HOW IT CAME ABOUT.
“I wonder now,” said Mrs. Saltren to herself, “whatever has made the
raspberry jam so mouldy? Was the fruit wet when it was picked? I cannot
remember. If it was, it weren’t my fault, but the weather on which no
one can depend. I wanted to send up some to Tryphœna Welsh, but now I
can’t, unless I spoon off the mould on the top of one and fill up from
the bottom of another. It is a pity and a waste of confidence and a
sapping of faith when one goes, makes jam, and spends coals and sugar
and a lot of perspiration, and gets nothing for it but mould an inch
thick. I must send Tryphœna Welsh something, for if Giles, as he tells
me, has gone to take up with writing for the papers, he’ll need the help
of James, and there’s no way of getting at men’s hearts but through
their stomachs. It was tiresome Giles writing to my brother and not
saying a word to me about it. I could have told him James was not in
town, so no need for him to address a letter to him at Shepherd’s Bush;
he went after seeing us, to stay with one literary friend and then
another, so he won’t have Giles’ letter till he returns to town. That
accounts for my boy receiving no answer. Giles never saw him when he was
here, which was tiresome. It is vexing too about the hams. I’d have sent
one up to James, if they had not been spoiled, along of the knuckles
being outside the bags, so that the flies walked in as they might at a
house door. I pickled those hams in treacle and ale and juniper. I made
paper bags for them, and what more could I do? It was no fault of mine
if the hams got spoiled. It was the fault of the hams being too big for
my paper bags, so that the bone stuck out. And then the weather—it was
encouraging to the flies. After the raspberry jam and the hams, one
wants comfort. I’ll get a drop.”
But before she had reached the corner cupboard, the door opened, and her
husband came in, looking more strange, white, and wild than ever. He
staggered to the table, rolling in his walk as if he were drunk, and
held to the furniture to stay himself, fearing to take a step
unsupported. His face was so livid, his eyes so full of something like
terror, that a thrill of fear ran through Mrs. Saltren—she thought he
was mad.
“What is it, Saltren? Why do you look at me in that fashion? I was not
going to my cupboard for anything but my knitting. I said to myself, I
will knit a warm jersey for Giles against the winter, and I put the pins
and the wool in there. Now don’t look so queer. Are you ill?”
“Marianne,” he said slowly, then drew a long breath that sounded
hoarsely in his throat as he inhaled it, “Marianne, you are avenged.”
“What do you mean? Are you referring to the hams or the raspberry jam?”
“Marianne,” he repeated, “the word has come to pass. The hand has been
stretched forth and has smitten the evil doer. The mighty is cast out of
his seat and laid even with the dust.”
“I don’t know what you’re a-talking about, Stephen. I concern myself
about common things, and about prophecy no more than I do about
moonshine. The jams get mouldy and the hams ain’t fit to eat.”
“Did I not tell you, Marianne, of what I saw and heard that Sabbath
day?”
“I gave no heed to it.”
“It is fulfilled. The purposes of heaven fulfil themselves in a
wonderful and unexpected way when we are least awaiting it. He is dead.”
“Who is dead?”
“Lord Lamerton.”
“Lord Lamerton!” Marianne Saltren started.
“How is it that? Where, Stephen, and when?”
“He is lying dead beneath the cliff.”
“Good heavens! How came that about?”
“He was cast down by the hand of an avenging justice. You have been
avenged.”
“I—I have nothing to complain of—to have avenged on Lord Lamerton.”
“Nothing of late, but you told me of the dishonour, of the wrong——”
Mrs. Saltren uttered a cry of horror.
“Stephen, for God’s sake!—you do not mean?—you know, you know that I
named no names.”
“I knew, Marianne, to whom you referred. I knew it at once. Then I
understood why you gave your son the Christian name he bears.”
“Oh, Stephen, it was not that.”
“Yes, Marianne, it was. It all hangs together. I saw how he, Lord
Lamerton, was constrained to make much of the boy, to spend money on
him, to educate and make a gentleman of him, and take him into his
house.”
“Stephen! Stephen! this is all a mistake.”
“No, Marianne, it is no mistake. I see it all as plainly as I saw the
angel flying in the midst of heaven bearing the Everlasting Gospel in
his right hand, which he cast into the water before me.”
“I was talking nonsense. I am—Oh, Stephen! What did you say?—he—Lord
Lamerton is not dead?”
“He is dead. He is lying dead on the path.”
Mrs. Saltren was seized with a fit of trembling, as if an ague were come
over her. She stared at her husband, terror stricken, and could not
speak. A horrible thought, a sickening dread, had swept over her, and
she shrank from asking a question which might receive an answer
confirming her half-formulated fears.
“The judgment has tarried long, but the sentence has overtaken the
sinner at last. Now, after all, he has been made to suffer for what he
once did to you. He cast you down, and with like measure has it been
meted to him. He is cast down.”
“He did nothing to me.”
“You are ready to forgive him now, and to forget the past, because you
are a Christian. But eternal justice never forgets, it waits and
watches, and when least expected, strikes down.”
“Oh, Stephen! What are you thinking of? You listened to my idle talk.
You fancy that Lord Lamerton was—was the father of Giles, but he was
not. Indeed, indeed he was not.”
“He was not!” echoed the captain, standing stiffly with outstretched
arms and clenched fists, a queer ungainly figure, jointless, as if made
of wooden sticks. “You yourself told me that he was.”
“I named no names. Indeed I never said he was—why, Stephen, how could he
have been, when you know as well as I do, that he was out of England for
three years at that time; he was _attaché_ as they call it at the
embassy in—I forget, some German Court, whilst I was at Orleigh with the
dowager Lady Lamerton.”
The captain stood still, thinking; as one frozen and fast to the spot.
“Besides,” put in the woman, with a flicker of her old inordinate vanity
and falsehood, in spite of her present fear, “you think very bad of me
if you suppose I’d have took up with any one less than a viscount.”
A long silence ensued, in which the tick of the clock sounded loudly and
harshly.
“Marianne,” he said at last, hoarsely.
“It is all your fault and stupidity,” said his wife hastily. “You have
no judgment, and a brain on fire with religious craze. If you would but
behave like an ordinary, sensible man and think reasonably, you would
never have fallen into this mistake. You had only to think a moment
reasonably, and you’d know that it was not, and could not be a man, and
he only the honourable, and like to be no better than a baron, many
hundred miles away at a foreign court, and the postage then not twopence
ha’penny as ’tis now.”
“Marianne,” said Saltren again hoarsely, and he took a step nearer to
her, and grasped her wrist. “Marianne, answer me,” Saltren spoke with a
wild flicker in his eyes as though jack-o’-lanterns were dancing over
those deep mysterious pools, “as you will have to answer at the great
day of account—is Giles _not_ the son of Lord Lamerton?”
“Of course not, I never said so. Who but a fool would suppose he was,
and a week’s post and foreign languages between? He never left—Munich I
think it was, but it may have been Munchausen, and I never left Orleigh
all the three years. Besides—I never said it was. I named no names.”
Now a shudder ran through Saltren, a convulsive quake, but it was over
instantaneously. Then, with his iron hand he pressed the woman’s wrist
downwards.
“Kneel,” he said, “kneel.”
“You are hurting me, Stephen! let go!”
“Kneel,” he repeated, “kneel.”
He forced her from her feet to her knees, before him, she was too
frightened to disobey; and her vain efforts to parry reproof, and lay
the blame on him, had been without success, he had not noticed even the
mean evasions.
“Marianne,” he said solemnly, in his deepest, most tremulous tones.
“Tell me—who was the father of Giles?”
“That I will not—never—no, I cannot tell.”
“You shall, I will hold you here, with my hand clenched, and not let you
go—No, never, not all the coming night, not all next day, all the night
following—for ever, and ever, until you confess.”
She stooped towards the floor, to hide her face from his searching eyes,
with the lambent flame in them that frightened her. Then she looked
furtively towards the window, and next to the door, into the back
kitchen, seeking means of escape.
“It is in vain for you to try to get away,” said the captain slowly.
“Here I hold you, and tighten my grasp, till you scream out the truth.
They used to do that in England. They slipped the hands in iron gloves
and the feet in iron boots, and screwed till the blood ran out of
fingers and foot-ends, and the criminal told the truth. So will I screw
the truth out of you, out of your hands. You cannot escape. Was the
father of Giles a nobleman?”
“He was not the highest of all—not a duke.”
“What was he then?”
She was silent, and strove to twist her hands away. He held both now. He
compressed his clutch. She cried out, “I cannot bear this.”
“What was his title?”
“You are hurting me, Stephen.”
“Was he a nobleman at all?”
With hesitation, and another writhe to get away—“N—no.”
“Then, all that story you told of the deception practised upon you was a
lie?”
“Not a lie—it was a joke. James was not such a fool as you, he took it
as such. But you—”
Then Stephen Saltren drew his wife to her feet, and strode to the door,
dragging her with him. She screamed. She supposed he was about to kill
her; but he turned, and said gloomily, “I will not hurt you, I want to
show you what you have done—with your _joke_.”
He forced open the door, and drew her through the garden, out at the
wicket gate, along the path up the coombe. There were two ways thence to
Orleigh Park, one down the coombe to the main valley and high-road, and
round a shoulder of hill; the other way by a steep climb up a zig-zag
path in the side of the hill to the top of the crag, thence over a
stretch of some thirty acres of furzy down into the plantations and so
into the park through them. The tortuous ascent began at the cottage,
Chillacot, but Saltren drew his wife past the point whence it rose to
where the evening sun cast the black shadow of the crag or “cleave”
across the glen, and there—lying on broken, fallen stones, with his
hands outstretched, his face to the clear sky, lay Lord Lamerton, dead.
Marianne Saltren cowered back, she was too frightened by what she saw to
care to approach; but her husband’s vice-like grasp did not relax for
all her weeping and entreaties. He compelled her to come close to the
fallen man.
His finger ends buried themselves in her wrists, and checked her pulse,
that her hands became numb, and tingled.
He remained silent, for long, looking at the dead man, his own face
scarcely less white, his muscles hardly less rigid, his features as set,
and more drawn. There was no sunlight in the narrow valley where they
stood under the great slate cleave, but above at the edge of the
opposite hill were gorse bushes so covered with golden bloom that they
seemed to be but one yellow flower, and on them the evening sun rested
lovingly. Above, ghost-like in the blue sky, was a filmy disc—the moon,
only perceivable from the deep valley, unseen by those who stood in the
sunlight. The rooks were congregating in the wood at the bottom of the
valley. That wood was a favourite resort to which the birds from several
rookeries came every evening before set of sun, and chattered
incessantly, and made as much noise as if they were members of the House
of Commons discussing Irish matters. The sound issuing from that wood
was strident like the rattle of a lawn-mower.
A blue-bottle fly was buzzing round the dead man. Saltren saw it, it
made him uneasy; he let go one of his wife’s hands and with his
disengaged hand drew his kerchief from his throat, a black silk one, and
whisked it to and fro, to drive away the insect. “I cannot tell,” he
said, “heaven knows. If it had not been for what you said, for your
amusing joke, he might now be living. I cannot tell. The ways of
Providence are dark. We are but instruments used, and not knowing for
what purpose used. I cannot tell.”
He put the kerchief to his face and wiped it.
“I was yonder,” he pointed upwards with his chin, and then whisked his
kerchief in the direction of the top of the cliff. “I was on the down,
and when I least expected it, and at the moment when I was not thinking
of him, I saw him striding towards me, and when he came up with me, he
was out of breath. I was standing then at the edge of the cleave. I was
looking down into the coombe at my house, and I was in a dream. When I
saw him, I did not stir. I would not go to meet him. I let him come to
me. And when I saw him turn out of his path and cross the down to me,
then I knew the hand out of the clouds pointed the way, and he followed
not knowing to what it pointed. He came close to me, to the very edge of
the rock, and I did not budge one inch. He had been walking fast, and
spoke pantingly, in a strangely mixed manner, and he asked some question
about Giles. I do not remember what he asked, but at the sound of his
voice and of that name, then the fire that was in my heart broke out,
and I was blind and mad. My blood roared in my ears and head, as the sea
roars and beats against the coast in a gale. Then I shouted out all I
knew; I told him that Giles was his son, and that God would call him to
account for his sins and his injustice and cruelties; and he was as one
amazed, that neither spoke nor moved till I raised my hand to strike him
on the breast to rouse him to answer, and then, before ever I touched
him, he stepped back and went over the cleave.”
Then Marianne Saltren uttered a piercing shriek and tossed, and put her
teeth to her husband’s hand to bite at the fingers and force them to
relax their grasp.
“There are people coming,” she screamed, “I will tell them all that you
killed him. Let me go. I cannot bear your touch.”
“You accursed woman, you daughter of the old father of lies,” said
Saltren between his teeth, and the bubbles formed in his mouth as he
spoke through his teeth, “I will not let you go till you have told me
who was the father of Giles.”
Suddenly, however, he let go her wrist, but she had her liberty for a
moment only. He had drawn his black silk neckerchief round her throat,
and twisted the ends about his fingers under her chin.
“Marianne, I killed him. Yet not I. I am but the executioner under
Providence. What heaven judges that I carry out. And now I do not care
if I kill you, after I killed him. I will kill you, I will strangle you,
unless you confess who was the father of Giles.”
He was capable of doing what he threatened.
“It were best for you,” he said, “wicked woman, to suffer here a little
pain, than burn eternally. Confess, or I will send you into the world
beyond.” She was quiet for a moment, desisting from her useless
struggle.
“You will release me if I say?”
“I will do so.”
“He was a wonderfully handsome man then, a very fine fellow, the
handsomest I ever saw.”
“Who was he?”
“There were others besides me lost their hearts to him.”
“Who was he?”
“I hear voices below the house. People are coming. You will be taken and
hung because you killed him.”
“Who was he?”
Saltren did not move a muscle. “Let them come, and they will find you
dead also, beside him.”
“You cannot judge of what he was by what he is now.”
“His name?”
Again she looked to right and left, in spite of the grip under her chin,
and made a start to escape, but instantly he tightened the kerchief and
she became red as blood.
“Marianne,” said Saltren. “His name?”
He relaxed the pressure. She listened, no—she heard no voices, only
mingled cawing of rooks and thumping of pulses in her ears.
“If you must know?”
“I must.”
“It was—Samuel Ceely.”