Ten weeks, had come and gone since the memorable visit of M. Karovsky
to the master of Beechley Towers. It was a pleasant evening towards
the end of June. There had been a heavy shower a little while ago; but
since then the clouds had broken, and the sun was now drawing westward
in a blaze of glory. In the same pleasant morning-room in which we
first made their acquaintance, Mrs. Brooke and her aunt, Miss Primby,
were now sitting. The latter was dozing in an easy-chair with a novel
on her lap, the former was seated at the piano playing some plaintive
air in a minor key. The glad light, the light of a happiness that knew
no cloud, which shone from her eyes when we saw her first, dwelt there
no longer. She looked pale, anxious, and _distraits_, like one who is
a prey to some hidden trouble. She had spoken no more than the truth
when she said that her happiness was too perfect to last.
As the last sad note died away under her fingers she turned from the
instrument. "I cannot play--I cannot work--I cannot do anything," she
murmured under her breath.
At this juncture Miss Primby awoke. "My dear Clara, what a pity you
did not keep on playing," she said. "I was in the midst of a most
lovely dream. I thought I was about to be married; my wreath and veil
had been sent home, and I was just about to try them on; when you
stopped playing and I awoke."
"If I were to go on playing, aunt, do you think that you could finish
your dream?"
"No, my dear, it's gone, and the chances are that it will never
return," said the spinster with a sigh.
Clara crossed the room, and sat down on a low chair near the window,
whence she could catch the first glimpse of her husband as he came
round the clump of evergreens at the corner of the terrace.
"I wish you would not mope so much, and would try not to look quite so
miserable," said her aunt presently.
"How can I help feeling miserable, when I know that Gerald has some
unhappy secret on his mind, of which he tells me nothing. He has been
a changed man ever since the visit of M. Karovsky. He cannot eat, he
cannot rest; night and day he wanders about the house and grounds,
like a man walking in his sleep."
"Bad signs, very, my dear. Married men have no right to have secrets
from their wives."
"If he would but confide in me! If he would but tell me what the
secret trouble is that is slowly eating away his life!"
"I remember that when the Dean of Rathdrum leaned over the back of my
chair, and whispered 'My darling Jane, I'"----
"Here comes Gerald!" cried Mrs. Brooke. She started to her feet, while a
glad light leapt into her eyes, and ran out on the terrace to meet
him. "What a time you have been away!" she said, as he stooped and
kissed her. "And your hair and clothes are quite wet."
"It is nothing," he answered. "I was caught in a shower in the wood."
"Poor fellow! He certainly does look very haggard and dejected,"
remarked Miss Primby to herself.
"Have you been far?" asked Clara.
"Only as far as Beaulieu."
"You called on the baron, of course."
"No. I changed my mind at the last moment."
"The first bell will ring in a few minutes."
"I have one important letter to write before I dress."
"Then aunt and I will leave you. You will not be long? I am so afraid
of your taking cold. Come, aunt."
"Nothing brings on rheumatism sooner than damp clothes," remarked Miss
Primby sententiously, as she folded down a leaf of her novel, and
tucked the volume under her arm.
Then the ladies went and Gerald was left alone. He looked a dozen
years older than he had looked ten weeks previously. All the light and
gladness had died out of his face; he had the air of a man who was
weighed down by some trouble almost heavier than he could bear. "She
is afraid of my taking cold," he said to himself, with a bitter smile
as his wife closed the door. "Poor darling! if I were to take cold and
have a fever and die, it would be the best thing that could happen
either to her or me." He began to pace the room slowly, his hands
behind him, and his eyes bent on the ground. "Nearly three months have
passed since Karovsky's visit, and nothing has yet been done. Only two
more weeks are left me. Coward that I am, to have kept putting off
from day to day doing that which I ought to have done long ago. Even
this very afternoon, when I reached Beaulieu, I had not the courage to
go in and confront Von Rosenberg. My heart failed me, and I turned
back. If I have begun one letter to him I have begun a dozen, only to
burn or tear them up unfinished; but now there is no time for further
delay. I will warn him that if he wishes to save his life he must
leave here immediately, and seek some asylum where his enemies will be
powerless to harm him. Shall I vaguely hint at some shadowy danger
that impends over him? or shall I tell him in plain terms why and by
whom the death sentence has been recorded against him? Shall I write
to him anonymously, or shall I sign the letter with my name? Better
tell him everything and put my name to the letter; he can then act on
the information in whatever way he may deem best. In doing this, as
Karovsky said, I shall be sealing my own doom. Well, better that,
better anything than the only other alternative."
He halted by one of the windows, and stood gazing out at all the
pleasant features of the landscape he had learned to know and love so
well. "It seems hard to die so young, and with so much about me to make
life happy," he sadly mused. "I think I could meet my fate on the
battle-field without a murmur--but to be murdered in cold blood--to be
the mark for some stealthy assassin! Poor Clara! poor darling! what
will you do when I am gone?" He sighed deeply as he turned from the
window. His eyes were dim with tears.
Presently he seated himself at the davenport, and drew pen and paper
towards him. "No more delays; this very night the baron shall be told.
But how shall I begin? in what terms shall I word my warning?" He sat
and mused for a minute or two, biting the end of his pen as he did so.
Then he dipped the pen into the inkstand and began to write: "My dear
Baron, from information which has reached me, the accuracy of which I
cannot doubt, I am grieved to have to inform you that your life is in
great and immediate peril. You have been sentenced to death by the
Chiefs of one of those Secret Societies of the existence of which you
are doubtless aware. Your only chance of safety lies in immediate
flight."
"What shall I say next?" asked Gerald of himself. "Shall I tell him
that"----
But at this juncture the door was opened, and Mrs. Brooke came
hurriedly into the room. "O Gerald, such terrible news!" she
exclaimed, breathlessly.
Gerald turned his letter face downward on the blotting-pad. "Terrible
news, Clara?" he said in a tone of studied indifference. "Has your
aunt's spaniel over-eaten itself and"----
"Gerald, don't!" she cried in a pained voice. "Baron von Rosenberg is
dead--murdered in his own house leas than an hour ago!"
Gerald rose slowly from his chair as if drawn upward by some invisible
force. The sudden pallor that blanched his face frightened his wife.
She sprang forward and laid a hand on his arm. He shook it off almost
roughly. "Tell me again what you told me just now," he said in a voice
which Clara scarcely recognised as that of her husband.
She told him again. "Murdered! Von Rosenberg! Impossible!"
"Dixon brought the news; he has just ridden up from King's Harold."
Gerald sank into his seat again. His eyes were fixed on vacancy. For a
few moments he looked as if his brain had been paralysed.
Miss Primby came bustling in. "Oh, my dear Clara, can it be possible
that this dreadful--dreadful news is true?"
"Only too true, I am afraid, aunt."
"Poor Baron! Poor dear man! What a shocking end! I never knew a man
with more charming manners. Cut off in the flower of his age, as one
may say."
"Perhaps, dear, you would like to see Dixon and question him," said
Clara to her husband.
He simply nodded. Mrs. Brooke rang the bell and Dixon the groom
entered. "You had better tell your master all you know about this
frightful tragedy."
The man cleared his throat. Gerald stared at him with eyes that seemed
to see far beyond him--far beyond the room in which they were. "I had
been down to King's Harold, sir," began Dixon, "to see Thompson, the
farrier, about the chestnut mare, and was riding back, when just as I
got to the Beaulieu lodge-gates I see the dog-cart come out with Mr.
Pringle the baron's man in it, along with Dr. King, and another gent
as was a stranger to me. Seeing the doctor there, and that Mr. Pringle
looked very white and scared like, I pulls up. 'Anything amiss, Mr.
Pringle?' says I, with a jerk of my thumb towards the house, as the
dog-cart passed me. But he only stared at me and shook his head solemn
like and drove on without a word. Then I turns to the lodge-keeper's
wife and sees that she has her apron over her head, and is crying.
'Anything serous amiss, mum?' says I. 'I don't know what you calls
serous, young man,' says she, 'but my poor master, the baron, was
found murdered in the little shally in the garden only half an hour
since--shot through the heart by some blood-thirsty villain.' I didn't
wait to hear more, sir, but made all the haste I could home."
No word spoke Gerald. The man looked at him curiously, almost doubting
whether his master had heard a word of what he had said.
"Thank you, Dixon; that will do," said Mrs. Brooke. The man carried a
finger to his forehead and made his exit.
"Poor dear baron!" remarked Miss Primby for the second time. "There
was something very fascinating in his smile."
"Clara, tell me," said Gerald presently. "Am I in truth awake, or have
I only dreamt that Von Rosenberg is dead?"
"How strangely you talk, dear. I am afraid you are ill."
"There you are mistaken. I am well--excellently well. But tell me
this: ought I to feel glad, or ought I to feel sorry? On my life, I
don't know which I ought to feel!"
"Glad? O Gerald!"
"Ah; I had forgotten. You don't know."
"You no longer confide in me as you used to do."
He took no notice of the remark. "Let the Dead Past bury its dead," he
said aloud, but speaking exactly as he might have done had he been
alone. "No need to send this now," he muttered in a lower tone as he
took up his unfinished letter. "If I had but sent it a week ago, would
Von Rosenberg be still alive? Who can say?" Crossing to the
chimney-piece, he lighted a match and with it set fire to the letter,
holding it by one corner as he did so. When it had burnt itself half
away he began to whistle under his breath.
"O Gerald!" said his wife in a grieved voice.
"I had forgotten. Pardon--as Karovsky would say."
"I am grieved to say so, dear, but his brain seems slightly affected;"
whispered Miss Primby to her niece. "If I were you I would call in Dr.
Preston."
Before Clara could reply Bunce came in with a lighted lamp half turned
down. He left the curtains undrawn, for a soft yellow glow still
lingered over field and woodland.
As soon as he had left the room Mrs. Brooke crossed to the couch on
which her husband had seated himself, and taking one of his hands in
hers, said: "Dearest, you must not let this affair, shocking though it
be, prey too much on your mind. It is not as if you had lost an old
and valued friend. Baron von Rosenberg was but an acquaintance--a man
whose name even you had never heard six months ago."
His only reply was to softly stroke the hand that was holding one of
his.
Clara waited a little and then she said: "Will you not come and dress
for dinner?"
He rose abruptly. "Dress for dinner!" he exclaimed with a strange
discordant laugh. "How the comedy and tragedy of life jostle each
other! Grim death claps on the mask of Momus and tries to persuade us
that he is a merry gentleman. Here a white cravat, a dress coat, the
pleasant jingle of knives and forks. There, a pool of blood, a cold
and rigid form, a ghastly face with blank staring eyes that seem
appealing to heaven for vengeance. Yes, let us go and dress for
dinner; for, in truth, you and I ought to rejoice and make merry
to-night--if you only knew why."
"Gerald, you frighten me."
"Nay, sweet one, I would not do that;" he answered as he drew her to
him and kissed her. "I am in a strange humour to-night. I hardly know
myself. I could laugh and I could sing, and yet--and yet--poor Von
Rosenberg!" He turned away with a sigh.
At this moment in came Mr. Bunce again. "If you please, ma'am," he
said to Mrs. Brooke, "here's a strange young pusson come running to
the Towers all in a hurry, who says she must see you without a
minute's delay."
The "strange young pusson" had followed close on his heels. "Yes, mum,
without a minute's delay," she contrived to gasp out, and then she
stood panting, unable to articulate another word. She was breathless
with running.
"Well, if ever!" exclaimed the scandalised Bunce, turning sharply on
her. "Why, you ain't even wiped your shoes."
"That will do, Bunce, thank you," said Mrs. Brooke with quiet dignity.
Bunce sniffed and tried to screw up his nose further than nature had
done already. "Sich muck!" was his comment to himself as he left the
room.
The person to whom this depreciatory epithet was applied was a girl of
some sixteen or seventeen summers, Margery Shook by name, who was
dressed in a coarse but clean bib and apron, a short cotton frock
considerably the worse for wear, gray worsted stockings, thick shoes,
and a quilted sun-bonnet, from under the flap of which her nut-brown
hair made its escape in tangled elf-like locks. Her bright hazel eyes
had in them more of the expression of some half-tamed animal than that
of an ordinary human being. Her features, though by no means uncomely,
were somewhat heavily moulded and did not respond readily to emotional
expression. For the rest, she was a well-grown strongly-built girl,
and when she laughed her teeth flashed upon you like a surprise.
Margery's laugh, if laugh it could be called, was perhaps the most
singular thing about her. It was witch-like, weird, uncanny; it never
extended to her eyes; it broke out at the most inopportune moments; to
have been awoke by it in the dead of night, and not to have known
whence it emanated, might have shaken the nerves of the strongest man.
Margery was an orphan, and until she was sixteen years old, had been
brought up on a canal barge. It was her boast that she could drive a
horse or steer a barge as well as any man between London and the
Midlands. But there came a day when the girl could no longer either
drive or handle the rudder. Ague had got her in its merciless grip.
The barge-man for whom she worked landed her at King's Harold with
instructions to a relative of his to pass her on to the workhouse. But
before this could be done Mrs. Brooke had found out the sick girl. She
was placed in a decent lodging, and the mistress of Beechley Towers
paid all expenses till she was thoroughly restored to health. But not
only did she do that: she went to see Margery three or four times a
week, and eat with her, and talked with her, and read to her, and
tried in various ways to let a few rays of light into the girl's
darkened mind. Sometimes it happened that Mr. Brooke would call for
his wife when she was on these expeditions, on which occasions he
would always stay for a few minutes to have a chat with Margery, so
that in a little while there was no such gentleman in existence as
'Muster Geril.' But towards Mrs. Brooke her feeling was one of
boundless gratitude and devotion; it was like the devotion of a dumb
animal rather than that of a rational being. Willingly, gladly would
she have laid down her life for her benefactress, had such a sacrifice
been required at her hands.
When the girl was thoroughly convalescent it became a question what
should be done with her. Clara had extracted a promise from her never
to go back to her old life on the canal. About this time it was that
the Baron von Rosenberg set up his establishment at Beaulieu. An
assistant was required in the laundry; Margery thought she should like
the situation, so it was obtained for her.
"Why, Margery, what can be the matter? Why do you want to see me so
particularly?" asked Mrs. Brooke.
"It's about him--about Muster Geril," she managed to gasp out. "O mum!
the polis is coming, and I've run'd all the way from Bulloo to tell
you."
"The what is coming, Margery?"
"The polis, mum," answered the girl with one of her uncanny laughs.
Miss Primby, who had never heard anything like it before, gave a
little jump and stared at Margery as if she were some strange animal
escaped from a menagerie.
"The police, I suppose you mean?" Margery nodded, and began to bite a
corner of her apron.
"You must be mistaken, child. What can the police be coming here for?"
"To take Muster Geril."
"To arrest my husband?" Margery nodded again. "What can they want to
arrest him for?"
"For murder."
"For murder!" ejaculated both the ladies. There was a moment's
breathless pause. Gerald, with one hand on the back of a chair, and
one knee resting on the seat, had the impassive air of a man whom
nothing more can surprise. He had gone through so much of late that
for a time it seemed as if no fresh emotion had power to touch him.
"Great heaven! Margery, what are you talking about?" said Mrs. Brooke
with blanched lips.
"They say as how Muster Geril shot the gentleman--the Baron--what was
found dead about a hour ago. Not as I believes a word of it," she
added with a touch of contempt in her voice. "A pistol set with gold
and with funny figures scratched on it, was found not far from the
corpus, and they say it belongs to Muster Geril."
"My Indian pistol which I lent to Von Rosenberg ten weeks ago," said
Gerald quietly.
"And now the polis have gone for a warrin to take him up," added the
girl.
"A warrant to arrest my husband?"
Again Margery nodded. She was a girl who, as a rule, was sparing of
her words.
"I, the murderer of Von Rosenberg!" said Gerald, with a bitter laugh.
"Such an accusation would be ridiculous if it were not horrible."
Mrs. Brooke wrung her hands and drew in her breath with a half moan.
The blow was so overwhelming, that for a few moments words seemed
frozen on her lips.
Gerald turned to the window. "Can the irony of fate go further than
this," he said to himself, "that I should be accused of a crime for
refusing to commit which my own life was to have paid the penalty!"
In came Bunce once more carrying a card on a salver which he presented
to his master.
Gerald took it and read, "Mr. Tom Starkie."
"Says he wants to see you very perticler, sir."
"Into which room have you shown Mr. Starkie?"
"Into the blue room, sir."
"Say that I will be with him in one moment. Come, Clara, come, aunt,"
he said with a smile, as soon as Bunce had left the room; "let us go
and hear what it is so 'perticler' that Mr. Tom has to say to me?"
None of them noticed that Margery had stolen out on to the terrace,
and was there waiting and watching with her gaze fixed on a distant
point of the high-road where it suddenly curved, before dipping into
the valley on its way to the little market town of King's Harold.
Twilight still lingered in the west, and Margery's eyes were almost as
keen as those of a hawk.