Major Rockley's tacit acknowledgment of the truth of the charge against
him, and the piecing together of the links, showed how, on the night of
Lady Teigne's death, he had been absent from the mess for two hours,
during which Fred Denville lay drunk in the officers' quarters--made
drunk by the Major's contrivance, so that his uniform could be used.
How too, so as further to avert suspicion, the Major had the fiendish
audacity to take the party to perform the serenade where the poor old
votary of fashion lay dead.
The truth, so long in coming to the surface, prevailed at last, and
Stuart Denville, broken and prostrated, found himself the idol of the
crowd from Saltinville, who collected to see him freed from the county
gaol.
"To the barracks, Claire," he whispered. "Let us get away from here."
They were at the principal hotel, and Claire was standing before him,
pale and trembling with emotion.
"Your blessing and forgiveness first," she murmured. "Oh, father, that
I could be so blind!"
"So blind?" he said tenderly, as he took her in his arms. "No: say so
noble and so true. Did you not stand by me when you could not help
believing me guilty, and I could not speak? But we are wasting time. I
have sent word to poor Fred. My child, I have his forgiveness to ask
for all the past."
They met the regimental surgeon as they drove up.
"You have come quickly," he said. "Did you get my message?"
"Your message?" cried Claire, turning pale. "Is--is he worse?"
The surgeon bowed his head.
"I had hopes when you were here last," he said gently; "but there has
been an unfavourable turn. The poor fellow has been asking for you,
Miss Denville; you had better come at once."
He led the way to the infirmary, where the finely-built, strong man lay
on the simple pallet, his face telling its own tale more eloquently than
words could have spoken it.
"Ah, little sister," he said feebly, as his face lit up with a happy
smile. "I wanted you. You will not mind staying with me and talking.
Tell me," he continued, as Claire knelt down by his bed's head, "is it
all true, or have they been saying I am innocent to make it easier--now
I am going away?"
"No, no, Fred," said Claire; "it is true that you are quite innocent."
"Is this the truth?" he said feebly.
"The truth," whispered Claire; "and you must live--my brother--to help
and protect me."
"No," he said sadly; "it is too late. I'm glad though that I did not
kill the old woman. It seemed all a muddle. I was drunk that night.
Poor old dad! Can't they set him free?"
"My boy!--Fred!--can you forgive me?" cried Denville, bending over the
face that gazed up vacantly in his.
"Who's that?" said the dying man sharply. "I can't see. Only you,
Clairy--who's that? Father?"
"My son!--my boy! Fred, speak to me--forgive--"
There was a terrible silence in the room as the old man's piteous cry
died out, and he sank upon his knees on the other side of the narrow
bed, and laid his wrinkled forehead upon his son's breast.
"Forgive?--you, father?" said Fred at last, in tones that told how
rapidly the little life remaining was ebbing away. "It's all right,
sir--all a mistake--my life--one long blunder. Take care of Clairy
here--and poor little May."
"My boy--the mistake has been mine," groaned Denville, "and I am
punished for it now."
"No, no--old father--take care--Clairy here."
He seemed to doze for a few minutes, and Denville rose to go and ask the
surgeon if anything could be done.
"Nothing but make his end as peaceful as you can. Ah, my lad, you
here?"
"Yes," said Morton. "How is he?"
"Alive," said the surgeon bluntly; and he turned away.
Fred Denville seemed to revive as soon as he was left alone with his
sister; and, looking at her fixedly, he seemed to be struggling to make
out whose was the face that bent over him.
"Claire--little sister," he said at last, with a smile of rest and
content. "Clairy--Richard Linnell? Tell me."
"Oh, Fred, Fred, hush!" she whispered.
"No, no! Tell me. I can see you clearly now. It would make me
happier. I'm going, dear. A fine, true-hearted fellow; and he loves
you. Don't let yours be a wrecked life too."
"Fred! dear Fred!"
"Let it all be cleared up now--you two. You do love him, sis?"
"Fred! dear Fred!" she sobbed; "with all my heart."
"Ah!" he said softly, with a sigh of satisfaction. "Ask him to come
here. No; bring the old man back--and Morton. Don't cry, my little
one; it's--it's nothing now, only the long watch ended, and the time for
rest."
In another hour he had fallen asleep as calmly as a weary child--sister,
father, and brother at his side; and it seemed but a few hours later to
Morton Denville that he was marching behind the bearers with the funeral
march ringing in his ears, and the muffled drums awaking echoes in his
heart--a heart that throbbed painfully as the farewell volley was fired
across the grave.
For Fred Denville's sin against his officers was forgiven, and Colonel
Lascelles was one of the first to follow him to the grave.
Volume Three, Chapter XXVIII.