September, season of fulfillment, that seventh month of the old Roman
calendar now held for me a wonderful significance. Here was August with
its dusky brush spreading over field and forest a sizing of brown,
nature’s preparation for the coating of white to be laid on only a
couple of months later in this northern clime. Harvesting was well
along and I had time to build on the outer end of the pier a small
artistic summer house. There I rested evenings in the pleasantness of
the usually-present river-cooled breezes and dreamed.
News from England was disquieting. Hugh’s entailed patrimony would pass
from the hands of the rightful heir in September and my friend would
bear, to his death, a detested stain. Could, or rather, would he live
his life with this mark upon him?
The first of September found me in Toronto before a black-gowned judge
pleading and not in vain, for the parole of an unfortunate. Tardy
cutting of legal tape made my sojourn in that city so uncertain that
there was no conveyance awaiting me at Laketon when three days later I
arrived there; thus I resumed acquaintanceship with my driver of a year
ago--a year, but seemingly a decade.
He welcomed me to a seat on the coach beside him after stowing away the
mail bag for Valleyford: became the questioner, reversing our previous
roles.
“What has become of Craighead?”
“In Toronto recovering from an operation,” I replied and he looked the
suspicion which he a few minutes later voiced, “Some say that he has
been done away with and that you have taken his place; guess I need not
have been anxious about you,” and he shifted his position further to
the left.
When we had swung across the bridge into the village, although I had
endeavored to enlighten my friend as to the work at Craighead Hall, I
felt doubt as to whether or not I was cleared as a murder suspect. At
best, I remained to him a usurper.
My horse, Hugh’s, was at the hotel stables. As I passed the little red
school house and approached the white church, my mind was engrossed
with thoughts of the events of my year’s work in this, at first, land
of enchantment, turned place of sorrows, and through no fault of mine.
Evening shadows were falling as I passed the church and cast my eyes
over to the far corner of the little cemetery.
Was I taking on Hugh’s affliction? There he was--leaning on the paling
surrounding John Blank’s grave, just as when I first set eyes on him!
I reined up my mount so violently that even before the beast could be
quieted Hugh had walked over to the road fence, was leaning on it as
though tired, and when I came alongside, extended his hand, listlessly
and said something in greeting which I could not catch.
At my effusive “God bless you old man, I’m glad to see you again,” he
merely smiled a sad, wan smile.
“The spirit seems to have left the man,” was my thought as we rode side
by side, he on Elaine’s horse which had been tied in the church-shed.
He would not trust himself on his own mount which I had proffered.
It was not the Hugh of last September, neither was it the crazed man as
he had returned from England. This cross rested heavily on his weakened
shoulders. I would gladly have helped bear it with him.
His voice was a whisper as he talked and though I learned that
the whole party had returned two days previously, I hesitated at
questioning, not wishing to put upon him the effort necessary in making
reply.
I could discern, even though his riding stock was high, a livid scar
made by the teeth of his dogs, extended by the surgeons.
Our ride into the plantation was almost as silent as was our first walk
over the same road. Leaves were falling; the sadness of autumn crept
into my blood and it was an unhappy Montrose who walked with his host
into the upper hall. Even the thought of again seeing _her_ failed in
dispelling a monstrous depression.
She stood near the hearth in the library, one arm about Hugh, to
whom she was talking in a low tone when, after preparation in the
matter of dinner clothes, I went down to dine. I had never seen her
so bewilderingly beautiful. The months in care of the mind-healer had
certainly worked wonders and, as I took both her extended hands in
mine, reason seemed in the balance. I had difficulty in preventing
myself from drawing her into just one embrace, come what might.
Solicitude for Hugh held her close to him and it was not until the
following afternoon that opportunity came.
She proposed that we should pick the apples from her tree; even then
Hugh made a third party. The telling to Hugh of events intimate to last
year’s picking brought from him a smile but he was silent and when we
had gathered the meager crop afforded in what the gardener termed an
off-year for fruit, and Elaine and I had each taken up two baskets,
the total yield, and started for the vaults, he left us.
Sliding back the great oak door at the north end of the east wall of
the house we were in a corridor lighted only from the open doorway.
On the left was solid masonry; on the right, hewn rock with doors of
limestone showing at intervals of about twelve feet heavy wrought iron
hinges; overhead a vaulted ceiling of stone.
A number was painted on each door.
“Here is my storeroom,” Elaine said, in a strained voice, holding out a
huge key.
Neither of us had spoken after we entered the vault’s corridor. I shall
not attempt to explain the reason for her silence. I simply could not
speak, so intense were my emotions.
The key fell to the stone floor. I started toward her, whispering her
name. She put both hands over her eyes as I stopped, then turned and
fled down the corridor.
“Fool! Fool! How I have presumed--now I must quietly slip away from
this house and try to forget. She will never forgive what she must have
correctly interpreted as an act beyond the bounds of good breeding,”
was my thought.
The ignominy of it; could she not trust herself alone with me, her
brother’s friend? In my estimation, I fell far below the status of the
most unpromising of the Hall’s “guests.”
Listlessly I pulled back the vault door, deposited the baskets on the
floor and, utterly exhausted from surcharge of feeling, leaned back
against the door of the inner vault. My next sensation was that of a
man struck by a falling tree.
I had been pitched forward and was lying on my face, my feet pinned
beneath some heavy weight. A musty odor came into the vault. The upper
half of the stone door had fallen outward and only the baskets of
apples had saved me from a terrible crushing.
With difficulty I extricated myself; my first thought the apples,
ruined irretrievably and through my carelessness. I think I endeavored
to remove the stone, but desisted when I heard voices. No, there was
nothing of the supernatural about one voice. The sound came from the
inner vault.
Could I mistake Dr. Parsons’ cheery tones? They came again, then all
was silent.
I pulled the lower half of the door out onto the other. It fell with a
startling crash and a cloud of dust. Then I stepped through the portal,
but the room was dark.
I called “Dr. Parsons!” but there was no response.
I struck a match and the first object that met my eye was a huddled
form, apparently that of a man near the farther wall. The match
expired. I turned and ran out into the open air.
Hastily I went to my room via the veranda, secured two lamps and
hurrying back down the outer stairway was greeted with “Holy virgins!
Where are we going at four o’clock daylight with our lamps trimmed?”
from Dr. Parsons, the man of all others whom I wished to see.
“Come on, doctor, there’s a dead man in the vaults,” I exclaimed.
“You look crazy but I’ll go with you,” the doctor replied and added as
we halted on reaching the open door, to light the lamps, “Hope it’s
only the Chinaman. Don’t like to think of any of the other fellows
snooping around--they’re too decent.”
Parsons stepped over the broken door, holding a lamp high. Quite a mass
of debris was scattered over the floor of the northwest corner of the
room. Near it was what appeared to be a clothed human form. I could see
a head with reddish hair, the top of the head, as the chin rested on
the chest and back of the object was a small brass-bound leather trunk,
against the well.
From Parsons came, “Lightning must have struck above this place,” as he
looked at the shattered stone some of which was about the legs of the
partially recumbent figure.
“Yes, yes, last spring. It struck the air-vent when the tree was
destroyed.” I excitedly replied and then for the first time realized
that the voices which I had heard in the vault came through this pipe
from the orchard above.
“Then this fellow must have been in here since then. Probably killed
him.”
By this time, Parsons had his hand on the shoulder of the man and was
saying, “Holy Joseph! This has been here a long time, mummified, cured,
or I never saw the Catacombs of Rome.”
I stood mute while my friend kept up a continuous flow of fragmentary
remarks as he went on with his examination.
“Good thing they elected me coroner; looks like murder. No, by all
that’s holy, here we have it. A clean shot, in the right, out the left
temple,” and he picked up from the debris a small weapon. “English,
a bulldog, one chamber empty, a good shot,” and dropping the weapon,
proceeded to look inside the coat.
“Some sport--employed the best tailor in London ten years ago,” as he
examined markings on a pocket.
A yellowed parchment crackled as the doctor moved the form. Parsons
picked it up.
“Now what! Here is a certified copy of the birth-record of Hugh
Hogarth Blankleigh, London, England; queer, they don’t usually carry
credentials, these birds--”
I fairly yelled.
“Hogarth, James Hogarth--at last I have found you, too late, but I have
found you,” and then it dawned on me that the claimant in England must
be a fraud, a part of a conspiracy, that a cable to McFarlane would
secure a postponement or if decision had been rendered, a reopening of
the case.
“Wait a minute, don’t get panicky,” the doctor called as I snatched the
parchment from his hand and started to run from the room.
I stopped, not because commanded, but because, as the doctor was
reading the certificate I had caught on the reverse side the name
“James Hogarth” among a dozen or so lines of writing in soft pencil.
The name stood out as though embossed.
“Here is something!” I said, trying to decipher the irregular lines.
“Read it, man,” Parsons exclaimed as I stood silent, staring at the
thing--the last words of a dying man.
Turning closer to the light I read:
“God how I have yelled.
“Air good but so damned thirsty.
“In the dark soon--somebody may hear.”
The “may” was underscored and from the next writing it appeared that he
had extinguished the light and slept.
“Must be the second day or night--matches, but must save oil. It shakes
light.
“Craighead has the laugh on James Hogarth, Esq., this time.
“No use yelling; I’m caught. Be a good sport, James, die game, Cousin
John took his standing, not a peep.
“He got her! God bless her; no man could have told me she was untrue
and lived--wonder how he died. I am sorry, yes, sorry that the double
damned door slammed.”
Evidently some time elapsed before the other lines were written as the
words were hard to decipher.
“Crazy as march hare.
“God! God! God! Must I die--body to the rats, soul to the devil, with
John and Jim?
“I wronged you, little Ruth, when I lied to your John, forgive--
“Afire--paying--coward--a pill from five-fingered dick--no pain.
Hurry--light splutters, but I’ll burn it.”
This, as nearly as we could decipher was the last message of the source
of all the Craighead-Blankleigh tragedy--a disappointed suitor who for
revenge and gain, for Hogarth was the next male heir to the entailed
estate, had evidently poisoned Blankleigh’s mind to desperation’s
breaking point, sending the jealous husband out to commit murder.
As I crouched beside the doctor, the better to get his aid in
deciphering, he broke the trend of my thought with, “Well, the poor
cuss, he probably deserved it, but I’m sorry. What brought him snooping
in here to be caught like the rat he was? What was he going to burn?
Why the birth certificate of course. That’s what brought him here.”
It had just then struck me also. The record of birth of Hugh in London
had been doctored--altered--pity I did not remember details of dates
so frequently repeated by McFarlane--but the certificate was all
important--it might restore Hugh to himself. That was the important
thing. What matter the property?
A great burden seemed to have fallen from my shoulders. Gladness came
to my heart. My long sojourn at this place found an excuse. What had
up to this moment been demanded of me seemed trivial. Here in the
finding of Hogarth and this document was accomplishment, my excuse for
intrusion into the intimate life of these people--the quest was ended.
“Let’s take the certificate to Hugh,” I exclaimed.
“Wait, Montrose, the Scotch crops out in you when money is to be
found--I must think.”
“Joy never kills; let’s find Hugh,” I said as I started up.
“Parrot stuff,” Parsons ejaculated. “Trouble kills; something must be
done with this.” Then he added, after a moment’s silence, during which
he looked at what was once a man’s form. “Go ahead, tell Hugh, wire
McFarlane. I’ll get Stanton; he’s silent as the grave, and this find
will be our secret. No use harrying Hugh or Elaine with a sight of
this; but I’ll take photographs; they may come in handy.”
The parchment was folded and safely in my pocket when I walked into
Hugh’s room. He was not about the house, so I found Hunt the secretary.
Together we framed a long message to McFarlane, embodying the entire
content of the birth certificate and a recital of the circumstances
of its finding, promising the proofs by mail. A few minutes later the
secretary was on his way to the village telegraph office.
I dared not delay, even though the certificate meant nothing more than
proof that the real claimant was here and not before the English court.
I found Hugh through hearing the dogs. They were in a remote corner
of the orchard near the river’s edge. She was sitting by his side and
the whole pack of hounds sported about them, joyous, and showing none
of the sense of fear which evidently brought about the tragedy in the
swamp.
“Hugh!” I called from a little distance. They were apparently talking
seriously as they both seemed startled. Elaine gave me one quick,
frightened glance, then hastened away, the hounds following, while Hugh
came toward me without a word.
“Important news, Hugh. I have found your birth certificate,” I blurted
out. My friend’s face paled and his hand shook as he took the yellowed
parchment and fairly devoured it with his eyes.
“Good God!” he whispered and I put an arm about him.
He staggered as though from a blow. I wondered then if joy does not
sometimes kill.
“Why, I am six months older than I thought I was” came from his lips
and then the import of that fact seemed to strike him, for the voice,
from a whisper broke into an unintelligible something which I cannot
adequately describe.
“I doubted her--fool--I doubted her,” was understandable, more from the
expression of his eyes than from the words.
Then he sank to the ground, burying his face in his hands.
I was quietly telling him the whole truth as to how Hogarth had been
found, reading the last expressed thoughts of that criminal, saying
that Hunt was well on his way with the message which would secure him
his father’s property--and name--in England.
His form ceased to heave and presently he arose, placed both hands on
my shoulders and said, the voice weak, but different.
“Gordon, now I can look you in the face. The strain has been great--I
have thought of ending it all.” Here he paused, then looking away
added, “’Twas my little sister--the suicide’s sufferings even in the
spirit world would have created no barrier. I thought only of her
sorrow.”
Then his mood changed and as we stood facing the broad river, the
very soul within him seemed to expand as he told me of his plans, now
assured for carrying out his great work in the land of his birth, all
sense of the injustice done his father and mother which filled my
thoughts, seemed for the moment forgotten.
He was the zealot, the emancipator, the friend of the friendless, and
his plans carried me along in the scheme.
I should be master of Craighead Hall, filling it with new “guests,”
strange faces, until the whole countryside should be peopled with
reborn men and the Parliament forced to take notice and lend its
approval.
“And I shall return soon and you must come over and see what we have
done at Blankleigh Manor,” brought me back to a realization of present
things.
I could not say him nay. I could not tell him then that I had made
up my mind to go away, that life here was agony; even though I loved
both the wonderful old plantation and the work--yes, both court and
managerial work--but I could not live under the strain--here.
Hugh was continuing, “But I must not stand idling. Dr. Parsons is
opportunely here; he has often expressed a desire to see England again.
I’ll take him with us and be off soon as we hear from McFarlane. I must
go to Elaine. You haven’t told her anything?” he called back as he
hurried toward the house while I aimlessly wandered over to the pier to
sit in the little summer house to think and brood.
After a time, as the sun sank low over the big hill where I had
listened to Hugh’s recital of his father’s sad history, a wonderful
picture spread itself before my senses. I could see this whole country,
now sparsely settled, teeming with life, useful activity, mills driven
by the harnessed power of the great river, artisans now rotting in
prison becoming an indispensable part of a nation’s progress; engineers
making a waterway from the upper lakes to the St. Lawrence, and power,
unlimited power--being carried throughout the Province--all through
my effort. And then my thoughts went back to her and I started up,
wide-awake, as she, all in white as I had first seen her, stood in the
open doorway.
Her hands were by her sides, a wistful, pleading look was in her
soulful, glorious eyes. I stood, irresolute.
“Gordon, I have come to you,” she whispered, and waited.
I could not--no I could not reply.
“Hughie said I should find you here--don’t you want me?” and she held
out her hands--
As my arms encircled her in a close embrace, there came to us, through
the quiet evening air, the song of the boom-gatherers returning from
work.
The Ave Maria, appealing, rising and falling in wonderful cadences to
the dip-dip of many paddles--it floated to us over the still waters, a
benison.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.