Mr. Austin Ambrose was spending an extremely unpleasant evening. It
sounds as if it would be a very nice thing to play with one's fellow
creatures as if they were puppets--to pull the wires which govern their
actions, and to make them dance to one's piping; but the wire-puller
has sometimes a very uncomfortable time of it.
Mr. Austin Ambrose had up to the present found his puppets quite docile
and obedient to the pulling of the wires. He had got Lord Blair and
Margaret secretly married, he had hidden them away at Appleford; his
puppet Lottie had played her part really quite admirably, and Margaret
was fully convinced that she had been betrayed and ruined by the man
she loved.
So far, so well; but still Mr. Austin Ambrose was uncomfortable. He had
left Margaret to herself, knowing that if so left she would be more
likely to carry out his desire and fly, than if he remained with her.
But he did not mean to lose sight of her; it was his intention to
travel by the same train if possible, and to track her, unseen himself,
to her place of refuge.
So he went and placed himself on the road leading to the station, and
lighting a cigarette, waited as patiently as he could.
Hour passed after hour, and still she did not come. Then the clouds
rose, and the sky grew murky, and presently the storm broke.
"Confound women!" he muttered, vainly trying to light the last of his
cigarettes; "you can never count upon them. I would have sworn that
she would have made for the station; and yet she hasn't. She's waiting
to see Blair, after all. Well, I'll go and see. There'll be a scene
presently, if she remains, and I hate a scene!"
With his coat-collar turned up he climbed to the cottage and knocked.
There was no answer; and after waiting and knocking again, he opened
the door.
To his amazement, the cottage seemed deserted. He was calling Mrs. Day
impatiently, when a woman came running with her apron over her head
from the neighboring cottage.
"Mrs. Day's out, sir. She's gone down to the beach," she said in answer
to his inquiries, "and I've got the children with me. It's lonely for
'em here, and such a storm raging."
"But--but Mrs. Stanley?" he said quickly; "she's in, is she not?"
The woman stared at him.
"Mrs. Stanley, sir--the lady, sir? Oh, no; she went out hours ago."
"Nonsense!" he said roughly. "I beg your pardon; I mean that it is
impossible that she should be out in this storm."
"Yes, but she is, sir. I saw her go down the path in the afternoon with
her mackintosh on her arm. I think she went to meet her good gentleman."
Austin Ambrose started, and his face flushed.
If she had, and they had met before--well, before something that he
hoped had happened--all his plans, all his deeply and skillfully laid
plots would be smashed and pulverized.
He turned his back to the woman, that she might not see his face.
"I--I think she must be in the house still," he said, with a sudden
hope; "she may have come back, you know."
"She may, but I don't think she could without my seeing her.
Howsomever, it's easy to find out." And she lit a candle and went up
the stairs, calling respectfully, "Mrs. Stanley, are you in, ma'am?"
while Austin Ambrose listened intently.
In a minute or two she came down.
"No, sir, she's not in the house. I'm afraid the poor lady's in the
storm; leastways, unless she's taken shelter."
Austin Ambrose caught up his hat.
"If she should come in before I return," he said, hurriedly, "ask her
to wait till I see her and speak with her. Do you hear? Do not let her
go. You understand?"
The woman, frightened by his pallor and sternness, dropped a courtesy,
and he rushed out and down the path.
If she had gone down the road to Ilfracombe, and had met Blair! His
heart almost ceased beating at the thought. She would meet Blair, and,
he knew too well, frustrate the elaborate plot, and ruin the plotter.
He gained the entrance of the road to 'Combe; two or three men were
standing under the shelter of a shed, with their tools beside them.
"Have you been working here--in the fields?" he inquired.
"Yes, master, and we be drenched through, we be!" said one.
"Have you seen a lady--a lady with a veil--come this way--to
Ilfracombe, I mean?" he said, trying to steady his voice. "I am afraid
she has got caught in the storm."
The men shook their heads.
"No," said he who had spoken first; "no one has been along this road
'cepting the gentleman who rode Farmer James' colt this morning."
"I know--I mean I don't know," said Austin Ambrose, catching himself
up. "Are you sure?"
"Sure and sartain!" said another man. "We've been working in sight o'
the road all day, and the lady couldn't a passed without our seeing
her. Have you got a bit of 'bacca, your honor?"
He tossed them a shilling, and hurried back. It was just possible that
she may have gone to the station by another road than that which he had
watched. Fighting his way against the wind and rain, he reached the
station.
From one and another of the porters he inquired if she had been seen,
and the answer was the same. No lady answering to Madge's description
had reached the station. Half wild with impatience and fear--not for
her, by any means, certainly not; but for himself!--he returned to the
beach.
As he did so he saw a gang of fishermen and sailors standing under the
lee of a rock, and peering out to sea.
They did not hear him approach, and, in his noiseless fashion, he got
close up to them and within hearing unnoticed.
"No boat could put out from the beach, man," said the old man with
whom Margaret had spoken that morning. "We've tried it with the best
of them, the Lass and the Speedwell, and it ain't no manner o' use.
'Sides, where's the good? the tide have swept over the rock an hour
agone!"
"And you're sure you seed her?" asked a man.
"Do 'ee think I've gone silly all in a moment?" retorted the old
fellow, pettishly. "I tell 'ee, I seed her on the top, half a-sitting
and half a-lying. I did think as I'd get up and go to her, but I'd
warned her in the morning, this very blessed morning; and the missus
come and called me in to tea, and--and bla'-me if I didn't forget her."
"Oh, she's lost! She's drownded, as sure as a gun! Well, sakes a mercy,
but it's a pity."
"We've all got to die," remarked a man philosophically; "and most on
us dies by drownding; but then we're used to it, which makes all the
difference."
Austin Ambrose pushed his way into their midst, startling them not a
little.
"Of whom are you talking?" he demanded, and his voice sounded harsh and
stern.
The old man touched his forehead and puffed at his pipe.
"It's the poor young lady up at Mrs. Day's, your honor," he said;
"she've been and got washed off the Long Rock----"
Austin Ambrose put his hand up with a strange gesture, as if to stop
him, and his face grew livid.
"What?" he cried hoarsely. "You say--oh, impossible!"
The old man shook his head.
"It's the possiblest thing as can be," he said grimly. "Seed her there
myself, and I thought she'd gone to look at the tide. I never thought
as she'd stop there after the warning I give her. I told her about the
lady and gentleman as was lost there two year agone," he added to the
others.
Austin Ambrose rushed out to the rocks and stared before him like a man
dazed. Then he sprung to his feet.
"I'll give any man twenty pounds who will launch a boat and search for
her," he cried hoarsely.
There was a profound silence. Then the old fisherman said grimly:
"Twenty pun ain't much for a man's life, your honor."
"I will give fifty--a hundred!" he cried desperately.
"Bless your honor's heart," said the old man slowly, "no boat could
live in this--that is, near the beach--it might in the open! It's to be
hoped it will, for Day's out," he said significantly. "No, your honor,
a thousand pounds wouldn't tempt us; besides, it's too late! too late!
The poor lady is drifting out to the sands, and the last's been seen of
her or ever will be seen on this earth!"
Austin Ambrose uttered a cry, an awful cry. They who heard it thought
that it was that of sorrowing friend or relative; but the cry was
one of pity for himself and all his shattered hopes. After all his
cleverness, his deep-laid schemes and restless toil, he had been
foiled--and by the woman he had fooled and deceived!
It was maddening. And indeed as he reeled away from the group he looked
like a man demented.
Suddenly he heard a shout and staggered back.
A man came running toward them with something in his hand. He held the
wet and dripping articles on high and surveyed his companions gravely.
"The old 'un's right!" he said slowly. "Here be the poor lady's cape
and hat!"
Austin Ambrose tore them from the man's hand.
"Are you sure?" he gasped.
"Yes," came a grave chorus. "We've see'd her wear 'em, time and again.
They're hers, and she's lost, poor soul!"
Austin Ambrose walked away with the hat and cape in his hands.
At the back of the beach, on the quay, was a small inn, through whose
red curtains the light shone cheerily. He pushed open the door and
entered with unsteady gait. The little place was full of sailors and
fishermen, all talking about the sad event, and recalling the similar
fatality of two years ago. As he entered they became suddenly silent.
"Give me some brandy!" he said, hoarsely.
The landlady mixed him a glass of hot brandy-and-water, and he took it
in both hands and drank it; then he sank on to a seat, and with tightly
compressed lips stared at the door.
For the time he was unconscious of the presence of the others, deaf to
their voices, which arose again in a hushed tone.
"It's the awfulest night," said one, "the awfulest! The poor
gentleman's out in it, too! Farmer James have gone down the road to
look for him. He's afeard the colt will be skeared by the lightning."
"Ah," said another; "not come back yet, poor gentleman? What a terrible
story it will be to tell him. They beant long been mated, have they?"
"Hush!" said a warning whisper, and the speaker nodded toward the
crouching figure. "Her brother, most like," he added, in a whisper.
"He's took all aback, poor fellow."
There was silence again, then they commenced to talk once more, and
still Austin Ambrose sat still and motionless.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and a short, active-looking man
dashed in.
"Why, Farmer James!" cried one of two, "what's amiss, man?"
"Give me time!" panted the farmer. "It's a night o' bad news, boys!
The colt's come home--without him!"
The men sprung to their feet, and looked at the speaker aghast.
"Without the gentleman, farmer?"
"Ay," he said solemnly, wiping the perspiration from his face. "I met
the colt tearing down the road to the stable with the saddle empty. A
lantern, missis, quick. Who'll lend a hand, boys?"
One and all turned out and proceeded at something between a trot and a
run into the road.
At a little distance the colt stood, wet and trembling, held by a boy.
They paused a moment to stare at it and then passed on.
Austin Ambrose, uninvited by them, joined the group and ran with them.
They stopped a moment where the two roads joined, the one Blair had
taken in the morning, the other he was returning by in the evening.
"Let's divide," said a man; but the farmer stooped down and examined
the road.
"No occasion," he said; "here's the colt's hoof-marks. This is the road
she come!"
Hurrying along, they climbed the narrow lane, and the foremost, a young
lad carrying the lantern, stopped with a cry at the motionless form
lying in the road.
There was a hush as the men crowded round. The farmer knelt down and
examined it for a moment, then he looked up.
"I'm afeared he's dead," he said gravely.
"Is--is it foul play, do 'ee think, Farmer James?" inquired one of the
men.
"Foul play!" the words ran round. "Why do 'ee say that?"
The man, a small, sharp-eyed old fellow, pointed to the road.
"Looks as if there'd been a struggle," he said. "But no matter now.
Take that gate off its hinges, lads, and lay him on it. We'll carry him
down to the Holme."
The gate was torn off its hinges--how little they guessed that it was
not for the first time that night!--and some coats laid upon it; then
they stooped to raise poor Blair.
As they did so, Austin Ambrose slid forward.
At the sound of the words "foul play," he had aroused. All was lost;
Margaret dead, Blair dead; all his toil and ingenuity thrown away. But
if these rustics were suspicious it was time to think of his own safety.
"Let me see!" he said, in a low voice. "He--he is a friend of mine.
Who said 'foul play?' If I thought so--but, no! Look!" and he pointed
to the stirrup through which the foot was thrust. "My poor friend was
thrown from the saddle; the mare bolted and must have dragged him. His
foot is still in the stirrup."
"That's true," said one. "Ah! if that stirrup leather had slipped out
sooner----"
Almost in silence they carried him down to the small farm called the
Holme; and the good-hearted people roused from their beds did their
best for him.
In a short time he was undressed and put to bed.
Austin Ambrose, calm and self-possessed, but very sorrowful, showed the
affliction of a brother.
"I am afraid it is all over!" he said, as they gathered round the bed
and looked at the handsome face and stalwart form, which many of them
had seen depart in the morning so full of life and happiness.
After a time the doctor came. He was an old man, who had worn himself
out in the hard practice of a wild country-side. Accidents were his
daily experience, and he fell to work in the cool, business-like way
acquired by custom.
White and breathless, Austin Ambrose, who had been permitted to remain
during the examination, waited for the verdict. It came at last.
"He's not dead," said the old doctor, gravely, "and that's about all
that can be said. It was a terrible blow!"
Austin Ambrose's lips contracted, and his eyes sought the old man's
weather-beaten face keenly.
"A blow, doctor?" he said, gravely.
"Yes," was the reply; "he was struck on the back of the head, sir."
Austin Ambrose uttered an exclamation.
"Oh, impossible, doctor!" he said. "Who should do such a thing? My poor
friend had not an enemy in the world."
"Plunder?" said the old man, questioningly.
Austin Ambrose shook his head.
"His purse, watch, jewelry, even the things he purchased at Ilfracombe,
are untouched. Besides, we found him lying, his foot still entangled in
the stirrup, as you have heard."
"Humph!" said the doctor, still at work with restoratives. "Well, he
must have fallen on the back of his head; but"--he looked puzzled and
frowned thoughtfully--"but it's very strange. If I hadn't known what
you have just told me, I should say that he had been struck, and that
if he should die, the coroner's verdict would have to be 'Willful
murder!'"
Austin Ambrose's lips twitched, but he shook his head and sighed.
"Thank Heaven that I have no such suspicion--it would be too dreadful!
No, my poor friend was thrown and dragged by the frightened horse. It
is, alas! too common an accident."
"Yes, yes, just so," said the doctor. "It's a pity, a thousand pities,
for he is a splendid fellow," and he looked with sad admiration on the
stalwart form. "What is his name?"
Austin Ambrose hesitated a moment.
"His name is Stanley. He is a very dear friend of mine," he added, "and
only recently married."
The old doctor started.
"You don't mean to say that he's the husband of the unfortunate young
lady who was drowned off Long Rock this morning?"
Austin Ambrose nodded, the doctor sighed.
"Well, sir, I'll do my best to bring him back to life; but it will be
cruel kindness, I fear, under the circumstances. Poor young fellow! But
if he should die he will be spared the misery awaiting him!"
"You--you think there is no hope of her escape?" faltered Austin.
The doctor shook his head.
"There may be a faint hope for him," he said, pointing to the bed. "But
for her there is none, none whatever. She was seen on the rocks; they
tell me that her cape and hat have been found washed ashore. No; if he
should die they will not be long apart. But you look worn out, sir, you
had better get some rest."
Austin Ambrose shook his head.
"I will not go until----" and he stopped significantly.
For the remainder of the night they watched beside the still form. Life
was in yet, beating faintly, like a flickering lamp; but the dawn came,
and Blair still remained hovering between the shores of the River of
Death.
The morning passed. The whole village was in a state of excitement over
the two accidents; that they should have happened on the same day, and
to man and wife, seemed phenomenal, and every one of the inns drove a
roaring trade with the crowds of excited men.
There was the chance, too, of another fatality, for the Days' boat had
disappeared, and it was rumored that she had gone down in the storm.
Toward evening, however, the crowd collected on the beach, for the boat
had been sighted.
Austin Ambrose had left Blair for a short rest, but he could neither
sleep nor remain quiet, and his restless feet had dragged him to
Appleford.
He stood just on the edge of the crowd watching the boat with
lack-luster eyes that shone dully in his pallid face.
There was a rush and a cheer as the boat came in, and two or three men
ran out into the water--it was smiling calmly enough now--to haul her
in, but as her keel touched the beach, Day held up his hand.
"Don't cheer, lads," he said, gravely; "I've bad news."
"Ay, ay, we can guess, James," said a voice, "you've seen the poor
lady!"
Day started and glanced at his wife, who sat in the stern, her shawl to
her eyes.
"Tell 'em, you," he said, in a whisper.
She raised her head.
"Yes," she said, with a sob, "I've seen the poor lady. We saw her on
the rocks, almost at the last moment."
"And you couldn't get near?" said a man.
She looked round.
"Do you think we'd be here without her if there'd been half a chance?"
she said, reproachfully.
"Ay, ay!" said the old boatswain. "Well, well, that settles it, and
that's some'at of a comfort! The poor soul's gone! Don't 'ee cry,
missis!" he added as he helped Mrs. Day out of the boat.
It so happened that as she stepped on the beach she was near Austin
Ambrose.
He had been listening in a kind of stupor, his eyes wandering from Mrs.
Day's face to her husband's.
At the moment of her landing he was so near that her arm touched his.
As it did so his eyes fell upon the shawl which she had been pressing
to her eyes.
The sun was shining full on it, and in the dull vague fashion peculiar
to his frame of mind his eye was following the pattern.
Suddenly he started, and a light shone in his eyes.
"Let me help you," he said, and gently but firmly he laid his hand upon
her arm covered by the shawl.
And, as he did so, the light gleamed still more brightly in his face,
for he discovered that the shawl with which she had been wiping away
her tears--_was dry_!