DISCOMFITED.
For some minutes Rupert Godwin stood with the open miniature in his
hand, gazing at the face of his victim.
At first a kind of stupor seemed to obscure his senses, and he
could only stand motionless, staring blankly at that frank handsome
countenance.
His senses were confused by the suddenness of the shock. It was some
time before he could reason calmly about what had happened.
How had Harley Westford’s miniature come to be lying there? How
had the sea-captain’s likeness fallen into the possession of Julia
Godwin’s protégé?
For some little time he stood with the picture still in his hand,
wondering at the extraordinary chance which had brought it there.
Then he set to work to examine the letters and papers, in the hope
that they might give him some clue to the mystery.
The first letter which he took up revealed the entire truth. It had
been lying seal upwards, or Rupert Godwin could scarcely have failed
to recognize the handwriting.
It was the letter addressed to Lionel at the Post-office, Hertford,
under his initials only. It was the letter which Clara Westford
had written to her son, telling him of her meeting with Gilbert
Thornleigh, and setting him upon the track of his missing father.
Rupert Godwin sank into the nearest chair, that terrible letter
clenched tightly in his hand.
“They are on my track,” he muttered in a thick voice, for the muscles
of his throat seemed paralyzed by agitation; “they are on my track.
How am I to avoid them?”
He looked towards the bed. Never, perhaps, had a darker or more
threatening face glowered above a helpless and unconscious invalid.
“Only by wading deeper in crime,” he said, this time with slow
deliberate accents; “only by wading deeper.”
He thrust the letter into his breast-pocket, and then sat brooding,
with his face hidden in his hands.
When he at last uncovered it, there was a strange look of
determination in that ashen face. He walked to the side of the bed,
and stood for some moments looking down at the sick man.
“_His_ son!” he muttered; “_his_ son! That was the likeness which
sent a chill through my breast. But it is all a mystery still. How
did he discover the secret of the cellar? Did he come here on purpose
to find out the truth? No, that can scarcely be; for his mother’s
letter is dated only two days back, and when she wrote that letter
her suspicions were only just aroused. No matter; I dare not bewilder
my brain by trying to solve these questions. I must act; they are on
my track, and action alone can save me. Shall I fly? No, not while
there is one inch of safe ground to fight for, amidst an ocean of
peril. Flight is the first resource of the coward; it is the last
hope of the bold criminal. This young man knows my secret, somehow or
other. What matters how, since he does know it? He and Caleb Wildred
have discovered the truth; but as yet they have not denounced me,
except in the ravings of delirium. Their tongues must be stopped.”
The housekeeper returned while Mr. Godwin was absorbed in these
meditations.
“You can resume your seat by the side of your patient, Mrs. Beckson,”
he said; “there has been no change. I shall remain at the Hall until
this young man is out of danger; and I shall look into his room now
and then, to see how he is going on. You need never be surprised by
my coming. I am a light sleeper, and I daresay I shall look in once
or twice in the course of the night.”
“I’m sure it’s very kind of you, sir, to take such an interest in the
poor young gentleman.”
“I think it’s only natural that I should feel an interest in a sick
man; common humanity demands as much,” answered the banker coolly.
“By the bye, you will be watching for a very long time. I hope you
are wakeful?”
“O yes, sir, pretty wakeful.”
“You take something to keep you awake, I hope?”
“Well, sir, thank you, I’ve just taken a cup of strong tea, and I may
take another in the course of the evening.”
“Tea is not the thing. You should try coffee.”
“Is coffee better than tea, sir?”
“Infinitely better. I’ll send you a strong cup of coffee by-and-by. I
always take coffee after dinner.”
“To be sure, sir. Well, I will take a cup, if you’ll be so very kind
as to send it.”
The banker went to his room, changed his dress, which was dusty with
travelling, and bathed his head and face in cold water.
Then he descended to the dining-room, where he found Julia waiting
for him.
He dined with his daughter and her duenna. Julia was too entirely
preoccupied by her own emotion to perceive the silence of her father;
it seemed only natural to her that an air of gloom should pervade
everything, while the man she loved lay suffering upstairs. But Mrs.
Melville remarked the banker’s abstracted manner, and wondered at
it; she thought that he had perhaps discovered the secret of his
daughter’s affection for a penniless stranger.
After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing-room, while Rupert
Godwin remained seated at the foot of the long dinner-table.
Here his coffee was brought to him, about twenty minutes after the
ladies had left him. The servant placed the salver by his master’s
side, and immediately quitted the room. The coffee was served in a
small antique silver coffee-pot. There was only one cup and saucer,
of Sèvres china, on the salver. Rupert Godwin rang the bell, and told
the servant to bring a second cup and saucer.
“I want a cup of my own coffee to be taken to Mrs. Beckson,” he said.
“Strong coffee is the best thing in the world to keep any one awake.”
But when the man returned with the cup and saucer, Mr. Godwin said:
“You need not wait. I will take the coffee myself to Mrs. Beckson. I
am going to the sick-room.”
It seemed strange that so proud a man as Rupert Godwin should
trouble himself to take a cup of coffee to his housekeeper, and the
man-servant thought as much.
He might, perhaps, have thought Rupert Godwin’s conduct stranger
still, had he seen him take a small vial from his waistcoat-pocket,
and pour about a teaspoonful of a thick dark fluid into one of the
coffee-cups.
That little vial was one which the banker had taken from his
dressing-case before descending to the dining-room that evening. The
dark fluid was opium.
The coffee, made as strong as a Turkish potentate might have taken
it, and very much sweetened, almost entirely disguised the bitter
flavour of the opium. The banker tasted half a spoonful of the
mixture.
“No,” he muttered; “I don’t think Mrs. Beckson will discover anything
queer in the taste of that coffee.”
He took the cup and saucer, and carried them to the sick-room.
“There, my good Beckson,” he said, “I don’t think you are very likely
to fall asleep after taking this.”
He handed her the coffee. The old woman had been nodding and blinking
in her easy-chair when he entered the room, but she opened her eyes
and endeavoured to appear very wakeful, as she took the cup of coffee
from her master’s hand. Rupert Godwin left her, and returned to the
lower part of the house. His private apartment, the room specially
sacred to him, was the library. It was there that he kept the keys of
the northern wing in a small iron safe, the key of which he carried
always in his pocket.
The keys of the doors in the northern wing could only be obtained,
therefore, by the breaking open of this small iron safe, of the use
of a false key.
But the locks were not of a kind to be easily opened by a false key.
It was, indeed, supposed to be quite impossible for any false key to
open them.
The banker examined the safe. The keys of the northern wing hung in
their usual place; the dust which had accumulated during the last
twelvemonth was thick upon them.
Rupert Godwin was utterly unable to understand Lionel Westford’s
discovery of his crime.
“How did he find out my ghastly secret?” he thought. “By what devilry
did he stumble upon the truth?”
The banker dared not dwell upon this question. His brain, even _his_
clear and powerful intellect, seemed to grow dull and confused, as he
tried to solve the dark riddle.
He went to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Melville and Julia were
seated. The widow was occupied, as usual, with the embroidery-frame.
Miss Godwin was sitting with an open book before her--a book whose
pages might quite as well have been blank paper.
“Julia,” said the banker, “I feel tired after my journey down here,
and considerably upset by this vexatious affair of your protégé’s
illness. I shall go to bed at once, and I should advise you to retire
early; for you too have been worried by this affair.”
“Yes, papa,” answered Julia, without looking up from her book; “I
shall go to bed very early.”
“Good-night, my love.”
“Good-night, dear papa.”
Julia rose from her seat, and the banker pressed his lips to her
forehead. He wished Mrs. Melville good-night, and then left the room.
In less than ten minutes afterwards Julia flung down her book with a
weary sigh.
“I _am_ very tired,” she said. “Good-night, dear Mrs. Melville.”
“Good-night, sweet child. You are pale, my love; this tiresome
business has quite upset you.”
Julia was glad to escape from the widow’s sympathy. She retired
to her own apartments, which were at some distance from the rooms
occupied by Lionel Westford.
She dismissed her maid, and exchanged her silk dress for a loose
white dressing-gown. In spite of what she had said to Mrs. Melville,
she had no inclination for sleep; on the contrary, she felt more than
usually wakeful. Every nerve was strung to its utmost tension--all
her senses seemed intensified.
She went to the window and flung it open; but even the chilly night
air failed to cool her burning brow. The anxiety of the day, the
emotions which she had been compelled to repress, had affected
her very acutely. Now that she was alone, free to give way to her
agitation, she leant her head against the sash of the window, and
sobbed convulsively.
“I love him so dearly,” she murmured; “and yet I cannot save him from
suffering. I dare not even inquire whether he is better or worse.”
For a long time Julia stood at the open window, gazing out into the
obscurity of the summer night.
Then she seated herself near a pretty little reading-table loaded
with new books, and tried to read.
She sat for more than an hour with a volume in her hand. Her eyes
travelled along the lines, her hand turned the leaves, but she
paid little attention to the contents of the book. Her mind dwelt
perpetually upon Lionel’s danger. She remembered what the doctor
had said about his delirium. If he were not watched, he might do
some desperate act; in fevers, such as his, men had been known to
commit suicide. No words can express the horror with which this idea
inspired her.
In the loneliness and silence of the night this feeling of horror
increased every moment.
What if those who watched the sick man should fail in their
watchfulness? Mrs. Beckson was an old woman, and so not unlikely to
give way to drowsiness. Thomas Morrison might desert his post.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven--half-past eleven--then
twelve; and still Julia sat brooding over this one agonizing fear.
The sick man’s attendants would neglect him, to the peril of his life.
Hideous images arose before her. She saw Lionel blood-stained, dying,
with a ghastly wound across his throat. Every moment she expected to
hear a maniac shriek ring through the silent house.
At last the agony of this one thought became almost too intense for
endurance. Julia flung aside her book, and began to pace up and down
the room.
By this time it was a quarter-past twelve.
“I will not endure this suspense any longer,” Julia exclaimed at
last. “At any hazard, I _will_ know if he is safe. One peep into his
room will tell me if Mrs. Beckson is awake. If I only know that he
is carefully watched, I can resign myself to the knowledge of his
suffering.”
She opened the door and looked out into the corridor. All was dark
and silent. There could be little doubt that the whole household was
sleeping, except the two servants who watched the sick man.
Julia wrapped a dark shawl about her head and shoulders, and then,
with light and cautious footsteps, crept along the corridor.
She opened the door of Lionel’s apartment. The handle turned almost
noiselessly in her cautious hand. She looked into the room, and one
glance told her that her anxious fears had not been groundless.
Mrs. Beckson’s head lay back upon the cushions of her easy-chair, and
her heavy breathing was that of a person in a profound slumber.
There was no other attendant in the room.
The invalid was asleep. He lay quite motionless, his pale face turned
towards the door by which Julia had entered. The voluminous chintz
curtains were drawn on the other side of the old-fashioned four-post
bedstead.
Julia advanced into the room with the intention of awakening Mrs.
Beckson; but just as she was approaching the housekeeper’s chair, she
was startled by the sound of footsteps in the corridor.
Her first impulse was to hide. She dreaded the discovery of her visit
to the sick-chamber, since that discovery must betray an unusual
anxiety for Lionel’s welfare.
She obeyed that first impulse, for there was no time for reflection.
She crept swiftly past the bed round to the other side where she
could be most completely concealed by the curtains.
From between a very narrow opening in these curtains she was able to
see everything that happened in the room.
The footsteps in the corridor drew nearer. They were those of a man.
Presently the door was cautiously opened, and Rupert Godwin entered
the room.
Julia was not very much surprised at this late visit of her father to
the sick-chamber. What more natural than that he should be anxious
about the young man who was a dweller beneath his roof?
She fancied that he would at once awaken the housekeeper and that
he would be very angry with her for having fallen asleep daring the
hours of her watch.
But to Julia’s surprise the banker made no attempt to arouse Mrs.
Beckson. He walked past her with no further notice than one sharp
scrutinizing glance, and bent with a thoughtful face over the bed.
From between the curtains Julia watched her father’s face. There was
something in the expression of that familiar face which chilled her
heart, and inspired her with a sudden terror--a terror whose nature
she could not define.
Rupert Godwin held a candle in his hand, and the light of it shone
full upon his gloomy countenance. Julia stood motionless, almost
breathless, gazing at him from her hiding-place behind the curtains.
Presently he passed the flame of the candle slowly backwards and
forwards before the eyes of the sleeper.
Lionel Westford’s eyelids never stirred.
Then the banker turned towards Mrs. Beckson, and watched her intently
for some moments.
No words could express Julia’s astonishment at her father’s conduct;
she was paralyzed by that shapeless fear which had taken possession
of her mind as she saw him bending over the sick man.
Presently he approached the table, upon which the patient’s
medicine-bottles had been placed. There were two bottles, one large
and half empty, the other smaller and nearly full.
The banker lifted the small bottle and looked at it. Then he removed
the cork and smelt the mixture. It was a saline draught to be taken
the first thing in the morning, and it was colourless as water.
Rupert Godwin took a tiny vial from his waistcoat-pocket--so tiny,
that Julia could only just distinguish what it was, as the banker
held it between his finger and thumb. He withdrew the cork with his
teeth, for his left hand was occupied with the medicine-bottle.
Then, slowly and deliberately, he poured several drops of some
colourless fluid from the tiny vial into the larger bottle containing
the draught. He replaced the medicine-bottle in the precise spot from
which he had taken it, looked once more at each of the sleepers, and
then crept stealthily from the room.
Whatever purpose had brought him thither had been achieved. Could
Julia doubt that it was a dark and dreadful one?
She shivered as if stricken by an ague fit, and there was a sickness
worse than death at her heart. She loved her father so dearly; could
she believe him to be----
What? A midnight poisoner?
His actions pointed to this hideous conclusion. What motive but the
deadliest of all motives could have brought him to that room, in the
stillness of the night, to tamper with the sick man’s medicine?
“It cannot be!” thought the horror-stricken girl. “I must be mad, or
dreaming. That which I have seen cannot be real. It cannot be!”
She clasped her hands tightly upon her forehead. She was trying to
collect her scattered senses.
“O God, it is too real,” she murmured, “too real!”
Her father’s face had revealed more than even his actions. There
was no evidence that the liquid he had dropped into the sick man’s
medicine was poisonous in its nature; but his face had been the face
of an assassin.
“O Heaven!” thought Julia; “I have heard of people becoming suddenly
mad, and being tempted by some diabolical suggestion to the
commission of a deadly crime. Surely it must be thus with my father.”
The wretched girl clung to this belief as to one faint ray of hope.
It was better to think that her father was a madman, a hapless
distraught creature, possessed by the devil, than that he was a
deliberate and cold-blooded assassin.
Slowly and stealthily Julia crept from her hiding-place and advanced
to the little table upon which the medicine-bottles stood. She looked
at the housekeeper, fearing every moment that she might awake; but
the old woman slept on in a heavy slumber, induced by the drugged
coffee.
Julia took the medicine-bottle in her hand, and looked anxiously
round the room.
She was looking for an empty bottle.
Presently she perceived one standing on a corner of the mantelpiece.
Into this she poured the contents of the vial which her father had
tampered with.
She then filled the vial with pure water from the water-bottle on the
wash-hand stand.
The poisoned medicine she carried away with her, departing as
noiselessly as she had come, after one last anxious glance at the two
sleepers.
Throughout the remainder of that wretched night Julia Godwin sat at
her window, staring vacantly out at the starlit heavens.
She saw those stars fade slowly in the chill morning light; but
still she sat motionless, like a creature whom some great horror had
changed into stone. Yet in all this long agony her senses did not
fail her.
At seven o’clock she went to her dressing-room, after disarranging
the coverings of her bed, so that her maid might not discover that
she had been up all night. She locked the bottle containing the
medicine in a desk in her dressing-room, and then commenced a careful
toilette.
At half-past seven her maid came to her, and found her very nearly
dressed.
“I was a little earlier than usual this morning, Mitford, but you are
just in time to do my hair,” Julia said very calmly; “have you heard
how Mr. Wilton is going on this morning?”
“Yes, miss. He is pretty much the same, I hear; still delirious, but
a good deal quieter. Poor Mrs. Beckson’s quite upset, I hear, this
morning. She fell asleep, poor old soul, and slept all night, and
woke this morning with a dreadful headache, and quite put out to find
that she had been asleep so long. However, luckily her patient seemed
to have been very quiet, so there was no harm done.”
Julia Godwin shuddered as she thought of the harm that _might_
have been done during the watcher’s slumber, if Providence had not
interposed to shield the banker’s intended victim.
When the bell rang for breakfast she went down to the dining-room.
Surely her father would not be there; or, if he were there, his
manner would reveal the frenzy of a distraught brain. But, to her
utter bewilderment, she saw him, calm and self-possessed, seated at
the head of the breakfast-table, with an open Bible under his hands.
Yes; it was unspeakably horrible. This man, this midnight poisoner,
was about to read the Gospel to his assembled household!
It was a rule with Rupert Godwin to read morning prayers to his
family and servants whenever he slept at his country-house. Whatever
his life might be in London, in Hertfordshire his habits were those
of extreme respectability.
Julia watched him with dilated eyes as he read. Presently he began
prayers. The servants knelt; the master also sank upon his knees.
The proud girl’s noble spirit revolted against this hideous
hypocrisy. She rose from her seat and walked to one of the windows,
where she remained looking out at the garden, while her father read
the morning prayer, in which he besought the grace of Heaven for
that kneeling household, and implored the Divine guidance for all
the actions of his life. Even as he read Rupert Godwin perceived the
figure of his daughter standing by the open window, and was not a
little disturbed by her unusual conduct.
Presently, when the servants had risen from their knees and left the
room, Mr. Godwin went to the window where Julia stood.
“Why did you not join in our prayers just now?” he asked, looking at
her with concealed terror.
She turned her face towards him. It was deadly pale, and the dark
eyes fixed themselves upon the banker’s countenance with a strange
earnestness.
“I could not kneel and pray this morning,” she said in tremulous
accents. “I could not ask for Heaven’s blessing on this household,
or on--you.”
She looked at him intently as she pronounced that last word. His face
grew livid; but he was able to conquer all other evidences of his
agitation.
“Why not, Julia?” he asked coldly.
“O, my unhappy father, cannot you guess the reason?” cried the
wretched girl in an outburst of passionate grief.
The banker looked at her with a scowl upon his face.
“Are you mad, Julia?” he exclaimed. “What, in the name of all that
is ridiculous, has inspired you with this folly? I have a peculiar
aversion to anything in the way of heroics. What is the meaning of
these tragic airs?”
“O, father, father!” she cried, suddenly bursting into tears. “Heaven
grant that I have wronged you!”
She rushed from the room before Rupert Godwin could question her
further. A hundred conflicting feelings tortured her breast, but
amidst them all there still lingered one ray of hope.
Her father might be guiltless of the poisoner’s dark intent. She
could not believe that the parent she loved so dearly was the worst
and vilest of earth’s creatures.
“It is too horrible--too horrible!” she murmured, when she had
reached the shelter of her own apartment and flung herself upon the
bed, hiding her pale face in her clasped hands. “It is too bitter
a blow, too cruel, to be forced to hate the father I have loved so
dearly. To hate him! The father I have been so proud of--from whom I
have never known anything but love and indulgence. And yet, can I do
otherwise than hate him, if he is what he seemed to be last night?
A murderer--and the vilest of murderers--the secret assassin, who
carries death to the unconscious sleeper!”
She brooded on the scene of last night until her brain grew dizzy
with the violent strain that was made upon it. Why should her father
attempt the life of Lewis Wilton--the penniless obscure artist? What
motive could have induced him to injure this stranger, whom accident
only had thrown across his path? No--an attempt so purposeless could
only be the murderous freak of a madman. Or was it not possible that
Julia had been mistaken in the import of the scene she had witnessed,
and that the liquid added to the medicine was harmless--some
experimental remedy which Mr. Godwin chose to administer in secret,
rather than encounter the opposition of a medical practitioner, or
the prejudices of an ignorant nurse?
No words can depict the agony of this unhappy girl. Noble and pure of
heart, she could but detest guilt and treachery. Yet she was devoted
to her father; and her breast was tortured by the thought of his
peril, should his guilty attempt become known to the world.
“I will ascertain the truth,” she thought; “come what may I will
discover the nature of the liquid which he mingled with the sleeper’s
medicine. If it should be something harmless after all, O, what
happiness!--what a blessed relief from this unendurable agony of
mind! And yet, can I hope it?--can I forget my father’s face as he
looked at me to-day--so dark, so livid, so like the countenance of a
murderer?”
While Julia abandoned herself to her sorrow, the banker paced the
breakfast-room, tormented by horrible fears--fears which until lately
had been almost strangers in his breast. His daughter’s conduct had
affected him more acutely than anything that had happened to him for
a long time.
Could _she_ suspect? No, it was impossible. Elsewhere suspicion
might arise, but not _here_--not in her mind. She is as innocent and
confiding as a child.
He thought over the events of the previous night, and he could
perceive no flaw, no blemish, in his deadly work; all had been
planned so carefully, all had been executed so successfully, and at
an hour when Julia must naturally have been asleep in her own room.
It was impossible that she could know anything.
“I understand it all,” thought the banker. “She is in love with this
Lionel, and he has revealed his real name to her, and has told her
the story of his mother’s wrongs.”
Reassured a little by this thought, Rupert Godwin paced his room with
a quick nervous step, listening for the opening of the door. He was
waiting for the coming of the person who should announce to him the
death of Lionel Westford.
But the door was not opened; no one came. Breakfast remained
untouched upon the table, where the richly painted Worcester china,
the antique silver dishes, the mellow brown of a ponderous ham,
the golden tints of a raised pie decorated in alto relievo by some
Benvenuto Cellini of pastrycooks, would have made a study for a
painter of still life.
The poor envy the rich sometimes, and it is only natural that the
penniless should murmur complainingly against the waste and luxury
of a millionaire’s household, and be rather slow to recognize the
harmony of a universe in which one man has half-a-dozen country
seats, a shooting-box in the Highlands, and a house in Park-lane,
while another man’s children look at him with wan haggard faces as he
sits moaning with his gaunt elbows on his bony knees--out of work!
Yet if the veriest pauper in all England could have looked into that
splendid room and watched the dark face of Rupert Godwin, he would
have hugged himself in his rags as he contemplated the misery of a
bad man surrounded by the luxury of a prince.
No one came to speak the slow solemn words that tell of death; and
yet the time had long passed at which Lionel Westford should have
taken his medicine.
Again and again Rupert Godwin had looked at his watch. At last he
could endure the suspense no longer. He left the breakfast-room, and
went straight to Lionel’s apartment.
He expected to behold the face of the dead, still and shadowy in a
shrouded chamber. But the chamber was not darkened; the windows had
been opened, and the balmy morning air blew into the room. Lionel was
lying with his eyes fixed upon the door. He raised himself in the bed
as Rupert Godwin entered, and fixed those wild bloodshot eyes upon
the banker.
“My father’s murderer!” he cried, pointing to the advancing figure.
“Don’t you see him? Will no one seize him? Will no one hold him for
me? My father’s murderer, Rupert Godwin!”
Mrs. Beckson was seated by the bedside. She had taken a cup of strong
tea, and had recovered in some measure from the effects of the opiate
given her by the banker, though her head ached, and she felt a
sensation of drowsiness that was very difficult to shake off.
Nothing could exceed Rupert Godwin’s bewilderment when he found his
intended victim still living, still vigorous, still able to proclaim
his guilt.
He looked at the bottles on the table near the bed.
The bottle which he had tampered with was empty.
“Who gave the invalid his medicine?” he asked.
“I did, sir,” answered Mrs. Beckson.
“He took it quietly?”
“O yes, sir. Though he does rave and go on so at times, he always
takes his medicine quietly enough.”
“There was none spilt, then?”
“Not a drop, sir.”
The banker looked at his housekeeper very intently. It was evident
that she was speaking the truth.
No suspicion had as yet entered her mind. Here, at least, there was
safety.
But how was it, then, that the poison had failed in its effect? It
was not a poison likely to fail. Rupert Godwin had laid his plans
deliberately, and was not a man to make any mistake in a deadly
business like this.
He left the room. He dared not remain longer in that apartment, to be
denounced as a murderer.
At present that denunciation was only regarded as the senseless
raving of delirium. What if those who watched the invalid should come
by-and-by to believe in it--to search, to investigate? It was all one
dark labyrinth of horror. Rupert Godwin felt as if a network had been
closing round him, slowly but surely--a fatal web, from which escape
would ere long be impossible.
“I must remove this man somehow,” he thought, as he went back to his
own room. “The poison has failed, and I must try some other means,
less deadly, less dangerous, but as certain. I think I know of a plan
by which Lionel Westford’s lips may be as surely closed as if he
slept the cold slumber of the dead.”