THE TOMB’S EVIDENCE
They crossed the churchyard again and entered the carriage. Jonah
mounted the box.
“Noo drive the gentlefolks to t’ east o’ t’ park, and roond by the
musselman. I’ll cut across through t’ brush and speak to t’ keeper, and
meet you there. It will be all roight, maister.”
With this the sexton struck off through the bushes that stood between
the church and the manor house.
The old carriage left the churchyard by the way it had come and entered
once more upon the lane, and turning eastward, drove on between green
hedges for about a quarter of a mile, when it reached a massive gate of
oak and iron, guarded by a porter’s lodge of stone in the same strong
style of building as the sexton’s cottage at the churchyard wall.
A tidy woman come out of the lodge, and seeing the old carriage, with
Jonah on the box, she smiled and nodded, and at once opened wide the
gates.
“Any one at the manor house, Mistress Dillon?” inquired Jonah.
“Noa, lad; none but t’ housekeeper and t’ servants,” replied the woman,
courtesying to “the gentlefolks” as the old carriage passed through the
gate and entered the long avenue leading through the park to the house.
This avenue was shaded by rows of gigantic old oak trees on each side,
whose branches met and intermingled overhead, so arching the way with a
thick roof of foliage.
“Oh, what a beautiful—what a majestic vista!” exclaimed Wynnette, with
more enthusiasm than she usually bestowed upon any object.
“It is very fine,” said her father. “There is nothing finer in their way
than these old English parks.”
Presently the carriage turned with the avenue in a curve, and suddenly
drew up before the manor house, which until that moment had been
concealed by the lofty trees around it.
Anglesea Manor was a huge oblong building of some gray stone, supported
at its corners by four square towers, each further strengthened by four
turrets, all of which added to the architectural beauty of the edifice.
There were three rows of lofty windows in the front. The lowest row was
divided in the middle by massive oaken doors, opening upon a stone
platform reached by seven stone steps.
“Oh-h-h!” breathed Wynnette, as she gazed on the fine old house. “To
think that such a palace as this should be the inheritance of such a
villain as he!”
The driver turned and looked at her with astonishment and some
indignation. Then checking himself, he said, in perfect simplicity:
“Oo! you don’t know, young leddy, I reckon—this place belongs to our
landlord, Col. Angus Anglesea.”
Then drawing up his horse, he inquired:
“Will you get out and go through the house, sir?”
“For Heaven’s sake, uncle, no—not yet. Let us go directly to the
mausoleum, and see the date that is on the tomb, and solve this doubt
that is intolerable,” pleaded Le.
“Very well, my dear boy; very well. Kirby, drive at once to the
mausoleum. We will see the house later,” said Mr. Force.
The man touched his hat and started his horse.
They turned into a grass-grown road winding in and out among magnificent
oaks that seemed the growth of many centuries, and that were probably
once parts of the primeval forest of Britain.
Presently they came upon the mausoleum. It stood between two fine oak
trees, and in front of a third, which formed its background. It was
built in the form of a Grecian temple and surrounded by a silver-plated
iron railing.
The carriage stopped and our tourists got out.
Le pushed on impetuously, opened the little gate, and stepped up to read
the inscription on the marble. He read it attentively, stopped, gazed at
it, read it again, and then turned away in silence.
“What is it, Le?” anxiously inquired Abel Force.
“It is—read it, uncle,” replied the young man, breaking down and turning
away.
Mr. Force entered the inclosure and read the inscription on the
mausoleum:
MARY,
Beloved Wife of ANGUS ANGLESEA,
Died August 25, 18—,
AGED 49.
Mr. Force turned away without a word.
Wynnette entered the inclosure, read the inscription and came out in
perfect silence.
The driver of the old carriage and the sexton of the church, who had
only just now kept his promise and come up to join the party, stood a
little apart, not understanding the emotion of the strangers, attributed
it all to sympathy with the bereaved husband.
“Oo, ay, maister, it was a sorrowful day when her leddyship departed
this loife,” said Jonah Kirby, shaking his head—“a sorrowful day! I was
at t’ funeral, as in duty bound. T’ squoire were first mourner, and hed
to be present, though he were far from fit to stand. Laird Middlemoor,
his feyther-in-law, hed to hold him up. I never saw t’ squoire from the
day of t’ funeral until the day he took t’ train for Lunnun, when he
were going abroad to furrin pairts. And then he had gone away to nothing
but skin and bone! He came back about a year ago; but he couldn’t abear
the place, and went away again. Ah, poor gentleman!”
Le and his uncle looked at each other in wonder. Was this Angus Anglesea
of whom the man was speaking? who had reared this monument to the memory
of his “beloved wife”? Was this Angus Anglesea, whom every one praised?
And yet, who had gone abroad and deceived, betrayed, and robbed and
deserted the poor Californian widow? And how, indeed, could he have
married the Californian woman in St. Sebastian, on the first of August,
as Le had unquestionable evidence that he had done, and be present at
the death of his wife in the English manor house on the twenty-fifth of
the same month, as these people declared that he had been; and, again,
meet the Force family at Niagara early in the following September? It
might have been just possible by almost incredibly rapid transits.
“Had Col. Anglesea been abroad just before his wife’s death?” inquired
Abel Force of the driver, who knew more about the affairs of Anglewood
than the sexton, because the former had always lived at Angleton, and
the latter had only lately come to the parish.
“Oo, ay, maister, thet was the pity o’ ’t. The squoire hed been away a
month or more. He coom home only a week before her leddyship deed. And
he went away again after t’ funeral. He coom back again a year ago, but
he couldn’t abear to stay. So he put up t’ musselman to her memory and
went his way again. Ah, poor gentleman! He were a good gentleman, and a
wise and a brave one!”
“I cannot make it out,” murmured Abel Force.
“The man is drawing a long bow, papa! that’s all there is in it—I mean
he is telling romances in praise of his landlord. There cannot be a word
of truth in what he says,” said Wynnette.
Le said nothing. He seemed utterly crushed by the blow that had fallen
on him.
The carriage driver seemed not to hear or understand the murmured talk
between the father and daughter, but when it ceased he touched his hat
and asked:
“Wull I drive you to t’ manor house, noo, maister?”
“Yes, if you please,” returned Mr. Force, as he helped Wynnette to climb
up into the dilapidated “trap.”
“And what do your honor think o’ t’ musselman, maister?” inquired the
sexton, coming up and taking off his cap.
“It is a very fine specimen of both architecture and sculpture,” replied
Mr. Force.
The sexton smiled satisfaction, bowed and withdrew.
“I am puzzled, Le, and I think by going through the manor house I may
come to understand things better,” whispered Mr. Force to his young
companion.
But Le was too much depressed to answer, or to take any further interest
in the events of the day.
They turned and drove back through the beautiful park to the front of
the manor house, where the carriage drew up.