may. Why, it would kill him.’
‘Nonsense, Lizzie. Barnes is not such a coward, I hope.’
Something in Miss Murray’s tone made the blood leap to her retainer’s
face.
‘I’m not a coward, miss,’ he answered quickly.
‘Of course not; I said so. But any man would be so who refused to go to
Corston Point by night for fear of seeing old Whisker’s ghost. He walks
at full moon, you say! Why, he must be at it to-night, then! There never
was a lovelier moon.’
‘Don’t, miss,’ urged Lizzie, shivering.
‘You silly goose! I don’t want you to go. But, I must say, I should like
to try the mettle of our friend here.’
‘I beg your pardon, miss; did you mean that for me?’ said Larry quickly.
‘Yes, I did, Barnes. What harm? I should like to see some one who had
really seen this ghost, and I’ll give my gold watch chain to the man who
will go to Corston Point to-night and bring me a bunch of the samphire
that grows upon the top of it.’
Larry’s mind was in a tumult. Some wild idea of rendering himself
admirable in Rosa Murray’s eyes may have influenced his decision—or
the delight of possessing her watch chain may have urged him on to it.
Anyway, he rose up from the floor, and with chattering teeth, but a
resolute heart, exclaimed,—
‘I’ll take you at your word, miss. I’ll go to Corston Point and bring
you the samphire, and prove to you that Larry Barnes is not a coward.’
‘Larry, Larry, you’ll never do it!’ cried Lizzie.
‘Let me alone, my girl. I’ve made up my mind, and you won’t turn it.’
‘You _are_ a brave fellow, Barnes,’ said Rosa. ‘I believe you’re the only
man in Corston that would have taken my wager. And, mind, it’s a bargain.
My gold watch chain for your bunch of samphire and news of old Whisker’s
ghost.’ She was delighted at the idea of getting him out of the way.
‘But, Larry! Miss Rosa! Think of the danger,’ implored poor Lizzie. ‘Oh,
he’ll never come back; I know he’ll never come back.’
‘What are you afraid of, Lizzie? Doesn’t Barnes know the sands as well as
you do? And the moonlight is as bright as day. It’s silly to try and stop
him.’
‘But he’s going to be my husband, miss,’ whispered Lizzie, weeping, into
Miss Murray’s ear.
‘Oh! if that’s the case, perhaps he’d better follow your wishes,’
rejoined Rosa coldly. ‘Mine are of no consequence, of course, though
I’d have liked Barnes to wear my chain—we’ve been such good company
together, haven’t we, Larry?’
Her smile, and the way in which she spoke his name, determined him. He
had heard the whispered conversation between her and Lizzie, and he felt
vexed—he didn’t know why—that it should have occurred.
‘Be quiet, Liz,’ he said, authoritatively. ‘What’s to be has nothing to
do with this. I’m only too glad to oblige Miss Rosa, even with a bit of
samphire. Good-bye, my girl, and good-bye, miss; it’s close upon the
stroke of ten, so you mayn’t see me again till to-morrow morning; but
when you do, it’ll be _with the bunch of samphire in my hand_!’
He darted away from them as he spoke, and left the barn; whilst Lizzie
Locke, disappointed at his departure, and frightened for his safety, wept
bitterly. But the noise around them was so great, and everyone was so
much occupied with his or her own pleasure, that little notice was taken
of the girl’s emotion.
‘Come, Lizzie, don’t be foolish,’ urged Miss Murray, in a whisper,
afraid lest the errand on which she had sent Larry should become public
property. ‘Your lover will be back in an hour, at the latest.’
‘He’ll never come back, miss! You’ve sent him to his death; I feel sure
of it,’ replied Lizzie, sobbing.
‘This is too ridiculous,’ said Rosa. ‘If you intend to make such a fool
of yourself as this, Lizzie, I think you had much better go home to your
aunt. Shall I send Jane Williams back with you? You know her; she’s a
kind girl, and she’ll lead you as safely as Larry would.’
‘No; thank you, miss; Larry said he would return to the barn with your
samphire, and I must wait here till he comes—if ever he comes,’ she added
mournfully.
‘Well, you’ve quite upset me with all this nonsense, and I must have
a breath of fresh air. If Master George, or papa, should ask for me,
Lizzie, say I’ve got a headache, and gone home for a little while. I’ll
be round again before Larry’s back; but if anything should keep me, tell
him he shall have the chain to-morrow morning. For he’s a brave fellow,
Lizzie, and whether he sees the ghost or not, he shall keep my watch
chain as a wedding present.’
She patted the blind girl’s hand before she tripped away; but no amount
of encouragement could have driven the conviction from Lizzie Locke’s
breast that her lover was a doomed man; and added to this, she had an
uncomfortable feeling in her heart (though too undefined to be called
jealousy), that his alacrity in complying with his young mistress’s
request arose from something more than a desire to maintain his character
for courage in her eyes. So the poor child sat by the beer barrel, sad
and silent, with her face buried in her hands; and so she remained till
midnight had sounded from the church clock, and the lights were put out,
and the festivities concluded, and some kind neighbour led her back to
her aunt’s house. But neither Miss Rosa nor Larry had returned.
* * * * *
Miss Rosa’s ‘breath of fresh air’ meant, of course, her appointment
with Frederick Darley in the apple copse. She had got Larry nicely out
of the way (notwithstanding the fears of his betrothed), and there was
no obstacle in her path as she left the barn and approached the place
of meeting. She had taken the precaution to wrap a large dark shawl
round her white dress, and, thus concealed, crept softly down the lane
and through the lower meadow unobservant or unheeding that her father’s
terrier, Trim, had followed her footsteps. Mr Darley was in waiting
for her, and a lover-like colloquy ensued. He did not again mention the
subject of marriage, at which Rosa was somewhat disappointed; for she
believed that, notwithstanding her brother’s assertions to the contrary,
Mr Murray might not refuse his consent to her becoming Frederick Darley’s
wife; and he certainly was the handsomest man round about, Lord Worcester
himself not excepted. But in the midst of their tender conversation, as
Darley was telling Rosa he loved her better than ever man had loved woman
in this world before, Trim commenced wagging his tail and snuffing the
grass.
‘What is the matter?’ cried Rosa in alarm. ‘Down, Trim, down—be quiet,
sir! Oh, Frederick! surely no one can be coming this way.’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said her companion; ‘throw your shawl over your head
and trust to me. I will answer for it that no one shall molest you whilst
under my protection.’
But he had not calculated upon having to make his words good in the
presence of her father and brother.
Trim would _not_ lie down, nor be quiet, but kept on with his little
signals of warning, until two dark figures could be discerned making
their way towards them over the grass, when he bounded away to meet them.
Rosa guessed who the newcomers must be, and her heart died within her
for fear. She would have screamed, but Darley placed his hand before
her mouth. There was no escape for the lovers, even if an attempt to
escape would not have increased suspicion, for the apple copse was a
three-cornered field that had but the one entrance through which they had
come. In another moment the four had met, and Rosa recognised her father
and her brother George. How they had guessed they would find her there
she did not stay to ask or even think. All her thought was how to shield
herself from the farmer’s anger. The fact was that George had wished to
seat his sister at the supper-table, when, finding that she and Darley
and Larry had all three mysteriously disappeared, he had communicated
his suspicions and the events of the morning to his father, and they had
sallied forth together in search of the missing daughter, and were on
their way to the farm, where they had been told she had gone, when Trim’s
unwarrantable interference led them to the very spot.
Mr Murray’s rage was unbounded. He did not wait for any explanations,
but walked up straight to Rosa and demanded,—
‘Is this my daughter?’
The girl was too frightened to speak as she clung to her lover’s arm, but
Darley, perceiving that an amicable settlement was out of the question,
replied in the same tone,—
‘What right have you to ask, sir?’
‘The right of a father, Mr Darley, who has no intention to let disgrace
be brought into his family by such as you.’
He pulled Rosa by the arm roughly as he spoke, and dragged the shawl from
her face.
‘So it is you, you jade; and you would try and deceive your father, who
has never refused you a thing in his life. That’s the gratitude of women.
However, you’ll pay for it. You’ve had your first clandestine meeting and
your last. No more gamekeeper’s courtships for you if I know it.’
‘By what right, Mr Murray, do you insult me, or this young lady, in my
presence? If I have persuaded her to do a foolish thing, I am sorry for
it, but you cannot give a harsher name to a lover’s moonlight walk.’
‘I do give it a harsher name, sir, and you know it deserves it. A
lover’s moonlight walk indeed! You mean a scoundrel’s endeavour to get an
innocent girl into his clutches.’
‘Papa! papa! you are quite mistaken. Mr Darley has asked me to marry him.
He will marry me to-morrow by special licence if you will only give your
consent.’
‘Marry you to-morrow! you poor fool! You’ve been swallowing every lie he
chose to tell you. He can’t marry you to-morrow nor any day, and for a
good reason. _He’s a married man already._’
Rosa screamed, George uttered an oath, and Darley darted forward.
‘Who told you so, Mr Murray?’
‘Never mind who told me; you know it is true. Can you deny that you left
a wife down south when you came to Rooklands? Lord Worcester does not
know it, perhaps, but there are those who do.’
‘Who is your informant?’ repeated Darley.
‘I shall not tell you; but if you don’t clear out of my meadow and
Corston within half-an-hour, and promise never to show your face here
again, I’ll lay the whole story before his lordship.’
‘Are you going, or shall I kick you out?’ inquired George.
Frederick Darley thought upon the whole he’d better go. He turned on his
heel with an oath, and slunk out of the apple copse like a beaten cur.
‘Come, my girl,’ said Farmer Murray, not unkindly, as he commenced to
walk homeward, with his hand still on Rosa’s arm; ‘you’ve been a fool,
but I hope you’ve been nothing worse. Never see nor speak to the man
again, and I’ll forgive you.’
‘Oh, papa! is it really true?’ she answered, sobbing.
‘It’s as true as Heaven, Rosa! It was Larry Barnes told it me a week ago,
and he had it from one of the Whiskers, who worked near Lord Worcester’s
estate in Devon, and knew Mrs Frederick Darley by sight. You’ve had a
narrow escape, my girl, and you may thank Larry for it.’
‘Poor Larry!’ sighed Rosa; and if she could have known what was happening
to poor Larry at that moment, she would have sighed still deeper.
He had accepted her wager, and rushed off at her bidding to get the
bunch of samphire that grew at the top of Corston Point. His brain was
rather staggered at the idea of what he had undertaken, but he had
been plentifully plied with Farmer Murray’s “Old October,” and it was a
bright, moonlight night, so that he did not find the expedition after
all so terrible as he had imagined. The salt marshes were very lonely,
it is true, and more than once Larry turned his head fearfully over his
shoulder, to find that nothing worse followed him than his own shadow;
but he reached the Point in safety, and secured the samphire, without
having encountered old Whisker’s ghost. Then his spirits rose again, and
he whistled as he commenced to retrace his steps to the village. He knew
he had been longer over the transaction than he had expected, and that
he should be unable to see Miss Rosa that night; but he intended to be
up at the farm the very first thing in the morning, and give the bunch
of samphire into her own hands. He did not expect to receive the watch
chain; he had not seen the ghost, and had not earned it; but Larry’s
heart was all the lighter for that. He would not have exchanged a view
of the dreaded spectre even for the coveted gold chain that had hung so
long round the fair neck of his divinity. But as he turned Corston Point
again, he started back to see a figure before him. The first moment he
thought it must be old Whisker’s ghost, but the next convinced him of
his error. It was only Mr Darley—Lord Worcester’s gamekeeper! He had
been so absorbed in angry and remorseful thought since he left the apple
copse that he had unwittingly taken the wrong turning, and now found
himself upon the wide, desolate waste of the salt marshes, and rather
uncertain on which side to find the beaten track again which led to the
road to Rooklands. The two men were equally surprised and disgusted at
encountering one another.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Darley, insolently.
‘What business is that of yours?’ replied the other. ‘The salt marshes
belong to me, I suppose, as much as they do to you.’
‘You’re not likely to have business here at this time of night. You’ve
been dogging my footsteps,’ said Darley, without the least consideration
for probability.
‘Follow _you_!’ exclaimed Larry, with a big oath; ‘it would be a long
time before I’d take the trouble to care what happened to you. And since
you ask my business here, pray what may yours be? You didn’t think to
find Farmer Murray’s daughter in the marshes at twelve o’clock at night,
did you?’
‘You insolent hound! how dare you take that young lady’s name upon your
lips in my presence?’
‘I’ve as good a right to name her as you have—perhaps better. It was at
her bidding I came here to-night. Did she send you here, too?’
‘I shall not condescend to answer your question nor to link our names
together. Do you know what you are?’
‘I know what _you_ are, Mr Darley, and that’s a villain!’
Poor Larry had said he would have it out with him, and he thought his
time had come. A sudden thought flashed through Darley’s brain that here
was the informer who had stopped his little game with the farmer’s pretty
daughter.
‘Are you the man,’ he demanded fiercely, ‘who has thought fit to inform
Mr Murray of my antecedents?’
‘Antecedents’ was a long word for Larry’s comprehension, but he grasped
the meaning somehow.
‘If you’d say, am I the man who told the master that you have got a wife
and children down in Devonshire, I answer “Yes;” and I hope he’s told
you of it, and kicked you out of the barn to-night for a scoundrel, as
you are, to try and make love to his daughter.’
‘You brute!’ cried Darley, throwing off his coat; ‘I’ll be revenged on
you for this if there’s any strength left in my arm.’
‘All right,’ replied the young country-man; ‘I’ve longed to punch your
head many and many a day. I’m glad it’s come at last. There’s plenty of
room for us to have it out here, and the devil take the hindmost.’
He flew at his adversary as he spoke, and fastened his hands on to his
coat-collar. Larry was the younger and the stronger built man of the
two; but Frederick Darley had had the advantage of a politer education,
in which the use of his fists was included, so that after a very little
while it would have been evident to any bystander that Barnes was getting
the worst of it. He had energy and muscle and right on his side, but his
antagonist, unfortunately, possessed the skill, and after he had stood
on the defensive four or five times, he seized his opportunity, and with
a dexterous twist threw Larry heavily from him on the ground. The young
man fell backward, crashing his skull against a projecting fragment of
rock, and then lay there, bleeding and unconscious. Darley glanced around
him—not a creature was in sight. The broad harvest moon looked down
placidly upon the deed of blood he had just committed, but human eyes to
see it there were none. Finding that Barnes neither stirred nor groaned,
he stooped down after a while, and laid his hand upon his heart. It had
stopped beating. The body was getting cold. The man was dead!
Darley had not intended this, and it alarmed him terribly. His first
idea was what he should do to secure his own safety. If he left the body
there, would it be discovered, and the guilt traced home to him, or would
the in-coming tide carry it out to sea, and wash it up again, weeks hence
perhaps, as a drowned corpse upon the shore? He thought it might. He
hoped it would. He remembered Larry’s words, that Miss Rosa had sent him
there that night. It was known, then, that he had gone to the marshes,
and the fact was favourable.
He dragged the corpse a little way upon the sands that it might the
sooner be covered by the water; but finding it left deep traces of its
progress, he lifted it with some difficulty upon his shoulders, and after
carrying it perhaps a couple of dozen yards towards the sea, flung it
with all his force before him. What was his amazement at seeing the body
immediately sink in what appeared to be the solid ground, and disappear
from view? Was it magic, or did his senses deceive him? Darley rubbed his
eyes once or twice, but the miracle remained the same. The sand, with
its smooth, shining surface, was before him, but the corpse of Larry
Barnes had vanished. With a feeling of the keenest relief—such relief as
the cowardly murderer who has cheated the gallows must experience—the
gamekeeper settled his clothes, glanced once or twice fearfully around
him, and then, retracing his steps, ran until he had gained the high
road to Rooklands. But retribution dogged his murderous feet, and he was
destined never to reach his master’s home. When the morning dawned upon
Corston, a fearful tale was going the round of its cottages. The dead
body of Lord Worcester’s gamekeeper had been found on the borders of the
estate, shot through the heart, as it was supposed, in an encounter with
poachers, as traces of a fierce struggle were plainly visible around him.
And Laurence Barnes was missing!
The two circumstances put together seemed to provide a solution of the
mystery. Everyone in Corston knew that poor Larry had not been entirely
free from the suspicion of poaching, and most people had heard him abuse
Frederick Darley, and vow to have vengeance upon him. What more likely,
then, that Larry, having been taken at his old tricks, had discharged
his rusty gun at the gamekeeper, and sent him out of the world to answer
for all his errors. This was the light by which Corston folk read the
undiscovered tragedy. All, that is to say, but two, and those two were
the dead man’s mother and his betrothed, who knew of his visit to the
Point, and fully believed that old Whisker had carried him off.
The murder of Frederick Darley made quite a sensation in Corston. Lord
Worcester gave his late gamekeeper a handsome funeral, and monument in
the churchyard; and Rosa Murray lost her spirits and her looks, and wore
a black ribbon on her bonnet for three months, although she dared not
let her father know the reason why. But Darley had been so generally
disliked that, when the first horror at his death had subsided, people
began to think he was a very good riddance, and though Rosa still looked
grave if anyone mentioned his name, there was a certain young farmer who
rode over from Wells to see her every Sunday, on whom the gossips said
she seemed to look with considerable favour. And so, in due course of
time, the name of Darley appeared likely to become altogether forgotten.
But not so Larry Barnes. Larry was a native of Corston, and had been a
general favourite there, and his mother still lived amongst them to keep
his memory green. No one in the village thought Larry was dead, except
Lizzie and Mrs Barnes. The rustics believed that, finding he had shot
Darley, he had become alarmed and ran away—left the country, perhaps, in
one of the numerous fishing smacks that infest the coast, and gone to
make his fortune in the ‘Amerikys.’ Larry would come back some day—they
were assured of that—when the present lord was dead and gone, perhaps,
and the whole affair was forgotten; but they were certain he was alive,
simply because they were. But Lizzie Locke knew otherwise—Lizzie Locke,
to whom a glimpse of heaven had been opened the day of his death, and
to whom the outer life must be as dark as the inner henceforward. She
mourned for Larry far more than his mother did. Mrs Barnes had lived the
best part of her life, and her joys and her sorrows were well-nigh over,
but the poor blind girl had only waked up to a consciousness of what life
might hold for her on the awful day on which hope seemed blotted out for
ever. From the moment her cousin left the barn at Rosa’s bidding, Lizzie
drooped like a faded flower. That he never returned from that fatal quest
was no surprise to her. She had known that he would never return. She had
waited where he had left her till all the merry-making was over, and then
she had gone home to her aunt, meek, unrepining, but certain of her doom.
She had never been much of a talker, but she seldom opened her mouth,
except it was absolutely necessary, after that day. But she would take
her basket whenever the tide was low, and walk down to Corston Point and
sit there—sometimes gathering cockles, but oftener talking to the dead,
and telling him how much she had loved him. The few who had occasionally
overheard her soliloquies said they were uncanny, and that Lizzie Locke
was losing her wits as well as her eyes. But the blind girl never altered
her course. Corston Point became her home, and whenever it was uncovered
by the tide, she might be seen sitting there beside her cockle basket,
waiting for—she knew not what, talking to—she knew not whom.
* * * * *
The autumn had passed, and the winter tides had set in. Rosa Murray
never rode upon the Corston marshes now—she was more pleasantly engaged
traversing the leafless lanes with the young farmer from Wells. Most
people would have thought the fireside a better place to mourn one’s dead
by than out on the bleak marsh; yet Lizzie Locke, despite her cotton
clothing and bare head, still took her way there every morning, her
patient, sightless eyes refusing to reveal the depths of sorrow that lay
beneath them. One day, however, Mrs Barnes felt disposed to be impatient
with the girl. She had left the house at eight o’clock in the morning
and had not returned home since, and now it was dark, and the neighbours
began to say it was not safe that Lizzie should remain out alone on such
a bitter night, and that her aunt should enforce her authority to prevent
such lengthy rambles. Two or three of the men went out with lanterns to
try and find her, but returned unsuccessful, and they supposed she must
have taken shelter at some friend’s house for the night. Lizzie Locke
knew the marshes well, they said (no one in Corston better), and would
never be so foolish as to tempt Providence by traversing them in the
dark, for the currents were at their worst now, and the quicksands were
shifting daily. The logs and spars of a ruined wreck of a year before
had all come to the surface again within a few days, and with them a
keg of pork, preserved by the saline properties of the ground in which
it had been treasured, so that its contents were as fresh as though
they had been found yesterday. Inquiries were made for the blind girl
throughout the village, but no one had seen anything of her, and all
that her friends could do was to search for her the first thing in the
morning, when a large party set out for Corston Point, Mrs Barnes amongst
them. Their faces were sad, for they had little hope that the cruel tide
had not crawled over the watching girl before she was aware of it, and
carried her out to sea. But as they neared the Point they discovered
something still crouched upon the sand.
‘It can’t be Lizzie,’ said the men, drawing closer to each other, though
a bright, cold sun was shining over the February morning. ‘It can’t be
nothing mortal, sitting there in the frost, with the icy waves lapping
over its feet.’
But Mrs Barnes, who had rushed forward, waved her arms wildly, and called
to them,—
‘_It’s him!_ It’s my Larry, washed up again by the sands; and poor Lizzie
has found him out by the touch of her finger.’