Peter, I alighted, and Goodyear did the same. Taking him on one side,
I said, ‘I have had a vision, and unless I am the victim of incipient
madness we shall find a dead body in the mill.’
The light of the dog-cart was shining full on his face, and I saw the
expression of alarm that my words brought.
‘Look here, old chap,’ he said in a cheery, kindly way, as he put his
arm through mine, ‘you are not going into that mill, but straight home
again. Come, now, get into the cart, and don’t let’s have any more of
this nonsense.’
I felt disposed to yield to him, and had actually placed my foot on
the step to mount, when I staggered back and exclaimed--
‘My God! am I going mad, or is this a reality?’
Once again I had been struck in the face by the cold clammy
_something_; and I saw Goodyear suddenly clap his hand to his face as
he cried out--‘Hullo, what the deuce is that?’
‘Aha,’ I exclaimed exultantly, for I no longer thought my brain was
giving way, ‘you have felt it too?’
‘Well, something cold and nasty-like struck me in the face. A bat, I
expect. Confound ’em.
‘Bats don’t fly at this time of the year,’ I replied.
‘By Jove, no more they do.’
I approached him, and said in a low tone--
‘Goodyear, this is a mystery beyond our solving. I am resolved to go
into that mill.’
He was a brave man, though for a moment or two he hesitated; but on my
insisting he consented to humour me, and so we lit the lantern, and
leaving the groom in charge of the horse and trap, I, Goodyear, and
his man made our way with difficulty up the rotting steps, which were
slimy and sodden with wet. As we entered the mill an extraordinary
scene of desolation and ruin met our gaze as we flashed the light
of the lantern about. In places the floor had broken away, leaving
yawning chasms of blackness. From the mouldering rafters huge festoons
of cobwebs hung. The accumulated dust and dampness of years had given
them the appearance of cords. And oh, how the wind moaned eerily
through the rifts and crannies and broken windows! If ever there was a
place on this earth where evil spirits might dwell it was surely that
ghoul-haunted old mill. The startling aspect of the place impressed us
all, perhaps me more than the other two. We advanced gingerly, for the
floor was so rotten we were afraid it would crumble beneath our feet.
My companions were a little bewildered, I think, and were evidently at
a loss to know what we had come there for. But some strange feeling
impelled me to seek for something; though if I had been asked to
define that something, for the life of me I could not have done it.
Forward I went, however, taking the lead, and holding the lantern above
my head so that its rays might fall afar. But they revealed nothing
save the rotting floor and slimy walls. A ladder led to the upper
storey, and I expressed my intention of mounting it. Goodyear tried to
dissuade me, but I was resolute, and led the way. The ladder was so
creaky and fragile that it was not safe for more than one to be on it
at a time. When I reached the second floor and drew myself up through
the trap, I am absolutely certain I heard a sigh. You may say it was
the wind. I swear it was not. The wind was moaning drearily enough,
but the sigh was a distinctive note, and unmistakable. As I turned the
lantern round so that its light might sweep every hole and corner of
the place, I noticed what seemed to be a sack full of something lying
in a corner. I approached and touched it with my foot, and drew back in
alarm, for touch and sound told me it contained neither corn nor chaff.
I waited until my companions had joined me. Then I said to Goodyear,
‘Unless I am mistaken there is something dreadful in that sack.’
He stooped and placed his hand on the sack, and I saw him start back.
In another moment he recovered himself, and whipping out his knife cut
the string which fastened up the mouth of the sack, and revealed a
human skull with the hair and shrivelled mummified flesh still adhering
to it.
‘Great heavens!’ he exclaimed, ‘here is a human body.’
We held a hurried conversation, and decided to leave the ghastly
thing undisturbed until the morrow. So we scuttled down as fast as we
could, and went home. I did not return to the mill again myself. My
part had been played. Investigation made it absolutely certain that
the mouldering remains were those of poor Charley Royce, and it was
no less absolutely certain that he had been foully murdered. For not
only was there a bullet-hole in the skull, and a bullet inside, but his
throat had been cut. It was murder horrible and damnable. The verdict
of the coroner’s jury pronounced it murder, but there was no evidence
to prove who had done the deed. Circumstances, however, pointed to
Charley’s rival, Silas Hartrop. Was it a guilty conscience that drove
him to drink? And did the Furies who avenge such deeds impel him on
that dark and stormy night in the North Sea to end the torture of his
accursed earthly life? Who can tell? The sea holds its secrets, and
not a scrap of legal evidence could be obtained. But though the law
declined the responsibility of fixing the guilt of the dark deed on
Silas, there was a consensus of opinion that he was the guilty party.
It was a mystery, but the greatest mystery of all was that I, the
sceptic, should have been selected by some supernatural power to be the
instrument for bringing the foul crime to light. For myself, I attempt
no explanation. I have told a true story. Let those who can explain it.
I admit now that ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamt of in our philosophy.’
IV
‘RED LILY’
On one of the wildest nights for which the Bay of Biscay is notorious,
the sailing ship ‘Sirocco’ was ploughing her way under close-reefed
topsails across that stormy sea. The ‘Sirocco’ was a large, full-rigged
vessel, bound from Bombay towards England, her destination being
London. She had a mixed cargo, though a large percentage of it was
composed of jute. Four months had passed since she cleared from her
port of lading, and was towed out of the beautiful harbour of Bombay
in a dead calm. For many days after the tug left her the ‘Sirocco’ did
nothing but drift with the current. She was as ‘a painted ship upon a
painted ocean.’ No breath came out of the sultry heavens to waft her
towards her haven in far-away England. It was a bad beginning to the
voyage. The time was about the middle of August, and all on board were
anxiously looking forward to reaching their destination in time to
spend Christmas at home. But as August wore out and September came in,
and still the horrid calms continued, pleasant anticipations gave place
to despair, for many a thousand leagues of watery wastes had to be
sailed before the white cliffs of Albion would gladden the eyes of the
wanderers.
The crew of the vessel numbered sixty hands all told, and in addition
there were twenty saloon passengers. With two of these passengers we
have now to deal. The one is a fair young girl, slender, tall, and
delicate. She is exceedingly pretty. Her features are regular and
delicately chiselled. Her hair is a soft, wavy, golden brown, and her
brown eyes are as liquid and gentle as a fawn’s. The pure whiteness of
her neck and temples is contrasted by the most exquisite tinge of rose
colour in the cheeks, which puts, as it were, a finish upon a perfect
picture. The whiteness of her skin, the delicate flush in the face,
the brown, flossy hair, the tall, slender, graceful figure were all so
suggestive of the purest of flowers that her friends for many years
had called her ‘Red Lily.’ Her name was Lily Hetherington, and she yet
wanted some months to the completion of her twenty-first birthday.
Lily was the daughter of an officer of the Hon. East India Company’s
Service--his only daughter, and by him worshipped. For many years he
had been stationed in India, and at last, seeing no chance of returning
to his wife and family, which consisted of two sons in addition to
the girl, he requested them to join him in the East. This request
was quickly and gladly complied with, and Mrs. Hetherington and her
children started on their journey. Mr. Hetherington at that time was
well off, for he had invested all his savings in the Agra and Masterman
Bank, and held shares to a large amount in the concern, the stability
of which, at that period, no one would have dared to have doubted.
Indian officers throughout India swore by it, and they congratulated
themselves, as they entrusted their hard won money to the Bank, that
they were making splendid provision for their wives and children when
those wives and children should become widows and orphans.
As Mr. Hetherington possessed considerable influence he had no
difficulty in quickly procuring his sons suitable appointments. Fond
as he was of his lads, who were aged respectively twenty-two and
twenty-four, his love for them was as nothing when compared with that
he bore for his beautiful daughter, his ‘Bonnie Red Lily,’ as he called
her. Nor was Lily less fond of her father. She was a mere child when he
left England, but she had never forgotten him, and never a mail left
but it bore from Lily a long and loving epistle to the lonely officer,
who was bravely doing his duty in the distant eastern land.
One day, soon after her arrival, Mr. Hetherington said to his daughter
as they sat in the verandah of the bungalow, ‘Lily, my pet, I have got
a little surprise for you.’
‘Have you, pa dear; and pray what is it?’ she answered. ‘You are such a
dear, good kind papa that you are always giving me pleasant surprises.’
‘Well, yes, of course, I like to give you pleasant surprises, but this
one is different from any of the others,’ he returned with a smile, at
the same time stroking her soft brown hair, and looking proudly into
her beautiful face.
‘Oh, do tell me what it is,’ she exclaimed, as he paused in a
tantalising way; ‘do you hear, pa? Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Restrain that woman’s curiosity of yours, my darling, and don’t be
impatient.’
‘I declare you are awfully wicked, papa,’ she returned, with a pretty
pout of her red lips. ‘Tell me instantly what it is. I demand to know.’
‘And so you shall,’ he answered, as he kissed her fondly and patted her
head. ‘To-morrow, then, I have a visitor coming to stay with us for a
week or two.’
‘Indeed. Is it a lady or gentleman?’
‘A gentleman.’
‘Oh, do tell me what he’s like.’
‘Well, well, you are a little Miss Curious,’ Mr. Hetherington laughed
heartily as he blew a cloud of blue smoke from his cigar into the
stagnant air. ‘Not to keep you in suspense any longer, then, the
name of my visitor is Dick Fenton, Richard Cronmire Joyce Fenton, to
give him his full name. He is a year or two your senior, and a fine,
handsome, manly young fellow to boot.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Lily, thoughtfully, as she fancied that her father’s
words had a hidden meaning.
‘Yes. His father was a very old friend of mine, and we saw long service
together. He died some four or five years ago, but before dying he
made me promise I would look after his boy, who was an only child and
motherless. Of course, I gladly gave this promise, and have sacredly
carried it out.’
‘Ah, what a good, kind, generous man you are,’ Lily said, as she
nestled closer to him, and tightened her little white fingers round his
brown, hairy hand.
‘I saw there was stuff in the lad, and I took to him almost as if he
had been my own son. Unfortunately, my good friend Fenton died poor,
and was only enabled to leave three thousand pounds, for which he had
insured his life, for his son’s education. I succeeded in getting Dick
into one of the Company’s training establishments, and the marked
ability he displayed very soon pushed him forward, and having gone
through his cadetship with honour and credit, he was appointed a year
ago to what in time will be a most lucrative post. I have watched the
lad closely, and seen with pride the many noble qualities he possesses,
and I have no doubt at all he will distinguish himself. During the
years that he has been my _protégé_ I have constantly said to myself,
“If my Lily should like Dick, and Dick should like my Lily, they shall
be man and wife.”’
‘Oh, papa!’ exclaimed Lily, as the beautiful tinge in her face deepened
to scarlet, that spread to her neck and temples.
‘Why, my darling, why do you blush so? It is surely every honest
woman’s desire to become a wife, and I am very anxious to see you
comfortably married before I die. Men go off very suddenly in this
treacherous country, and I am well worn with service, and cannot hope
to last much longer. But, understand me, Lily, pet, your own will and
womanly instincts must guide you in this matter. I shall not seek to
influence you in any way, and if you have already given your heart to
another, if he is an honest and worthy man, even though he be poor as
a church mouse, I shall not offer the slightest opposition to your
wishes. It is your future happiness I study, and I am not selfish
enough to attempt to coerce you into an objectionable union.’
Lily rose and twined her arms round her father’s neck, and pressing her
soft, white face to his bronzed cheeks, said:
‘My dear, dear father, I have not given my heart to anyone, and your
wishes are mine.’
On the morrow Fenton duly arrived at Mr. Hetherington’s bungalow.
He had travelled by dawk from a station near Calcutta; and when he
had refreshed himself with a bath, and made himself presentable,
Hetherington took him on one side, and said:
‘Dick, lad, I have repeatedly spoken to you about my daughter, and
before I introduce you to her, let me say that I shall be proud to
have you as a son-in-law, providing that there is the most perfect
reciprocal feeling between you and my Lily. I am not a man of many
words, and I will content myself with remarking that your father was
the very soul of honour. Never disgrace him, and never betray the
confidence I repose in you.’
‘Do not doubt me, sir,’ said Dick. ‘I am indebted to you for
everything, and I should be base if I did anything that could inflict
pain upon you or yours.’
‘Bravely said, my boy. God prosper you. Win Lily if you can; but win
her as a man should.’
Hetherington had previously made known his wishes to his wife, and she
had readily acquiesced in them.
Fenton was, as his guardian had described him, a fine, manly, handsome
young fellow. His frank, open bearing was well calculated to find
favour with women, even if he had not been possessed of good looks.
Hetherington and his wife watched the young people narrowly, and
they soon saw that a mutual liking for each other was springing up,
and before Dick’s leave of two months had expired he and Lily were
betrothed, while the bond between them was that of the most perfect
love.
Dick returned to his station, and Mr. and Mrs. Hetherington
congratulated themselves on having, so far as they were able, provided
for their daughter’s future, a future that seemed likely to be one
of unclouded happiness. ‘L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose,’ says
the French proverb, and never was the proverb more fully borne out
than in this case. Within six months of Dick’s return to his duties,
all civilised India was shocked to its inmost heart by a terrific
commercial convulsion--for so only can it be described. Through the
length and breadth of the land, the fearful rumour spread on the wings
of the wind that the great bank of Agra and Masterman had broken.
Men stood aghast, and women paled with fright, for, to hundreds and
thousands of households in all parts of the world, it meant utter ruin,
as many and many a one at the present day knows to his bitter cost.
Many a widow living in poverty now might have reposed in the lap of
luxury, and many a young man and woman, now in ignorance and want,
might have been otherwise but for this cruel collapse of the great
banking firm. It was so essentially an Indian bank, a depository for
the earnings of Indian servants of the Company, that it affected a
class of people who for the most part had been tenderly nurtured and
led to believe that they occupied, and were destined to occupy so long
as they might live, a good position in life, and to take their stand
among the great middle class of society.
At first men doubted the rumour, but soon the awful truth became too
apparent to be longer questioned, and those who had grown grey and
feeble beneath the burning Indian sun saw now that their few remaining
days must be passed in poverty and misery. It was bitter, very bitter,
but it was fate, and could not be averted.
Amongst the greatest sufferers was Mr. Hetherington. He had invested,
one way and another, nearly one hundred thousand pounds in that bank,
and now every penny piece was gone. The shock came upon him with great
severity. His health had long been failing, and he had looked forward
with great eagerness to retiring from the service in another year and
‘going home’ with his family. But that was never to be now. For a time
he was stunned. He tried to bear up against the blow, but he was only
human; his brain gave way, and in a moment of temporary aberration he
shot himself.
This new grief almost crushed the unhappy widow and her family.
Fortunately ‘the boys’ had good appointments that held out every
promise of improvement, but their incomes at that time were scarcely
sufficient for their own needs, though they generously curtailed their
expenses in every way in order to contribute towards the support of
their sister and mother.
The shock of her father’s death threw Lily into a dangerous illness,
and for some time her life was threatened; but there was one who never
lost an opportunity of cheering her with his love, and that was Dick
Fenton.
When she was convalescent she one day said to him:
‘Dick, I have something to say to you.’
‘Nothing very serious, darling,’ he answered, laughingly.
‘Yes, very serious. When I was first engaged to you my father was
considered to be a wealthy man, and I understand that he promised
you that my dowry should be something handsome. That is all changed
now. We are ruined, and my dear father is in his grave. Under these
circumstances I can no longer hold you to your engagement, and
therefore release you from every promise. You must give me up and seek
for someone better suited for you than I am.’
She fairly broke down here, and burst into violent weeping. Dick’s
arm stole around her waist, he pressed her head to his breast, and,
whispering softly to her said, with deep earnestness:
‘Lily, there is one thing, and only one thing, that shall break our
engagement.’
‘What is that?’ she stammered between her sobs.
‘The death of one of us!’ he answered, with strong emphasis.
She needed no further assurance. There was that in his manner and tone
that convinced more than words could possibly have done. And so, save
for the shadow which hung over the little household, she would have
been perfectly happy.
A year went by and Mrs. Hetherington still lingered in India, for she
did not like to leave her sons; but failing health at length rendered
it necessary that she should return to England. At this time Dick
had just been granted two years’ leave of absence, and he urged Lily
to become his wife before they left India, as he too was going home.
She had asked him, however, to postpone the event, and made a solemn
promise that the wedding should take place on Christmas Day, adding:
‘It is not long to wait, dear. It is now the middle of July, and,
as we sail in a fortnight, the vessel is sure to be home by that
time. Besides, I am so fond of Christmas. It is so full of solemn
and purifying associations, and a fitting season for a man and woman
to take upon themselves the responsibility of the marriage state. A
wedding on Christmas Day brings good luck. Of course you will say this
is stupid superstition. So it may be, but I am a woman, and you must
let me have my way.’
Pressing his lips to hers, he made answer:
‘And so you shall, my own Red Lily; but, remember, come what may,
you’ll be my wife on Christmas Day.’
‘Come what may, I will be your wife on Christmas Day,’ she returned
solemnly.
August arrived, and Dick, Lily, and Mrs. Hetherington were passengers
on board the good ship ‘Sirocco.’ Their fellow-passengers were a
miscellaneous lot, and included several Indian officers, a planter or
two, a clergyman, and some merchants, who, having amassed fortunes,
were going home to end their days.
The second officer of the ‘Sirocco’ was a young man, of about eight
or nine-and-twenty, Alfred Cornell. He was a wild, reckless, daring
fellow, with a splendid physique. His hair was almost black, his
eyes the very darkest shade of brown, and small, keen, and piercing
as a hawk’s. In those eyes the character of the man was written. For
somehow they seemed to suggest a vain, heartless, selfish, vindictive
nature, and the firm lips told of an iron will. He was every inch a
sailor, bold as a lion, and a magnificent swimmer. The crew, however,
hated him, for he was the hardest of task-masters, but was an especial
favourite with the captain, as such men generally are, for he was
perfect in every department of his profession, and the sailors under
his control were kept to their duties with an iron hand.
About this man--Alfred Cornell--there was something that amounted
almost to weirdness. The strange, keen eyes exercised a sort of
fascination over some people. This was especially the case with women.
In fact, he made a boast that he had never yet seen the woman he could
not subdue. From the moment that he and Dick Fenton stood face to
face a mutual dislike sprang up in their hearts for each other. Dick
could not exactly tell why he did not take to the man, but he had an
instinctive dislike for him. The fact was there, the cause was not easy
to determine, but instincts are seldom wrong. The moment that Alfred
Cornell and Lily Hetherington met each other a shadow fell upon her,
and a devil came into his heart. She had an instinctive dread of him,
and yet felt fascinated. He thought to himself:
‘By heavens, that’s a splendid girl, and I’ll win her if I die for it.’
For the first week or two he paid her no more than the most ordinary
attentions, and the dread she at first felt for him began to wear off;
she could not help admitting to herself that he was certainly handsome
and attractive. The pet name by which she was known amongst her
family--the Red Lily--soon leaked out on board, as such things will,
and the passengers with whom she was most intimate frequently addressed
her in this style by way of compliment, for she was a favourite with
them all, and her beauty was a theme of admiration amongst the men,
even the ladies could not help but admit that she _was_ ‘good-looking,’
though they said spiteful things about her, as women will say of each
other. Alfred Cornell had never addressed her in any other way but as
‘Miss Hetherington’; but one morning, when the ship was in the tropics,
she had gone on deck very early to see the sun rise. The heat in the
cabins was so great that she could not sleep, and as the sailors had
just finished holy-stoning and washing down she had thrown a loose robe
over her shoulders and gone quietly on to the poop. It was Cornell’s
watch, but in all probability she did not know that at the time. It was
a very long poop, and save for the man at the wheel not a soul was to
be seen. The sea was oily in its calmness, and the sky was aflame with
the most gorgeous colours, such colours as can be nowhere seen save in
the tropics, and only then when the sun with regal pomp and splendour
commences to rise. The sails hung in heavy folds against the masts,
and there was a rhythmical kind of motion in the ship as she rose and
fell ever so gently to the light swell which even in the calmest ocean
is never absent. Lily leaned pensively against the mizzen rigging,
gazing thoughtfully across the sleeping sea to where the gold, and
amethyst, and purples, and scarlets were blended together in one blaze
of dazzling colour. Suddenly she was startled by a voice speaking in a
subdued tone close to her ear, and which said:
‘The Red Lily is up early this morning.’
She recognised the voice as that of Cornell, and turning quickly round
said, with much dignity:
‘Excuse me, sir, I am Miss Hetherington to you.’
‘Miss Hetherington,’ he answered, strongly emphasising the words. ‘I
beg your pardon, but the pretty name so fits you that I made bold to
use it. I trust I have not offended you.’