THE CLOUD DISPERSED, AND A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.
It was on the afternoon of the fifth day after leaving home that
Hermia alighted from the London train at Ashdown station. Clement was
there to meet her. She had written a few lines daily both to him and
to Aunt Charlotte, just enough to allay their anxiety and nothing
more.
When the train had gone on its way and the platform was clear of
people, Clement drew her into the little waiting-room, which at that
hour they had all to themselves. He had already given John and Miss
Brancker all particulars in connection with his second visit to
Stavering, and it seemed to him that the present would be a capital
opportunity for doing the same by Hermia. Accordingly, he proceeded to
tell her all about his interview with Barney Dale, and how it had
resulted in a promise on his part that Hermia should go to Stavering
as soon as possible, when an opportunity would be found by the old
servitor for introducing her to Miss Pengarvon. Of that which the
girl's heart hungered most to know--whether one or both of her parents
were still alive--Clement could tell her nothing.
When he had brought his narrative to an end, Hermia cried a little
softly to herself. Why she did so she could not have told anyone, but
at her age so curiously are the emotions intermingled, and so close
akin does joy seem to sorrow, that both alike find their readiest
outlet in tears.
Presently Clement said,
"And now, darling, have you nothing to tell me in return? All of us,
your uncle and aunt equally with myself, have been on the tenterhooks
of suspense ever since you left home with such mysterious suddenness.
I hope we may congratulate you on having achieved the object of your
journey, whatever it may have been."
"You may, indeed you may," she exclaimed, turning on him an April-day
face in which smiles and tears were exquisitely blended. "I have
succeeded beyond my wildest hopes. I have much, very much to tell
you--a surprise in store for you all such as none of you dreams of.
But Uncle John and Aunt Charlotte must be there when I relate my
adventures, such as they are, because, you see, dear, what I have to
tell concerns them equally with yourself, and I want one telling to be
enough for everybody. So, not a word more about it till evening."
They parted at the gate of Nairn Cottage. Clem, who was in a state of
utter mystification, was to return at half-past seven.
At that hour they were all assembled--John, his sister, Hermia, and
Clement, in the little sitting-room at the Cottage.
There to her wondering listeners did Hermia her tale unfold.
Over the congratulations and felicitations that were exchanged between
one and another of them, when at length she had come to the end of her
recital, it needs not that we should linger. The dark cloud, in the
shadow of which they had dwelt for so long a time, had lifted at last
and vanished into thinnest air. Their mood, however, was less one of
jubilation than of reverent thankfulness. If Hermia had not been dear
to Clement before, that night would not have failed to make her so.
But, indeed, it was not possible for him to love her more than he did
already.
"It seems a thousand pities," said John Brancker, who for some minutes
had been lost in thought, "that Richard Varrel should have gone to his
grave without having had his mind disabused of the belief that he owed
it to Mr. Hazeldine, and not to Mr. Avison himself, that he was
brought to trial and the charge against him pressed sternly home. In
point of fact, Mr. Hazeldine did everything that lay in his power with
the view of extenuating Varrel's crime; but Mr. Avison's orders in the
matter were imperative, and he had no option but to carry them out.
Had Varrel but known this at the time many things might perhaps have
fallen out differently; but of course it was nobody's business to
enlighten him, and to his hand was due the death of the man who had
done his utmost to befriend him."
"There are two points," said Clem, presently, "which I should
certainly like to be enlightened upon. In the first place, I should
like to know the sum total pocketed by Varrel as the proceeds of his
crime; and, in the second, what his object was in entrusting the
parcel of notes to his mother's keeping.
"Those were two points as to which Mr. Wingate was equally curious
with yourself," replied Hermia, "and he did not fail to question
Varrel upon them during the few minutes we were allowed to stay with
him after he had signed the confession. As soon as Varrel had realized
that Mr. Hazeldine was dead, it was only natural that he should be
desirous of getting away from the scene of his crime as speedily as
possible. He must seize whatever he could lay hands on at once and
decamp. To his intense amazement, the black bag in which he expected
to find the gold Mr. Hazeldine was supposed to have brought from
London, proved to be empty. All that his hurried search enabled him to
lay hands on was a bag containing a hundred sovereigns and a parcel of
notes of the value of five hundred pounds. The gold he divided with
his mother before setting out for London; but Mrs. Varrel, as we have
seen, refused to touch her portion of it. The notes he left in her
charge because he felt sure their numbers were known, and that any
attempt on his part to change them would simply have led to his
arrest."
Late as the hour was when Clement Hazeldine left Nairn Cottage, he
felt that he could not sleep until he had seen his brother and told
him the news. A brisk walk of half-an-hour brought him to Beecham.
He found Edward sitting in slippered ease over a volume of
Montesquieu--as one who hoped some day to help in framing the laws of
his country--and a cigar. Ten minutes sufficed him to give his brother
the pith of Hermia's narrative. He had brought Varrel's confession,
and he finished his recital by producing it and handing it to the
other.
Never was a man more astounded than Edward Hazeldine was at the news
told him by his brother. To think, to realize as a fact that, after
all, his father's death was not due to his own act! It seemed almost
too incredible to be true. Of course, the fact remained, and could in
no wise be gainsaid, that Mr. Hazeldine had fully intended to take his
own life, and would undoubtedly have done so had not fate intervened
and brought about the same end after a different fashion; but even so,
the relief to Edward Hazeldine was more than he could find words to
give expression to. It took him some time to recover himself; the
cool, almost frigid, self-possession which was one of his most salient
attributes had for the time being deserted him. One of his first
remarks, after his wonder had in some measure spent itself, was,
"Thank Heaven! there will now be no need to refund the twelve thousand
pounds--for, of course, the confession will have to be made public."
Then presently he added, "Do you mean to say, Clem, that this fellow
Varrel made no allusion to the fact that the large amount of money
which was proved to be missing from the Bank's coffers had not been
taken by him?"
"It would certainly seem that he did not. As I have already told you,
he fainted before having come to the end of what he had evidently
intended to say, and he died a few hours later. What further
revelations he would have made had he lived a little while longer, it
is now, of course, impossible to say."
"A lucky thing for us he died when he did!" said Edward, more to
himself than to his brother. "The world will not fail to saddle him
with the double crime."
As the brothers shook hands at parting, by which time it was past
midnight, Edward said:
"By the way, Clem, that girl of yours must be one in a thousand. I
hereby retract every word in her disparagement that I have ever given
utterance to. I shall be proud to be introduced to her." Then more
earnestly, and with what for him was an unwonted display of feeling:
"In such a business as we have been discussing it is only a part of
the selfishness of human nature that we should think of ourselves
first, but I hope you'll believe me when I say that not the least
portion of the happiness your news has caused me is due to the fact
that the last shred of suspicion, which for so long a time has clung
to that noble-hearted creature, John Brancker, will now be torn away,
and his good name be given back to him as pure and unsullied as, in
reality, it has been from the first!"
In the course of the following afternoon, Miss Brancker, Hermia, and
Clement arrived at Stavering, and, under the guidance of the latter,
proceeded to take up their quarters at the "King's Arms" Hotel.
A few hours later, Clement walked over to the "Chequers Inn," at
Dritton, in search of Barney Dale, whom he found seated among his
cronies in his usual corner. Drawing the old man aside, Clement said.
"Miss Hermia Rivers is in Stavering--at the 'King's Arms' Hotel. How
soon can you make it convenient to call and see her?"
"And have you brought her--the bonnie darling?" exclaimed Barney.
"Well, well, I suppose I must do what I promised. But the mistress
grows queerer every day, and what the upshot will be when I bring 'em
together, I canna as much as guess. But I'll be there to-morrow some
time in the afternoon, and maybe--but I mun think it all over between
now and then;" and with that Barney went back to his pipe and tankard
of ale.
Next morning Clement hired a conveyance, and drove Aunt Charlotte and
Hermia as far as the park entrance to Broome, where they all alighted.
Everything remained as when Clement had been there last. Leading the
way through the door in the wall, he brought the ladies to where the
mutilated griffin, which he had sketched, lay unheeded among the weeds
and grass. Hermia sighed as she looked at it.
"How vividly the sight of it brings back that wet and gloomy
afternoon," she said, "when the carriage came to a halt at those very
gates, and I sat staring out of the window, more tired than curious.
So tired out, indeed, was I, that I felt utterly indifferent as to
where I was being taken, or what was going to be done with me. It
seems to me, however, that I have to thank the old griffin for a good
deal. But for it we might not have been here to-day."
After that they strolled along the grass-grown drive as far as a point
whence they could obtain a view of the front of the Hall. Clem, on
whose arm Hermia was leaning, felt her shiver involuntarily.
"It gives me quite an eerie feeling to look at it, even by broad
daylight," she said. "What it must look like when the shades of
evening are closing round it, or by the dim light of a clouded moon, I
dare scarcely imagine. I shall dream about it more than once in time
to come."
"Were I a story writer, and wanted to describe a haunted house, I
should come to Broome," remarked Aunt Charlotte, sententiously.
She also felt the influence of the place and scene.
"It is a sort of feeling that would wear off upon further
acquaintance," said Clem. "If, now, one could give a free hand to a
London upholsterer, not forgetting the landscape-gardener, and if
after they had done their best, one could fill the old house with a
party of gay young people, with the addition of half-a-dozen romping
children, what a transformation should we behold!"
Hermia shook her head.
"Broome as it appeals to the imagination, but Broome as Clem would
have it would be----"
"As commonplace as himself," interrupted the latter, with a laugh.
"That was a spot of rain, we had better be getting back to the
landau."
Barney Dale reached the hotel about half-past five, and Clem, who was
on the look-out for him, at once took him into the sitting-room where
Hermia was awaiting his arrival. Then he left them together. Hermia
advanced with a blush and a smile, and yet with a strange trembling of
her limbs, and held out her hand.
"I cannot express to you how happy it makes me to see you again, Mr.
Dale," she said, in soft, emotional tones, which fell like music on
the old man's ears.
"Again! How again?" he asked, as he peered closely into her face.
"When might you have seen me last, missy?" Then half-aloud, but
evidently thinking himself unheard, "The likeness! the likeness! The
same eyes and hair--the very marrow of the other!"
"As far as my memory serves, I saw you last on the day you brought me
to Broome," answered Hermia. "I had a long, long ride in a carriage
with you and someone else--a woman. But come, let us sit, and then we
can talk more comfortably."
He loosed the hand he had been holding, and let her lead him to a
sofa, where they sat down, side by side.
"Then a little later," resumed Hermia, "I can call to mind being in a
room--a very gloomy room--in which sat two ladies, very stately and
upright, but, to my childish eyes, very, very awful-looking. I stood
before them with my hands behind my back, while they talked to each
other about me in French or Italian. Then, after a little while, you
came into the room carrying two candlesticks, with lighted candles in
them, on a silver tray, whereupon Miss Pengarvon--for she it must have
been--at once extinguished one of the candles, after which you were
bidden to take me away. I have a good memory, have I not, Mr. Dale?"
Barney's eyes were fixed intently on her face as if he were still
tracing, feature by feature, the likeness between it and some other
face which dwelt in his memory. He did not heed her question. His lips
moved, but no sound came from them; he was talking silently to
himself.
"And now, Mr. Dale," resumed Hermia, presently, "I want you to tell me
what the relationship is between Miss Pengarvon and myself--for that
we are related in some way I feel as sure as that I am sitting here."
"You munna ask me, Miss Hermy," answered the old man with a long, slow
shake of his head. "I darena answer any questions. My mistress bound
me by an oath not to speak a word to a soul about--about the matter
that is between her and me till she gives me leave to do so."
Hermia drew a little nearer to him, and took one of his gnarled and
withered hands between her soft palms.
"At least you cannot refuse to tell me this," she said, her blue eyes
luminous with a sort of yearning pathos. "You cannot refuse to tell me
whether my father and mother are still living?"
Then, as the old man did not answer:
"Think, think what it must be not to know even as much as that," she
added pleadingly. "In so far, I am worse off--Heaven help me!--than
the meanest beggar's child that tramps the streets."
"Let the mistress blame me, I dunna care. She shall be told," muttered
Barney, half-aloud. Then he cleared his voice, and squeezing one of
the little hands that held his, he said, "My bonnie darling, I never
knew your father--never even heard his name, and canna tell you aught
about him. But your mother--ah! Your mother!" He paused, and Hermia
saw a tear shining in the corner of either eye.
"Yes--what of her?" she asked, with a catching of her breath, for her
heart but too truly presaged what she was about to be told.
"She died a few weeks after you were born."
Hermia dropped the old man's hand, and turning, bowed her head and
covered her face with her hands. Silently she wept; Barney's tears
brimmed over and trickled down his worn cheeks. In a little while he
wiped them away with his cotton handkerchief, and rising, went softly
out of the room. He found Clement outside. "Go in and comfort the poor
child," he said. "She needs it sorely, and your own heart will teach
you how best to do it."