THE CROWD IN THE MOONLIGHT.
The Willow Pond, so called from its being surrounded with weeping
willows, was situated at the corner of a field, in a retired part of the
road, about midway between Verner's Pride and Deerham. There was a great
deal of timber about that part; it was altogether as lonely as could be
desired. When the runners from Verner's Pride reached it, assistance had
already arrived, and Rachel, rescued from the pond, was being laid upon
the grass. All signs of life were gone.
Who had done it?--what had caused it?--was it an accident?--was it a
self-committed act?--or was it a deed of violence? What brought her
there at all? No young girl would be likely to take that way home (with
all due deference to the opinion of Master Dan Duff) alone at night.
What was to be done? The crowd propounded these various questions in so
many marvels of wonder, and hustled each other, and talked incessantly;
but to be of use, to direct, nobody appeared capable. Frederick
Massingbird stepped forward with authority.
"Carry her at once to Verner's Pride--with all speed. And some of
you"--turning to the servants of the house--"hasten on, and get water
heated and blankets hot. Get hot bricks--get anything and everything
likely to be required. How did she get in?"
He appeared to speak the words more in the light of a wailing regret,
than as a question. It was a question that none present appeared able to
answer. The crowd was increasing rapidly. One of them suggested that
Broom the gamekeeper's cottage was nearer than Verner's Pride.
"But there will be neither hot water nor blankets there," returned
Frederick Massingbird.
"The house is the best. Make haste! don't let grass grow under your
feet."
"A moment," interposed a gentleman who now came hastily up, as they were
raising the body. "Lay her down again."
They obeyed him eagerly, and fell a little back that he might have space
to bend over her. It was the doctor of the neighbourhood, resident at
Deerham. He was a fine man in figure, dark and florid in face, but a
more impassive countenance could not well be seen, and he had the
peculiarity of rarely looking a person in the face. If a patient's eyes
were mixed on Dr. West's, Dr. West's were invariably fixed upon
something else. A clever man in his profession, holding an Edinburgh
degree, and practising as a general practitioner. He was brother to the
present Mrs. Verner; consequently, uncle to the two young Massingbirds.
"Has anybody got a match?" he asked.
One of the Verner's Pride servants had a whole boxful, and two or three
were lighted at a time, and held so that the doctor could see the
drowned face better than he could in the uncertain moonlight. It was a
strange scene. The lonely, weird character of the place; the dark trees
scattered about; the dull pond with its bending willows; the swaying,
murmuring crowd collected round the doctor and what he was bending over;
the bright flickering flame of the match-light; with the pale moon
overhead, getting higher and higher as the night went on, and struggling
her way through passing clouds.
"How did it happen?" asked Dr. West.
Before any answer could be given, a man came tearing up at the top of
his speed; several men, indeed, it may be said. The first was Roy, the
bailiff. Upon Roy's leaving Verner's Pride, after the rebuke bestowed
upon him by its heir, he had gone straight down to the George and
Dragon, a roadside inn, situated on the outskirts of the village, on the
road from Verner's Pride. Here he had remained, consorting with
droppers-in from Deerham, and soothing his mortification with a pipe and
sundry cans of ale. When the news was brought in that Rachel Frost was
drowned in the Willow-pond, Roy, the landlord, and the company
collectively, started off to see.
"Why, it _is_ her!" uttered Roy, taking a hasty view of poor Rachel. "I
said it wasn't possible. I saw her and talked to her up at the house but
two or three hours ago. How did she get in?"
The same question always; from all alike: how did she get in? Dr. West
rose.
"You can move her," he said.
"Is she dead, sir?"
"Yes."
Frederick Massingbird--who had been the one to hold the matches--caught
the doctor's arm.
"Not _dead_!" he uttered. "Not dead beyond hope of restoration?"
"She will never be restored in this world," was the reply of Dr. West.
"She is quite dead."
"Measures should be tried, at any rate," said Frederick Massingbird
warmly.
"By all means," acquiesced Dr. West. "It will afford satisfaction,
though it should do nothing else."
They raised her once more, her clothes dripping, and turned with quiet,
measured steps towards Verner's Pride. Of course the whole assemblage
attended. They were eagerly curious, boiling over with excitement; but,
to give them their due, they were earnestly anxious to afford any aid in
their power, and contended who should take turn at bearing that wet
burden. Not one but felt sorely grieved for Rachel. Even Nancy was
subdued to meekness, as she sped on to be one of the busiest in
preparing remedies; and old Roy, though somewhat inclined to regard it
in the light of a judgment upon proud Rachel for slighting his son, felt
some twinges of pitying regret.
"I have knowed cases where people, dead from drownding, have been
restored to life," said Roy, as they walked along.
"That you never have," replied Dr. West. "The _apparently_ dead have
been restored; the dead, never."
Panting, breathless, there came up one as they reached Verner's Pride.
He parted the crowd, and threw himself almost upon Rachel with a wild
cry. He caught up her cold, wet face, and passing his hands over it,
bent down his warm cheek upon it.
"Who has done it?" he sobbed. "What has done it? She couldn't have fell
in alone."
It was Robin Frost. Frederick Massingbird drew him away by the arm.
"Don't hinder, Robin. Every minute may be worth a life."
And Robin, struck with the argument, obeyed docilely like a little
child.
Mr. Verner, leaning on his stick, trembling with weakness and emotion,
stood just without the door of the laundry, which had been hastily
prepared, as the bearers tramped in.
"It is an awful tragedy!" he murmured. "Is it true"--addressing Dr.
West--"that you think there is no hope?"
"I am sure there is none," was the answer. "But every means shall be
tried."
The laundry was cleared of the crowd, and their work began. One of the
next to come up was old Matthew Frost. Mr. Verner took his hand.
"Come in to my own room, Matthew," he said. "I feel for you deeply."
"Nay, sir; I must look upon her."
Mr. Verner pointed with his stick in the direction of the laundry.
"They are shut in there--the doctor and those whom he requires round
him," he said. "Let them be undisturbed; it is the only chance."
All things likely to be wanted had been conveyed to the laundry; and
they were shut in there, as Mr. Verner expressed it, with their fires
and their heat. On dragged the time. Anxious watchers were in the house,
in the yard, gathered round the back gate. The news had spread, and
gentlepeople, friends of the Verners, came hasting from their homes, and
pressed into Verner's Pride, and asked question upon question of Mr. and
Mrs. Verner, of everybody likely to afford an answer. Old Matthew Frost
stood outwardly calm and collected, full of inward trust, as a good man
should be. He had learned where to look for support in the darkest
trial. Mr. Verner in that night of sorrow seemed to treat him as a
brother.
One hour! Two hours! and still they plied their remedies, under the able
direction of Dr. West. All was of no avail, as the experienced physician
had told them. Life was extinct. Poor Rachel Frost was really dead!