"I wish you would tell me about him, Mr. Awdrey," said Margaret Douglas.
She was a handsome girl, tall and slightly made--her eyes were black as
night, her hair had a raven hue, her complexion was a pure olive. She
was standing a little apart from a laughing, chattering group of boys
and girls, young men and young ladies, with a respectable sprinkling of
fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts. Awdrey stood a foot or two away
from her--his face was pale, he looked subdued and gentle.
"What can I tell you?" he asked.
"You said you met him last night, poor fellow. The whole thing seems so
horrible, and to think of it happening on this very plain, just where we
are having our picnic. If I had known it, I would not have come."
"The murder took place several miles from here," said Awdrey. "Quite
close to the Court, in fact. I've been over the ground this morning with
my father and one of the keepers. The body was removed before we came."
"Didn't it shock you very much?"
"Yes; I am sorry for that unfortunate Everett."
"Who is he? I have not heard of him."
"He is the man whom they think must have done it. There is certainly
very grave circumstantial evidence against him. He and Frere were heard
quarrelling last night, and Armitage can prove that Everett did not
return home until about two in the morning. When he went out he said he
was going to follow Frere, who had gone away in a very excited state of
mind.
"What about, I wonder?"
"The usual thing," said Awdrey, giving Margaret a quick look, under
which she lowered her eyes and faintly blushed.
"Tell me," she said, almost in a whisper. "I am interested--it is such a
tragedy."
"It is; it is awful. Sit down here, won't you, or shall we walk on a
little way? We shall soon get into shelter if we go down this valley and
get under those trees yonder."
"Come then," said Margaret.
She went first, her companion followed her. He looked at her many times
as she walked on in front of him. Her figure was full of supple and easy
grace, her young steps seemed to speak the very essence of youth and
springtime. She appeared scarcely to touch the ground as she walked over
it; once she turned, and the full light of her dark eyes made Awdrey's
heart leap. Presently she reached the shadow caused by a copse of young
trees, and stood still until the Squire came up to her.
"Here's a throne for you, Miss Douglas. Do you see where this tree
extends two friendly arms? Do you observe a seat inlaid with moss? Take
your throne."
She did so immediately and looked up at him with a smile.
"The throne suits you," he said.
She looked down--her lips faintly trembled--then she raised her eyes.
"Why are you so pale?" he asked anxiously.
"I can't quite tell you," she replied, "except that notwithstanding the
beauty of the day, and the summer feeling which pervades the air, I
can't get rid of a sort of fear. It may be superstitious of me, but I
think it is unlucky to have a picnic on the very plain where a murder
was committed."
"You forget over what a wide extent the plain extends," said Awdrey;
"but if I had known"--he stopped and bit his lips.
"Never mind," she answered, endeavoring to smile and look cheerful, "any
sort of tragedy always affects me to a remarkable degree. I can't help
it--I'm afraid there is something in me akin to trouble, but of course
it would be folly for us to stay indoors just because that poor young
fellow came to a violent end some miles away."
"Yes, it is quite some miles from here--I am truly sorry for him."
"Sit down here, Mr. Awdrey, here at my feet if you like, and tell me
about it."
"I will sit at your feet with all the pleasure in the world, but why
should we talk any more on this gruesome subject?"
"That's just it," said Margaret, "if I am to get rid of it, I must know
all about it. You said you met him last night?"
"I did," said Awdrey, speaking with unwillingness.
"And you guess why he came by his end?"
"Partly, but not wholly."
"Well, do tell me."
"I will--I'll put it in as few words as possible. You know that little
witch Hetty, the pretty niece of the innkeeper Armitage?"
"Hetty Armitage--of course I know her. I tried to get her into my Sunday
class, but she wouldn't come."
"She's a silly little creature," said Awdrey.
"She is a very beautiful little creature," corrected Miss Douglas.
"Yes, I am afraid her beauty was too much for this unfortunate Frere's
sanity. I came across him last night, or rather they passed me by in the
underwood, enacting a love scene. The fact is, he was kissing her. I
thought he was taking a liberty and interfered. He told me he intended
to marry her--but Hetty denied it. I saw her back to the Inn--she was
very silent and depressed. Another man, a handsome fellow, was standing
in the porch. It just occurred to me at the time, that perhaps he also
was a suitor for her hand, and might be the favored one. She went
indoors. On my way home I met Frere again. He tried to pick a quarrel
with me, which of course I nipped in the bud. He referred to his firm
intention of marrying Hetty Armitage, and when I told him that she had
denied the engagement, he said he would go back at once and speak to
her. I then returned to the Court.
"The first thing I heard this morning was the news of the murder. My
father as magistrate was of course made acquainted with the fact at a
very early hour. Poor Everett has been arrested on suspicion, and
there's to be a coroner's inquest to-morrow. That is the entire story as
far as I know anything about it. Your face is whiter than ever, Miss
Douglas. Now keep your word--forget it, since you have heard all the
facts of the case."
She looked down again. Presently she raised her eyes, brimful of tears,
to his face.
"I cannot forget it," she said. "That poor young fellow--such a
fearfully sudden end, and that other poor fellow; surely if he did take
away a life it must have been in a moment of terrible madness?"
"That is true," said Awdrey.
"They cannot possibly convict him of murder, can they?"
"My father thinks that the verdict will be manslaughter, or, at the
worst, murder under strong provocation; but it is impossible to tell."
Awdrey looked again anxiously at his companion. Her pallor and distress
aroused emotion in his breast which he found almost impossible to quiet.
"I'm sorry to my heart that you know about this," he said. "You are not
fit to stand any of the roughness of life."
"What folly!" she answered, with passion. "What am I that I should
accept the smooth and reject the rough? I tell you what I would like to
do. I'd like to go this very moment to see that poor Mr. Everett, in
order to tell him how deeply sorry I am for him. To ask him to tell me
the story from first to last, from his point of view. To clear him from
this awful stain. And I'd like to lay flowers over the breast of that
dead boy. Oh, I can't bear it. Why is the world so full of trouble and
pain?"
She burst into sudden tears.
"Don't, don't! Oh! Margaret, you're an angel. You're too good for this
earth," said Awdrey.
"Nonsense," she answered; "let me have my cry out; I'll be all right in
a minute."
Her brief tears were quickly over. She dashed them aside and rose to her
feet.
"I hear the children shouting to me," she said. "I'm in no humor to meet
them. Where shall we go?"
"This way," said Awdrey quickly; "no one knows the way through this
copse but me."
He gave her his hand, pushed aside the trees, and they soon found
themselves in a dim little world of soft green twilight. There was a
narrow path on which they could not walk abreast. Awdrey now took the
lead, Margaret following him. After walking for half a mile the wood
grew thinner, and they found themselves far away from their companions,
and on a part of the plain which was quite new ground to Margaret.
"How lovely and enchanting it is here," she said, giving a low laugh of
pleasure.
"I am glad you like it," said Awdrey. "I discovered that path to these
heights only a week ago. I never told a soul about it. For all you can
tell your feet may now be treading on virgin ground."
As Awdrey spoke he panted slightly, and put his hand to his brow.
"Is anything the matter with you?" asked Margaret.
"Nothing; I was never better in my life."
"You don't look well; you're changed."
"Don't say that," he answered, a faint ring of anxiety in his voice.
She gazed at him earnestly.
"You are," she repeated. "I don't quite recognize the expression in your
eyes."
"Oh, I'm all right," he replied, "only----"
"Only what? Do tell me."
"I don't want to revert to that terrible tragedy again," he said, after
a pause. "There is something, however, in connection with it which
surprises myself."
"What is that?"
"I don't seem to feel the horror of it. I feel everything else; your
sorrow, for instance--the beauty of the day--the gladness and fulness of
life, but I don't feel any special pang about that poor dead fellow.
It's queer, is it not?"
"No," said Margaret tenderly. "I know--I quite understand your
sensation. You don't feel it simply because you feel it too much--you
are slightly stunned."
"Yes, you're right--we'll not talk about it any more. Let us stay here
for a little while."
"Tell me over again the preparations for your coming of age."
Margaret seated herself on the grass as she spoke. Her white dress--her
slim young figure--a sort of spiritual light in her dark eyes, gave her
at that moment an unearthly radiance in the eyes of the man who loved
her. All of a sudden, with an impulse he could not withstand, he
resolved to put his fortunes to the test.
"Forgive me," he said, emotion trembling in his voice--"I can only speak
of one thing at this moment."
He dropped lightly on one knee beside her. She did not ask him what it
was. She looked down.
"You know perfectly well what I am going to say," he continued; "you
know what I want most when I come of age--I want my wife--I want you.
Margaret, you must have guessed my secret long ago?"
She did not answer him for nearly a minute--then she softly and timidly
stretched out one of her hands--he grasped it in his.
"You have guessed--you do know--you're not astonished nor shocked at my
words?"
"Your secret was mine, too," she answered in a whisper.
"You will marry me, Margaret--you'll make me the happiest of men?"
"I will be your wife if you wish it, Robert," she replied.
She stood up as she spoke. She was tall, but he was a little taller--he
put his arms round her, drew her close to him, and kissed her
passionately.
Half-an-hour afterward they left the woods side by side.
"Don't tell anybody to-day," said Margaret.
"Why not? I don't feel as if I could keep it to myself even for an hour
longer."
"Still, humor me, Robert; remember I am superstitious."
"What about?"
"I am ashamed to confess it--I would rather that our engagement was not
known until the day of the murder has gone by."