Margaret Douglas lived with her cousins, the Cuthberts. Sir John
Cuthbert was the Squire of a parish at a little distance from
Grandcourt. He was a wealthy man and was much thought of in his
neighborhood. Margaret was the daughter of a sister who had died many
years ago--she was poor, but this fact did not prevent the county
assigning her a long time ago to Robert Awdrey as his future wife. The
attachment between the pair had been the growth of years. They had spent
their holidays together, and had grown up to a great extent in each
other's company--it had never entered into the thoughts of either to
love any one else. Awdrey, true to his promise to Margaret, said nothing
about his engagement, but the secret was after all an open one. When the
young couple appeared again among the rest of Sir John Cuthbert's
guests, they encountered more than one significant glance, and Lady
Cuthbert even went to the length of kissing Margaret with much fervor in
Awdrey's presence.
"You must come back with us to Cuthbertstown to supper," she said to the
young Squire.
"Yes, come, Robert," said Margaret, with a smile.
He found it impossible to resist the invitation in her eyes. It was
late, therefore, night, in fact, when he started to walk back to
Grandcourt. He felt intensely happy as he walked. He had much reason for
this happiness--had he not just won the greatest desire of his life?
There was nothing to prevent the wedding taking place almost
immediately. As he strode quickly over the beautiful summer landscape he
was already planning the golden future which lay before him. He would
live in London, he would cultivate the considerable abilities which he
undoubtedly possessed. He would lead an active, energetic, and worthy
life. Margaret already shared all his ambitions. She would encourage him
to be a man in every sense of the word. How lucky he was--how kind fate
was to him! Why were the things of life so unevenly divided? Why was one
man lifted to a giddy pinnacle of joy and another hurled into an abyss
of despair? How happy he was that evening--whereas Everett--he paused in
his quick walk as the thought of Everett flashed before his mind's eye.
He didn't know the unfortunate man who was now awaiting the coroner's
inquest, charged with the terrible crime of murder, but he had seen him
twenty-four hours ago. Everett had looked jolly and good-tempered,
handsome and strong, as he stood in the porch of the pretty little inn,
and smoked his pipe and looked at Hetty when Awdrey brought her home.
Now a terrible and black doom was overshadowing him. Awdrey could not
help feeling deeply interested in the unfortunate man. He was young like
himself. Perhaps he, too, had dreamed dreams, and been full of ambition,
and perhaps he loved a girl, and thought of making her his wife. Perhaps
Hetty was the girl--if so--Awdrey stamped his foot with impatience.
"What mischief some women do," he muttered; "what a difference there is
between one woman and another. Who would suppose that Margaret Douglas
and Hetty Armitage belonged to the same race? Poor Frere, how madly in
love he was with that handsome little creature! How little she cared for
the passion which she had evoked. I hope she won't come in my path; I
should like to give her a piece of my mind."
This thought had scarcely rushed through Awdrey's brain before he was
attracted by a sound in the hedge close by, and Hetty herself stood
before him.
"I thought you would come back this way, Mr. Robert," she said. "I've
waited here by the hedge for a long time on purpose to see you."
The Squire choked down a sound of indignation--the hot color rushed to
his cheeks--it was with difficulty he could keep back his angry words.
One glance, however, at Hetty's face caused his anger to fade. The
lovely little face was so completely changed that he found some
difficulty in recognizing it. Hetty's pretty figure had always been the
perfection of trim neatness. No London belle could wear her expensive
dresses more neatly nor more becomingly. Her simple print frocks fitted
her rounded figure like a glove. The roses on her cheeks spoke the
perfection of perfect health; her clear dark eyes were wont to be as
open and untroubled as a child's. Her wealth of coal-black hair was
always neatly coiled round her shapely head. Now, all was changed, the
pretty eyes were scarcely visible between their swollen lids--the face
was ghastly pale in parts--blotched with ugly red marks in others; there
were great black shadows under the eyes, the lips were parched and dry,
they drooped wearily as if in utter despair. The hair was untidy, and
one great coil had altogether escaped its bondage, and hung recklessly
over the girl's neck and bosom. Her cotton dress was rumpled and
stained, and the belt with which she had hastily fastened it together,
was kept in its place by a large pin.
Being a man, Awdrey did not notice all these details, but the _tout
ensemble_, the abject depression of intense grief, struck him with a
sudden pang.
"After all, the little thing loved that poor fellow," he said to
himself; "she was a little fool to trifle with him, but the fact that
she loved him alters the complexion of affairs."
"What can I do for you?" he said, speaking in a gentle and compassionate
voice.
"I have waited to tell you something for nearly two hours, Mr. Robert."
"Why did you do it? If you wanted to say anything to me, you could have
come to the Court, or I'd have called at the Inn. What is it you want to
say?"
"I could not come to the Court, sir, and I could not send you a message,
because no one must know that we have met. I came out here unknown to
any one; I saw you go home from Cuthbertstown with Miss Douglas." Here
Hetty choked down a sob. "I waited by the hedge, for I knew you must
pass back this way. I wished to say, Mr. Robert, to tell you, sir, that
whatever happens, however matters turn out, I'll be true to you. No one
shall get a word out of me. They say it's awful to be cross-examined,
but I'll be true. I thought I'd let you know, Mr. Awdrey. To my dying
day I'll never let out a word--you need have no fear."
"I need have no fear," said Awdrey, in absolute astonishment. "What in
the world do you mean? What are you talking about?"
Hetty looked full up into the Squire's face. The unconscious and
unembarrassed gaze with which he returned her look evidently took her
breath away.
"I made a mistake," she said in a whisper. "I see that I made a mistake.
I'd rather not say what I came to say."
"But you must say it, Hetty; you have something more to tell me, or you
wouldn't have taken all this trouble to wait by the roadside on the
chance of my passing. What is it? Out with it now, like a good girl."
"May I walk along a little bit with you, Mr. Robert?"
"You may as far as the next corner. There our roads part, and you must
go home."
Hetty shivered. She gave the Squire another furtive and undecided
glance.
"Shall I tell him?" she whispered to herself.
Awdrey glanced at her, and spoke impatiently.
"Come, Hetty; remember I'm waiting to hear your story. Out with it now,
be quick about it."
"I was out last night, sir."
"You were out--when? Not after I saw you home?"
"Yes, sir." Hetty choked again. "It was after ten o'clock."
"You did very wrong. Were you out alone?"
"Yes, sir. I--I followed Mr. Frere on to the Plain."
"You did?" said Awdrey. "Is that fact known? Did you see anything?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then why in the name of Heaven didn't you come up to the Court this
morning and tell my father. Your testimony may be most important. Think
of the position of that poor unfortunate young Everett."
"No, sir, I don't think of it."
"What do you mean, girl?"
"Let me tell you my story, Mr. Awdrey. If it is nothing to you--it is
nothing. You will soon know if it is nothing or not. I had a quarrel
with Mr. Frere last night. Nobody was by; Mr. Frere came into Aunt's
parlor and he spoke to me very angrily, and I--I told him something
which made him wild."
"What was that?"
Hetty gave a shy glance up at the young Squire; his face looked hard,
his lips were firmly set. He and she were walking on the same road, but
he kept as far from her side as possible.
"I will not tell him--at least I will not tell him yet," she said to
herself.
"I think I won't say, sir," she replied. "What we talked about was Mr.
Frere's business and mine. He asked me if I loved another man better
than him, and I--I said that I did, sir."
"I thought as much," reflected Awdrey; "Everett is the favored one. If
this fact is known it will go against the poor fellow."
"Well, Hetty," he interrupted, "it's my duty to tell you that you
behaved very badly, and are in a great measure responsible for the awful
tragedy that has occurred. There, poor child, don't cry. Heaven knows, I
don't wish to add to your trouble; but see, we have reached the
cross-roads where we are to part, and you have not yet told me what you
saw when you went out."
"I crept out of my bedroom window," said Hetty. "Aunt and uncle had gone
to bed. I can easily get out of the window, it opens right on the
cow-house, and from there I can swing myself into the laburnum-tree, and
so reach the ground. I got out, and followed Mr. Frere. Presently I saw
that Mr. Everett was also out, and was following him. I knew every yard
of the Plain well, far better than Mr. Everett did. I went to it by a
short cut round by Sweetbriar Lane--you know the part there--not far
from the Court. I had no sooner got on the Plain than I saw Mr.
Frere--he was running--I thought he was running to meet me--he came
forward by leaps and bounds very fast--suddenly he stumbled and fell. I
wanted to call him, but my voice, sir, it wouldn't rise, it seemed to
catch in my throat. I couldn't manage to say his name. All of a sudden
the moon went down, and the plain was all gray with black shadows. I
felt frightened--awfully. I was determined to get to Mr. Frere. I
stumbled on--presently I fell over the trunk of a tree. My fall stunned
me a bit--when I rose again there were two men on the Plain. They were
standing facing each other. Oh, Mr. Awdrey, I don't think I'll say any
more."
"Not say any more? You certainly must, girl," cried Awdrey, his face
blazing with excitement. "You saw two men facing each other--Frere and
Everett, no doubt."
Hetty was silent. After a moment, during which her heart beat loudly,
she continued to speak in a very low voice.
"It was so dark that the men looked like shadows. Presently I heard them
talking--they were quarrelling. All of a sudden they sprang together
like--like tigers, and they--fought. I heard the sound of blows--one of
them fell, the taller one--he got on to his feet in a minute: they
fought a second time, then one gave a cry, a very sharp, sudden cry, and
there was the sound of a body falling with a thud on the
ground--afterward, silence--not a sound. I crept behind the furze bush.
I was quite stunned. After a long time--at least it seemed a long time
to me--one of the men went away, and the other man lay on his back with
his face turned up to the sky. The man who had killed him turned in the
direction of----"
"In what direction?" asked Awdrey.
"In the direction of----" Hetty looked full up at the Squire; the
Squire's eyes met hers. "The town, sir."
"Oh, the town," said Awdrey, giving vent to a short laugh. "From the way
you looked at me, I thought you were going to say The Court."
"Sir, Mr. Robert, do you think it was Mr. Everett?"
"Who else could it have been?" replied Awdrey.
"Very well, sir, I'll hold to that. Who else could it have been? I
thought I'd tell you, Mr. Awdrey. I thought you'd like to know that I'd
hold to that. When the steps of the murderer died away, I stole back to
Mr. Frere, and I tried to bring him back to life, but he was as dead as
a stone. I left him and I went home. I got back to my room about four in
the morning. Not a soul knew I was out; no one knows it now but you,
sir. I thought I'd come and tell you, Mr. Robert, that I'd hold to the
story that it was Mr. Everett who committed the murder. Good-night,
sir."
"Good-night, Hetty. You'll have to tell my father what you have told me,
in the morning."
"Very well, sir, if you wish it."
Hetty turned and walked slowly back toward the village, and Awdrey stood
where the four roads met and watched her. For a moment or two he was
lost in anxious thought--then he turned quickly and walked home. He
entered the house by the same side entrance by which he had come in on
the previous night. He walked down a long passage, crossed the wide
front hall, and entered the drawing-room where his sister Ann was
seated.
"Is that you, Bob?" she said, jumping up when she saw him. "I'm so glad
to have you all to myself. Of course, you were too busy with Margaret to
take any notice of us all day, but I've been dying to hear your account
of that awful tragedy. Sit here like a dear old fellow and tell me the
story."
"Talk of women and their tender hearts," said Awdrey, with irritation.
Then the memory of Margaret came over him and his face softened.
Margaret, whose heart was quite the tenderest thing in all the world,
had also wished to hear of the tragedy.
"To tell the truth, Ann," he said, sinking into a chair by his sister's
side, "you can scarcely ask me to discuss a more uncongenial theme. Of
course, the whole thing will be thoroughly investigated, and the local
papers will be filled with nothing else for weeks to come. Won't that
content you? Must I, too, go into this painful subject?"
Ann was a very good-natured girl.
"Certainly not, dear Bob, if it worries you," she replied; "but just
answer me one question. Is it true that you met the unfortunate man last
night?"
"Quite true. I did. We had a sort of quarrel."
"Good gracious! Why, Robert, if you had been out late last night they
might have suspected you of the murder."
Awdrey's face reddened.
"As it happens, I went to bed remarkably early," he said; "at least,
such is my recollection." As he spoke he looked at his sister with
knitted brows.
"Why, of course, don't you remember, you said you were dead beat.
Dorothy and I wanted you to sing with us, but you declared you were as
hoarse as a raven, and went off to your bedroom immediately after
supper. For my part, I was so afraid of disturbing you that I wouldn't
even knock when I pushed that little note about Margaret under the
door."
Ann gave her brother a roguish glance when she mentioned Margaret's
name. He did not notice it. He was thinking deeply.
"I am tired to-night, too," he said. "I have an extraordinary feeling in
the back of my head, as if it were numbed. I believe I want more sleep.
This horrid affair has upset me. Well, goodnight, Ann, I'm off to bed at
once."
"But supper is ready."
"I had something at Cuthbertstown; I don't want anything more.
Good-night."