IN THE WINDING LANE.
Between the common and the village there extended a fairly broad belt
of trees which sprang from a deep-red soil, apparently volcanic in its
origin. Through this wood there ran a narrow road in many a curve,
purposely made tortuous so as to prolong the pleasure of walking under
the shade of leafy boughs in the hot days of summer. From its
formation this pathway--for it was little else--was called the Winding
Lane, and at either end there was a stile shutting it in, so that no
vehicles or horses could pass, but had to gain the common or village
by the broad high road which skirted the town. Along the lane seats
were placed for the convenience of passers-by, and in the long summer
twilights the youths and maidens of Barnstead were accustomed to rest
thereon and exchange love talk. Most of the marriages among the
peasantry rose from meetings and promises in the Winding Lane.
But as yet there had been no tragedy in this pleasant pathway, and it
was with feelings of consternation that the villagers heard of the
Lester murder. Henceforth tradition and imagination and winter tales
would invest the spot with ghostly interest. Already the lovers of the
village declared that nothing would induce them to seek the lane after
twilight, lest they should meet the spectre of the murdered girl. And
this when the tragedy had been enacted only a few hours! Think, then,
how such a statement would grow into an established belief when the
circumstances of the death became sanctified by time!
Chaskin led his two companions through the wood, until he paused close
beside the stile which barred the lane at that end from the common.
Several rustics were examining the spot with eager interest; but on
seeing squire and vicar they made speed to leave the lane before their
arrival, lest they should be reproved for morbid curiosity. One heavy
ploughman, however, was slow in going, and before he could hasten out
of earshot, Herne called on him to wait. This the yokel did
unwillingly enough, and looked rather afraid when the squire addressed
him directly.
"Brent," said Herne, while his companions waited in wonder to know why
he had stopped the man, "were you in the lane last night?"
"Ees, squire, I be," replied Brent, sheepishly.
"About what time?"
"Arter church, Squoire; between eight and nine."
"Were there many people in the lane?"
"Noa, Squoire; theer were a Methody meetin' at t'other end of
Barnstead, and arter pass'n preached they all goas theer t' 'ear the
caal for unconverted sinners."
"But you were in the lane?"
"Ees, Squoire; I wos wi' Jaane Bilway; but she made me taake her t'
th' Methody Chapel alsoa."
"About what time did you leave this place?"
"Jest before nine."
"Did you see Miss Lester here?"
"Noa, sir."
"Did you see Mr. Lovel?"
"Noa, sir."
"Well--did you see anyone?" asked Herne impatiently.
"Noa, Squoire; I see noabody."
"Did you hear the shot fired?"
"Ees, I did, Squoire. I was passin' t' church wi' Jaane Bilway when I
'eard it. ''Uilol' ses I. 'there's some poachin' goin' on'; and I
wanted to goa back and see; but Jaane she ses, 'Giles, you're a fule;
'tain't nothin',' soa I goes on wi' 'er to the Methody Chapel."
"About what time was the shot fired?" asked Paul, regardless of a
frown from the squire.
"Just about nine, sir. T'clock was striking when I 'eard the shot."
"And you saw no one when in the lane?" said Herne, giving Brent a
shilling.
"Noa, Squoire, not one soul, I sweer."
"Very good, Brent. You can go."
The man pulled a rough forelock and slouched off heavily. Herne looked
after him with a frown, and afterwards turned towards the clergyman
with a sharp look of interrogation. "Do you believe what that fellow
says, Chaskin?" he demanded.
"Yes; I see no reason why he should lie."
"H'm! the reason might be found in his pocket."
"What do you mean, Herne?" asked Paul, sharply.
"Simply that Brent has been bribed."
"By whom, man?"
"By Lovel. Don't contradict me," said Herne, in authoritative tones.
"I am certain of what I say. Milly came to this lane last night, else
she would not have been found dead by yonder stile. She must have come
to meet someone; and going on what has been told to me, the person she
came to meet could only have been Lovel. If they walked up the lane
together, they must have been seen by Brent and Jane Bilway. Lovel
would be unwilling that I should be told of these stolen meetings,
therefore he bribed the man to hold his tongue."
"Herne," burst out Chaskin, who had restrained himself with difficulty
during this speech, "do you know what you are saying? You are accusing
Brent of a felony--that is," corrected the vicar, "assuming that your
belief that Lovel killed the girl is true. If Brent saw Lovel here he
must believe the same thing, and he would not hold his tongue knowing
that murder had been done."
"That depends on the amount of the bribe," said Herne, grimly; "but
I'll find that out later. I am certain that Lovel was here and killed
Milly."
"Why not ask Lovel himself?" suggested Paul, looking up. "Here he
comes across the common."
"Wants to see the scene of his crime, no doubt!" said the squire,
fiercely.
"Herne, you are unjust!" protested Chaskin.
"Wait till I speak with Lovel, and then judge, my friend."
The Vicar silently agreed with this remark, and the three men watched
Lovel as he walked slowly towards the site. On catching sight of the
trio he hesitated, and half stopped; but almost immediately he resumed
his usual pace, and came towards them. Jumping over the stile, he made
as to pass them with a hurried nod; but the squire, with a grim smile,
placed himself in his path. So pointed was the movement that Lovel,
much against his will, had no alternative but to stop. He looked pale
and haggard, and was not dressed with usual care; otherwise he gave no
sign of inward perturbation, but was calm and collected when he faced
Herne.
"A word with you, Mr. Lovel," said Darcy, sharply.
"A dozen," replied Lovel, as sharply, "provided they are addressed to
me in the terms one gentleman usually employs to another."
"Oh, I shall be as polite as you please," sneered the squire, with an
ugly smile, "so long as you answer my questions."
"I shall answer your questions if I can, Mr. Herne."
"Very good, sir. Then tell me why you met Miss Lester in this lane, on
this spot, last night."
Lovel turned a shade paler, and moistened his dry lips; but he faced
his questioner unflinchingly and replied clearly, without hesitation,
"I did not meet Miss Lester last night," said he, deliberately.
"I have reason to believe the contrary," retorted Herne, at white
heat.
"Give me your reason, and I will disprove it," was the reply of Lovel.
"A certain person wrote to me that you intended to meet Miss Lester."
"What is the name of your informant?"
"I decline to give it, Mr. Lovel."
"In that case," said Lucas, moving on, "I must decline to answer
further questions."
"No!" cried Herne, laying a strong grasp on the arm of the young man,
"you don't escape me that way, you--you murderer!"
"Murderer!" repeated Lovel, shaking off the grip of the other. "What
do you mean?"
"Mean, sir?--that you shot Miss Lester; that you killed my promised
wife!"
"You are mad to make so monstrous an accusation!" said Lovel, sharply.
"I would not have hurt a hair of Miss Lester's head. I--I--I respected
her too much."
"You mean you loved her too much," scoffed Herne.
Lovel shrugged his shoulders, and turning his back on the squire
addressed himself to Chaskin and Mexton. "Gentlemen," he said, "Mr.
Herne is evidently upset by the death of Miss Lester, and not
responsible for his speech. I should advise you to take him home."
"But you can assure him that you did not meet Miss Lester last night?"
said Chaskin.
"What!" cried Lovel, ironically, "do you believe also that I did? I
beg your pardon; I see you are Herne's most intimate friend, and must
stand up for him."
"I can stand up for myself with the help of God," said Herne,
fiercely; "you need not lie to me, Lovel. I know you loved Millicent
Lester, and that you met her several times during my absence. You
wanted to marry her and draw her into worldly paths."
Lovel faced round with black wrath on his face, and burst out in a
fury, "I wanted to save her from you!" he cried, clenching his hands.
"I loved her with a love of which your cold, frigid nature is
incapable. Yes, I met her several times, and I urged her to break off
the marriage with a man who desired to use her in order to minister to
his vanity. You would have made a nun of the poor girl; you would have
tortured her heart with your infernal religious fanaticism; and from
that fate I wished to rescue her. Much as I deplore her death, I am
glad she died rather than marry you!"
"I believe that--you mocker and profligate! you----"
"Profligate!" repeated Lovel, in disdain. "And what are you--in
London? Here you are a saint, with your religion and aspirations; but
what are you when with Catinka?"
"Catinka," cried Mexton, astonished at Lovel's knowledge of the name.
"Yes; the Polish violinist, with her Anarchistic plots against the
Czar. The woman who uses her beauty to snare men into conspiracy and
devilment. I knew her before you did, Herne, and I know she wanted me
to become her slave and fellow-conspirator; but I escaped and came
down here out of her way. I heard how you met her, and I know how you
love her----"
"Liar! I do not love her!"
"You do--you do!" declared Lovel furiously; "you love her, and it was
at her house that you wasted your time in London when supposed to be
absent on religious missions. I intended to tell all your wickedness
to Miss Lester last night."
"Ah! you met her! I knew it!"
"I did not meet her," returned Lovel haughtily; "she left the church
in the middle of the service, and I did not see her again. This
morning I heard of her death; but I am as innocent of it as you are."
"I don't believe it!" said Herne in hard tones. "I believe you met
her, and because she would not leave me for you, you killed her."
"I deny that I did, Herne; but since you accuse me, it remains for you
to make good your accusation."
"I shall do so--and hang you for your crime!"
"Take care the halter does not go round your own neck."
"What! do you accuse me of the murder?"
"I accuse no one. I leave it to you, Mr. Herne, to make accusations
which you cannot prove. Good-day to you all. Herne, you know where I
live; any time you wish me to meet you I shall do so. But," added
Lucas scornfully, "till you have evidence, I should advise you to
restrain your tongue. I may not be so patient at our next meeting."
Lovel walked away with a proud and defiant air, but Herne made no
attempt to follow. He stood quite still, pale and motionless, with a
glassy look in his eyes, and his mouth slightly open. Paul turned from
watching the retreating figure of Lovel, to address him, and recoiled
from this frozen look with an exclamation of alarm.
"Chaskin! What is the matter with Herne?"
The clergyman turned round, and seeing the rigidity of his friend,
went forward and shook his arm. "It is one of his trances," he said
composedly, "and will pass in a few moments. The excitement of
speaking with Lovel has thrown him into it."
"Is he often like this?"
"No; only when his nervous system is wrought up by unusual excitement.
As a rule it is his religious emotions which throw him into these
states."
"Can he move?"
"Not unless he is guided; see!" Here Chaskin took Herne's arm, and led
him down the road. The squire moved stiffly, like an automaton, with
unseeing eyes staring straight before him. "Otherwise, Mr. Mexton,"
continued the Vicar, "he remains standing, or sitting, or lying, in
precisely the same attitude as when in his trance."
"Can't you wake him out of this cataleptic state?"
"There is no need to," rejoined Chaskin; "he will come out of it as
suddenly as he has fallen into it. The time varies, that is all; he
may remain thus for an hour, or recover himself in a few moments.
See--he is getting better now."
At that moment the eyelids of Herne quivered, a sigh issued from his
half-open mouth, and a sudden colour flushed his face. In another
minute he looked round and spoke quite naturally. "Where is Lovel?" he
demanded.
"Gone away," replied Chaskin, taking his friend's arm; "and I think we
had better go too."
"No," said Herne, who seemed quite unaware of his trance; "we
must search this spot." He looked round at the trees, and down
on the red soil. Suddenly he picked up a feather--that of a goose,
apparently--which was stained in attractive bands of red, yellow,
blue, and green.
"The Rainbow Feather!" he cried in a tone of terror; "and here--the
Rainbow Feather!"