a mouth sterner than
his eyes, "that if the Honorable Claud Cranmer finds you so interesting
when you're worn out with waking and fasting, you'll be simply
irresistible after a good night's rest."
The girl had vanished almost before this dreadful remark was concluded.
The doctor chuckled as he watched her flight.
"There's girls and girls," he remarked, sententiously; "some take to
their heels when you joke them about the men. Some don't. I thought
she'd go."
"I had rather," said Claud, nettled, "that you indulged your humor at
anyone's expense but mine."
"Oh, that'll never hurt you," said the doctor, placidly, rubbing his
eye-glasses with his red silk handkerchief, "nor her either. Young
people get so fine-drawn and finikin now-a-days."
Claud smiled.
"I perceive, doctor, that you do not hold with the modern ideas
concerning introspection. You are a refreshing exception. I regret that
I was born a generation too late to adopt your habits of thought."
"Habits of thought! Why, t'would trouble you mighty little to adopt all
I've got," was the genial reply. "I've avoided all habits of thought all
my life, and that's what makes me so useful a man. I just think what I
think without referring to any book to tell me which way to begin.
Hoot! I'd never think on tram-lines, as you do: I go clean across
country, that's my way, and I'm bound to get to the end long before you,
in your coach-and-four.
"Yes," conceded Claud, "I expect you would; that is, if you didn't come
a cropper on the way."