There was a little dog that crept and moaned by Claytonʼs body, a
little dog that knew no better, never having been taught much. It was a
small black Swedish spaniel, skilful only in woodcocks, and pretty well
up to a snipe or two, but actually afraid of a pheasant on account of
the dreadful noise he made. She knew not any more than the others why
her name was “Wena”, and she was perfectly contented with it, though it
must have been a corruption. The men said it ought to be “Winifred”;
the maids, more romantic, “Rowena”; but very likely John Rosedew was
right, being so strong in philology, when he maintained that the name
was a syncopated form of “Wadstena”, and indicated her origin.
However, she knew her masterʼs name better than her own. You had only
to say “Clayton”, anywhere or anywhen, and she would lift her tangled
ears in a moment, jerk her little whisk of a tail, till you feared
for its continuity, and trot about with a sprightly air, seeking all
around for him. Now she was cuddled close into his bosom, moaning,
and shivering, and licking him, staring wistfully at his eyes and the
wound where the blood was welling. She would not let John Rosedew touch
him, but snapped as he leaned over; and then she began to whimper
softly, and nuzzle her head in closer. “Wena”, he said, in a very low
voice—“pretty Wena, let me”. And then she understood that he meant
well, and stood up, and watched him intently.
John knew in a moment that all was over between this world and Clayton
Nowell. He had felt it from the first glance indeed, but could not
keep hope from fluttering. Afterwards he had no idea what he did, or
how he did it, but the impression left by that short gaze was as stern
as the death it noted. Full in the throat was the ghastly wound, and
the charge had passed out at the back of the neck, through the fatal
grape–cluster. Though the bright hair flowed in a pool of blood, and
the wreck of life was pitiful, the face looked calm and unwrung by
anguish, yet firm and staunch, with the courage summoned to ward death
rather than meet it.
John Rosedew, shy and diffident in so many little matters, was not a
man to be dismayed when the soul is moving vehemently. Now he leaped
straight to the one conclusion, fearful as it was.
“Holy God, have mercy on those we love so much! No accident is this,
but a savage murder”.
He fell upon his knees one moment, and prayed with a dead hand in his
own. He knew, of course, that the soul was gone, a distance thought can
never gaze; but prayer flies best in darkness.
Then, with the tears all down his cheeks, he looked round once, as if
to mark the things he would have to tell of. In front of the corpse lay
the favourite gun, with the muzzle plunged into the bushes, as if the
owner had fallen with the piece raised to his shoulder. The hammer of
one barrel was cocked, of the other on half–cock only; both the nipples
were capped, and, of course, both barrels loaded. The line of its fire
was not towards Cradock, but commanded a little by–path leading into
the heart of the wood.
Meanwhile, Cradock had fallen forward from the steep brow of the
hedge–bank; the branch to which he clung in that staggering way
had broken. Slowly he rose from the ground, and still intent and
horror–struck, unable to come nearer, looked more like one of the
smitten trees which they call in the forest “dead men”, than a living
and breathing body. John Rosedew, not knowing what he did, ran to the
wretched fellow, and tried to take his hand, but the offer was quite
unnoticed. With his eyes still fixed on his twin–brotherʼs corpse,
the youth began fumbling clumsily in the pocket of his shooting–coat;
he pulled out a powder–flask, and rapidly, never once looking at
it, dropped a charge into either barrel. John heard the click of the
spring—one, two, as quick as he could have said it. Then the young man
drew from his waistcoat–pocket two thick patent wads, and squeezed one
into either cylinder. All at once it struck poor “Uncle John” what he
was going to do. Preparing to shoot himself!
“Cradock, my boy, is this all the fear of God I have taught you”?
Cradock looked at him curiously, and nodded his head in acknowledgment.
It was plain that his wits were wandering. The parson immediately
seized the gun, and sowed the powder broadcast, then wrenched the flask
away from him with a hand there was no resisting. Then for the first
time he observed Caldo in the hedge, “down–charging”; the well–trained
dog had never moved from the moment his master fired.
“Come with me at once, come home, Cradock; boy, you _shall_ come home
with me”!
But the man of threescore was not quick enough for the young despair.
Cradock was out of sight in the thicket, and Caldo galloped after
him. Wild with himself for his slowness of wit, John Rosedew ran to
poor Claytonʼs gun, for fear of his brother finding it. Then he took
from the dead boyʼs pocket his new and burnished powder–flask, though
it went to his heart to do it, and leaped upon the back of Coræbus,
without a thought of Xenophon. Only Wena was left to keep her poor
master company.
How the rector got to the Hall I know not, neither has he any
recollection; but he must have sat his horse like a Nimrod, and taken
a hedge and two ditches. All we know is that he did get there, with
Coræbus as frightened as he was, and returned to the place of disaster
and death, with three men, of whom Dr. Hutton was one. Sir Cradock was
not yet come back to his home, and the servants received proper orders.
As the four men, walking in awe and sorrow, cast the light of a lamp
through the bushes, they heard a quick rustle of underwood, and crackle
of the dead twigs, but saw no one moving.
“Some one has been here since I left”, exclaimed John Rosedew,
trembling; “some one has lain beside the body, and put marks of blood
on the forehead”.
Each of the men knew, of course, what it was—Cradock embracing his
brother!
“A good job you took the gun away; wonder you had the sense, though”,
said Rufus Hutton, sharply, to pretend he wasnʼt crying; “I only know
what I should have done, if I had shot my brother so—blown out the
remains of my brains, sir”!
“Hush”! said John Rosedew, solemnly, and his deep voice made their
hearts thrill; “it is not our own life to will or to do with. In the
hands of the Lord are our life and our death”.
They knelt around the pale corpse tenderly, shading the lamp from the
eyes of it; even Rufus could not handle it in a medical manner. One
of the men, who always declared that he had saved Claytonʼs life in
his childhood, fell flat on the ground, and sobbed fearfully. I cannot
dwell on it any more; it makes a fellow cry to think of it. Only, thank
God, that I am not bound to tell how they met his father.