Awdrey's cure was complete; he had passed right through the doom of his
house, and got out on the other side. He was the first man of his race
who had ever done that; the others had forgotten as he forgot, and had
pined, and dwindled, and slipped and slipped lower and lower down in the
scale of life until at last they had dropped over the brink into the
Unknown beyond. Awdrey's downward career had been stopped just in time.
His recovery had been quite as marvellous as his complaint. When he saw
his own face reflected in the pond on Salisbury Plain the cloud had
risen from his brain and he remembered what he had done. In that instant
his mental sky grew clear and light. He himself had murdered Horace
Frere; he had not done it intentionally, but he had done it; another man
was suffering in his stead; he himself was the murderer. He knew this
absolutely, completely, clearly, but at first he felt no mental pain of
any sort. A natural instinct made him desirous to keep his knowledge to
himself, but his conscience sat light within him, and did not speak at
all. He was now anxious to conceal his emotions from the doctor; his
mind had completely recovered its balance, and he found this possible.
Rumsey was as fully astonished at the cure as he had been at the
disease; he accompanied Awdrey back to London next day, and told
Margaret what a marvellous thing had occurred. Awdrey remembered all
about his son; he was full of grief for his loss; he was kind and loving
to his wife; he was no longer morose; no longer sullen and apathetic; in
short, his mental and physical parts were once again wide awake; but the
strange and almost inexplicable thing in his cure was that his moral
part still completely slumbered. This fact undoubtedly did much to
establish his mental and physical health, giving him time to recover his
lost ground.
Rumsey did not profess to understand the case, but now that Awdrey had
quite come back from the borderland of insanity, he advised that
ordinary remedies should immediately be resorted to; he told Margaret
that in a few months her husband would be as fully and completely able
to attend to the duties of life as any other man of his day and station.
He did not believe, he said, that the strange attack through which
Awdrey had passed was ever likely to return to him! Margaret and her
husband shut up their house in town, and went abroad; they spent the
winter on the continent, and day by day Awdrey's condition, both
physical and mental, became more satisfactory. He slept well, he ate
well; soon he began to devour books and newspapers; to absorb himself in
the events of the day; to take a keen interest in politics; the member
for Grandcourt died, and Awdrey put up for the constituency. He was
obliged to return suddenly to England on this account, and to Margaret's
delight elected to come back at once to live at the Court. The whole
thing was arranged quickly. Awdrey was to be nominated as the new
candidate for Grandcourt; he was to have, too, his rightful position as
the Squire on his own property. Friends from all round the country
rejoiced in his recovery, as they had sincerely mourned over his strange
and inexplicable illness. He was welcomed with rejoicing, and came back
something as a king would to take possession of his kingdom.
On the night therefore, that he returned to the Court, the higher part
of his being began to stir uneasily within him. He had quite agreed to
Margaret's desire to invite Mrs. Everett to meet them on their return,
but he read a certain expression in the widow's sad eyes, and a certain
look on Hetty's face, which stirred into active remorse the conscience
which had suffered more severely than anything else in the ordeal
through which he had lived. It was now awake within him, and its voice
was very poignant and keen; its notes were clear, sharp, and
unremitting.
In his excellent physical and mental health his first impulse was to
defy the voice of conscience, and to live down the deed he had
committed. His first wish was to hide its knowledge from all the world,
and to go down to his own grave in the course of time with his secret
unconfessed. He did not believe it possible, at least at first, that the
moral voice within could not be easily silenced; but even on the first
night of his awakening he was conscious of a change in himself. The
sense of satisfaction, of complete enjoyment in life and all its
surroundings which had hitherto done so much for his recovery, was now
absent; he was conscious, intensely conscious, of his own hypocrisy, and
he began vehemently to hate and detest himself. All the same, his wish
was to hide the thing, to allow Mrs. Everett to go down to the grave
with a broken heart--to allow Everett to drink the cup of suffering and
dishonor to the dregs.
Awdrey slept little during the first night of his return home. In the
morning he arose to the full fact that he must either carry a terrible
secret to his grave, or must confess all and bear the punishment which
was now awarded to another. His strong determination on that first
morning was to keep his secret. He went downstairs, putting a full guard
upon himself. Margaret saw nothing amiss with him--his face was full of
alertness, keenness, interest in life, interest in his fellow-creatures.
Only Mrs. Everett, at breakfast that morning, without understanding it,
read the defiance, the veiled meaning in his eyes. He went away
presently, and spent the day in going about his property, seeing his
constituents, and arranging the different steps he must take to insure
his return at the head of the poll. As he went from house to house,
however, the new knowledge which he now possessed of himself kept
following him. On all hands he was being welcomed and rejoiced over, but
he knew in his heart of hearts he was a hypocrite of the basest and
lowest type. He was allowing another man to suffer in his stead. That
was the cruellest stab of all; it was that which harassed him, for it
was contrary to all the traditions of his house and name. His mental
health was now so perfect that he was able to see with a wonderfully
clear perception what would happen to himself if he refused to listen to
the voice of conscience. In the past, while the cloud was over his
brain, he had undergone terrible mental and physical deterioration; he
would now undergo moral deterioration. The time might come when
conscience would cease to trouble him, but then, as far as his soul was
concerned, he would be lost. He knew all this, and hated himself
profoundly, nevertheless his determination grew stronger and stronger to
guard his secret at all hazards. The possibility that the truth might
out, notwithstanding all his efforts to conceal it, had not occurred to
him, to add to his anxieties.
The day, a lovely one in late spring, had been one long triumph. Awdrey
was assured that his election was a foregone conclusion. He tried to
think of himself in the House; he was aware of the keenness and
freshness of his own intellect; he thought it quite possible that his
name might be a power in the future government of England. He fully
intended to take his rightful position. For generations men of his name
and family had sat in the House and done good work there--men of his
name and family had also fought for their country both on land and sea.
Yes, it was his bounden duty now to live for the honor of the old name;
to throw up the sponge now, to admit all now would be madness--the worst
folly of which a man could be capable. It was his duty to think of
Margaret, to think of his property, his tenants, all that was involved
in his own life.
Everett and Mrs. Everett would assuredly suffer; but what of that if
many others were saved from suffering? Yes, it was his bounden duty to
live now for the honor of the old name; he had also his descendants to
think of. True his child was gone, but other children would in all
probability yet be his--he must think of them. Yes, the future lay
before him; he must carry the burden of that awful secret, and he would
carry it so closely pressed to his innermost heart that no one should
guess by look, word, manner, by a gloomy eye, by an unsmiling lip, that
its weight was on him. He would be gay, he would be brave, he would
banish grief, he would try to banish remorse, he would live his life as
best he could.
"I must pay the cost some day," he muttered to himself. "I put off the
payment, and that is best. There is a tribunal, at the bar of which I
shall doubtless receive full sentence; but that is all in the future; I
accept the penalty; I will reap the wages by and by. Yes, I'll keep my
secret to the death. The girl, Hetty, knows about it, but she must be
silenced."
Awdrey rode quickly home in the sweet freshness of the lovely spring
evening. He remembered that he was to meet Hetty; the meeting would be
difficult and also of some importance, but he would be guarded, he would
manage to silence her, to quiet her evident fears. Hetty was a
guileless, affectionate, and pretty girl; she had been wonderfully true
to him; he must be good to her, for she had suffered for his sake. It
would be best to make an excuse to send Hetty and her husband to Canada;
Vincent, who was a poor man, would doubtless be glad to emigrate with
good prospects. Yes, they must go; it would be unpleasant meeting Hetty,
knowing what she knew. Mrs. Everett must also not again be his guest;
her presence irritated him, he disliked meeting her eyes; and yet he
knew that while she was in the house he dared not shirk their glance;
her presence and the knowledge that her pain was killing her made the
sharp voice within him speak more loudly than he could quite bear. Yes,
Mrs. Everett must go, and Hetty must go, and--what was this memory which
made him draw up his horse abruptly?--his lost walking-stick. Ridiculous
that such a trifle should worry a man all through his life; how it had
haunted him all during the six years when the cloud was over his brain.
Even now the memory of it came up again to torment him. He had murdered
his man with that stick; the whole thing was the purest accident, but
that did not greatly matter, for the man had died; the ferrule of
Awdrey's stick had entered his brain, causing instant death.
"Afterward I hid it away in the underwood," thought Awdrey. "I wonder
where it is now--doubtless still there--but some day that part of the
underwood may be cut down and the stick may be found. It might tell
tales, I must find it."
He jogged his horse, and rode slowly home under the arching trees of the
long avenue. He had a good view of the long, low, rambling house
there--how sweet it looked, how homelike! But for this secret what a
happy man he would be to-night. Ah, who was that standing at his office
door? He started and hastened his horse's steps. Hetty Vincent was
already there waiting for him.
"I must speak to her at once," he said to himself. "I hope no one will
see her; it would never do for the people to think she was coming after
me. This will be a disagreeable interview and must be got over quickly."
The Squire rode round the part of the avenue which led directly past the
front of the long house. His wife, sisters, and Mrs. Everett were all
seated near the large window. They were drinking tea and talking.
Margaret's elbow rested upon the window-ledge. She wore a silk dress of
the softest gray. Her lovely face showed in full profile. Suddenly she
heard the sound of his horse's steps and turned round to greet him.
"There you are; we are waiting for you," she called out.
"Come in, Robert, and have a cup," called out Dorothy, putting her head
out of the window.
Dorothy was his favorite sister. Under other circumstances he would have
sprung from his horse, given it to the charge of a groom who stood near,
and joined his wife and friends. Now he called back in a clear, incisive
voice:
"I have to attend to some business at my office, and will be in
presently. Here, Davies, take my horse."
The man hurried forward and Awdrey strode round to the side entrance
where his office was.
Hetty, looking flushed and pretty in her rustic hat with a bunch of
cowslips pinned into the front of her jacket, stood waiting for him.
Awdrey took a key out of his pocket. The office had no direct
communication with the house, but was always entered from outside. He
unlocked the door and motioned Hetty to precede him into the room. She
did so, he entered after her, locked the door, and put the key into his
pocket. The next thing he did was to look at the windows. There were
three large windows to the office, and they all faced on to a grass lawn
outside. Any one passing by could have distinctly seen the occupants of
the room.
Awdrey went and deliberately pulled down one of the blinds.
"Come over here," he said to Hetty. "Take this chair." He took another
himself at a little distance from her. So seated his face was in shadow,
but the full light of the westering sun fell across hers. It lit up her
bright eyes until they shone like jewels, and gave a bronze hue to her
dark hair. The flush on her cheeks was of the damask of the rose; her
brow and the rest of her face was milky white.
Long ago, as a young man, Awdrey had admired Hetty's real beauty, but no
thought other than that of simple admiration had entered his brain. His
was not the nature to be really attracted by a woman below himself in
station. Now, however, his pulse beat a little faster than its wont as
he glanced at her. He remembered with a swift, poignant sense of regret
all that she had done for him and suffered for him. He could see traces
of the trouble through which she had lived in her face; that trouble and
her present anxiety gave a piquancy to her beauty which differentiated
it widely from the ordinary beauty of the rustic village girl. As he
watched her he forgot for a moment what she had come to speak to him
about. Then he remembered it, and he drew himself together, but a pang
shot through his heart. He thought of the small deceit which he was
guilty of in drawing down the blind and placing himself and his auditor
where no one from the outside could observe them.
"You want to speak to me," he said abruptly. "What about?"
"You must know, Mr. Robert," began Hetty. Her coral lips trembled, she
looked like some one who would break down into hysterical weeping at any
moment.
"This must be put a stop to," Awdrey bestowed another swift glance upon
her, and took her measure. "I cannot pretend ignorance," he said, "but
please try not to lose your self-control."
Hetty gulped down a great sob; the tears in her eyes were not allowed to
fall.
"Then you remember?" she said.
Awdrey nodded.
"You remember everything, Mr. Robert?"
Awdrey nodded again.
"But you forgot at the time, sir."
Awdrey stood up; he put his hands behind him.
"I forgot absolutely," he said. "I suffered from the doom of my house. A
cloud fell on me, and I knew no more than a babe unborn."
"I guessed that, sir; I was certain of it. That was why I took your
part."
Awdrey waited until she was silent. Then he continued in a monotonous,
strained tone.
"I have found my memory again. Four or five months ago at the beginning
of this winter I came here. I visited the spot where the murder was
committed, and owing to a chain of remarkable circumstances, which I
need not repeat to you, the memory of my deed came back to me."
"You killed him, sir, because he provoked you," said Hetty.
"You were present and you saw everything?"
"I was, sir, I saw everything. You killed him because he provoked you."
"I killed him through an accident. I did so in self-defence."
"Yes, sir."
Hetty also stood up. She sighed deeply.
"The knowledge of it has nearly killed me," she said at last, sinking
back again into her seat.
"I am not surprised at that," said the Squire. "You did what you did out
of consideration for me, and I suppose I ought to be deeply indebted to
you"--he paused and looked fixedly at her--"all the same," he continued,
"I fully believe it would have been much better had you not sworn
falsely in court--had you not given wrong evidence."
"Did you think I'd let you swing for it?" said the girl with flashing
eyes.
"I should probably not have swung for it, as you express it. You could
have proved that the assault was unprovoked, and that I did what I did
in self-defence. I wish you had not concealed the truth at the time."
"Sir, is that all the thanks you give me? You do not know what this has
been to me. Aunt Fanny and I----"
"Does your aunt, Mrs. Armitage, know the truth?"
"I had to tell Aunt Fanny or I'd have gone mad, sir. She and me, we
swore on the Bible that we would never tell mortal man or woman what I
saw done. You're as safe with Aunt Fanny and me, Mr. Robert, as if no
one in all the world knew. You were one of the Family--that was enough
for aunt--and you was to me----" she paused, colored, and looked down.
Then she continued abruptly, "Mr. Everett was nothing, nothing to me,
nothing to aunt. He was a stranger, not one of our own people. Aunt
Fanny kept me up to it, and I didn't make one single mistake in court,
and not a soul in all the world guesses."
"One person suspects," said Awdrey.
"You mean Mrs. Everett, sir. Yes, Mrs. Everett is a dreadful woman. She
frightens me. She seems to read right through my heart."
The Squire did not reply. He began to pace up and down in the part of
the room which was lying in shadow. Hetty watched him with eyes which
seemed to devour him--his upright figure was slightly bent, his bowed
head had lost its look of youth and alertness. He found that conscience
could be troublesome to the point of agony. If it spoke like this often
and for long could he endure the frightful strain? There was a way in
which he could silence it. There was a path of thorns which his feet
might tread. Could they take it? That path would lead to the complete
martyrdom, the absolute ruin of his own life. But life, after all, was
short, and there was a beyond. Margaret--what would Margaret feel? How
would she bear the awful shock? He knew then, a flash of thought
convinced him, that he must never tell Margaret the truth if he wished
to keep this ghastly thing to himself, for Margaret would rather go
through the martyrdom which it all meant, and set his conscience and her
own free.
Awdrey looked again at Hetty. She was ghastly pale, her eyes were almost
wild with fear--she seemed to be reading some of his thoughts. All of a
sudden her outward calm gave way, she left her seat and fell on her
knees--her voice rose in sobs.
"I know what you're thinking of," she cried. "You think you'll tell--you
think you'll save him and save her, but for God's sake----"
"Do not say that," interrupted Awdrey.
"Then for the devil's sake--for any sake, for my sake, for your own, for
Mrs. Awdrey's, don't do it, Squire, don't do it."
"Don't do----" began Awdrey. "What did you think I was going to do?"
"Oh, you frightened me so awfully when you looked like that--I thought
you were making up your mind. Squire, don't tell what you know--don't
tell what I've done. I'll be locked up and you'll be locked up, and Mrs.
Awdrey's heart will be broke, and we'll all be disgraced forever, and,
Squire, maybe they'll hang you. Think of one of the family coming to
that. Oh, sir, you've no right to tell now. You'll have to think of me
now, if you'll think of nothing else. I've kept your secret for close on
six years, and if they knew what I had done they would lock me up, and I
couldn't stand it. You daren't confess now--for my sake, sir."
"Get up, Mrs. Vincent," said Awdrey. "I can't talk over matters with you
while you kneel to me. You've done a good deal for me, and I'm bound to
consider your position. Now, I'm going to tell you something which
perhaps you will scarcely understand. I remembered the act of which I
was guilty several months ago, but until last night my conscience did
not trouble me about it. It is now speaking to me, and speaking loudly.
It is impossible for me to tell you at present whether I shall have
strength of mind to follow it and do the right--yes, the right, the only
right thing to do, or to reject its counsels and lead a life of deceit
and hypocrisy. Both paths will be difficult to follow, but one leads to
life, the highest life, and the other to death, the lowest death. It is
quite possible that I may choose the lowest course. If I do, you, Hetty
Vincent, will know the truth about me. To the outside world I shall
appear to be a good man, for whatever my sufferings, I shall endeavor to
help my people, and to set them an outward example of morality. I shall
apparently live for them, and will think no trouble too great to promote
their best interests. Only you, Hetty, will know me for what I am--a
liar--a man who has committed murder, and then concealed his crime--a
hypocrite. You will know that much as I am thought of in the county here
among my own people, I am allowing an innocent man to wear out his life
in penal servitude because I have not the courage to confess my deed.
You will also know that I am breaking the heart of this man's mother."
"The knowledge won't matter to me, Squire. I'd rather you were happy and
all the rest of the world miserable. I'd far, far rather."
"Do you think that I shall be happy?"
"I don't know," cried Hetty. "Perhaps you'll forget after a bit, and
that voice inside you won't speak so loud. It used to trouble me once,
but now--now it has grown dull."
"It will never cease to speak. I know myself too well to have any doubt
on that point, but all the same I may take the downward course. I can't
say. Conscience has only just begun to trouble me. I may obey its
dictates, or I may deliberately lead the life of a hypocrite. If I
choose the latter, can you stand the test?"
"I have stood it for five years."
"But I have not been at home--the Court has been shut up--an absentee
landlord is not always to the front in his people's thoughts. In the
future, things will be different. Look at me for a moment, Hetty
Vincent. You are not well--your cheeks are hollow and your eyes are too
bright. Mrs. Everett is persuaded that you carry a secret. If she thinks
so, others may think the same. Your aunt also knows."
"Aunt is different from me," said Hetty. "She didn't see it done. It
don't wear her like it wears me. But I think, sir, now that you have
come back, and I am quite certain that I know your true mind, and when I
know, too, that you are carrying the burden as well as me, and that we
two,"--she paused, her voice broke--"I think, sir," she added, "that it
won't wear me so much in the future."
"You must on no account be tried. If I resolve to keep the secret of my
guilt from all the rest of the world, you must leave the country."
"Me leave the country!" cried Hetty--her face became ghastly pale, her
eyes brimmed again with tears. "Then you would indeed kill me," she
said, with a moan--"to leave you--Mr. Robert, you must guess why I have
done all this."
"Hush," he said in a harsh tone. He approached the window, where the
blind was drawn up. He saw, or fancied he saw--Mrs. Everett's dark
figure passing by in the distance. He retreated quickly into the shaded
part of the room.
"I cannot afford to misunderstand your words," he said, after a pause,
"but listen to me, Hetty, you must never allude to that subject again.
If I keep this thing to myself I can only do it on condition that you
and your husband leave the country. I have not fully made up my mind
yet. Nothing can be settled to-night. You had better not stay any
longer."
Hetty rose totteringly and approached the door. Awdrey took the key from
his pocket, and unlocked it for her. As he did so he asked her a
question.
"You saw everything? You saw the deed done?"
"Yes, sir, I saw the stick in your hand, and----"
"That is the point I am coming to," said the Squire. "What did I do with
the stick?"
"You pushed it into the midst of some underwood, sir, about twenty feet
from the spot where----" She could not finish her sentence.
"Yes," said Awdrey slowly. "I remember that. Has the stick ever been
found?"
"No, Mr. Robert, that couldn't be."
"Why do you say that? The underwood may be cut down at any moment. The
stick has my name on it. It may come to light."
"It can't, sir--'tain't there. Aunt Fanny and me, we thought o' that,
and we went the night after the murder, and took the stick out from
where you had put it, and weighted it with stones, and threw it into the
deep pond close by. You need not fear that, Mr. Robert."
Awdrey did not answer. His eyes narrowed to a line of satisfaction, and
a cunning expression came into them, altogether foreign to his face.
He softly opened the door, and Hetty passed out, then he locked it
again.
He was alone with his conscience. He fell on his knees and covered his
face.
"God, Thy judgments are terrible," he groaned.