THE LAST OF THE “PEABODY”
Fate, it seemed, had ordered a final fleeting happiness for the lonely
young wife before her sun was to set in sorrow. For a season the glow of
Daniel’s letter clung to her, warmed her heart, and lighted her spirit.
Nor did she hide the news from all. Daniel’s parents heard much of the
letter, as he directed, and Minnie trusted Mr Beer and his wife with the
news also. But nobody else heard it. Then, as summer approached and she
already began to count the days until another letter might reach her,
a crashing grief fell upon the woman, and all her future was changed.
Hope perished; life henceforth stretched forward into the dreary future
without one ray of light to break its darkness.
For a moment in her shattering sorrow even the truth itself seemed no
longer worth discovery. Nothing mattered any more, for the end had come.
Even while she was reading his letter, so full of life and hope, the hand
that wrote it was clay again; and, under circumstances the most awful,
his little vessel and all thereon had perished.
When Titus Sim kept his appointment and brought himself to Hangman’s Hut
that Minnie might sew a yellow button upon his gaiter, she had some ado
to hide her splendid thoughts while she worked for him. From the first
she had studiously concealed the truth from Titus, nor did she speak a
word of it now. His presence always made her heart cold and hard; for
as she thought of the past, his action grew more and more clear to her.
He had laid a deadly trap for Daniel, and Daniel, trusting him better
than anybody in the world, had fallen headlong into it. Whether Sim was
actually present at the death of Thorpe Minnie still knew not; but that
he was familiar with the circumstances, and that he had on the night of
the murder fetched Daniel’s gun and placed it ready to be found on the
following morning, she felt assured. His purpose was to gain herself. But
what to do at this juncture she did not know. She dared not summon Daniel
home as yet, and she dared not impart her discoveries to any other. Then
happened circumstances that made all vain and turned revenge into a thing
too mean and shallow to pursue. After the announcement of her husband’s
death the perspective and significance of life were altered. For long
days she moved listlessly from her bed back to her bed again. Sleep
only had power to comfort her, while yet the overwhelming tragic truth
tortured each waking hour. Sleep nightly she welcomed as she would have
welcomed death.
In this strange fashion came the fatal news to her.
Sim was accustomed to bring books and newspapers upon the occasion of
his visits, and in a daily journal, at the time of that awful event,
telegrams appeared of the volcanic catastrophe that had burst upon the
West Indies, had shaken St Vincent to its heights, and overwhelmed much
of the unfortunate island of Martinique. Chance ordered the intelligence
upon the day that Sim had fixed for his formal proposal, and her eyes
were actually fixed upon the _Western Morning News_, where it lay spread
over her table, at the moment that the man was asking her to marry him.
“I can’t hold it in no more,” he said. “You know right well what I mean.
I’ve been patient too--the Lord knows how patient. Oh, woman, don’t
torment me any longer. For God’s sake say you’ll marry me. My life’s one
cruel stretch on the rack as it is. All I’ve done to get you you’ll never
know. You’ve been the one thought and hope and prayer and longing of
my life ever since I first set eyes on you, and now--now there’s nought
between us--now--Minnie! Good God--what’s the matter--what have I done?”
He broke off and leapt to his feet, for she had fallen back in her chair
and an expression of great terror and horror had come into her face.
She had only heard his last words. The woman did not faint; but for the
moment she was powerless to speak. Her emotion had robbed her cheek of
blood and made her dizzy. In response to his cry she pointed to the sheet
before her. He glanced at the long Reuter telegram, and then noted the
brief paragraph upon which she kept her finger:--
“Among the ill-fated vessels that perished with all hands was
the English steamer _Peabody_ (Nailer and Co.). It is reported
that she attempted to steam out of harbour, but was overwhelmed
and sunk in the awful convulsion from above and below. Every
soul on board perished.”
“What is this to you or to me? What do you know? Tell me if I can do
anything,” cried Titus Sim.
“‘Every soul--every soul,’” she said, quoting in a strange voice under
her breath. “‘Every soul,’ but it means ‘everybody.’ The souls have gone
back where there’s no hopes nor fears nor sorrows. But his body--his
dear body--all--all--perished. I can’t read no more. Does it say all?”
“That awful thing in Martinique. Yes, they be full of it at the house,
and full of thanksgivings that it wasn’t Tobago that was smitten. But
you, Minnie--what is this to you?”
“Death,” she said. “His death; and his death be mine--the death of all
that’s best in me--the death of all I kept alive for him.”
“For--for--you don’t mean your husband? Not Daniel Sweetland?”
“He was on board her. ’Twas to her he went and in her he sailed. I only
heard it a thought more than a month agone. Heard it under his own hand.
He wrote me a letter. And now--”
“There might be another ship of that name. But how much this means! And
you could hide it all from me! And I thought--”
“You thought he was in Wall Shaft Gully. And now he lies in a bigger
grave than that--my Dan--driven away to die. May God remember the man who
ruined my husband!”
For once Sim was shaken from his power of ready speech; for once his
tongue seemed tied. The tremendous nature of this event made him
powerless. Yet at the bottom of his bewildered mind lurked joy. The thing
he had toiled to bring about appeared at last accomplished without
further possibility of failure. Doubt no longer existed. Sweetland was
now dead indeed. He concealed his thanksgiving and began to mourn.
No more of love he spake, but strove to find consolation for her in
religious reflections. Dry-eyed she stared from him to the newspaper,
from the newspaper back to him. Then she bade him leave her, and he went,
but stopped at the publichouse hard by and told his tremendous news to Mr
and Mrs Beer. They, who knew the secret of Daniel’s disappearance, were
stricken with profound sorrow, and scarcely had Sim proclaimed the truth
before Jane Beer hurried bare-headed from the house and ran to her friend.
“Poor young woman!” groaned Johnny in genuine grief, “what a world of up
and downs and hopes and fears she have suffered, to be sure! To think
as one pair of girl’s shoulders be called upon to carry such a burden.
There’s nought to be done. Only time can help her; an’ maybe you.”
“To think,” said Sim, “and I was that moment putting marriage before her!
Another moment and she must have told me she was a wife; and then it
caught her eye--staring from the printed page--that she was a widow!”
“She told us the secret and I made a joyous rhyme about it; but what’s
rhymes to her now? Yet I’ll do one, and this day I’ll do it, for
many’s the poor broken heart as have sucked comfort from a well-turned
verse--else why do we have hymns? Well, it will come back to you, Titus.
For my part I could wish as Daniel had died to home where first we
thought he did. A sea death be so open an’ gashly. For my part I’d sooner
have gone down Vitifer mine shaft and know my bones would bide in the
land that bred ’em.”
“Well, the mystery be all out now. No doubt he visited her that night he
gave the policemen the slip. ’Twas hard I should never know the secret,
for I’m sure Dan would have told me afore all the world.”
“She’s only got his memory now, poor lamb; an’ that won’t keep her warm
of a winter night. ’Twas ordained you should have her, no doubt. But you
mustn’t ax her till the tears be dried. She’ll weep a lot. Turn and twist
as you may, death will grab you some day. The appointed time comes round
as sure as the sun rises. Pig or man, each has his span. There’s verses
rising up in me, Titus, so I won’t keep you. What was the name of the
poor hero’s ship? D’you call it to mind?”
“The _Peabody_,” answered Sim; then he departed with strange thoughts for
company.
In truth Titus had much ado to marshal his ideas. He stood exactly where
he believed that he had stood from the time of Daniel’s disappearance;
but the fact that Sweetland was only now removed from his path by death
startled him not a little. He hardly realised his fortune. In his mind
was a dark cloud, for that Minnie should so carefully have kept her
secret from him meant mischief. She had not trusted him with the truth.
There was a reason for that, and the reason promised to be the reverse of
pleasant. Sim had been deceived by Minnie’s attitude. Without attempt to
blind his eyes, her demeanour had led him to suppose that she at least
was content in his society, that she trusted him, that she bore to him
the regard due to her husband’s first and favourite companion. But she
had deliberately chosen to keep him in ignorance, not only of Daniel’s
safety, but also concerning his actual existence; and this reserve caused
Sim a great deal of painful surprise. Surely it indicated that Daniel’s
widow did not trust him; and for that distrust a reason must exist.
Titus perceived that much depended upon his future attitude. To win her
absolute confidence would now be necessary before any further talk of
love. He ransacked his sleepless mind that night, and ere morning saw the
way clear. His good faith must be made apparent; it must shine above any
shadow of suspicion. Minnie should learn that her husband’s honour and
fair name were as much to Titus Sim as to herself. How to effect this
result was his problem, and the footman believed that he could solve it.
For Sim was perfectly familiar with the truth concerning Adam Thorpe’s
end; and no man knew better than did he that Daniel had no part in the
crime. The secret murderer was not hidden from Titus, nor was the hand
that placed Sweetland’s gun where he had found it.
Everything conspired to his purpose. He calculated that in a month’s
time he would be able to clear Sweetland’s name before the world. Then
his own reward seemed clear. Minnie, once convinced that her vague fears
and suspicions did him wrong, could hardly deny him what he begged. Into
his fixed and immovable resolution to make her his own he poured all the
strength of a tremendous will. He had not come so far upon the journey
to be repulsed. He had not moved by dark ways and committed worse than
crimes for nothing. From a mental condition of anger and uneasiness,
his devious soul plotted itself back into content and calm. The end was
assured and the means to play his final strokes now lay clear before
the man’s intelligence. To establish absolute confidence in himself as
Sweetland’s friend--true even beyond death--was now his purpose; and the
thing he planned to do, if brought to a successful issue, could hardly
fail to show him in a noble light and convince the sceptic, if any such
existed beside Minnie, that his aims were pure and his faith above all
suspicion.
A week later, when she had told her secret, and her little world mourned
in its wonder, and yet also triumphed at the ingenuity of the native who
would never return again, Titus Sim visited Minnie with offers to assist
her in any step she might now be contemplating. But she did not avail
herself of the suggestion.
“I’m going back to my aunt come presently,” she said. “I can’t bide here
no more now. After Michaelmas I give it up an’ return to Moreton.”
Her face was very pale against her black dress, and darkness and sorrow
haunted her beautiful eyes; but no living soul had seen her deepest
grief. That was hidden from all. Her voice never shook when she spoke
of Daniel to Titus Sim, for instinct told her the man, despite his
protestations, did not share her bereavement. Only with Daniel’s mother,
or in the company of Jane Beer, did she reveal a glimpse of her breaking
heart.
“Command me, if I can serve you in any possible manner,” he said. “And
don’t think I’m forgetting this great sorrow because ’tis not always
upon my tongue. Far from it; Daniel is never out of my thoughts. He’s
beyond the reach of aught but prayers; but his honour and good name are
the legacies he left behind, and ’tis for us to treasure them and make
’em shine out like the sun from behind this cloud that darkens them. I
know only too well you don’t believe me. It’s been the greatest grief in
a sad life--the greatest but Daniel’s death--that you kept his secret
from me and did not let me know that he was still alive. I’ve had nought
but sleepless nights thinking of it. And why for you don’t trust me I
can’t guess, and why you hid the welfare of my greatest friend from me
I shall never know; but this I know: you had no just reason and not by
word or deed, or thought or dream have I ever done him wrong. Be that as
it may. I’ll say nothing about it and I’ll ask you for no explanation,
for ’tisn’t a time to wrangle which of us--man or woman--friend or
wife--loved him best. I’ll not prate; I’ll do. I believe even now that
’twill be my blessed lot to clear his memory afore the world. You gaze
at me as if you thought that ’twould be no joy to me to do it--see how I
read what’s in your eyes! But I swear afore the Throne of Heaven that
I’d sooner clear his name and sweeten his memory than be a prince in the
land, or the ruler of cities.”
“If you could do it, why have you waited until now?” she asked coldly.
“Because Providence willed that I should wait. And even now I’m only
hopeful, not positive. I should have striven to do all and bring you
the glad news when I’d got it proved beyond the doubt of the world; but
now Heaven has hit upon a better way. Yes, ‘Heaven’s’ the word, for in
righting Daniel in the world’s eyes, I pray God will right me in yours,
Minnie Sweetland.”
He paused, but she only surveyed him silently, and he spoke again.
“Thus it stands. The poor soul commonly called ‘Drunkard’ Parkinson,
is now at his last gasp, or near it. He cannot live more than a month;
doctor has told him so. But, as I have always feared, that man has evil
secrets. What they are I only guess, but my guess during the last few
days has developed into certainty. You know young Prowse lives in the
cottage that adjoins Rix Parkinson’s? Two days ago he came to tell me
that poor Rix wanted to see me, and to know how soon I could call upon
him. I went at once, and then he confessed that there is much upon
his conscience. I begged him to see Parson West, whose deep wisdom
and sympathy and knowledge of Heaven are denied to no sinner; but he
refused. ‘Not him, nor any other man,’ he said. ‘’Tis a woman I want to
see--the wife of that chap, Dan Sweetland, as runned away after that
they’d taken him for murder.’ He did not know that Dan was dead, and I
did not tell him, for the fact might have changed his determination. I
promised to bring you to him, and I prevailed with him that he would let
me be present also. He is desirous to tell you something, and since the
confession must have a witness to make it of any worth, I, too, shall
hear it, that it may be supported in the world after Parkinson dies. For
he is on the way to die, and he specially told me that the thing he meant
to tell you must not be made public until his death. What it is I can
guess, as I have said; and doubtless you can, too.”
“He killed Adam Thorpe.”
“I believe so with all my soul. They were old enemies, and three years
ago Parkinson went to gaol for three months after assaulting Thorpe.
Either he did it, or he knows right well who did. And he knows that the
man who did it was not our poor Daniel.”
“I will come when he pleases,” said Minnie. “I hope your opinion may be
the right one, Mr Sim.”
“And I hope that you will think kinder of me when, through my ceaseless
toil and labour, I have cleared my friend’s memory.”
He left her then without waiting for an answer, and a week later a day
was fixed.
It happened that Minnie was in Moretonhampstead upon the occasion of
making this final appointment to visit the sick man, and as she returned
to the Moor, she met young Samuel Prowse--well known to her as an old
friend of Daniel. She passed him with a nod of recognition; then she
changed her mind; a thought suddenly struck her, and she called the youth
to her side.