“O daughter of Babylon, wasted with misery.”
A habit of Knight’s, when not immediately occupied with Elfride—to walk
by himself for half an hour or so between dinner and bedtime—had become
familiar to his friends at Endelstow, Elfride herself among them. When
he had helped her over the stile, she said gently, “If you wish to take
your usual turn on the hill, Harry, I can run down to the house alone.”
“Thank you, Elfie; then I think I will.”
Her form diminished to blackness in the moonlight, and Knight, after
remaining upon the churchyard stile a few minutes longer, turned back
again towards the building. His usual course was now to light a cigar
or pipe, and indulge in a quiet meditation. But to-night his mind was
too tense to bethink itself of such a solace. He merely walked round to
the site of the fallen tower, and sat himself down upon some of the
large stones which had composed it until this day, when the chain of
circumstance originated by Stephen Smith, while in the employ of Mr.
Hewby, the London man of art, had brought about its overthrow.
Pondering on the possible episodes of Elfride’s past life, and on how
he had supposed her to have had no past justifying the name, he sat and
regarded the white tomb of young Jethway, now close in front of him.
The sea, though comparatively placid, could as usual be heard from this
point along the whole distance between promontories to the right and
left, floundering and entangling itself among the insulated stacks of
rock which dotted the water’s edge—the miserable skeletons of tortured
old cliffs that would not even yet succumb to the wear and tear of the
tides.
As a change from thoughts not of a very cheerful kind, Knight attempted
exertion. He stood up, and prepared to ascend to the summit of the
ruinous heap of stones, from which a more extended outlook was
obtainable than from the ground. He stretched out his arm to seize the
projecting arris of a larger block than ordinary, and so help himself
up, when his hand lighted plump upon a substance differing in the
greatest possible degree from what he had expected to seize—hard stone.
It was stringy and entangled, and trailed upon the stone. The deep
shadow from the aisle wall prevented his seeing anything here
distinctly, and he began guessing as a necessity. “It is a tressy
species of moss or lichen,” he said to himself.
But it lay loosely over the stone.
“It is a tuft of grass,” he said.
But it lacked the roughness and humidity of the finest grass.
“It is a mason’s whitewash-brush.”
Such brushes, he remembered, were more bristly; and however much used
in repairing a structure, would not be required in pulling one down.
He said, “It must be a thready silk fringe.”
He felt further in. It was somewhat warm. Knight instantly felt
somewhat cold.
To find the coldness of inanimate matter where you expect warmth is
startling enough; but a colder temperature than that of the body being
rather the rule than the exception in common substances, it hardly
conveys such a shock to the system as finding warmth where utter
frigidity is anticipated.
“God only knows what it is,” he said.
He felt further, and in the course of a minute put his hand upon a
human head. The head was warm, but motionless. The thready mass was the
hair of the head—long and straggling, showing that the head was a
woman’s.
Knight in his perplexity stood still for a moment, and collected his
thoughts. The vicar’s account of the fall of the tower was that the
workmen had been undermining it all the day, and had left in the
evening intending to give the finishing stroke the next morning. Half
an hour after they had gone the undermined angle came down. The woman
who was half buried, as it seemed, must have been beneath it at the
moment of the fall.
Knight leapt up and began endeavouring to remove the rubbish with his
hands. The heap overlying the body was for the most part fine and
dusty, but in immense quantity. It would be a saving of time to run for
assistance. He crossed to the churchyard wall, and hastened down the
hill.
A little way down an intersecting road passed over a small ridge, which
now showed up darkly against the moon, and this road here formed a kind
of notch in the sky-line. At the moment that Knight arrived at the
crossing he beheld a man on this eminence, coming towards him. Knight
turned aside and met the stranger.
“There has been an accident at the church,” said Knight, without
preface. “The tower has fallen on somebody, who has been lying there
ever since. Will you come and help?”
“That I will,” said the man.
“It is a woman,” said Knight, as they hurried back, “and I think we two
are enough to extricate her. Do you know of a shovel?”
“The grave-digging shovels are about somewhere. They used to stay in
the tower.”
“And there must be some belonging to the workmen.”
They searched about, and in an angle of the porch found three carefully
stowed away. Going round to the west end Knight signified the spot of
the tragedy.
“We ought to have brought a lantern,” he exclaimed. “But we may be able
to do without.” He set to work removing the superincumbent mass.
The other man, who looked on somewhat helplessly at first, now followed
the example of Knight’s activity, and removed the larger stones which
were mingled with the rubbish. But with all their efforts it was quite
ten minutes before the body of the unfortunate creature could be
extricated. They lifted her as carefully as they could, breathlessly
carried her to Felix Jethway’s tomb, which was only a few steps
westward, and laid her thereon.
“Is she dead indeed?” said the stranger.
“She appears to be,” said Knight. “Which is the nearest house? The
vicarage, I suppose.”
“Yes; but since we shall have to call a surgeon from Castle Boterel, I
think it would be better to carry her in that direction, instead of
away from the town.”
“And is it not much further to the first house we come to going that
way, than to the vicarage or to The Crags?”
“Not much,” the stranger replied.
“Suppose we take her there, then. And I think the best way to do it
would be thus, if you don’t mind joining hands with me.”
“Not in the least; I am glad to assist.”
Making a kind of cradle, by clasping their hands crosswise under the
inanimate woman, they lifted her, and walked on side by side down a
path indicated by the stranger, who appeared to know the locality well.
“I had been sitting in the church for nearly an hour,” Knight resumed,
when they were out of the churchyard. “Afterwards I walked round to the
site of the fallen tower, and so found her. It is painful to think I
unconsciously wasted so much time in the very presence of a perishing,
flying soul.”
“The tower fell at dusk, did it not? quite two hours ago, I think?”
“Yes. She must have been there alone. What could have been her object
in visiting the churchyard then?
“It is difficult to say.” The stranger looked inquiringly into the
reclining face of the motionless form they bore. “Would you turn her
round for a moment, so that the light shines on her face?” he said.
They turned her face to the moon, and the man looked closer into her
features. “Why, I know her!” he exclaimed.
“Who is she?”
“Mrs. Jethway. And the cottage we are taking her to is her own. She is
a widow; and I was speaking to her only this afternoon. I was at Castle
Boterel post-office, and she came there to post a letter. Poor soul!
Let us hurry on.”
“Hold my wrist a little tighter. Was not that tomb we laid her on the
tomb of her only son?”
“Yes, it was. Yes, I see it now. She was there to visit the tomb. Since
the death of that son she has been a desolate, desponding woman, always
bewailing him. She was a farmer’s wife, very well educated—a governess
originally, I believe.”
Knight’s heart was moved to sympathy. His own fortunes seemed in some
strange way to be interwoven with those of this Jethway family, through
the influence of Elfride over himself and the unfortunate son of that
house. He made no reply, and they still walked on.
“She begins to feel heavy,” said the stranger, breaking the silence.
“Yes, she does,” said Knight; and after another pause added, “I think I
have met you before, though where I cannot recollect. May I ask who you
are?”
“Oh yes. I am Lord Luxellian. Who are you?”
“I am a visitor at The Crags—Mr. Knight.”
“I have heard of you, Mr. Knight.”
“And I of you, Lord Luxellian. I am glad to meet you.”
“I may say the same. I am familiar with your name in print.”
“And I with yours. Is this the house?”
“Yes.”
The door was locked. Knight, reflecting a moment, searched the pocket
of the lifeless woman, and found therein a large key which, on being
applied to the door, opened it easily. The fire was out, but the
moonlight entered the quarried window, and made patterns upon the
floor. The rays enabled them to see that the room into which they had
entered was pretty well furnished, it being the same room that Elfride
had visited alone two or three evenings earlier. They deposited their
still burden on an old-fashioned couch which stood against the wall,
and Knight searched about for a lamp or candle. He found a candle on a
shelf, lighted it, and placed it on the table.
Both Knight and Lord Luxellian examined the pale countenance
attentively, and both were nearly convinced that there was no hope. No
marks of violence were visible in the casual examination they made.
“I think that as I know where Doctor Granson lives,” said Lord
Luxellian, “I had better run for him whilst you stay here.”
Knight agreed to this. Lord Luxellian then went off, and his hurrying
footsteps died away. Knight continued bending over the body, and a few
minutes longer of careful scrutiny perfectly satisfied him that the
woman was far beyond the reach of the lancet and the drug. Her
extremities were already beginning to get stiff and cold. Knight
covered her face, and sat down.
The minutes went by. The essayist remained musing on all the
occurrences of the night. His eyes were directed upon the table, and he
had seen for some time that writing-materials were spread upon it. He
now noticed these more particularly: there were an inkstand, pen,
blotting-book, and note-paper. Several sheets of paper were thrust
aside from the rest, upon which letters had been begun and
relinquished, as if their form had not been satisfactory to the writer.
A stick of black sealing-wax and seal were there too, as if the
ordinary fastening had not been considered sufficiently secure. The
abandoned sheets of paper lying as they did open upon the table, made
it possible, as he sat, to read the few words written on each. One ran
thus:
“SIR,—As a woman who was once blest with a dear son of her own, I
implore you to accept a warning——”
Another:
“SIR,—If you will deign to receive warning from a stranger before it is
too late to alter your course, listen to——”
The third:
“SIR,—With this letter I enclose to you another which, unaided by any
explanation from me, tells a startling tale. I wish, however, to add a
few words to make your delusion yet more clear to you——”
It was plain that, after these renounced beginnings, a fourth letter
had been written and despatched, which had been deemed a proper one.
Upon the table were two drops of sealing-wax, the stick from which they
were taken having been laid down overhanging the edge of the table; the
end of it drooped, showing that the wax was placed there whilst warm.
There was the chair in which the writer had sat, the impression of the
letter’s address upon the blotting-paper, and the poor widow who had
caused these results lying dead hard by. Knight had seen enough to lead
him to the conclusion that Mrs. Jethway, having matter of great
importance to communicate to some friend or acquaintance, had written
him a very careful letter, and gone herself to post it; that she had
not returned to the house from that time of leaving it till Lord
Luxellian and himself had brought her back dead.
The unutterable melancholy of the whole scene, as he waited on, silent
and alone, did not altogether clash with the mood of Knight, even
though he was the affianced of a fair and winning girl, and though so
lately he had been in her company. Whilst sitting on the remains of the
demolished tower he had defined a new sensation; that the lengthened
course of inaction he had lately been indulging in on Elfride’s account
might probably not be good for him as a man who had work to do. It
could quickly be put an end to by hastening on his marriage with her.
Knight, in his own opinion, was one who had missed his mark by
excessive aiming. Having now, to a great extent, given up ideal
ambitions, he wished earnestly to direct his powers into a more
practical channel, and thus correct the introspective tendencies which
had never brought himself much happiness, or done his fellow-creatures
any great good. To make a start in this new direction by marriage,
which, since knowing Elfride, had been so entrancing an idea, was less
exquisite to-night. That the curtailment of his illusion regarding her
had something to do with the reaction, and with the return of his old
sentiments on wasting time, is more than probable. Though Knight’s
heart had so greatly mastered him, the mastery was not so complete as
to be easily maintained in the face of a moderate intellectual revival.
His reverie was broken by the sound of wheels, and a horse’s tramp. The
door opened to admit the surgeon, Lord Luxellian, and a Mr. Coole,
coroner for the division (who had been attending at Castle Boterel that
very day, and was having an after-dinner chat with the doctor when Lord
Luxellian arrived); next came two female nurses and some idlers.
Mr. Granson, after a cursory examination, pronounced the woman dead
from suffocation, induced by intense pressure on the respiratory
organs; and arrangements were made that the inquiry should take place
on the following morning, before the return of the coroner to St.
Launce’s.
Shortly afterwards the house of the widow was deserted by all its
living occupants, and she abode in death, as she had in her life during
the past two years, entirely alone.