The big room at the "Blue Bell" was full. It was a room associated in
the minds of most of the people present with occasions of festivity or
entertainment. The Archery Club balls were held in it. It was used for
the exhibitions of any travelling conjurer, lecturer, or musician, whose
evil fate brought him to Whitford. Once a strolling company of players
had performed there before some fifteen persons and several dozen
cane-bottomed chairs. There were the tarnished candelabra stuck in the
walls, the little gallery up aloft where the fiddlers sat on ball
nights, and the big looking-glass at one end of the room, muffled with
yellow muslin, and surmounted by a dusty garland of paper flowers. Now
the wintry daylight coming through the uncurtained windows, made all
these things look chill, ghastly, and forlorn. People who had thought
the "Blue Bell" Assembly Room a cheerful place enough under the bright
illumination of wax candles, now shivered, and whispered to each other
how dreary it was.
The coroner's jury had been out to Duckwell Farm to view the body, and
to look at the exact spot on the bank where it had been landed from the
boat, and to stare at the willow stump to which it had been found
fastened by the clothes. And they had returned to the "Blue Bell" inn to
complete the inquiry into the causes of the death of Castalia Errington.
A great many witnesses had already been examined. Their testimony went
to show that the deceased lady's behaviour of late had been very
strange, capricious, and unreasonable. Almost every one of the
witnesses, including the servants at Ivy Lodge, confessed that they had
heard rumours of young Mrs. Errington being "not right in her mind."
They had observed an increasing depression of spirits in her of late.
Obadiah Gibbs's evidence was the strongest of all, and his revelations
created a great sensation. He described his last interview with Castalia
at the post-office, and left the impression on all his hearers which was
honestly his own; namely, that on Castalia, and on her alone, rested the
onus of the irregularities and robberies of money-letters at Whitford.
He did his best to spare her memory. He sincerely thought her
irresponsible for her actions. But the facts, as he saw and represented
them, admitted of but one conclusion being come to.
Algernon Errington's appearance in the room elicited a low murmur of
sympathy from the spectators. His manner of giving his evidence was
perfect, and nothing could have been better in keeping with the
circumstances of his painful position, than the subdued, yet quiet tones
of his voice, and the white, strained look of his face, which revealed
rather the effect of a great shock to the nerves than a deep wound to
the heart. Of course he could not be expected to grieve as a husband
would grieve who had lost a dearly-loved and loving wife; but their
having been on somewhat bad terms, and Castalia's notorious jealousy and
bad temper, made the manner of her death all the more terrible. Poor
young man! He was dreadfully cut up, one could see that. But he made no
pretences, put on no affectations of woe. He was so simple and quiet! In
a word, he was credited with feeling precisely what he ought to have
felt.
His statement added scarcely any new fact to those already known. He had
not seen his wife alive since he parted from her when he started for
London to visit Lord Seely, who was ill. He corroborated his servants'
testimony to the facts that Castalia had wandered out on to Whit Meadow
about nine o'clock in the morning; that he had been made uneasy by her
strange absence, and that he had gone himself to seek her, but without
success. In reply to some questions by a juryman, as to whether he had
gone to London solely because of Lord Seely's illness, he answered, with
a look of quiet sadness, that that had not been his sole reason. There
were private matters to be spoken of between himself and his wife's
uncle--matters which admitted of no delay. Could he not have written
them? No; he did not feel at liberty to write them. They concerned his
wife. He had mentioned to Lord Seely his fears that her mind was giving
way, as Lord Seely would be able to affirm. A letter found in the pocket
of the deceased woman's gown was produced and read. It had become partly
illegible from immersion in the water, but the greater portion of it
could be made out. It was from Lord Seely, and referred to a painful
conversation he had had with his niece's husband about herself. It was a
kind letter, but written evidently in much agitation and pain of mind.
The writer exhorted and even implored his niece to confide fully in him,
for her own sake, as well as that of her family; and promised that he
would help and support her under all circumstances, if she would but
tell him the truth unreservedly.
Nothing could have been better for Algernon's case than that letter.
Instead of being the cause of his disgrace and exposure, it was
obviously the means of confirming every one of his statements, implied
as well as expressed. It showed clearly enough--first, that Algernon had
given Lord Seely to understand that his wife laboured under grave
suspicions of having stolen money-letters from the Whitford Post-office;
secondly, that he (Algernon) believed those suspicions to be well
founded; thirdly, that symptoms of mental aberration, which had recently
manifested themselves in Castalia, were at once the explanation of, and
the excuse for, her conduct. This letter, which, if Castalia were alive
to speak for herself, would have been like a brand on her husband's
forehead for life, was now a most valuable testimony in his favour.
Algernon's hard and unrelenting mood towards his dead wife grew still
harder and more unrelenting as he listened to this letter, and
remembered that Castalia had threatened him with exposure, and had
resolved not to spare him. Nothing in the world but her death could have
saved him from ruin. Even supposing that she could have been cajoled
into promising to comply with his directions, she would not have been
able to do so. She was so stupidly literal in her statements. A direct
lie would have embarrassed her. And then, at the first jealous fit which
might have seized her, he would have been at her mercy. Lord Seely's
letter showed a strong feeling of irritation--almost of
hostility--against Algernon. It might not be recognisable by the
audience at the inquest, but Algernon recognised it completely, and felt
a distinct sense of triumph in the impotence of Lord Seely to harm him,
or to wriggle away from under his heel. Algernon was master of the
position. He appeared before the world in the light of a victim to his
alliance with the Seelys. There could be no further talk on their part
of condescension, or honour conferred. He and his mother had lived their
lives as persons of gentle blood and unblemished reputation until the
Honourable Castalia Kilfinane brought disgrace and misery into their
home. In making these reflections Algernon was not, of course,
considering the inward truth of facts, but their outward semblances. It
made no difference to his indignation against the "pompous little ass"
who had treated him with hauteur, nor to his satisfaction in humbling
the "pompous little ass," that if all the secret circumstances hidden
and silenced for ever under the cold white shroud that covered his dead
wife could be revealed before the eyes of all men, Lord Seely would have
the right to detest and despise him. Lord Seely had not treated him as
he ought. He was firmly persuaded of that. And as he measured Lord
Seely's duty towards him accurately by the extent of all he desired and
expected of Lord Seely, it will be seen how far short the latter had
fallen of Algernon's standard.
The Seth Maxfields gave their testimony as to how the deceased body had
been carried into their house; how they had tried all means to revive
her; and how every effort had been in vain, and she had never moved nor
breathed again. The two men who had rescued the body from the water, and
the carpenter who had brought the news to Ivy Lodge, repeated their
story, and corroborated all that the Maxfields had said. There only
remained to be heard the important testimony of David Powell. He had
been so ill that it was feared at one time that the inquest must be
adjourned until he should be able to give his evidence. But he declared
that he would come and speak before the jury; that he should be
strengthened to do so when the moment arrived; and had opposed a fixed
silence to all the representations and remonstrances of the doctor. On
the morning of the inquest he arose and dressed himself before Mrs.
Thimbleby was up, albeit she was no sluggard in the morning. He had gone
out, while it was still dark, into the raw foggy atmosphere of Whit
Meadow, and had wandered there for a long time. On returning to the
widow Thimbleby's house, he had seated himself opposite to the blazing
fire in the kitchen, staring at it, and muttering to himself like a man
in a feverish dream.
Nevertheless, when the due time arrived, he entered the room at the
"Blue Bell" to give his evidence with a quiet steady gait. His
appearance there produced a profound impression.
A stranger contrast than he presented to the Whitford burghers by whom
he was surrounded could scarcely be imagined. Not only were his bodily
shape and colouring different from theirs, but the expression of his
face was almost unearthly. There was some subtle contradiction between
the expression of David Powell's sorrow-laden eyes and brow, and that of
the mouth, with its tightly-closed lips drawn back at the corners with
what on ordinary faces would have been a smile. But on his face, being
coupled with a singular pinched look of the nostrils and a strained
tightness of the upper lip, it became something which troubled the
beholder with a sense of inexplicable pain--almost terror.
As he advanced along the room, there was a hush of attentive
expectation, during which Dr. Evans, the coroner, curiously examined the
Methodist preacher with grave professional eyes. After a few
preliminary questions, to which Powell gave brief, clear answers, he
said, "I have been brought hither to testify in this matter. I am an
instrument in the hands of the great and terrible God. He works not as
men work. In His hand all tools are alike."
"What can you tell us of the death of this unfortunate lady, Mr.
Powell?" asked the coroner, quietly. "You were the first to see her
struggling in the water, were you not? And you made a gallant effort to
save her."
"She struggled but little. She went to her death as a lamb to the
slaughter; nay, as a victim who desires to die."
Powell spoke in a low but distinct voice; broken and harsh, indeed,
compared with what it once was, but still with a soft tremulous note in
it now and then, that seemed to stir deep fibres of feeling in the
hearts of those who heard him. In such a tone it was that he uttered the
words, "as a victim who desires to die." And tears sprang into the eyes
of many from sheer emotional sympathy with the sound of his voice.
"You are of opinion, then, Mr. Powell," said the coroner, "that the
deceased wilfully put an end to her own life."
"No."
"You think that she was not in a state of mind to be responsible for her
actions?"
"She was murdered," said Powell, in a distinct, grating tone, which was
audible in every corner of the crowded room.