Transcriber’s note
Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made
can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters
are indicated as follows:
_italic_
AN OPEN VERDICT
A Novel
BY THE AUTHOR OF
‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’
ETC. ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. II.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
JOHN MAXWELL AND CO.
4, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET,
1878
[_All rights reserved._]
CONTENTS TO VOL. II.
CHAP. PAGE
I. DEATH BRINGS COOL NIGHT AFTER LIFE’S SULTRY DAY! 1
II. DUST AND AN ENDLESS DARKNESS 17
III. BEFORE THE CORONER 31
IV. CHRISTMAS EVE 49
V. GLOOMY DAYS 65
VI. BELLA’S REVENGE 82
VII. MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND 96
VIII. CYRIL RENOUNCES LOVE AND FORTUNE 109
IX. ‘THOSE ARE THE KILLING GRIEFS WHICH DARE
NOT SPEAK’ 128
X. ‘ALAS! I HAVE NOR HOPE NOR HEALTH’ 141
XI. ‘WHY WAS MY CRESSID THEN SO HARD TO WIN?’ 159
XII. SOMETHING MUST BE DONE 176
XIII. ‘A SMILE OF THINE SHALL MAKE MY BLISS’ 189
XIV. ‘OH, BREAK, MY HEART!--POOR BANKRUPT, BREAK
AT ONCE’ 208
XV. BUT AM I NOT THE NOBLER THROUGH THY LOVE? 216
XVI. I ONLY LEARNED TO DOUBT AT LAST 230
XVII. THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 248
XVIII. ‘SICK, SICK TO THE HEART OF LIFE AM I’ 274
XIX. MR. PIPER FALLS IN LOVE 291
XX. MR. PIPER MAKES AN OFFER 300
XXI. CYRIL’S NURSES 314
AN OPEN VERDICT.
CHAPTER I.
‘DEATH BRINGS COOL NIGHT AFTER LIFE’S SULTRY DAY.’
MONDAY morning was bleak and cold. There was neither frost nor snow,
but a driving rain that beat fiercely upon all the southern windows of
the Water House, and obscured the view of river and village, church
tower and moorland.
At nine o’clock Beatrix was still sleeping. Bella, to whom necessity
had given the habit of early rising, was dressed and out of her room
before eight, and found herself at a loss for occupation. There was
a cheery fire in Miss Harefield’s sitting-room, and the breakfast
was laid--a snug round table bright with pretty china and quaint old
silver, with an old blue and red Oriental bowl of hothouse flowers in
the centre. How different from the Scratchell table, with its tumbled
week-old cloth, which was like an enlarged copy of Mercator’s Chart of
the World, done in tea and coffee--its odds and ends of crockery, all
cracked--for what pottery that ever the potter moulded could withstand
the destructiveness of the young Scratchells?--the battered old
Britannia teapot, stale quartern loaf, scanty remnant of salt butter,
and inadequate dish of pale-faced rashers, the distribution of which
half-cured pig gave rise to much ill-will and recrimination among Mr.
Scratchell’s olive branches!
At home Bella would have had to help in the preparation of the morning
meal, and to assist her overworked mother in the struggle to preserve
peace and order while it was being eaten. Here she had nothing to do
but to sit and watch the logs burning, and listen to the clock ticking
and the rain lashing the windows, while she waited for Beatrix.
This state of existence, placid though it was as compared with
the turmoil of home, soon began to pall upon Bella, who was of an
essentially active temper. She went to the window and looked out, but
could see only dim shapes of mountain and moor through the blinding
rain. She thought of Cyril Culverhouse, who was going his rounds
already, perhaps, in the cold and rain, or teaching damp children in
a windy schoolroom. She thought of her poor mother, whose much-tried
spirit was doubtless being exercised by the teakettle’s obstinate
persistence in not boiling, and of her father, who was most likely
making himself an affliction to everybody with his well-known Monday
morning temper.
To-morrow would be Christmas Day. This afternoon Miss Harefield’s
presents, and Bella’s poor little offerings were to be sent to the
Scratchells. Bella wondered whether her father would be mollified
in temper as evening wore round so far as to allow of egg-flip or
snapdragon--those luxuries for which the young Scratchells always
pleaded, but wherewith they were but seldom gratified. Yet, by and by,
when going down the bill of life, they would look back fondly upon
this and childhood, and, softened by distance, the rare and scanty
pleasures of these early days would seem to them sweeter than anything
which a prosperous later life could yield.
The clock struck the quarter after nine, and still Bella sat looking at
the fire, with the breakfast table undisturbed. Even the urn had left
off hissing. Beatrix was not generally so late. The two girls had been
accustomed to sit down together at eight, for in Miss Scales’ moral
code late hours were sinful, and a nine o’clock breakfast was the first
stage in a downward career.
Bella’s patience was exhausted. She went to Beatrix’s door and knocked.
No answer. She knocked louder, and called, and still there was no
answer. She was beginning to feel uneasy, when she saw the young woman
who waited on Miss Harefield coming along the corridor.
‘Is your mistress up, Mary? Have you done her hair?’
‘No, miss. I went at half-past seven, as usual, but she was sleeping so
sound I didn’t like to wake her. I know she has had bad nights lately,
and I thought the sleep would do her good. I’ve been on the listen for
her bell ever since.’
‘And she has not rung?’
‘No, miss.’
Bella went in without another word. Beatrix was sleeping profoundly.
‘Don’t wake her, miss,’ said the maid, looking in at the door. ‘She’s
been wanting sleep all along. Mr. Namby says so. Let her have her sleep
out.’
‘Very well,’ assented Bella. ‘I’ll go and have my breakfast. I’m quite
exhausted with waiting.’
‘So you must be, miss, and the urn is cold and the eggs too, I’ll lay.
I’ll go and get things hotted up for you.’
Bella sat down to her lonely breakfast, presently, profound silence
reigning in the house, and a dulness as of the grave. She began to
think that, after all, wealth was not an unqualified blessing. Here was
the heiress to one of the finest estates in Yorkshire, with innumerable
acres in Lincolnshire to boot, leading an existence so joyless and
monotonous that even one week of it was too much for Miss Scratchell.
And yonder at the Park the wife of a millionaire was hastening her
descent to the grave by vain cares and needless economies. The rich
people did not seem, according to Bella’s small experience, to get
value for their money.
She was still sitting at breakfast when she was surprised by a visit
from the butler.
‘Oh, if you please, ma’am,’ he began, with a serious air, ‘Mrs. Peters
and I are rather anxious about Mr. Harefield. We really don’t feel to
know what we ought to do--the circumstances are altogether out of the
way. I don’t want to do more than my duty as a faithful servant--and I
shouldn’t feel satisfied if I was to do less.’
‘But what is wrong?’ asked Bella, puzzled and scared by this
circumlocution, and now perceiving the round rubicund visage of the
housekeeper looking in at the door. ‘Is Mr. Harefield ill?’
‘No, Miss Scratched, it isn’t that--but we cannot find him.’
‘You can’t find him?’
‘No, ma’am. He isn’t in his bedroom, and what’s more, his bed wasn’t
slept in last night. He isn’t in the library or the dining-room, and
those three rooms are the only ones he ever uses. His habits, as you
know, ma’am, are as regular as clockwork, as far as regards meals
and so on. He takes his breakfast at nine o’clock, and goes from his
breakfast to his library. He never left home in his life without
letting me know beforehand. But he didn’t sleep in this house last
night, and he’s not to be found in this house this morning.’
‘He may have gone away last night with that strange gentleman,’
suggested Bella.
‘No, ma’am, that he didn’t, for I let the foreign gentleman out, and
locked the door after him.’
‘Have you searched the house? Mr. Harefield may have fallen down in a
fit somewhere. It’s too dreadful to think of.’
‘I’ve looked everywhere that was likely. There are only three rooms
that he ever uses, as I said, ma’am. And I wouldn’t frighten Miss
Harefield for the world. That’s why I came to consult you, ma’am,
knowing you to be a clever young lady, and your father being my
master’s lawyer.’
‘Come,’ said Bella, seeing the two servants looking at her, as if for
inspiration. ‘If Mr. Harefield has gone away on the spur of the moment,
I dare say he has left a letter or a memorandum somewhere. Let us go
round the house together, and look about. It was quite right of you not
to disturb Miss Harefield.’
Bella led the way downstairs, followed by the two scared servants.
Her heart was beating fast, agitated by nameless fears; but even in
the midst of her fear she felt a kind of elation, a sense of new
importance. Some great event was going to happen. This slow old ship,
the Water House, was entering stormy seas, and she was at the helm.
A sudden thought went through her heart like a knife. What if Mr.
Harefield were to die? His death would mean wealth and freedom, love,
liberty, all glad things that earth could give for Beatrix. It would
mean union with Cyril Culverhouse. The pang of envy which pierced
Bella’s little soul at that thought was an almost insupportable agony.
She had endured the idea of their mutual love with secret pangs and
heart-burnings, but with at least an outward patience, while all
possibility of their union was afar off. But, to see them prosperous
lovers, happy in each other; to hear their wedding bells, and to
have to sit by and smile assentingly while her little world praised
them and rejoiced in their happiness, would be too much. All these
considerations passed through her mind as she went downstairs, with the
housekeeper and butler behind her, on her way to the library, where, if
any letter had been left by Mr. Harefield before his departure, it was
most likely to be found.
The shutters had been opened and the blinds drawn up, the fire was
lighted, the chairs were set straight. But the large writing-table,
with its litter of books and papers, had been left untouched. The
housemaids at the Water House knew their duties too well to disturb
anything there.
There were letters on the mantelpiece, old letters thrust carelessly
behind bronze candlesticks and Oriental jars. The butler went over to
the hearth to examine these papers, with a faint hope that there might
be a message from his missing master among them. The housekeeper went
to look at a tray in the hall, where cards and letters were sometimes
put, and where it was just possible her master might have left some
message on a scrap of paper.
Bella turned over the books on the table--a volume of Euripides, the
last number of the _Westminster_, half a dozen pamphlets, political and
scientific. She started, and looked at the butler, who was standing
with his back to her, deliberately sorting the letters he had taken
from the mantelpiece, chiefly receipted accounts which his master had
thrust there and forgotten, Christian Harefield not being a man of
business-like habits, or given to the docketing and pigeon-holing of
unimportant papers.
Here, under Bella Scratchell’s hand, lying half hidden among the
books and pamphlets, was a letter that evidently meant something. A
large blue envelope, sealed with the Harefield crest, and curiously
addressed,--
‘FOR MY DAUGHTER BEATRIX.’
A man would hardly write to his daughter, she living under the same
roof with him, sitting at meat with him a few hours ago, unless he had
something of an exceptional nature to tell her. These considerations
and some more passed through Bella’s mind as she stood with her hand on
the letter, her eyes on the butler’s portly back.
He was entirely engrossed with his scrutiny of the envelopes in his
hand, being of a slow and stolid temperament, and requiring leisure in
which to grasp an idea. At this moment no one but Bella and the writer
knew of the existence of this letter.
And the writer, where was he?
Bella put the letter into her pocket.
‘I will give it to her myself,’ she thought. ‘It will be better.’
‘There’s nothing here, Miss Scratchell,’ said the butler, ‘and this is
where master always puts his letters for the post.’
And then he came and surveyed the table with his slow gaze, which
seemed feebly to interrogate the covers of the books, as if in the
hope that they might tell him something.
‘Nothing on the table, ma’am?’
‘Nothing,’ answered Bella.
‘It’s a very awkward position for old servants to find themselves
placed in,’ said the butler. ‘It isn’t like my master to go out of
the house and tell nobody, and leave his servants to puzzle and worry
themselves about him. He has been eccentric of late years, but always
the gentleman. And how could he go away, except on foot, which isn’t
likely? I’ve been to the stables. He has not been out there. The horses
are in their stalls. There’s no coach goes through Little Yafford.
There’s no rail within five miles.’
‘I wish I knew what to advise you,’ said Bella, ‘but indeed I do not.
It’s quite a dreadful situation for you to be in. And Miss Harefield
will be coming downstairs presently, and must be told. I really think
you ought to send for my father. He would know what to do, perhaps.’
‘I couldn’t take upon myself to do such a thing, ma’am. If my master
should come back, and be offended at us making such a fuss----’
‘But you have a right to make a fuss. His bed was not slept in last
night, you say. He disappears suddenly on a Sunday night, after
receiving a mysterious visitor. You have a right to be frightened.’
‘Why frightened? Who has disappeared?’ asked a voice at the door, and
Beatrix entered, pallid and heavy eyed after her late slumbers.
‘Oh, Beatrix,’ cried Bella, going over to her, ‘I did not think you
were coming downstairs.’
‘What is wrong?’ asked Beatrix. ‘Is it anything about my father?’
There was a pause, and then she turned sharply upon the butler.
‘There is something wrong,’ she said, ‘and you are trying to hide it
from me. Is my father ill?’
Peacock faltered, stammered, and finally explained the state of things.
‘When did you last see papa?’ asked Beatrix, after he had finished.
‘It was half-past ten o’clock, ma’am. I brought wood and coals, and
asked if there was anything more wanted, and my master said no.’
‘Was he looking ill--or agitated?’
‘I did not notice anything particular. He was sitting quietly before
the fire.’
‘Reading?’
‘No. He was not reading.’
Beatrix sank into her father’s chair, very pale, and trembling in every
limb. She could think of nothing--she could suggest nothing. For the
moment the very power of thought seemed suspended, but this state of
mental collapse did not last long. Bella leant over her and murmured
something indistinctly soothing. Beatrix rose and went quickly to the
door.
‘Let us look in every room in the house,’ she said. ‘In my mother’s
rooms first of all. He may be there.’
‘Oh, Miss Beatrix!’ cried Peacock, ‘why, you know those rooms are never
opened.’
‘Yes, sometimes by him. He keeps the key. The visitor last night was an
old friend of my mother’s. The sight of him might bring back thoughts
of the past to my father.’
She ran quickly up stairs, and to the passage out of which her mother’s
rooms opened. It was at the end of the house opposite that in which
Beatrix lived.
‘See,’ she cried, ‘the key is in the door of the morning-room. My
father is there.’
She knocked softly, and waited for a minute or so, but there was no
answer. Then she took courage and went in alone; while Peacock, and the
housekeeper, and Miss Scratchell waited breathlessly in the corridor.
There was a pause, which to these listeners seemed long, and then there
rose a cry that thrilled them.
They went in all together, full of fear, and found Beatrix Harefield
on her knees beside a sofa, on which, stretched at full length, clad
in its monk’s robe of gray cloth, lay that which a few hours ago had
been the master of all things on the Water House estate, ruler of many
lives, by the sublime right of ten thousand a year.
‘Send some one for Mr. Namby,’ cried Peacock.
‘Come away with me, Miss Beatrix, love,’ cried the housekeeper. ‘You
can’t do any good, and you’ll only make yourself unhappy. Come away
with me and Miss Scratchell.’
Bella stood looking on, white and scared, and said not a word. Beatrix
heard good Mrs. Peters’ entreaties, but took no heed. She was still
upon her knees, clasping a dead man’s icy hand, and all the life within
her seemed frozen like his.