“When haughty expectations prostrate lie
And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing.”
Theodore walked moodily along the lane leading to the West Gate,
brooding over discrepancies and difficulties in the case which he
had set himself to unravel. As he drew near Mrs. Porter’s cottage he
saw Lord Cheriton come out of the porch, unattended. He came slowly
down the steps to the gate, with his head bent, and his shoulders
stooping wearily, an attitude which was totally unlike his usual
erect carriage, an attitude which told distinctly of mental trouble.
Theodore overtook him, and walked by his side, at the risk of being
considered intrusive. He was very curious as to his kinsman’s motive
for visiting Mrs. Porter, after yesterday’s conversation about Mercy.
“Have you been trying to bring about a reconciliation between mother
and daughter?” he asked.
“No. I have told you that little good could result from bringing
those two obstinate spirits together. You have seen for yourself
what the daughter can be—how perverse, how cruel, what a creature of
prejudice and whim. The mother’s nature is still harder. What good
could come of bringing such a daughter back to such a mother? No, it
was with no hope of reconciliation that I called upon Mrs. Porter. I
have been thinking very seriously of your friend Ramsay’s suggestion
of mental trouble. I regret that I did not act upon the hint sooner,
and get my friend Mainwaring to see her, and advise upon the case. I
shall certainly consult him about her—but as he has a very important
practice, and a large establishment under his care, it may be very
difficult for him to come to Cheriton. I think, therefore, it might
be well to send her up to the neighbourhood of London—to some quiet
northern suburb, for instance, within half an hour’s drive of
Mainwaring’s asylum, which is near Cheshunt; then, if it should be
deemed advisable to place her under restraint for a time—though I
cannot suppose that likely—the business could be easily accomplished.
“Your idea then would be——”
“To take her up to London, with her servant, as soon as I have
found comfortable lodgings for her in a quiet neighbourhood. I
have proposed the journey to her this afternoon, on the ground of
her being out of health and in need of special advice. I told her
that people had remarked upon her altered appearance, and that I
was anxious she should have the best medical care. She did not deny
that she was ailing. I think, therefore, there will be very little
difficulty in getting her away when I am ready to remove her.”
“What is your own impression as to her mental condition?”
“I regret to say that my impression very much resembles that of your
friend. I see a great change in her since I last had any conversation
with her. Yes, I fear that there is something amiss, and that it is
no longer well for her to live in that cottage, with a young girl
for her only companion. It would be far better for her to be in a
private asylum—where, hers being a very mild case, life might be made
easy and agreeable for her. I know my friend Mainwaring to be a man
of infinite benevolence, and that there would be nothing wanting to
lighten her burden.”
He sighed heavily. There was a look in his face of unutterable care,
of a despondency which saw no issue, no ray of light far off in the
thickening gloom. Theodore thought he looked aged by several years
since yesterday, as if the evidence of the pistol had struck him to
the heart.
“He knows now that it was his own sin that brought about this evil,”
thought Theodore.
He could conceive the agony of the father’s heart, knowing that
for his own wrong-doing his innocent daughter had been called upon
to make so terrible an expiation. He could penetrate into the dark
recesses of the sinner’s mind, where remorse for that early error,
and for all the false steps which it had necessitated, dominated
every other thought. Till yesterday James Dalbrook might have
supposed his sin a thing of the past, atoned for and forgiven—its
evil consequences suffered in the past, the account ruled off in the
book of fate, and the acquittance given. To-day he knew that his
sin had cost him his daughter’s happiness; and over and above that
horror of the past there lay before him the hazard of some still
greater horror in the future. Could anybody wonder that his eyes were
sunken and dull, as they never had been before within Theodore’s
memory? Could anybody wonder at the strained look in the broad,
open forehead, beneath which the eyes looked out wide apart under
strongly-marked brows; or at the hard lines about the mouth, which
told of sharpest mental pain?
* * * * *
Late that evening, when Lady Cheriton had gone to bed, Theodore
approached the subject of the pistol.
“Did you compare the ball with the revolver that was found
yesterday?” he asked.
“Yes. The ball fits the bore. I don’t know that the fact goes to
prove much—but so far as it goes it is now in the knowledge of
our local police. Unfortunately they are not the most brilliant
intellects I know of.”
“If you will let me have the pistol to-night before we go to bed
I will go up to town by an early train to-morrow and take it to
Scotland Yard, as you suggested.”
“I suggested nothing of the kind, my dear Theodore. I attach very
little importance to the discovery of the pistol as a means towards
discovering the murderer. I said you might take it to Scotland Yard
if you liked—that was all.”
“I should like to do so. I should feel better satisfied——”
“Oh, satisfy yourself, by all means,” interrupted Lord Cheriton
irritably. “You are great upon the science of circumstantial
evidence. There is the pistol,” taking it out of a drawer in the
large writing-table. “Do what you like with it.”
“You are not offended with me I hope?”
“No, I am only tired—tired of the whole business, and of the
everlasting talk there has been about it. If it is a vendetta, if the
hand that killed Godfrey Carmichael is to kill me, and my daughter,
and her son—if my race is to be eradicated from the face of this
earth by an unappeasable hatred I cannot help my fate. I cannot parry
the impending blow. Nor can you or Scotland Yard protect me from my
foe, Theodore.”
“Scotland Yard may find your foe and lock him up.”
“I doubt it. But do as you please.”
* * * * *
Theodore’s train left Wareham at nine o’clock. There was a still
earlier train at seven, by which farmers and other enterprising
spirits who wanted to take time by the forelock were accustomed to
travel; but to be in time for the nine o’clock train Theodore had to
leave Cheriton at a quarter to eight, and to drive to the distant
town in the dog-cart made and provided for station work, and drawn by
one of two smart cobs kept for the purpose.
He left the park by the West Gate. He had to wait longer than usual
for the opening of the gate; and when the chubby-cheeked maid-servant
came down the steps with a key in her hand and unlocked the gate
there was that in her manner which indicated a fluttered mind.
“Oh, if you please, sir, I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long, but
I couldn’t find the key just at first, though I thought I’d hung it
up on the nail last night after I locked the gate—but I was so upset
at my mistress leaving so suddenly—never saying a word about it
beforehand—that I hardly knew what I was doing.”
Theodore stopped the groom as he drove through the gate. He had a few
minutes to spare, and could afford himself time to question the girl,
who had a look of desiring to be interrogated.
“What is this about your mistress leaving suddenly?” he asked. “Do
you mean that Mrs. Porter has gone away—on a journey.”
“Yes, indeed, sir. She that never left home before since I was a
child—for I’ve known her ever since I can remember, and never knew
her to be away for so much as a single night. And the first thing
this morning when I was lighting the kitchen fire she opens the door
and just looks in and says—‘Martha, I’m going to London. Don’t expect
me back till you see me. There’s a letter on the parlour table,’ she
says. ‘Let it lie there till it’s called for—don’t you touch it, nor
yet the box,’ and she shuts the kitchen door and walks off just as
quietly as if she was going to early church, as she has done many a
time before it was daylight. I was that upset that I knelt before the
stove a good few minutes before I could realize that she was gone—and
then I run out and looked after her. She was almost out of sight,
walking up the lane towards Cheriton.”
“Had she no luggage—did she take nothing with her?”
“Nothing. Not so much as a hand-bag.”
“What time was this?”
“It struck six a few minutes after I went back to the kitchen.”
“What about the letter—and the box your mistress spoke of?”
“There they are, sir, on the parlour table, where she left them.
_I’m_ not going to touch them,” said the girl, with emphasis. “She
told me not, and I’m not going to disobey her.”
“To whom is the letter addressed?”
“Do you mean who it’s for, sir?”
“Yes.”
“It’s for his lordship—and it’s to lie there till his lordship sends
for it.”
“In that case I may as well give it to his lordship’s servant, who
can take it up to the house presently.”
“I don’t know if that will be right, sir. She said it was to be
called for.”
“Then we call for it. I, his lordship’s cousin, and James, his
lordship’s groom. Won’t that do for you?”
“I suppose that will be right, sir,” the girl answered doubtfully.
“The letter and the box are both on the table, and I wasn’t to
interfere with either of ’em, and I’m not going to it. That’s all I
can say.”
The girl was swollen with the importance of her mission as being
associated with a mystery, and she was also in lively dread of her
very severe mistress, who might come down the lane at any moment and
surprise her in some act of dereliction.
Theodore passed her by and went into the sitting-room where he had
taken tea with the Kempsters and Cuthbert Ramsay.
A letter lay on the carved oak table in front of the window, and
beside the letter there stood a walnut-wood box, eighteen inches by
nine. The letter was addressed, in a bold, characteristic hand, to
Lord Cheriton. To be called for. The box had a small brass plate upon
the lid, and a name engraved upon the plate—
THOMAS C. DARCY,
9th Foot.
No one who had ever seen such a box before could doubt that this was
a pistol-case. It was unlocked, and Theodore lifted the lid.
One pistol lay in its place, neatly fitted into the velvet-lined
receptacle. The place for the second pistol was vacant.
Theodore took the Colt’s revolver from his pocket and fitted it into
the place beside the other pistol. It fitted exactly, and the two
pistols were alike in all respects—alike as to size and fashion,
alike as to the little silver plate upon the butt, and the initials,
“T. D.”
Thomas Darcy! Darcy was the name of Evelyn Strangway’s husband, and
one of those pistols which had belonged at some period to Evelyn
Strangway’s husband had been found in the well in the fruit garden,
and the other in possession of Lord Cheriton’s _protégée_ and
pensioner, the humble dependant at his gates, Mrs. Porter.
Theodore changed his mind as to his plan of procedure. He did not
send Mrs. Porter’s letter to Lord Cheriton by the groom as he had
intended, after he himself had been driven to Wareham. His journey
to London might be deferred now; indeed, in his present condition
of mind, he was not the man to interview the authorities of
Scotland Yard. He left Mrs. Porter’s letter in its place beside the
pistol-case, and wrote a hasty line to his kinsman at Mrs. Porter’s
writing-table, where all the materials for correspondence were
arranged ready to his hand.
“The West Lodge, 8.15. Pray come to me here at once, if you can.
I have made a terrible discovery. There is a letter for you. Mrs.
Porter has gone to London.”
He put these lines into an envelope, sealed it, and then took it out
to the groom, who was waiting stolidly, neatly tickling the cob’s
ears now and again, with an artistic circular movement of the lash,
which brought into play all the power and ease of his wrist.
“Drive back to the house with that note as fast as you can,” said
Theodore, “and let his lordship know that I am waiting for him here.”