Olive was rather unwell on the morning after the picnic. It was nothing
to worry about, she declared. She supposed she had overdone it, and was
a little tired. Any way, she would stay in bed till the afternoon. So
Roland and Sophie sat down to a late breakfast alone, Marsland having
left earlier to spend a few days at Ardleigh.
"What a jolly day we had yesterday!" the girl was saying. "Olive didn't
catch cold, did she, Roland?"
"No. She'll be all right after a good sleep. Roy, you vagabond, shut
up. That melodious voice of yours is matter in the wrong place just
now."
But Roy, who had been lying curled up on the rug, refused to be
silenced. His threatening growl became a deep-toned bay, and his ruff
began to rise, as with fangs bared he sprang towards the door, which was
yet shut. There were voices in the hall. Then the door opened.
"Come here, Roy, d'you hear, sir?" cried Roland, seizing him by the neck
and dragging him by main force towards the rug. "Now. Lie down, sir."
The dog would hardly obey, but half rose again, keeping up a running
note of growls.
"Please, sir," said the butler, entering, "there are two gentlemen want
to see you very particular."
"Who are they?"
"They won't give their names, sir, and I never saw them before."
Roland frowned. "Suppose I must send the fellows about their business.
Back in a minute, Sophie."
It may be that an ugly misgiving shot through his mind at that moment,
but if so he showed no sign of it. As Jervis said afterwards, with awe
and admiration in his voice: "Master was out-and-out the very coolest
party he'd ever seen."
The strangers were standing in the hall. With astonishment he
recognised the men who had accosted him at Durnley Castle the day
before.
"Your name is Roland Dorrien, I believe, sir?" began one of them, before
he had time to ask a question.
"It is. Kindly walk in here and state your business with me."
He held open the study door. The others, with a moment's hesitation,
accompanied him within. Then they turned.
"I have a most unpleasant duty to perform, sir," said the spokesman of
the pair.
"And that?" said Roland coolly, though conscious that his face was
becoming white.
"Is to arrest you on the charge of murder. Here is the warrant," said
the other very gravely. "I must, as a matter of form, caution you
against making any statement, though as a magistrate yourself, sir, you
will be aware of this formality."
"Yes, the warrant is all right," he said, running his eye over it and
noting idly that it was signed by a man with whom he had next to no
personal acquaintance.
The sword had fallen at last. Was he dazed--was he dreaming--or was he
really stunned? Was he, Roland Dorrien--one of the most influential men
in the county, and lord of this noble patrimony whose limits he could
not see from his highest window--was he, indeed, a prisoner, henceforth
no longer master of the simplest of his own actions? Horror incredible!
Something of this must have appeared in his aspect as he turned away,
for the detective watched him keenly.
"Let me see. I don't know whether you will prevent my just saying a
word to Mrs Dorrien before I go with you. She is rather unwell this
morning, and this in addition will try her dreadfully."
The officer shook his head.
"I'm extremely sorry, sir, but it can't be done. You see I'm bound not
to lose sight of you, and if I were to go with you it would frighten the
lady still more."
Roland faced round upon him.
"Listen. What if I were to pledge you my word of honour to return to
you here in ten minutes?"
For half a moment the detective wavered. Then he shook his head very
gravely.
"Can't do it, sir!"
"No! Hang it! I suppose it wasn't fair of me to put you into such a
position. And you've been very good in managing so quietly. Of
course--one would have time to do all manner of queer things in ten
minutes. I'll order the brougham at once. It'll be thought I've gone
gaol-visiting, ha-ha?"
Again the officer eyed him very curiously. That strange laugh, teeming
with a subtle irony, the queer carelessness of his tone, put the
detectives thoroughly upon their guard, and caused them to determine
that there was something about this case that was decidedly "fishy."
They were fully alive, too, to the importance of their errand. It was
not every day that their duty required them to arrest a gentleman, a
squire and a J.P., for murder.
Roland rang the bell and gave the necessary orders. In a few minutes
the brougham came round. The officers had declined all offers of
refreshment, and became very impatient to start. Sophie was passing
through the hall as they came out.
"Why, where are you going, Roland?" she asked in astonishment.
"Got to go to Battisford on business. Take care of yourselves till I
come back. Bye-bye?"
The girl looked puzzled, but there was no time for further explanations,
and the three men, getting into the brougham, were driven off. And
Barnby, the principal detective, still continued to watch his prisoner
closely, and drew his own conclusions. In his heart of hearts he was
thoroughly convinced of the other's guilt; but the pluck and coolness
displayed by Roland under the circumstances of his arrest filled him
with admiration, for it was unparalleled, even in that astute officer's
experience.
But oh, the torture of the breaking heart which could smile, and even
half jest, at that awful moment! Even at the time when life was at its
very sweetest to him, had the sword fallen--and yet not; for had he not
been torn away at a moment's notice, nor allowed even a glance of
farewell at the sweet face of her who constituted all his world? But
for that horrible, jarring calm which he had assumed as a mask, his
self-control would have been nowhere.
They reached Battisford, and drew up at the gaol. As a magistrate it
had frequently been Roland's duty to visit it; consequently his entrance
into the gloomy building caused no comment among those who witnessed it
now. Even the stolid turnkey was awed on receiving into his keeping one
so high among the great ones of the land. To the last the prisoner's
coolness did not desert him. He scribbled off a short note.
"Watts. Drive round by Wandsborough on your way back and give this to
Dr Ingelow; and if he isn't in wait till he is. You needn't call for
me, as I shall be engaged here for some hours." And again that mocking
laugh lurked in his face.
The coachman touched his hat and drove off. Roland Dorrien followed the
turnkey to the cell appointed to him. He needed nothing for the
present, he said, and so that vigilant guardian, closing the door on
him, retired, having respectfully hoped and trusted that he would soon
be able to clear himself, as, of course, he easily could.
Clear himself? Not he. This was the fate awaiting him, and from it
there would be no escape. The wraith on The Skegs had never been known
to appear in vain.
Here for the first time he dared to think--here, where no eye was upon
him. Yesterday, love, happiness, peace--to-day, this! Yesterday,
powerful, wealthy, free--the envied of all; to-day, not the meanest
loafer in Battisford market-place would change with him. Ah, good God!
why had he escaped by a hairsbreadth, as it were, from the deadliest of
perils that night on the seashore! Was it for this? Better a thousand
times that the wild waves had been his grave--both their graves then.
And the cold walls of his stone cell echoed such an anguished and
despairing groan as is seldom wrung from the breast of mortal man.
It was not until late in the day that Olive awoke. Quickwitted Sophie
had not been deceived by her brother-in-law's assumed coolness, and
though absolutely in the dark as to the real facts, she could not help
fearing that something had gone very wrong. As the day wore on, and he
did not come, this feeling increased, and when at length the brougham
returned, it was with a feeling of vast relief that she ran to the door.
But it contained only her father.
It happened that when, in pursuance of his orders, Watts called at the
Rectory, the old priest had just started on his rounds, and was not to
be found anywhere. There was a great deal of sickness in Wandsborough
at the time, and no one could say exactly where he was. As a matter of
fact he had been called over to Minchkil Bay to attend the dying bed of
one of the old seafarers. But the coachman's orders were positive. He
was to wait for him, and wait he did, and so it was not until late in
the afternoon that the brougham started to return to Cranston.
All used as he was to strange and startling revelations, the rector
could not repress a start of astonishment as he rapidly scanned the
contents of the note which old Watts handed to him. But his normal calm
soon returned, and, entering the carriage there and then, he was driven
rapidly away to Cranston.
There was time in the interval to think over the situation, but he was
grateful for every moment of it. His unfortunate friend was called upon
to satisfy human justice after all, and he, Dr Ingelow, was required to
break the terrible news to his daughter. Yet it might be the barest
suspicion--two years and a half was a long time. It would be difficult
to convict. But then the prosecution must be in possession of very
strong evidence indeed to move it to such a step as the arrest of a man
of Roland Dorrien's status.
In all his experience--large as it was--the rector could not call to
mind a more painful case. What frightful ruin the conviction of this
man would entail! How much better, for every reason, that the terrible
secret should remain buried--a turned-down page of the past! Thus
musing, he arrived at Cranston.
"Oh, father. What has gone wrong?" cried Sophie affrightedly, reading
the worst in his grave face.
Enjoining silence, her father took her apart, and in a few words
communicated the fact of the arrest. The whole countryside would be
ringing with it by then, and it was just as well that those most
concerned should learn it at first-hand. The girl, though very shocked
and awed, was quite self-possessed. Her first thought was for her
sister.
"Can we not keep it from her a little longer?" she asked.
"Impossible. She will hear it by chance from others, and then think of
the result. You had better leave us alone together, dear, but remain
within call."
It was well for Olive that her father was the one upon whom it devolved
to soften the terrible weight of the blow. But though she listened with
livid face and ashy lips, she was calmer than he had dared to hope.
Roland was alive and unharmed--that was relief. But in prison--in a
cold, hard cell--and on a charge of murder! It was frightful. He a
murderer! No, she would never believe that. Some absurd mistake had
been made, and he would soon be released. Why, it was too ridiculous,
and she almost laughed aloud at the bare idea.
Then Memory, like a mocking fiend, started up to dash even that
consolation from her grasp. For it suddenly carried her back over the
lapse of years to the chance meeting with her lover on the beach, that
lowering afternoon when the tide overtook them. His words, spoken then,
now darted in characters of fire before her mental gaze.
"_The trammelled imagination of a canting world reads crime into what is
no crime at all_."
He had been urging a secret barrier existing between them--one that she,
in common with society at large, would recognise as irrefragable. And
she, mistaking the drift of the plea, had answered bravely that nothing
would cause her to shrink from him.
They had talked at cross-purposes. Now--the whole mystery stood
explained. By the light of this _denouement_ the scales fell from her
eyes--even the intervening events were clear as daylight to her now.
But could she now answer as bravely as then upon the lone seashore?
Every whit.
Looking up, she met her father's eyes steadily and without speaking.
And the flash of meaning in that glance revealed to him that she was no
longer a blind believer in her husband's innocence. Looking back in
after years to this moment, the old priest was conscious of a distinct
satisfaction at the time in making the discovery. It would save all
danger of cross-purposes, though no word on the certainty could be
exchanged between them.
"Oh, father! _you_ don't believe in--in this accusation!"
"I don't believe that Roland is a murderer," was the answer; straight,
unhesitating, and in tones of conviction. "Men have been arrested on
suspicion before to-day and honourably acquitted. Keep your wholesome,
loving belief in him firm and unshaken, Olive my pet, and be strong for
his sake."
The old man's voice shook as he strove to comfort this his best-loved
child, but he mastered himself. Her faith in the accused man must be
kept up at all hazards, nothing must dim that bright, pure flame. It
had been his safeguard hitherto; it must not fail him now.
"I will indeed be strong. And now--I must go to him at once."
"Not to-night, darling. Indeed, it will be impossible. To-morrow, we
can procure the necessary order, the first thing. His first thought was
of you--and--again I say it--you must be brave and strong for his sake."
It was indeed well for Olive that her father's loving and clear-sighted
wisdom was with her in the dark hour of her affliction. Already she
felt soothed and hopeful. Yet there flashed across her mind the
similarity between this parting and that other one in Wandsborough
street, nearly three years ago. Then they had expected to meet again in
a few hours, and lo! a very lifetime of separation had been theirs ere
they met again. This time he had merely left her by the breadth of a
few rooms, and now the gloomy walls of a prison separated them. The
parallel was ominous.
In due course, the preliminary examination was held, and the magistrates
had no alternative but to commit Roland Dorrien for trial at the ensuing
Battisford assizes on the capital charge. Further, the Bench intimated,
with infinite regret, that no question of bail could by any possibility
be entertained.