Dickenson hastened on across the meadow, up the shrubbery, and into the
garden. No messenger of evil tidings could have forestalled him in his
cruel task of breaking up that happy summer peace. Mr Crichton sat
restfully on the terrace, watching for the arrival of Mr and Mrs
Harcourt. James, on the step below her, was smoking, stroking his long,
brown beard, and discoursing dreamily. Frederica, in her white muslin
and red ribbons, was teasing Snap. Mysie's doves, at a safe distance
from Snap, were cooing on the grass; the great peacock strutting along
in the background.
"Mr James Crichton!" said Mr Dickenson, stopping short of the terrace,
with a glance that brought James to his side in a moment.
"What's the matter?"
"Mr James, Miss Crofton has met with an accident. She has fallen into
the water, and Mr Arthur is bringing her home. You had better get the
ladies into the house."
But, as he spoke, up from the sunny meadows came Arthur, with Mysie in
his arms, closely followed by Alice Wood, now sobbing and clinging to
her father's coat. James gave one look, and saw that Mysie's face was
covered.
"Mamma! there's an accident! Come in. Come in." But Mrs Crichton had
started up with a shriek and rushed down the path.
"What is it; what is it? The water? Has she come to herself?"
"You must let me take her in," said Arthur, in a low, quiet voice, while
James held back his mother; and Wood said, choking: "Lord have mercy on
us, ma'am; she'll never come to herself in this world!" Arthur took no
notice; he went on, and they all followed indiscriminately, the servants
rushing out with wild cries and questions. Arthur went up the steps,
across the terrace, and through the open window, into the drawing-room,
where, on the sofa, he laid his dead love down. Then he paused, hanging
over her, and drew the handkerchief a little back, and put his hand
softly on her wrist.
"Arthur! Arthur, my poor boy, come away," said James, in his ear.
Arthur turned round and faced them.
"How did it happen? how did it happen?" gasped Mrs Crichton.
"The noise of the gun startled her, and she fell off the lock. She
struck her head against the side, and she is dead--she is dead," he
repeated. And, in the moment's blank pause that followed, Alice Wood's
voice rose in a wild shriek: "Dead! oh, Miss Mysie's dead!"
"Take care of that poor little girl," said Arthur; "she has--" but with
the words his voice failed him; he staggered, and fell down in a dead
faint, before James could catch him, for they had all fallen back with a
sort of awe, before his collected voice and the wild stare in his eyes.
They lifted Arthur up and carried him into the house and upstairs to his
own room, whither the doctor followed them. The maid-servants pressed
into the drawing-room, with tears and cries of pity, till the old nurse
came and put them all back. She knew what to do.
Mrs Crichton sat down again in her chair on the terrace, Frederica
crouching with her head in her aunt's lap, while Wood, whose daughter
had been carried off by the maids, repeated the sad story.
It was not very easy to understand its details, told with sobs and
comments innumerable; but the fact was slowly borne in on them--Mysie
was dead!
Presently James returned.
"He is coming to himself," he said. "Dickenson is going to give him
some strong opiate; then he hopes that he will sleep before he knows
what has happened. No one must go to him or try to rouse him now."
"I cannot understand, now, how it happened," said Mrs Crichton. "Where
is Hugh?"
Where was Hugh? His brother's absence struck James for the first time
as extraordinary.
"Mother," he said, "you had better let me take you into the house, and I
will ask Dickenson if he knows where Hugh has gone to. Get up, Freddie,
my dear girl, take care of mother. Yes, that's right," as Frederica,
with unexpected self-command, stood up, choked back her sobs, and took
her aunt by the hand. Perhaps it had hardly come yet to the time for
overwhelming grief, for Mrs Crichton rose and walked into the house,
unable to realise the truth of what still seemed like a frightful dream.
"What became of my brother?" he said to Wood.
"Indeed, sir, I can't remember. I saw nothing but Mr Arthur with the
dear young lady in his arms; but Mr Crichton all the time was like one
demented, and would have been drowned too if Mr Arthur had not dragged
him out, and I held him back from jumping into the water before the
gates were fairly open. O Lord! sir, there's the Rector coming. This
news will kill the poor old gentleman, surely."
But the ill news had flown faster than they thought for, and the office
of comforter had been familiar for too many years to Mr Harcourt for
him to shrink from it now; and, instead of the merry dinner-party to
which he and his wife had been summoned, he had left her to realise that
she had bidden little Mysie farewell for ever only a few hours before.
"Her golden wedding--her golden wedding!" he said; but with what force
of allusion James hardly knew. He took the Rector, however, to his
mother; and when he came out again, with a vague idea of watching for
Hugh, Wood had gone to look after his daughter; and Mr Dickenson came
out, reporting that Arthur, under the influence of the opiate, had
fallen asleep, without rousing to the consciousness of what had
happened.
"So best," said James, with a heavy sigh; "but, Mr Dickenson, what can
have become of Hugh?"
"Your brother? I never thought of him till this moment!"
"Nor I, till my mother asked for him. There--no--that's George. What
can have become of him?"
As he spoke, George, white and terrified, came panting up the path and
threw himself upon James.
"Jem! Where's Mysie; where's Mysie?" Involuntarily James glanced back
at the drawing-room, where now the window was shut and the blind drawn
down behind it.
"Have you heard anything, George?" he said; "there has been a sad
accident on the lock."
"I have seen Hugh," said George.
"Hugh! Where?"
"In the copse by the lock. Oh, Jem, he was sitting on the ground, and
he had Arthur's gun in his hand--not his own--and there was a dead
rabbit. He looked--I couldn't ask him a word. He said: `Go home,
George, there's no more shooting; Mysie is drowned, and--and--'"
"Steady, my boy," said the doctor, as George paused and gasped, "take
your time. What did he say?"
"He said--he said, `I have killed her!'"
"Nothing," interposed Mr Dickenson, as James almost dropped into a
chair with a start of horror, "_Nothing_ that anyone says on a night
like this is of the slightest consequence whatever. We don't know what
we say. What followed, George?"
"I said, `Oh, come now, Hugh, you had better come home. Where's
Arthur?' And he stood up and cried out `Arthur! Arthur! Never--
never!' and then he rushed off out on to the heath. So," concluded
George, "I thought he was mad or something, and I ran as hard as I could
to fetch someone. I never thought it was true till I saw the lock gates
open and little Bessie Wood, screaming and crying, with Mysie's wet hat;
and I ran on, and there was this pink bow she wore round her neck, wet,
on the path in the meadow. Oh, Jem, she's never drowned, really--not
_really_," as Jem burst into tears at sight of the gay pink ribbon.
"George," said the doctor, "you must be a man, there's need of it. Go
and fetch Mr James some wine, and drink some yourself; then come back,
we shall want you. Call Wood, too."
"I think," said George, as he went, "someone had better look for Hugh."
"I think so too," said Mr Dickenson. "If Mr Crichton has any morbid
ideas in his head, the sooner they are dispelled the better."
"He could not have done it," said James, confusedly; "she was not
_shot_."
"Of course not, and if she was accidentally startled by the sound of the
gun no blame could attach to anyone. Here," as George returned with the
wine, "take some; we have all work before us. Wood," he added, "do you
think poor Mr Spencer right in saying Miss Crofton was startled by the
sound of a gun?"
"All I know, sir, is that my daughter she screamed out, `The gun--the
gun!' and I ran out of the house, and Mr Arthur came tearing down from
the copse without his gun. Mr Crichton he threw his away as he jumped
into the water. I heard no gun in the house."
"Neither did I," said the doctor, "but, you see, we shall have to have
their evidence to-morrow."
"The inquest!" said James. "Ah, I never thought of that. What? Must
poor Arthur?--"
"I am afraid he must; but, of course, if your brother is there to tell
the story, he need say very little. But Mr Crichton _must_ be there,
you know, and we must get him home without delay."
"I had better go and look for him," said James, "though I hardly like to
leave my mother."
"I can stay here," said Mr Dickenson; "and I can arrange for to-morrow
better than you. Could any lady come to Mrs Crichton; and are there
any relations to be sent for?"
"No," said James, "Mysie has no near relations but my mother. But Miss
Venning would come to us I am sure. George, you might go and fetch
her."
"Yes; but where's Arthur?"
"He fainted; he is asleep. You can't go to him now. Say nothing about
Hugh. Of course, he would come back soon, but I shall go for him. Why,
it is getting dusk; is it night or morning? What time can it be?"
"It is eight o'clock," said Mr Dickenson; "or but a little after."
James felt as if years had passed since he had seen Arthur come up the
path with his sad burden, but the excitement of looking for Hugh came in
almost as a relief. James was less alarmed by his absence than anyone
less well acquainted with Hugh might have been. He knew the violence
with which Hugh's feelings were apt to overpower him in the first
moments of a great shock, and also how completely he was soon able to
govern and conceal them. James had little doubt of his speedy return;
but it was less wretched to walk rapidly away with Wood, who wanted to
return to his children--Alice having been left with the maids at
Redhurst--than to sit at home and begin to realise what a blow had
fallen on the home which had always seemed, in the few holiday weeks
that he spent there, the realisation of sunshine and peace.
They came down towards the lock, which did not yet impress James with
any sense of horror, so little realised was the scene connected with it.
"Why, if there ain't the whole place turned out!" cried Wood, as they
came in sight of it, and voices broke on the stillness. The banks of
the canal were covered with people, gaping and staring, and surrounding
the Wood children, who enjoyed the honour of having been first in the
field.
"Well, here's all Redhurst and half Oxley, and more coming along the
path. Get into the house, Bessie, you little forward, unfeeling hussy,
a-chattering about the poor dear young lady you saw drowned before your
eyes!" cried Wood, not knowing why his real share in the sad tragedy
made him so impatient of idle curiosity regarding it. Not but what
there would be many genuine tears shed from many eyes for sweet Mysie
Crofton; but excitement is a powerful rival at first to grief.
James stood aghast. How could he go and look for Hugh in all this
confusion? How would Hugh face it?
Up stepped the inspector of police from Oxley.
"Mr James Crichton, I was fortunately on the spot first, and I have
secured the gentlemen's guns. One was found in the wood and one on the
bank; also this rabbit."
"Is Mr Spencer Crichton here?" said James.
"No, sir, I have not seen him."
"Can't you get all these people away?"
"Well, sir, accidents always collect a crowd."
"My brother," said James, "was here at the time. Perhaps, if you see
him, you would tell him he is wanted at home."
"Very well, sir," said the inspector, with an absence of comment which
was a great relief to James, who was now beset by a crowd of Redhurst
folk, with questions and lamentations.
"It is all true," James said. "We and all the place are in sad trouble.
I think our friends had better go home and leave it to strangers to
stare about this place."
This produced a little effect, and Bessie, picking up the cue, hustled
off the younger ones, telling them "to go in and not to be a-staring.
Wasn't Miss Mysie always telling them as little girls shouldn't run
after crowds like that of evenings?"
James ran up into the copse and out on the heath behind it; but he saw
no signs of Hugh, and as the light failed he went home in despair, with
the picture of his brother, as George had described him, more vividly
impressed on his mind than any other of the sad events of the evening.
Poor James! he did not know how to contend with the difficulties that he
was left alone to bear. He was frightened to death at Hugh's
disappearance, and was almost ready to hope that Arthur might have
awakened in his absence to bring his quicker powers of action to bear on
the matter. For James felt that he had done just nothing.
It was some relief to find that no one could suggest any other course of
action. Miss Venning had arrived and had persuaded his mother to go to
bed; and James sat up, waiting and speculating on every possible and
impossible cause and result of Hugh's absence. The unalterable fact of
Mysie's death left no room for fear. Arthur was, for the moment, at
rest; but what was Hugh doing?
PART THREE, CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
THE MORNING LIGHT.
"All joys took wing,
And fled before the dawn.
Oh, love, I knew that I should meet my love--
Should find my love no more."
In the still grey silence of early morning Arthur awoke slowly, and with
a confused sense that things were not as usual. He looked round the
room. It had been a hot night, and the window was wide open and the
blind up, so that he could see the quiet cloudy sky and hear the
twittering of the birds in the ivy. He put his hand to feel for his
watch, and could not find it. Then he tried to recollect what he had
done with it the night before, and could recollect nothing. Presently
the church clock chimed four. It was very early; what could bring James
into his room fully dressed, and with a pale wide-awake look on his
face? James came up to the bed without speaking, and put his hand on
Arthur's.
"What is the matter; have I been ill?" said Arthur.
"You fainted," said James, in a much-shaken voice.
"Did I? I am quite well now. I can't remember." Poor James blamed
himself severely, both then and afterwards, for having no words with
which to help or hinder Arthur's recollection; but the great grey eyes
in their black circles, fixed on him with a trouble not yet understood,
completely unnerved him: he could not speak or look. Perhaps his
silence answered the purpose as well as any speech. Arthur grew
frightened; his heart began to beat, and his hands to tremble--his face
flushed.
"What is the matter, Jem?" he said again, but with a sharper accent.
"Try to remember all you did yesterday," said James, at length.
"Yesterday? We went to the rectory with some flowers, and I left Mysie
there. Mysie?" He repeated the name with a sort of enquiry, and then
James saw the trouble in his face increase as memory began to awaken and
pictures, dim, yet terrible, to form themselves in his mind. He dropped
back on the pillow, and lay silent, grasping Jem's hand hard. "Is it a
bad dream, Jem?" he said at length.
"No, no; not a dream," faltered Jem.
"Then I remember; then I know, now."
Probably his senses were still dulled and quieted by the opiate, for
there was no violent outbreak of misery; he only turned away and hid his
face, and James dared not put a single question to him, keen as was his
curiosity, for Hugh had not yet come home. He thought it best to leave
Arthur alone, as the doctor, when obliged some hours since to leave
them, had advised that no attempt should be made to rouse him. Arthur
lay quiet for a long time, slowly recalling step by step what had
passed, till every incident was clear before him; till he saw again the
copse and the rabbits, the swirling water, the boat in the sunshine;
felt again the burden in his arms, yet was, perhaps, half asleep still;
for, all at once, he roused up and sat upright with a start. After all,
was it true?
It was quite broad daylight, and he heard movements in the house. He
would get up. Had he had a bad dream after all? He got up, and the
first thing he saw and touched was the coat he had worn the day before,
which had been thrown aside and was still wet through. The keenest pang
he had yet known shot through him as he touched it but still he began to
dress, and came down stairs and went out into the garden. Was it really
only twenty-four hours ago that Mysie had left the print of her footfall
on the dew as she gathered the flowers for her Golden wedding gift? Had
she really sat here on the top of the steps and filled her basket with
them? Arthur looked down the path towards the meadows, then turned
towards it. "If I see that," he thought, "I shall understand. Surely
it cannot be!" But he did not set his foot on it, but shrank away with
a shiver; for he knew that the sight of the meadows would have brought
the truth home, and he knew what was the truth. He went back to the
house, and, in a sort of instinctive fashion, turned his steps to the
dining-room, where Miss Venning was making breakfast; James and the two
younger ones were standing about in a vague, uncertain fashion. They
all started at sight of Arthur. George slunk out of the room in a
shame-faced, school-boy fashion; while Frederica burst into tears and
looked much inclined to follow his example. They were afraid of their
brother, afraid of his awful, uncomprehended sorrow. Even Miss Venning
could not speak to him as she took his hand, and James said, half-shyly:
"Will you have some breakfast, Arthur?"
"Not here," he said, "not here," as their manner began to bring the
great change home.
James brought some to him in the study, and began affectionately to coax
him to eat something.
"You must," he said. "You know there is something before you to-day. I
wish we could spare you from it; but they must have you at--at--"
"I know," said Arthur. "Thanks, Jem; but it won't make much difference.
When is it?"
"About eleven. Arthur, I must ask you, do you know anything about
Hugh?"
"About Hugh? No; where is he?"
"He has never come back."
"Never come back?" said Arthur, in a much more wide-awake and natural
manner.
"Why, where can he be?"
"George saw him in the copse; he seemed--he seemed to blame himself."
"What? Because I told him not to fire?"
"You told him not to fire?" ejaculated James.
Arthur leant back and shaded his eyes with his hand.
"I don't think I'll talk about it now," he said gently. "I must tell
them by-and-by. But it is nothing--nothing that you fancy."
"But Hugh should be there?"
"Of course he should. I can't remember anything about him," he added,
after a moment, "except that I pulled him out of the water."
"Don't talk now, my dear boy," said Jem, as Arthur's voice failed. "It
will soon be over, and Hugh will surely come."
"Jem!"
"Yes?"
"I know it is true now. Don't let me forget and get confused again. I
feel so stupid." Then, after a moment: "Let me go and see her."
"Oh, not now, Arty; not till this wretched business is over. Stay here
and rest till then. I'll call you in time."
Arthur yielded; he even drank some tea and ate a little at James's
entreaty; and the latter was wondering whether to leave him alone, when
he caught sight of Hugh coming up the path. Arthur saw him too, and the
presence of another actor in the terrible scene effectually roused him.
"Go to him," he said. "Go to him; leave me alone; no one can do
anything for me. I shall be ready when you want me--don't be afraid."
James's anxiety could endure no longer, and he hurried out to meet his
brother, upon whom no merciful boon of unconsciousness had descended;
who had had no period of uncertainty in which to grow accustomed to the
shadow of the truth.
He had turned his head as he fired, and had seen her fall; and in a
moment his ill-tempered disregard of Arthur's warning flashed back on
him, never again to be forgotten. To risk his own life in saving hers
was his one thought, and his self-possession and power of judgment had
failed him entirely, so that his efforts, even had there been a chance
for her, would have been utterly useless. He stood by and heard the
doctor's verdict, and Arthur's steady "Yes, she is dead;" felt Arthur
push him away, and took the unconscious action as a proof of the horror
with which Arthur must henceforth regard him, of the horror with which
he must regard himself. He stood still, and saw the boat start on its
sad and awful way, saw them all follow, forgetful of everything but the
freight that it contained.
"Poor, sweet young lady!" groaned Wood, as he followed.
"Poor boy--poor boy; it's a life ruined," sighed the doctor. But Hugh
stood still, and thought--
"_I_ have done it. Was ever such a fate as mine?"