It was past mid-day when a loud peal at the bell of Ivy Lodge startled
the women in the kitchen. Polly ran to the front door to open it. There
stood her master, who pushed quickly into the house past her. "Is your
mistress come back?" he asked almost breathlessly.
"No, sir! Oh, mercy me, what's the matter? What has happened?" she
cried, for his face showed undisguised terror and agitation. He sat down
in the dining-room and asked for a glass of wine. Having drunk it at a
gulp, he said, "I cannot understand it. I have been nearly to Whitford
along the meadow-path; I didn't try the other way, but then she would
not have wandered towards Duckwell, surely! Then I crossed the fields
and came back by the road, looking everywhere, and asking every one I
met. Nothing to be seen of her. Your mistress's manner has been so
strange of late. You must have noticed it. I--I--am afraid--I cannot
help being afraid that some terrible thing has happened to her. I have
had a dreadful weight and presentiment on my mind all the morning. Where
can she be?"
"Oh no, no, sir. Never fear! She'll be all safe somewheres or other.
She'll just have gone wandering on into the town. She _have_ been
strange in her ways, poor thing! and we couldn't but see it, sir. But
she can't have come to no harm. There's nothing to hurt her here-about."
Thus honest Polly, consolingly. But she was infected, too, by the terror
in her master's white face.
"You don't know," said he tremulously, "what reason I have for
uneasiness." He drew out from his pocket-book a torn scrap of paper with
some writing on it. "I found this on the floor by her desk this morning.
This is what alarmed me so before I went out, but I wouldn't say
anything about it then."
Polly stared at the paper with eager curiosity, but the sharp, slanting
writing puzzled her eyes, never quite at their ease with the alphabet in
any shape. "Is it missus's writing?" she asked.
"Yes; see, she talks of being so wretched. Why, God knows! Her mind has
been quite unhinged. That is the only explanation. And, you see, she
says, 'It will not be long before this misery is at an end. I cannot
live on as I am living. _I will not._'"
"Lord, ha' mercy upon us!" ejaculated the woman, on whom the full force
of her master's anxiety and alarm suddenly broke. Her round ruddy cheeks
grew almost as white as his, and Lydia, who had been peeping and
listening at the door, burst out crying, and began uttering a series of
incoherent phrases.
"Hold your noise!" said Polly roughly. "There's troubles enough without
you. Now look ye here, sir. I'll put on my bonnet and go right down into
Whitford. You take a look along Whit Meadow up Duckwell way. I bet ten
pounds she's there somewhere's about. She has taken to going about
through the fields, hasn't she, Lydia? Oh, hold your noise, and try and
do something to help, you whimpering fool!"
Polly's violent excitement and trepidation took a practical form, whilst
the other woman was utterly helpless. She was bidden to stay at home and
"receive missus," and tell her that master was come back, and beg her
"to bide still in the house, until he should return."
"But I'm afraid she'll never come back!" sobbed Lydia. "I'm so
frightened to stop here by myself."
"Ugh, you great silly! Haven't you got no feeling for the poor husband?
He looks scared well-nigh to death, poor lad. And as for you, it ain't
much _you_ care what's become of missus. You never had a good word for
her. You're only crying because you're a coward."
Meanwhile Algernon sat in the little dining-room, with a strange
sensation, as if every muscle in his body had been turned into lead. He
_must_ get up, and go out as the woman had said. He _must_! But there he
sat with that sensation of marvellous _weight_ holding him down in his
chair. The house was absolutely still. Lydia, unable to remain alone in
the kitchen, had gone to stand at the front door and stare up and down
the road. Thus she heard nothing of footsteps approaching the house at
the back, coming hurriedly through the garden, and pausing at the
threshold of the door, which was open.
Presently, after some muttered conversation, in which two or three
voices took part, a man entered the house and came along the passage,
looking, as he went, into the kitchen and finding no one. Just as he
reached the door of the dining-room, Algernon came out and confronted
him.
"There's been an accident, sir, I'm sorry to say," said the man. "The
alarm was given up our way about an hour and a half ago. Somebody's
fallen into the Whit. I'm very sorry, sir, but I'm afraid you must
prepare for bad news."
Whilst he was still speaking, the house had filled with an
ever-gathering crowd. People stood in the passage, peeping over each
other's shoulders, and pushing to get a glimpse of Algernon. There were
even faces pressed to the windows outside, and the garden was blocked
up. Polly had come hurrying back from the town, and now elbowed her way
through the crowd to her master. She soon cleared the passage of the
throng of idlers who blocked it up, and shut them outside the door by
main force. They still swarmed about the house and garden, both on the
side of the road and that of Whit Meadow. And their numbers increased
every minute. Polly pulled the man who had been spokesman into the
dining-room, and bade him say what he had to say without further
preamble. "It's no use 'preparing' him," she said, pointing to Algernon,
who had sunk into a chair, and was holding his forehead with his hands;
"you'll only make it worse. I'm afraid you can't tell him anything
dreadfuller than he's got into his head already. Speak out!"
Thus requested, the man, a carpenter of Pudcombe village, told his tale.
Some men, working in the fields about a mile above Whitford--half a
mile, perhaps, from Ivy Lodge, had heard cries for help from the meadows
near the river. He, the carpenter, happened to be passing along a field
path from a farmhouse where he had been at work, and ran with the
labourers down to the water's edge. There they saw David Powell, the
Methodist preacher, wildly shouting for help, and with clothes dripping
wet. He had waded waist-deep into the Whit to try to save some one who
was drowning there, but in vain. He could not swim, and the current had
carried the drowning person out of his reach. "You know," said the
carpenter, "there are some ugly swirls and currents in the Whit, for all
it looks so sluggish." A boat had been got out and manned, and had made
all speed in the direction Powell pointed out. He insisted on
accompanying them in his wet clothes. They searched the river for some
time in vain. They had got as far as Duckwell Reach when they caught
sight of a dark object close in shore. It was the form of a woman. Her
clothes had caught in the broken stump of an old willow that grew half
in the water; and she was thus held there, swinging to and fro with the
current. She was taken out and carried to Duckwell Farm, where every
effort had been made to restore her to consciousness. Powell understood
the best methods to employ. The Seth Maxfields had done everything in
their power, but it was no use. She had never moved, nor breathed, nor
quivered an eyelash.
That was the substance of the carpenter's story.
"Is she dead?" asked Algernon with his face hidden. They were the first
words he had spoken. And when the man answered with a mournful but
positive "Yes; quite, quite dead," he said not a syllable further, but
turned away from them, and buried his head in the cushions of the chair.
"He hasn't even asked who the woman was!" whispered the carpenter to
Polly. The tears were streaming down the woman's cheeks. Castalia had
not made herself beloved in her own house, but Polly had felt the sort
of regard for her which grows by acts of kindness, and forbearance and
compassion, performed. She shook her head, and answered in an equally
low tone, "No need for him to ask, poor young fellow. We've all been
fearing something dreadful about missus all morning. And he had his
reasons for being afraid as she had gone and done something desperate."
"What--you don't mean that she made away with herself?" said the
carpenter, raising his hands.
"Oh, that's more than you and I know. Best say nothing. How can we
judge? Poor soul! Well, I always did feel sorry for her, and that I'll
say. Though, mind you, I'm sorry for him too. But there's some folks as
can't stroke the dog without kicking the cat."
The news spread rapidly through Whitford, and caused the utmost
excitement there. Mrs. Algernon Errington had been found drowned in the
Whit. How--whether by accident or design--no one knew. But that did not
prevent people from hazarding a thousand conjectures. She had wandered
out alone, had ventured too near the edge of the slippery bank, and had
lost her footing. She had been robbed and thrown into the river. She had
committed suicide from ungovernable jealousy. She had committed suicide
in a fit of insanity. She had become a hypochondriac. She had gone
raving mad. She had committed various frauds at the post-office, and had
killed herself in terror at the prospect of their coming to light. This
latter hypothesis found much credence. So many circumstances--trifling,
perhaps, in themselves, but important when massed together--seemed to
corroborate it. And then, if that did not seem an adequate motive for
the desperate deed, Castalia's notorious and passionate jealousy was
thrown in as a make-weight. There would be a coroner's inquest, of
course. And the chief witness at it would probably be David Powell. It
appeared he was the last person who had seen the unfortunate woman
alive.
Mrs. Thimbleby was in terrible affliction. Mr. Powell was very ill. He
had plunged into the ice-cold river, and had then remained for hours in
his wet clothes. He had not been able to walk back from Duckwell Farm,
and Farmer Maxfield had brought him home himself in his spring-cart, and
had bidden widow Thimbleby look after him a little, for he (Maxfield)
thought the preacher in a very bad way. He was seized with violent fits
of shivering, and the doctor whom Mrs. Thimbleby sent for to see him, on
her own responsibility, told them to get him into bed at once, to keep
him warm, and to administer certain remedies which he ordered. But no
word would Powell speak about his ailments to the doctor, or to anyone
else. He waved off all questions with a determined though gentle
resolution. He allowed himself to be helped into bed, being absolutely
unable to stand or walk without assistance. And he did not refuse the
warm clothing which the widow heaped upon him. He lay still and passive,
but he would say no word of his symptoms and sensations to the doctor.
"The man can in no wise help me," he said to Mrs. Thimbleby. "All the
wisdom of this world is foolishness to one whom the Lord has laid his
hands on. I am bowed as a reed; yea, I am broken."
His voice was hoarse and feeble, and his eyes blazed with a feverish
light. The widow found it vain to importune him to swallow the medicines
that had been sent. In her heart she had some misgivings that it might
be wrong to interfere in the dealings of Providence with so holy a man,
by administering drugs to him. But the misgivings never reached a point
of conviction that might have comforted her.
"I'll leave you quiet awhile, Mr. Powell," she said. "Maybe you'll
sleep, and that would do you more good than anything. Sleep is God's own
cure for a many troubles, isn't it?"
He looked at her with a wild unrecognising stare. "When I say my bed
shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint, then thou scarest me
with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions," he murmured.
The good woman softly went away, wiping the tears from her eyes. "One
thing is a mercy," said the poor soul to herself, "and that is, that Mr.
Diamond is so kind and thoughtful. He gives no trouble, and is a help on
the contrary. And I'm sure I don't know how we should have managed
without his arm to help Mr. Powell upstairs. And another thing is a
mercy--I hope it isn't wrong to feel it so!--that Mrs. Errington is out
of the house. I do not know how I should have been strengthened to keep
up and attend upon her, and she in such a way, poor thing! The Lord has
had pity on us for Mr. Powell's sake."
Minnie Bodkin had driven to Mrs. Thimbleby's house early in the
afternoon, and taken Mrs. Errington away with her. Mrs. Errington had
rushed to Ivy Lodge under the first shock of the terrible news which Mr.
Smith, the surgeon, communicated to her. She had seen her son for a few
minutes. Her intention had been to remain with him, but this he would
not allow. He had insisted on his mother's returning to her own lodgings
after a very brief interview with him.
"No wonder he can't bear to have her about, though she _is_ his mother.
Tiresome old thing!" exclaimed Lydia, peevishly.
But if Algernon got rid of his mother as quickly as possible, he refused
to admit any one else at all, and remained shut up in the dining-room,
whither he had had a sofa carried, meaning to sleep there. He had been
obliged to receive Seth Maxfield, who came to ask when and how he would
wish his wife's body conveyed from Duckwell Farm to Whitford. "Can't she
stay there?" he had asked in a dazed sort of manner. Then added quickly,
turning away his head, "I'll leave it all to you. You've been very good.
You've done everything for the best, I am sure." And he put out his hand
to the farmer with his face still turned away. And later on he had had
to see some officials about the inquest. But after that was over, he
locked his door, and refused to open it except to Polly, when she
brought him food. He ate almost ravenously, drank a great deal of wine,
and then lay down and dozed away the hours until dawn next day.