THE TENANT FROM BEECHAMPTON.
While John Treverton was in Paris, waiting to obtain proof of Jean
Kergariou’s identity with the sailor whose corpse he had seen carried
to the Morgue, Laura was sitting alone in her husband’s study, full of
anxious thoughts. The telegram from Auray had been delivered at the
Manor House early in the afternoon, and had given comfort to the weary
heart of John Treverton’s wife; but even this assurance of good news
could not silence her fears. One horrible idea pursued her wherever she
turned her thoughts, an ever-present source of terror. Her husband, the
man for whom she would have given her life, had been suspected--even
broadly accused--of murder. Let him go where he would, change his name
and surroundings as often as he would, that hideous suspicion would
follow him like his shadow. She recalled much that she had read about
La Chicot’s murder in the daily papers. She remembered how even she
herself had been impressed with an idea of the husband’s guilt. Every
circumstance had seemed to point at him. And who else was there to be
suspected?
Strong in her faith in the man she loved, Laura Treverton was as fully
convinced of her husband’s innocence as if she had been by his side
when he came home on the night of the murder, and stood aghast on the
threshold of his wife’s chamber, gazing at the horrid crimson stream
that had slowly oozed from under the door, dreadful evidence of the
deed that had been done. There was no doubt in her mind, no uncertainty
in her thoughts: but she knew that as she had thought in the past, when
she had read of the man called Chicot, so others would think in the
future, if John Treverton, _alias_ Chicot, were to stand at the
bar accused of his wife’s murder.
An awful possibility to face, alone, with the husband she loved far
away, perhaps secretly watched and followed by the police, who might
distort his most innocent acts into new evidence of guilt.
‘If he were at home, here at my side, I should not suffer this agony,’
she thought. ‘It is here that he ought to be.’
Celia had been at the Manor House twice since Mr. Treverton’s
departure, but on both occasions Laura had refused to see her, excusing
herself on the ground that she was too ill to see any one. Edward
Clare’s conduct had filled her mind with loathing, and with fear. She
had felt the hidden tooth of the cobra, and she knew that here was a
foe whose hatred was fierce enough to mean death. She could not clasp
hands with this man’s sister, kiss as they two had been wont to kiss.
She could not confide in Celia’s sisterly love. Brother and sister were
of the same blood. Could she be true when he was so profoundly false?
‘From this day forth I shall feel afraid of Celia,’ she told herself.
When the good-natured Vicar himself came on the day after the arrival
of the telegram, anxious to comfort and cheer her in this period of
distress, Laura was not able to harden her heart against him, even
though he was of the traitor’s blood. She could not think evil of him,
upon whose knees she had often sat in the early years of her happy life
at Hazlehurst Manor; she could not believe that he was her husband’s
enemy. He had behaved with exemplary gentleness when John Treverton
stood before him accused of falsehood and fraud. Even his rebuke had
been full of mercy. He was not perhaps a high-minded man, nor even
a large-minded man. There was very little of the Apostle about him,
though he honestly tried to do his duty according to his lights. But he
was a thoroughly good-hearted man, who would have gone a long way out
of his straight path to avoid treading on those human worms over whose
vile bodies a loftier type of Christian will sometimes tramp rather
ruthlessly.
Laura feared no reproaches from this old friend in her hour of misery.
He might be prosy, perhaps, and show himself incapable of grappling a
difficulty; but he would shoot no barbed arrow of scorn or contumely
against that wounded heart. She felt secure in the assurance of his
compassion.
‘My dear, this is a very sad case,’ he said, after he had seated
himself by her side, and patted her hand, and hummed and hawed
gently for a minute or so. ‘You mustn’t be down-hearted, my
dear Laura; you mustn’t give way; but it really is a very sad
affair; such complications--such difficulties on every side--one
scarcely knows how to contemplate such a position. Imagine such
a gentlemanly young fellow as John Treverton married to a French
ballet-dancer--a--French--dancer!’ repeated the Vicar, dwelling on
the lady’s nationality, as if that deepened the degradation. ‘If my
poor old friend could have known I am sure he would have made a very
different will. He would have left everything to you, no doubt.’
‘Indeed, he would not!’ cried Laura, almost indignantly. ‘You forget
that he had made a vow against that.’
‘My dear, a vow of that kind could have been evaded without being
broken. My dear old friend would never have bequeathed his fortune to a
young man capable of marrying a French opera dancer.’
‘Why should we dwell upon that hateful marriage?’ said Laura.
‘If--if--my husband was not free to marry me at the time of our first
marriage--in Hazlehurst Church--we must surrender the estate. That is
only common honesty. We are both quite willing to do it. You and Mr.
Sampson have only to take up your trusts for the hospital.’
‘My dear, you talk as lightly of surrendering fourteen thousand a year
as if it were nothing. You have no power to realize your loss. You
have lived in this house ever since you can remember--mistress of all
its comforts and luxuries. You have no idea what life is like on the
outside of it.’
‘I know that I could live with my husband happily in any house, so long
as we had clear consciences.’
‘My love, have you considered what a pittance your poor little income
would be? Two hundred and sixty pounds a year for two people, at the
present price of provisions; and one of the two an extravagant young
man.’
‘My husband is not extravagant. He has known poverty, and can live on
very little. Besides, he has talents, and will earn money. He is not
going to fold his hands, and bewail his loss of fortune.’
‘My dearest Laura, I shudder at the thought of your facing life upon a
pittance, you who have never known the want of money.’
‘Dear Mr. Clare, you must think me very weak--cowardly, even--if you
suppose that I can fear to face a little poverty with the husband I
love. I can bear anything except his disgrace.’
‘My poor child, God grant you may be spared that bitter trial. If your
husband is innocent of all part in his first wife’s death, as you and I
believe, let us hope that the world will never know him as the man who
has been suspected of such an awful crime.’
‘Your son knows,’ said Laura.
‘My son knows. Yes, Laura, but you cannot for a moment suppose that
Edward would make any use of his knowledge against your interest. It
was his regard for you that prompted him to the course he took last
Sunday night.’
‘Is it regard for me that makes him hate my husband? Forgive me for
speaking plainly, dear Mr. Clare. You have been all goodness to
me--always--ever since I can remember. My heart is full of affection
for you and your kind wife; but I know that your son is my husband’s
enemy, and I tremble at the thought of his power to do us harm.’
The Vicar heard her with some apprehension. He, too, had perceived the
malignity of Edward’s feelings towards John Treverton. He ascribed the
young man’s malice to the jealousy of a rejected suitor; and he knew
that from jealousy to hatred was but a step. But he could not believe
that his son--his own flesh and blood--could be capable of doing a
great wrong to a man who had never consciously injured him. That Edward
should make any evil use of his knowledge of John Treverton’s identity
with the suspected Chicot was to the Vicar’s mind incredible--nay,
impossible.
‘You have nothing to fear from Edward, my dear,’ he said, gently
patting the young wife’s hand as it lay despondingly in his; ‘make your
mind easy on that score.’
‘There is Mr. Gerard. He, too, knows my husband’s secret.’
‘He, too, will respect it. No one can look in John Treverton’s face and
believe him a murderer.’
‘No,’ cried Laura, naïvely; ‘those cruel people who wrote in the
newspapers had never seen him.’
‘My dear Laura, you must not distress yourself about newspaper people.
They are obliged to write about something. They could put themselves in
a passion about the man in the moon if there were nobody else for them
to abuse.’
Laura told the Vicar about the telegram received from Auray, with its
promise of good news.
‘What can be better than that? my dear,’ he cried, delightedly. ‘And
now I want you to come to the Vicarage with me. Celia is most anxious
to have you there, as she says you won’t have her here.’
‘Does Celia know!’ Laura began to ask faltering.
‘Not a syllable. Neither Celia nor her mother has any idea of what has
happened. They know that Treverton is away on business. That is all.’
‘Do you think Edward has said nothing?’
‘I am perfectly sure that Edward has been as silent as the Sphinx. My
wife would not have held her tongue about this sad business for five
minutes, if she had had an inkling of it, or Celia either. They would
have been exploding in notes of admiration, and would have pestered
me to death with questions. No, my dear Laura, you may feel quite
comfortable in coming to the Vicarage. Your husband’s secret is only
known to Edward and me.’
‘You are very good,’ said Laura gently, ‘I know how kindly your
invitation is meant. But I cannot leave home. John may come back at any
hour. I am continually expecting him.’
‘My poor child, is that reasonable? Think how far it is from here to
Auray.’
‘Think how fast he will travel, when once he is free to return.’
‘Very well, Laura, you must have your own way. I’ll send Celia to keep
you company.’
‘Please don’t,’ said Laura, quickly. ‘You know how fond I have always
been of Celia--but just now I had rather be quite alone. She is so gay
and light-hearted. I could hardly bear it. Don’t think me ungrateful,
dear Mr. Clare; but I would rather face my trouble alone.’
‘I shall never think you anything but the most admirable of women,’
answered the Vicar; ‘and now put on your hat and walk as far as the
gate with me. You are looking wretchedly pale.’
Laura obeyed, and walked through the grounds with her old friend. She
had not been outside the house since her husband’s departure, and the
keen wintry air revived her jaded spirits. It was along this chestnut
avenue that she and John Treverton had walked on that summer evening
when he for the first time avowed his love. There was the good old
tree beneath whose shaded branches they had sealed the bond of an
undying affection. How much of uncertainty, how much of sorrow, she had
suffered since that thrilling moment, which had seemed the assurance of
enduring happiness! She walked by the Vicar’s side in silence, thinking
of that curious leave-taking with her lover a year and a half ago.
‘If he had only trusted me,’ she thought, with the deepest regret. ‘If
he had only been frank and straightforward, how much misery might have
been saved to both of us! But he was sorely tempted. Can I blame him if
he yielded too weakly to the temptation?’
She could not find it in her heart to blame him--though her nobler
nature was full of scorn for falsehood--for it had been his love for
her that made him weak, his desire to secure to her the possession of
the house she loved that had made him false.
Half-way between the house and the road they met a stranger--a
middle-aged man, of respectable appearance--a man who might be a clerk,
or a builder’s foreman, a railway official in plain clothes, anything
practical and business-like. He looked scrutinisingly at Laura as he
approached, and then stopped short and addressed her, touching his
hat:--
‘I beg your pardon, madam, but may I ask if Mr. Treverton is at home?’
‘No; he is away from home.’
‘I’m sorry for that, as I’ve particular business with him. Will he be
long away, do you think, madam?’
‘I expect him home daily,’ answered Laura. ‘Are you one of his tenants?
I don’t remember to have seen you before.’
‘No, madam. But I am a tenant for all that. Mr. Treverton is ground
landlord of a block of houses I own in Beechampton, and there is a
question about drainage, and I can’t move a step without reference
to him. I shall be very glad to have a few words with him as soon as
possible. Drainage is a business that won’t wait, you see, sir,’ the
man added, turning to the Vicar.
He was a man of peculiarly polite address, with something of
old-fashioned ceremoniousness which rather pleased Mr. Clare.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till the end of the week,’ said the
Vicar. ‘Mr. Treverton has left home upon important business, and I
don’t think he can be back sooner than that.’
The stranger was too polite to press the matter further.
‘I thank you very much, sir,’ he said; ‘I must make it convenient to
call again.’
‘You had better leave your name,’ said Laura, ‘and I will tell my
husband of your visit directly he comes home.’
‘I thank you, madam, there is no occasion to trouble you with any
message. I am staying with a friend in the village, and shall call
directly I hear Mr. Treverton has returned.’
‘A very superior man,’ remarked the Vicar, when the stranger had raised
his hat and walked on briskly enough to be speedily out of earshot.
‘The owner of some of those smart new shops in Beechampton High Street,
no doubt. Odd that I should never have seen him before. I thought I
knew every one in the town.’
It was a small thing, proving the nervous state into which Laura had
been thrown by the troubles of the last few days--even the appearance
of this courteous stranger discomposed her, and seemed a presage of
evil.