A BURIED SECRET.
Sir Norman stood on the brink of the cliff, and listened. There was not
much to hear--no more remarkable sound than might be caused by the fall
of a loose boulder, and the murmur of the surf partly disguised even
that. The tide was rising; in another half hour it would be dashing
against the base of the precipice.
The Baronet took his mare by the head-stall, and began to lead her back
down the steep road which he had so lately climbed in company with
Colonel Banyon. His mood of mind was much more composed and lucid now
than it had been then. While the deed which he was to commit was as yet
in the future he had been full of agitation and doubt. Sir Norman had a
single plain fact to deal with, not an indefinite number of vague and
dangerous possibilities. He saw his proper course in the circumstances
as clearly as if he had planned it all out beforehand; and he lost no
time in following it.
Having arrived at the lowest dip of the road, he secured his horse to
the branch of a dead tree, clambered down to the shore, and began to
make his way as rapidly as he could towards that spot where he knew
the body of Colonel Banyon must be lying. With an active step and
a heedful eye he hurried over the broken _débris_ of the beach, and
presently came to that part which lies immediately beneath the loftiest
altitude of the cliff.
It was not easy to distinguish the horse and man where they lay in
the darkness, and anybody who had not been on the lookout for them
might easily have passed them by in the belief that they were nothing
more than a heap of sea drift. But Sir Norman was under no such
delusion. When he caught sight of them--it was the whiteness of the
Colonel's upturned face that first arrested his glance--he approached
cautiously, with ears alert to detect whatever whispered groan there
might still remain to hear. But there was nothing; the agony had not
been prolonged, and it was over. Colonel Banyon and his horse were both
quite dead. Sir Norman had certainly anticipated nothing else, and yet
the visibility of the fact gave him a start. Colonel Banyon had been so
very much alive a few minutes before, and now he was so very lifeless!
The handsome, gallant, dashing officer, who had been so overflowing
with hopes and projects, and love and laughter, was now suddenly
become inert and devoid alike of thought and passion, good or evil. It
was so impressive that it affected Sir Norman almost like something
theatrical. The Colonel appeared to him for a moment to be acting a
part. When the curtain came down, he would get up, like Mr. Betterton
in 'Hamlet,' and come out and make his bow before the audience. But
unfortunately there is no curtain in these cases, and the poor actor,
having died with what realism he can command, is obliged to remain dead
indefinitely.
The surf, now breaking near at hand, reminded Sir Norman that he also
had a part to enact. Not that he had been altogether idle since leaving
Kildhurm Towers; but he had accomplished only the preliminary portion
of the work which he had resolved to perform. In looking forward to
this night's occupations, he might have been led to suppose that the
murder would be more difficult to an unpractised hand than the robbery;
but experience proved that the truth was just the other way. To hurl
his victim over the cliff had been an excitement--fierce, and, in a
certain sense, pleasurable. But this despoiling the corpse in cold
blood afterwards was neither pleasant nor exciting; and yet it had
to be done, else all the benefit of the murder would be thrown away.
To kill, moreover, was aristocratic; Sir Norman's ancestors had won
renown by doing no more than he had just done; but to pick a pocket
was plebeian, and none of his ancestors, so far as he was aware, had
ever been guilty of that. But again, there was no escape from it--or
only one escape! Sir Norman might, if he chose, return to his horse,
mount him, ride him up the cliff, and leap him over the verge to a
resting-place here beside the Colonel. By this means, and by this
only, could he avoid the logical necessity of pocket-picking, and at
the same time conceal, and perhaps in some measure expiate, the crime
already committed. Sir Norman thought of all this, and weighed the
question for a moment in his mind. Should he go on, or should he turn
back? He decided to go on: and, stooping over the body of his late
guest, he drew the purse of embroidered leather from its hiding-place,
thrust it into his own pocket, and turned away. He had got a fortune,
according to the promise of destiny; but if it had been larger than
it was, he already felt that he had paid a fair equivalent for it. As
he stumbled back along the dark shore, he was glad of the darkness,
and inclined to wish that daylight might altogether cease from the
earth. It was a wish characteristic of a fresh-born criminal. By-and-by
he would learn how to make his own face answer all the purposes of
darkness, so far as the concealment of what was within was concerned.
In one way or another, however, darkness must be his category from this
time forth. He was a creature of the night, and would for ever remain
such.
'I do not intend to excuse my act,' said Sir Norman to himself, when
he had once more attained the road and resumed his saddle. 'But if I
admit the sin of it, I have a right also to take account of its uses. I
have deliberately and treacherously murdered the man who was my guest;
I have murdered him from no feeling of hatred or anger, but solely for
my pecuniary advantage. That is the worst there is to be said, and I
admit that it is damnable. But now for the other side. I have restored
the fortunes of my family. I have given comfort to my wife, prosperity
to my son, and power to myself. I shall have caused my sister Chepstow
to shed a few tears, perhaps, when she learns (if she ever does learn
it) that her dream about her dead lover has come true; but in a week
or a month her eyes will be dried by some other suitor, and meanwhile
she will receive, as compensation for the loss of her jewels, all the
fortune in ready money which her cousin bequeathed to her in his will.
That, certainly, cannot be considered an injury. As to Colonel Banyon
himself, I could not have killed him had not his hour been fully come;
and therefore he can have no more quarrel with me than with any other
instrument which fate might have chosen to employ. Nor have I harmed
society or the state; for the murder which is not known to be a murder
becomes a simple death, which can neither outrage the law nor corrupt
the morals of the people. I conclude, then, that no person or thing
has been wronged or injured by my act, except myself: and I have even
benefited others at the sacrifice of my own moral welfare and repose.
And finally, since I have been my own accuser, let me also be my own
judge!'
At this point of Sir Norman's soliloquy, the storm which had been all
night brewing suddenly came into noisy and violent existence. Buffeted
by the wind and pelted by the rain, the Baronet was distracted from
his casuistical and metaphysical vein, and his meditations took a more
outward and material turn.
'No one can have seen these gems besides ourselves,' he thought; 'but
yet there is danger to be feared from those which are uncut. Perhaps
I may find it safest to dispose of them abroad. Meanwhile, I can put
them where they will be as secure as death itself, and might remain
so for a hundred years if necessary. It will be best, at all events,
to take no further step in the business until the Colonel's death has
been discovered, and his property administered. The gems, no doubt,
are mentioned in the will; inquiry will be made for them; and it will
be known that the Colonel was last seen alive under our roof. And what
after that? Why, then, I rode forth with him, to set him on his way:
and it was known to me that he carried the gems upon his person. Yes,
and I had spoken warningly to him of the peril which menaced a lonely
traveller, so richly laden, in these parts: the women will bear witness
to that. But then it will be asked: "How far did you ride with him?
and which way was he heading when you saw him last?" What shall be my
answer? Shall I say, "I left him at the rise of the convent cliff, and
know no more of him?" Why not rather tell the truth up even to the
last moment? Why not tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and
only not the whole truth?--which, indeed, finite man can never tell.
Why not say, "I rode with him to the top of the cliff, my hand on his
bridle; but there, in the darkness, his horse took fright, and reared,
and fell backwards: and I, unless I would have been dragged over also,
was fain to loose my hold of the bridle, and let them go. Then I went
down to the shore to search, but ... well, but the tide had risen, and
the storm had come on, and it was impossible to reach the bodies."
That would be better than downright vulgar perjury: more decent, and
perhaps more prudent likewise. Stay, though! if I take this stand, it
must be taken at once! I must burst into the room, heated, dishevelled,
distraught, and gasp out my story with horror in my voice! Am I actor
enough for that? I fear not! And who knows but another sort of horror
might find its way into my tones or eyes, and betray me! No, I cannot
venture it. As yet, I have looked on no living human face since I saw
his vanish over the cliff, lit up for an instant by the flash of his
pistol. Perhaps--who knows?--I shall blanch and turn pale under the
glance of the first questioning eyes I meet. I know the man I have
been heretofore, but I do not yet know the man I am now. Perhaps I am
a coward, or an idiot, or a madman. What wonder if I were, after such
a night's work! Was ever a night so black, or a storm so boisterous!
All the witches in hell might be abroad, and I among the rest! Am I
a witch, then? Who knows? The country folks have long believed no
better of me; and perhaps to-night's work will bring about an encounter
between his Satanic majesty and me, and a signing of the Book! Where
shall the meeting be held? Where but beneath Kildhurm's Oak, where all
the mischief was hatched from the beginning! Forward, mare! Why do we
lag here in the rain, when company is awaiting us at home? Forward!'
Goaded by whip and spur, the mare put herself to her best speed, and
before many minutes Sir Norman knew, less by any visible sign than by
the direction and inclination of the road, that the Tower was near.
He drew rein, and paused for a moment. Should he take his mare to the
stable now, or--afterwards? He resolved on the latter course. Keeping
as much as possible on the turf, and feeling rather than seeing his
way, he pressed cautiously forward until he found himself almost
beneath the branches of the Oak. There he dismounted.
The din of the tempest was bewildering. The waves came thundering
against the shore with such headlong power that a tremor of the earth
was perceptible every time they struck. There was a fury of white foam
beneath the rocky, overhanging parapet, on which the Oak stood, and
this whiteness extended far out, until the blackness of the night
prevailed over it. Occasionally sounds like moaning and sighing seemed
to come from the mid-tumult of the sea, as if some huge creature were
complaining there: and the driving spray and the rain assumed strange
drifting forms, like disembodied spirits hurtling through the air. But
terrible as was the sea, the Oak was more terrible still. It fought the
wild wind with its great arms like a mad creature. Its cumbrous foliage
flapped and hissed through the wet gale like the matted locks of a
wrestling giant. Its whole vast frame rocked to and fro, as if it were
about to tear itself up from its rooted place, and go forth to meet and
struggle with the storm. And from the grinding together of the mighty
boughs were generated shrieks and human-like outcries and noises like
weeping and like mocking laughter, as though a knot of evil spirits
were tearing each other to pieces in the central darkness of the tree;
or were they combining to torture and torment some newly-captured human
soul? Dimly, meanwhile, through the murky obscurity, glowed three red
squares of light from the Tower, where Lady Kildhurm and her sister
waited for Sir Norman's return. The Baronet saw the light, and a vision
of the two innocent and loving women rose before his mind; and of the
infant boy, lulled asleep in his crib by the muffled voices of the
gale. All that was as a foreign country to him now; all the more alien
because it had been so intimately his own. He turned his back upon it,
and fixed his regard upon the haunted Oak. He stepped beneath the wide
spread of the labouring branches; then, with a leap from the ground, he
caught the lowest of these between his arms, and in another moment had
swung himself up into the heart of the tree, and out of sight of earth
and sky.
* * * * *
'He has been gone more than two hours,' said Lady Kildhurm, breaking
silence at last.
'I do heartily pray nothing has happened to him--it is dreadful to
think how wet he will get in this rain, poor fellow; and he must be in
Chester to-morrow, he said. I wish he had spent the night here.'
'And so do I; but it was of my husband that I spoke.'
'Oh, Sir Norman knows his way about! wasn't he born and bred here? No
fear but he will find his way home safe enough.'
'But he should have been away half an hour at the most: and now--see!
it is close upon midnight. I fear something has gone wrong.'
'It is the rain that keeps him. He has taken shelter somewhere,
and will bide his time till the worst of it is over. But my poor
cousin--what will become of him! Heigho! I felt, when I said good-bye
to him, as if 'twas for ever.'
Lady Kildhurm laid down the sewing with which she had been occupying
herself and clasping her hands on her knee, sat gazing out on the
black and rain-smitten window-pane. Suddenly she said:
'This is his evil day. I had forgotten it. Oh, my heart!'
'His evil day, sister? What do you mean?'
'Yes; he showed me it once in his horoscope. The evil and the good came
side by side, but the evil was the stronger. He should not have gone
out; to-night of all nights I should have kept him! Oh, Norman--my
husband, come back to me!'
'La, sister, how you talk! you make me shudder. As for horoscopes, I'm
sure no Christian ought to believe in them.'
'I feel as if he were near me!' exclaimed Lady Kildhurm, rising
from her chair and moving about the room uneasily. 'He is near me,
somewhere, and yet I am not happy: I cannot breathe freely, and there
is pain in my heart.'
'La! sister, indeed you frighten me. Pray sit down again, and do not
stare about so! do you think to see him through a stone wall?'
'He is near me--and it is not well with him. He is looking towards
me--now--can you not see his face at the window?'
'His face at the window! Pray remember, my dear, that the window is
fifty feet from the ground, and----'
'No, there is no face there. It was a flake of foam, maybe. But I
cannot bear to lose him; I could not bear it!'
'You are working yourself into such a state of mind, my dear, that very
soon I shall be more anxious about you than I am about him. As for
not being able to bear things, you never know what you can bear till
you try. I have borne the loss of my husband, and a great many worse
things. One can bear almost anything, I believe. Because, if the thing
to be borne comes, what else can you do?'
'I could not bear it!' repeated Lady Kildhurm feverishly. She moved
again to the window, and peered out for a few moments into the darkness.
'Depend upon it,' said Mrs. Chepstow, with a confidence of tone that
was not altogether warranted by her interior sentiments, 'depend upon
it, my dear, your husband has stepped into one of the peasants' huts
out of the rain, and is at this very instant swallowing a draught of
hot ale, with a pipe of tobacco in his other hand. How he will laugh
when I tell him how you have----'
'Hark!'
'Merciful heavens! what is it?'
Quick as thought, Lady Kildhurm had unfastened the catch of the
lattice, and the wind, violently driving it open, burst headlong into
the room, put out the candles, and went roaring through the house,
slamming doors, flapping curtains, and shaking soot down the chimneys.
None of this disturbance, however, had been noticed by the two women.
Their ears had been filled and their hearts stopped by the sound of
three frantic screams, following rapidly one upon another, and rising
high above the confusion of the tempest. They were the screams of
a man in mortal agony and horror. Both the women had known at once
whose voice it was, though they had never heard it pitched in that
key before. But what could have happened to him? The screams were not
repeated. The women exchanged a ghastly look.