"Perhaps it may be as well, Johnny," she went on in speculative thought.
"God does all things for the best."
"Perhaps what may be as well?"
"That he should never have come back to marry me. I do not suppose I
should have lived long in any case; I am too much like mamma. And to
have been left a widower--perhaps--no, it is best as it is."
"You don't give yourself a chance of getting better, Ellin--cherishing
these gloomy views."
"Gloomy! They are not gloomy. I am as happy as I can be. I often picture
to myself the glories of the world I am hastening to; the lovely
flowers, the trees that overshadow the banks of the pure crystal river,
whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, and the beautiful
golden light shed around us by God and the Lamb. Oh, Johnny, what a rest
it will be after the weary sorrow here--and the weakness--and the pain!"
"But you should not wish to leave us before your time."
"I do not wish it; it is God who is taking me. I think if I had a wish
it would be to stay here as long as papa stays. For I know what my death
will be to him. And what it will be to you all," she generously added,
holding out her hands to me, as the tears filled her eyes.
I held them for a minute in mine. Ellin took up her parasol, preparatory
to moving away; but laid it down again.
"Johnny, tell me--I have often thought I should like to ask you--what do
_you_ think could have become of William? Have you ever picked up an
idea, however faint, of anything that could tend to solve the mystery?"
It was a hard question to answer, and she saw my hesitation.
"I cannot admit that I have, Ellin. When looking at the affair in one
light, I whisper to myself, 'It might have been this way;' when looking
at it in another, I say, 'It might have been that.' Difficulties and
contradictions encompass it on all sides. One impediment to elucidation
was the length of time that elapsed before we began the search in
earnest. Had we known from the first that he was really lost, and gone
to work then, we might have had a better chance."
Ellin nodded assent. "Marianne Ashton still maintains that it was
William she saw that day at the railway-station."
"I know she does. She always will maintain it."
"Has it ever struck you, Johnny, in how rather remarkable a way any
proof that it was he, or not he, seems to have been withheld?"
"Well, we could not get at any positive proof, one way or the other."
"But I mean that proof seems to _have been withheld_," repeated Ellin.
"Take, to begin with, the traveller's luggage: but for its being lost
(and we do not know that it was ever found), the name, sure to have been
on it, would have told whether its owner was William Brook, or not. Then
take Marianne Ashton: had she gained the platform but a few seconds
earlier, she would have met the traveller face to face, avoiding all
possibility of mistake either way. Next take the meeting of the two gigs
that evening when Gregory West was returning from Spetchley. Gregory, a
stranger to Worcester until recently, did not know William Brook; but
had Philip West himself gone to Spetchley--as he ought to have done--he
would have known him. Again, had Philip's groom, Brian, been there, he
would have known him: he comes from this neighbourhood, you know. Brian
was going with the gig that afternoon, but just as it was starting
Philip got a message from a client living at Lower Wick, and he had to
send Brian with the answer, so Gregory went alone. You must see how very
near proof was in all these moments, yet it was withheld."
Of course I saw it. And there was yet another instance: Had the Squire
only pulled up when we passed the gig in Dip Lane, instead of driving on
like the wind, we should have had proof that it was, or was not, Brook.
"If it was he," breathed Ellin, "it must have been that night he died.
He would not, else, keep away from Timberdale."
My voice dropped to a lower key than hers. "Ellin! Do you really think
it was he with St. George?"
"Oh, I cannot say that. If any such thought intrudes itself, I drive it
away. I do not like St. George, but I would not be unjust to him."
"I thought St. George was one of your prime favourites."
"He was never that. He used to be very kind to me, especially after
William went away, and I liked him for it. But latterly I have taken a
most unreasonable dislike to him--and really without any justifiable
cause. He worries me--but it is not that."
"Worries you!"
"In pressing me to be his wife," she sighed. "Of course I ought to be
grateful: he tells me, he tells papa, that with a new life and new
scenes, which he would carry me to, my health might be re-established.
Poor papa! Only the other day he said to me, 'My dear, don't you think
you might bring yourself to try it,' and I was so silly as to burst into
tears. The tears came into papa's eyes too, and he promised never to
suggest it to me again."
The tears were trickling down her cheeks, now as she spoke. "What a
world of crosses and contradiction it is!" she cried, smiling through
them as she rose. "And, Johnny, all this is between ourselves,
remember."
Yes, it was between ourselves. We strolled across the churchyard to a
tomb that stood in a corner facing the western sun. It was of white
marble, aromatic shrubs encircling it within ornamental railings, and
an inscription on it to her who lay beneath--"Maria, the beloved wife
of John Delorane."
Ellin lingered on through the frosts of winter. Except that she grew
thinner and weaker and her cheeks brighter, there really did not seem
to be much the matter. Darbyshire saw her every day, other medical men
occasionally, but they could not save her. When the snowdrops were
peeping from the ground, and the violets nestled in their mossy
shelters, and the trees and hedges began to show signs of budding,
tokens of the renewal of life after the death of winter, Ellin passed
away to that other life, where there is no death and the flowers bloom
for ever. And another inscription was added to the white tombstone in
the churchyard--"Ellin Maria, the only child of John and Maria
Delorane."
"You should have seen St. George at the funeral," said Tom Coney to us,
as we turned aside after church one hot summer's day to look at the new
name on grave, for we were away from Crabb Cot when she died. "His face
was green; yes, green--hold your tongue, Johnny!--green, not yellow; and
his eyes had the queerest look. You were right, Todhetley; you used to
say, you know, that St. George was wild after poor Ellin."
"Positive of it," affirmed Tod.
"And he can't bear the place now she's gone out of it," continued
Tom Coney. "Report says that he means to throw up his post and his
prospects, and run away for good."
"Not likely," dissented Tod, tossing his head. "A strong man like St.
George does not die of love nowadays, or put himself out of good things,
either. You have been reading romances, Coney."
But Tom Coney was right. When the summer was on the wane St. George bade
a final adieu to Timberdale. And if it was his love for Ellin, or her
death, that drove him away, he made no mention of it. He told Timberdale
that he was growing tired of work and meant to travel. As he had a good
income, Timberdale agreed that it was only natural he should grow tired
of work and want to travel. So he said adieu, and departed: and Mr.
Delorane speedily engaged another head-clerk in his place, who was to
become his partner later.
St. George wrote to Sir. Delorane from Jamaica, to which place he
steamed first, to take a look at his cousins. The letter contained a few
words about William Brook. St. George had been instituting inquiries,
and he said that, by what he could learn, it was certainly William Brook
who was drowned in Kingston harbour the day before he ought to have
sailed for England in the _Dart_. He, St. George, felt perfectly assured
of this fact, and also that if any man had sailed in the _Idalia_
under Brook's name, it must have been an impostor who had nefariously
substituted himself. St. George added that he was going "farther
afield," possibly to California: he would write again from thence if
he arrived without mishap.
No other letter ever came from him. So whether the sea swallowed him up,
as, according to his report, it had swallowed his rival, none could
tell. But it would take better evidence than that, to convince us
William Brook had not come home in the _Idalia_.
* * * * *
And that is all I have to tell. I know you will deem it most
unsatisfactory. Was it William Brook in the gig, or was it not? We found
no trace of him after that stormy night: we have found none to this day.
And, whether that was he, or was not he, what became of him? Questions
never, as I believe, to be solved in this life.
There was a peculiar absence of proof every way, as Ellin remarked;
nothing but doubt on all sides. Going over the matter with Darbyshire
the other evening, when, as I have already told you, he suggested that
I should relate it, we could not, either of us, see daylight through
it, any more than we saw it at the time of its occurrence.
There was the certainty (yes, I say so) that Brook landed at Liverpool
the evening of the 18th of October; he would no doubt start for home the
morning of the 19th, by rail, which would take him through Birmingham to
Worcester; there was also what the shopwoman in Bold Street said, though
hers might be called negative testimony, as well as the lady's in the
train. There was Mrs. James Ashton's positive belief that she saw him
arrive that afternoon at Worcester by the Birmingham train, _shake
hands_ with St. George and talk with him: and there was our recognition
of him an hour or two later in St. George's gig in Dip Lane----
"Hold there, Johnny," cried Darbyshire, taking his long clay pipe from
his mouth to interrupt me as I went over the items. "You should say
_supposed_ recognition."
"Yes, of course. Well, all that points to its having been Brook: you
must see that, Mr. Darbyshire. But, if it was in truth he, there's a
great deal that seems inexplicable. Why did he set off to _walk_ from
Worcester to Timberdale--and on such a night!--why not have gone on by
rail? It is incredible."
"Nay, lad, we are told he--that is, the traveller--set off to walk to
Evesham. St. George says he put him down in Dip Lane; and Lockett, you
know, saw somebody, that seems to answer the description, turn from the
lanes into the Evesham road."
I was silent, thinking out my thoughts. Or, rather, not daring to think
them out. Darbyshire put his pipe in the fender and went on.
"If it was Brook and no stranger that St. George met at Worcester
Station, the only possible theory I can form on that point is this,
Johnny: that St. George then proposed to drive him home. He may have
said to him, 'You walk on, and I will get my gig and overtake you
directly:' it is a lame theory, you may say, lad, but it is the only one
I can discern, and I have thought of the matter more than you suppose.
St. George started for home earlier than he had meant to start, and this
may have been the reason: though _he_ says it was because he saw it was
going to be so wild a night. Why they should not have gone in company to
the Hare-and-Hounds, and started thence, in the gig together, is another
question."
"Unless Brook, being done up, wished not to show himself at Worcester
that day--to get on at once to Timberdale."
Darbyshire nodded: the thought, I am sure, was not strange to him. "The
most weighty question of all remains yet, lad: If St. George took up
Brook in his gig, what did he do with him? _He_ would not want to be put
down in Dip Lane to walk to Evesham."
He caught up his churchwarden pipe, relighted it at the fire, and puffed
away in silence. Presently I spoke again.
"Mr. Darbyshire, I do not like St. George. I never did. You may not
believe me, perhaps, but the first time I ever saw his face--I was
a little fellow--I drew back startled. There was something in its
expression which frightened me."
"One of your unreasonable dislikes, Johnny?"
"Are they unreasonable? But I have not taken many such dislikes in my
life as that one was. Perhaps I might say _any_ such."
"St. George was liked by most people."
"I know he was. Any way, my dislike remained with me. I never spoke of
it; no, not even to Tod."
"Liking him or disliking him has nothing to do with the main
question--what became of Brook. There were the letters too, sent by the
traveller in answer to St. George's advertisements."
"Yes, there were the letters. But--did it ever occur to you to notice
that not one word was said in those letters, or one new fact given, that
we had not heard before? They bore out St. George's statement, but they
afforded no proof that his statement was true."
"That is, Mr. Johnny, you would insinuate, putting it genteelly, that
St. George fabricated the answers himself."
"No, not that he did, only that there was nothing in the letters to
render it impossible that he did."
"After having fabricated the pretty little tale that it was a stranger
he picked up, and what the stranger said to him, and all the rest of it,
eh, Johnny?"
"Well"--I hesitated--"as to the letters, it seemed to me to be an
unaccountable thing that the traveller could not let even one person see
him in private, to hear his personal testimony: say Mr. Delorane, or a
member of the Brook family. The Squire went hot over it: he asked St.
George whether the fellow thought men of honour carried handcuffs in
their pockets. Again, the stranger said he should be at liberty to come
forward later, but he never has come."
Darbyshire smoked on. "I'd give this full of gold," he broke the silence
with, touching the big bowl of the clay pipe, "to know where Brook
vanished to."
My restless fingers had strayed to his old leaden tobacco jar, on the
table by me, pressing down its heavy lid and lifting it again. When I
next spoke he might have thought the words came out of the tobacco, they
were so low.
"Do you think St. George had a grudge against Brook, Mr.
Darbyshire?--that he wished him out of the way?"
Darbyshire gave me a look through the wreathing smoke.
"Speak out, lad. What have you on your mind?"
"St. George said, you know, that he stopped the gig in Dip Lane at the
turning which would lead to Evesham, for Brook--I mean the traveller--to
get out. But I thought I heard it stop before that. I was almost sure of
it."
"Stop where?"
"Just about opposite the gap in the hedge; hardly even quite as far as
that. We had not reached the turning to Evesham ourselves when I heard
this. The gig seemed to come to a sudden standstill. I said so to Tod at
the time."
"Well?"
"Why should he have stopped just at the gap?"
"How can I tell, lad?"
"I suppose he could not have damaged Brook? Struck him a blow to stun
him--or--or anything of that?"
"And if he had? If he (let us put it so) _killed_ him, Johnny, what did
he do with--what was left of him? What could he do with it?"
Darbyshire paused in his smoking. I played unconsciously with the jar.
He was looking at me, waiting to be answered.
"I suppose--if that pond had been dragged--Dip Pond--if it were to be
dragged now--that--that--nothing would be found----"
"Hush, lad," struck in Darbyshire, all hastily. "Walls have ears, people
tell us: and we must not even whisper grave charges without sufficient
grounds; grounds that we could substantiate."
True: and of course he did right to stop me.
* * * * *
But we cannot stay rebellious thought: and no end of gruesome ideas
connected with that night in Dip Lane steal creepingly at times into my
mind. If I am not mistaken they steal also into Darbyshire's.
All the same they may be but phantoms of the imagination, and St.
George may have been a truthful, an innocent man. You must decide for
yourselves, if you can, on which side the weight of evidence seems to
lie. I have told you the story as it happened, and I cannot clear up
for you what has never yet been cleared for Timberdale. It remains an
unsolved mystery.