It was a dreadful thing to have happened. Edward Pym found dead; and no
one could tell for a certainty who had been the author of the calamity.
He had died of a blow dealt to him, the doctors said: it had struck him
behind the left ear. Could it be possible that he had fallen of himself,
and struck his head against something in falling, was a question put to
the doctors--and it was Captain Tanerton who put it. It perhaps might
be possible, the medical men answered, but not at all probable. Mr. Pym
could not have inflicted the blow upon himself, and there was no piece
of furniture in the room, so far as they saw, that could have caused the
injury, even though he had fallen upon it.
The good luck of the _Rose of Delhi_ seemed not to be in the ascendant.
Her commander could not sail with her now. Neither could her
newly-appointed third mate, Alfred Saxby. So far as might be ascertained
at present, Captain Tanerton was the last man who had seen Pym alive;
Alfred Saxby had found him dead; therefore their evidence would be
required at the official investigation.
Ships, however, cannot be lightly detained in port when their time for
sailing comes: and on the day following the events already told of, the
_Rose of Delhi_ finally left the docks, all taut and sound, the only one
of her old officers, sailing in her, being Mark Ferrar. The brokers were
put out frightfully at the detention of Tanerton. A third mate was soon
found to replace Saxby: a master not so easily. They put in an elderly
man, just come home in command of one of their ships. Put him in for
the nonce, hoping Captain Tanerton would be at liberty to join her at
Dartmouth, or some other place down channel.
On this same day, Tuesday, the investigation into the events of that
fatal Monday, as regarded Edward Pym, was begun. Not the coroner's
inquest: that was called for the morrow: but an informal inquiry
instituted by the brokers and Sir Dace Fontaine. In a back-room of the
office in Eastcheap, the people met; and--I am glad to say--I was one
of them, or I could not have told you what passed. Sir Dace sat in the
corner, his elbow resting on the desk and his hand partly covering his
face. He did not pretend to feel the death as an affectionate uncle
would have felt it; still Pym was his nephew, and there could be no
mistake that the affair was troubling him.
Mrs. Richenough, clean as a new pin, in her Sunday gown and close
bonnet, a puzzled look upon her wrinkled face, told what she knew--and
was longer over it than she need have been. Mr. Pym, who lodged in her
parlour floor, had left her for good, as she supposed, on the Monday
morning, his ship, the _Rose of Delhi_, being about to go out of dock.
Mr. Saxby, who had lodged in the rooms above Mr. Pym, got appointed to
the same ship, and he also left. In the afternoon she heard that the
ship had got off all right: a workman at the docks told her so. Later,
who should come to the door but Mr. Pym--which naturally gave her great
surprise. He told her the ship had sprung a leak and had put back; but
they should be off again with the next day's tide, and he should have to
be abroad precious early in the morning to get the cargo stowed away
again----
"What time was this?" interrupted Mr. Freeman.
"About half-past four, I fancy, sir. Mr. Pym spoke rather thick--I saw
he had been taking a glass. He bade me make him a big potful of strong
tea--which I did at once, having the kettle on the fire. He drank it,
and went out."
"Go on, Mrs. Richenough."
"An hour afterwards, or so, his captain called, wanting to know where
he was. Of course, sirs, I could not say; except that he had had a big
jorum of tea, and was gone out."
Captain Tanerton spoke up to confirm this. "I wanted Pym," he said.
"This must have been between half-past five and six o'clock."
"About nine o'clock; or a bit earlier, it might be--I know it was dark
and I had finished my supper--Mr. Pym came back," resumed the landlady.
"He seemed in an ill-humour, and he had been having more to drink.
'Light my lamp, Mother Richenough,' says he roughly, 'and shut the
shutters: I've got a letter to write.' I lighted the lamp, and he got
out some paper of his that was left in the table-drawer, and the ink,
and sat down. After closing the shutters I went to the front-door, and
there I saw Captain Tanerton. He asked me----"
"What did he ask you?" cried Mr. Freeman's lawyer, for she had come to
a dead standstill.
"Well, the captain asked me whether any young lady had been there. He
had asked the same question afore, sir: Mr. Pym's cousin, or sister, I
b'lieve he meant. I told him No, and he went into the parlour to Mr.
Pym."
"What then?"
"Well, gentlemen, I went back to my kitchen, and shut myself in by my
bit o' fire; and, being all lonely like, I a'most dozed off. Not quite;
they made so much noise in the parlour, quarrelling."
"Quarrelling?" cried the lawyer.
"Yes, sir; and were roaring out at one another like wolves. Mr. ----"
"Stay a moment, ma'am. How long was it after you admitted Captain
Tanerton that you heard this quarrelling?"
"Not above three or four minutes, sir. I'm sure of that. 'Mr. Pym's
catching it from his captain, and he is just in the right mood to take
it unkindly,' I thought to myself. However, it was no business of mine.
The sounds soon ceased, and I was just dozing off again, when Mr. Saxby
came home. He went into the parlour to see Mr. Pym, and found him lying
dead on the floor."
A silent pause.
"You are sure, ma'am, it was Captain Tanerton who was quarrelling with
him?" cried the lawyer, who asked more questions than all the rest put
together.
"Of course I am sure," returned Mrs. Richenough. "Why, sir, how could it
be anybody else? Hadn't I just let in Captain Tanerton to him? Nobody
was there but their two selves."
Naturally the room turned to Jack. He answered the mute appeal very
quietly.
"It was not myself that quarrelled with Pym. No angry word of any kind
passed between us. Pym had been drinking; Mrs. Richenough is right in
that. He was not in a state to be reproved or reasoned with, and I came
away at once. I did not stay to sit down."
"You hear this, Mrs. Richenough?"
"Yes, sir, I do; and I am sure the gentleman don't speak or look like
one who could do such a deed. But, then, I heard the quarrelling."
An argument indisputable to her own mind. Sir Dace looked up and put a
question for the first time. He had listened in silence. His dark face
had a wearied look on it, and he spoke hardly above a whisper.
"Did you know the voice to be that of Captain Tanerton, Mistress
Landlady? Did you recognize it for his!"
"I knew the voice couldn't be anybody else's, sir. Nobody but the
captain was with Mr. Pym."
"I asked you whether you _recognized_ it?" returned Sir Dace, knitting
his brow. "Did you know by its tone that it was Captain Tanerton's?"
"Well, no, sir, I did not, if you put it in that way. Captain Tanerton
was nearly a stranger to me, and the two shut doors and the passage was
between me and him. I had only heard him speak once or twice before,
and then in a pleasant, ordinary voice. In this quarrel his voice was
raised to a high, rough pitch; and in course I could not know it for
his."
"In point of fact, then, it comes to this: You did _not_ recognize the
voice for Captain Tanerton's."
"No, sir; not, I say, if you put it in that light."
"Let me put it in this light," was Sir Dace Fontaine's testy rejoinder:
"Had three or four people been with Mr. Pym in his parlour, you could
not have told whose voice it was quarrelling with him? You would not
have known?"
"That is so, sir. But, you see, I knew it was his captain that was
with him."
Sir Dace folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, his
cross-questioning over. Mrs. Richenough was done with for the present,
and Captain Tanerton entered upon his version of the night's events.
"I wished particularly to see Mr. Pym, and went to Ship Street in search
of him, as I have already said. He was not there. Later, I went down
again----"
"I beg your pardon, Captain Tanerton," interrupted the lawyer; "what
time do you make it--that second visit?"
"It must have been nearly nine o'clock. Mr. Pym was at home, and I went
into his parlour. He sat at the table writing, or preparing to write. I
asked him the question I had come to ask, and he answered me. Scarcely
anything more passed between us. He was three-parts tipsy. I had
intended to tell him that he was no longer chief mate of my ship--had
been superseded; but, seeing his condition, I did not. I can say
positively that I was not more than two minutes in the room."
"And you and he did not quarrel?"
"We did not. Neither were our voices raised. It is very probable, in his
then condition, that he would have attempted to quarrel had he known he
was discharged; but he did not know it. We were perfectly civil to each
other; and when I wished him good-night, he came into the passage and
shut the front-door after me."
"You left no one with him?"
"No one; so far as I saw. I can answer for it that no one was in the
parlour with us: whether any one was in the back room I cannot say. I
do not think so."
"After that, Captain Tanerton?"
"After that I went straight to my hotel in the Minories, and ordered
tea. While taking it, Mr. Ferrar came in and told me Edward Pym was
dead. I could not at first believe it. I went back to Ship Street and
found it too true. In as short a time as I could manage it, I went to
carry the news to Sir Dace Fontaine, taking young Saxby with me."
Jack had spoken throughout in the ready, unembarrassed manner of one who
tells a true tale. But never in all my life had I seen him so quiet and
subdued. He was like one who has some great care upon him. The other
hearers, not knowing Jack as I knew him, would not notice this; though
I cannot answer for it that one of them did not James Freeman. He never
took his eyes off Jack all the while; peered at him as if he were a
curiosity. It was not an open stare; more of a surreptitious one, taken
stealthily from under his eyebrows.
Some testimony as to Pym's movements that afternoon was obtained from
Mrs. Ball, the lawyer having already been to Woburn Place to get it.
She said that young Pym came to her house between five and six o'clock
nearer six than five, she thought, and seemed very much put out and
disappointed to find Miss Verena Fontaine had left for her own home.
He spoke of the ship's having sprung a leak and put back again, but he
believed she would get out again on the morrow. Mrs. Ball did not notice
that he had been drinking; but one of her servants met him in the street
after he left the house, heard him swearing to himself, and saw him
turn into a public-house. If he remained in it until the time he next
appeared in Ship Street, his state then was not to be wondered at.
This was about all that had been gathered at present. A great deal of
talking took place, but no opinion was expressed by anybody. Time enough
for that when the jury met on the morrow. As we were turning out of the
back-room, the meeting over, Mr. Freeman put his hand upon Jack, to
detain him. Jack, in his turn, detained me.
"Captain Tanerton," he said, in a grave whisper, "do you remember making
a remark to me not long ago, in this, my private room--that if we
persisted in sending Pym out with you in the ship, there would be murder
committed?"
"I believe I do," said Jack, quietly. "They were foolish words, and
meant nothing."
"I do not like to remember them," pursued Mr. Freeman. "As things have
turned out, it would have been better that you had not used them."
"Perhaps so," answered Jack. "They have done no harm, that I know of."
"They have been singularly verified. The man has been murdered."
"Not on board the _Rose of Delhi_."
"No. Off it."
"I should rather call it death by misadventure," said Jack, looking
calmly at the broker. "At the worst, done in a scuffle; possibly in a
fall."
"Most people, as I think you will find, will call it murder, Captain
Tanerton."
"I fear they will."
Mr. Freeman stood before Jack, waiting--at least it struck me so--to
hear him add, "But I did not commit it"--or words to that effect. I
waited too. Jack never spoke them: he remained silent and still. Since
the past day his manner had changed. All the light-hearted ease had gone
out of it; the sunny temperament seemed exchanged for one of thought and
gloom.
* * * * *
Fine tidings to travel down to Timberdale!
On Wednesday, the day following this, the Squire stood at the gate of
Crabb Cot after breakfast, looking this way and that. Dark clouds were
chasing each other over the face of the sky, now obscuring the sun, now
leaving it to shine out with intense fierceness.
"It won't do to-day," cried the Squire. "It's too windy, Joe. The fish
would not bite."
"They'd bite fast enough," said Tod, who had set his mind upon a day's
fishing, and wanted the Squire to go with him.
"Feel that gust, Joe! Why, if--halloa, here comes Letsom!"
Colonel Letsom was approaching at the pace of a steam-engine, his mild
face longer than usual. Tod laughed.
The colonel, never remembering to say How d'ye do, or to shake hands,
dragged two letters out of his pocket, all in a flurry.
"Such fearful news, Todhetley!" he exclaimed. "Pym--you remember that
poor Pym?"
"What should hinder me?" cried the Squire. "A fine dance we had,
looking for him and Verena Fontaine the other night in London! What of
Pym!"
"He is dead!" gasped the colonel. "Murdered."
The pater took off his spectacles, thinking they must affect his
hearing, and stared.
"And it is thought," added the colonel, "that--that Captain Tanerton did
it."
"Good mercy, Letsom! You can't mean it."
Colonel Letsom's answer was to read out portions of the two letters. One
of them was written to his daughter Mary Ann by Coralie Fontaine; three
sheets full. She gave much the same history of the calamity that has
been given above. It could not have been done by any hand but Captain
Tanerton's, she said; though of course not intentionally; nobody thought
that: her father, Sir Dace, scorned any worse idea. Altogether, it was
a dreadful thing; it had struck Verena into a kind of wild despair,
and bewildered them all. And in a postscript she added what she had
apparently forgotten to say before--that Captain Tanerton denied it.
Tod looked up, a flush on his face. "One thing may be relied upon,
colonel--that if Tanerton did do it, he will avow it. He would never
deny it."
"This other letter is from Sir Dace," said the colonel, after putting
Coralie's aside. And he turned round that we might look over his
shoulder while he read it.
It gave a much shorter account than Coralie's; a _lighter_ account, as
if he took a less grave view of the affair; and it concluded with these
words: "Suspicion lies upon Tanerton. I think unjustly. Allowing that
he did do it, it could only have been done by a smartly-provoked blow,
devoid of ill-intention. No one knows better than myself how quarrelsome
and overbearing that unfortunate young man was. But I, for one, believe
what Tanerton says--that he was not even present when it happened. I am
inclined to think that Pym, in his unsteady state, must in some way have
fallen when alone, and struck his head fatally."
"Sir Dace is right; I'll lay my fortune upon it," cried Tod warmly.
"Don't talk quite so fast about your fortune, Joe; wait till you've got
one," rebuked the pater. "I must say it is grievous news, Letsom. It has
upset me."
"I am off now to show the letters to Paul," said the colonel. "It will
be but neighbourly, as he is a connection of the Fontaines."
Shaking hands, he turned away on the road to Islip. The Squire, leaning
on the gate, appeared to be looking after him: in reality he was deep in
a brown study.
"Joe," said he, in a tone that had a sound of awe in it, "this is
curious, taken in conjunction with what Alice Tanerton told us yesterday
morning."
"Well, it does seem rather queer," conceded Tod. "Something like the
dream turning up trumps."
"Trumps?" retorted the pater.
"Truth, then. Poor Alice!"
A singular thing had happened. Especially singular, taken in conjunction
(as the Squire put it) with this unfortunate news. And when the reader
hears the whole, though it won't be just yet, he will be ready to call
out, It is not true. But it is true. And this one only fact, with its
truth and its singularity, induced me to recount the history.
* * * * *
On Tuesday morning, the day after the calamity in Ship Street--you
perceive that we go back a day--the Squire and Tod turned out for a
walk. They had no wish to go anywhere in particular, and their steps
might just as well have been turned Crabb way as Timberdale way--or,
for that matter, any other way. The morning was warm and bright: they
strolled towards the Ravine, went through it, and so on to Timberdale.
"We may as well call and see how Herbert Tanerton is, as we are here,"
remarked the Squire. For Herbert had a touch of hay-fever. He was always
getting something or other.
The Rector was better. They found him pottering about his garden;
that prolific back-garden from which we once saw--if you don't forget
it--poor, honest, simple-minded Jack bringing strawberries on a
cabbage-leaf for crafty Aunt Dean. The suspected hay-fever turned out
to be a bit of a cold in the head: but the Rector could not have
looked more miserable had it been in the heart.
"What's the matter with you now?" cried the Squire, who never gave in
to Herbert's fancies.
"Matter enough," he growled in answer: "to have a crew of ridiculous
women around you, no better than babies! Here's Alice in a world of a
way about Jack, proclaiming that some harm has happened to him."
"What harm? Does she know of any?"
"No, she does not know of any," croaked Herbert, flicking a growing
gooseberry off a bush with the rake. "She says a dream disclosed it to
her."
The pater stared. Tod threw up his head with a laugh.
"You might have thought she'd got her death-warrant read out to her, so
white and trembling did she come down," continued Herbert in an injured
tone. "She had dreamt a dream, foreshadowing evil to Jack, she began to
tell us--and not a morsel of breakfast could she touch."
"But that's not like Alice," continued the Squire. "She is too sensible:
too practical for such folly."
"It's not like any rational woman. And Grace would have condoled with
her! Women infect each other."
"What was the dream?"
"Some nonsense or other, you may be sure. I would not let her relate it,
to me, or to Grace. Alice burst into tears and called me hard-hearted.
I came out here to get away from her."
"For goodness' sake don't let her upset herself over a rubbishing dream,
Tanerton," cried the Squire, all sympathy. "She's not strong, you know,
just now. I dreamt one night the public hangman was appointed to take my
head off; but it is on my shoulders yet. You tell her that."
"Yesterday was the day Jack was to sail," interrupted Tod.
"Of course it was," acquiesced the Rector: "he must be half-way down the
channel by this time. If---- Here comes Alice!" he broke off. "I shall
go. I don't want to hear more of such stuff."
He went on down the garden in a huff, disappearing behind the
kidney-beans. Alice, wearing a light print gown and black silk apron,
her smooth brown hair glossy as ever, and her open face as pretty, shook
hands with them both.
"And what's this we hear about your tormenting yourself over a dream?"
blundered the Squire. Though whether it was a blunder to say it, I know
not; or whether, but for that, she would have spoken: once the ice is
broken, you may plunge in easily. "My dear, I'd not have thought it of
_you_."
Alice's face took a deeper gravity, her eyes a far-off look. "It is
quite true, Mr. Todhetley," she sighed. "I have been very much troubled
by a dream."
"Tell it us, Alice," said Tod, his whole face in a laugh. "What was it
about?"
"That you may ridicule it?" she sighed.
"Yes," he answered. "Ridicule it out of you."
"You cannot do that," was her quiet answer: and Tod told me in later
days that it rather took him aback to see her solemn sadness. "I should
like to relate it to you, Mr. Todhetley. Herbert would not hear it, or
let Grace."
"Herbert's a parson, you know, my dear, and parsons think they ought to
be above such things," was the Squire's soothing answer. "If it will
ease your mind to tell it me---- Here, let us sit down under the
pear-tree."
So they sat down on the bench under the blossoms of the pear-tree, the
pater admonishing Tod to behave himself; and poor Alice told her dream.
"I thought it was the present time," she began. "This very present day,
say, or yesterday; and that Jack was going to sea in command----"
"But, my dear, he always goes in command."
"Of course. But in the dream the point was especially presented to my
mind--that he was going out _in command_. He came to me the morning of
the day he was to sail, looking very patient, pale, and sorrowful. It
seemed that he and I had had some dispute, causing estrangement, the
previous night: it was over then, and I, for one, repented of the
coldness."
"Well, Alice?" broke in Tod: for she had stopped, and was gazing out
straight before her.
"I wish I could show to you how _real_ all this was," she resumed. "It
was more as though I were wide awake, and enacting it. I never had so
vivid a dream before; never in all my life."
"But why don't you go on?"
"Somebody had been murdered: some man. I don't know who it was--or
where, or how. Jack was suspected. Jack! But it seemed that it could not
be brought home to him. We were in a strange town; at least, it was
strange to me, though it seemed that I had stayed in it once before,
many years ago. Jack was standing before me all this while, you
understand, in his sadness and sorrow. It was not he who had told me
what had happened. I seemed to have known it already. Everybody knew
it, everybody spoke of it, and we were in cruel distress. Suddenly I
remembered that when I was in the town the previous time, the man who
was murdered had had a bitter quarrel with another man, a gentleman:
and a sort of revelation came over me that this gentleman had been the
murderer. I went privately to some one who had authority in the ship,
and said so; I think her owner. He laughed at me--did I know how high
this gentleman was, he asked; the first magnate in the town. That he had
done it I felt sure; surer than if I had seen it done; but no one would
listen to me--and in the trouble I awoke."
"_That's_ not much to be troubled at," cried the Squire.
"The trouble was terrible; you could not feel such in real life. But I
have not told all. Presently I got to sleep again, and found myself in
the same dream. I was going through the streets of the town in an open
carriage, the ship's owner with me----"
"Was the ship the _Rose of Delhi_?"
"I don't know. The owner, sitting with me in the carriage, was not
either of the owners of the _Rose of Delhi_, whom I know well; this
was a stranger. We were going over a bridge. Walking towards us on the
pavement, I saw two gentlemen arm-in-arm: one an officer in a dusky old
red uniform and cocked-hat; the other an _evil_-looking man who wore a
long brown coat. He walked along with his eyes on the ground. I knew him
by intuition--that it was the man who had had the quarrel years before,
and who had done the murder now. 'There's the gentleman you would have
accused,' said my companion before I could speak, pointing to this man:
'he stands higher in position than anybody else in the town.' They
walked on in their security, and we drove on in our pain. I ought to say
in my pain, for I alone felt it. Oh, I cannot tell you what it was--this
terrible pain; not felt so much, it seemed, because my husband could not
be cleared, as for _his_ sadness and sorrow. Nothing like it, I say, can
ever be felt on earth."
"And what else, Alice?"
"That is all," she sighed. "I awoke for good then. But the pain and the
fear remain with me."
"Perhaps, child, you are not very well?--been eating green gooseberries,
or some such trash. Nothing's more likely to give one bad dreams than
unripe fruit."
"Why should the dream have left this impression of evil upon me--this
weight of fear?" cried Alice, never so much as hearing the pater's
irreverent suggestion. "If it meant nothing, if it were not come as a
warning, it would pass from my mind as other dreams pass."
Not knowing what to say to this, the Squire said nothing. He and Tod
both saw how useless it would be; no argument could shake her faith in
the dream, and the impression it had left.
The Squire, more easily swayed than a child, yet suspecting nothing of
the news that was on its way to Timberdale, quitted the Rectory and went
home shaking his head. Alice's solemn manner had told upon him. "I can't
make much out of the dream, Joe," he remarked, as they walked back
through the Ravine; "but I don't say dreams are always to be ridiculed,
since we read of dreams sent as warnings in the Bible. Anyhow, I hope
Jack will make a good voyage. He has got home safe and sound from other
voyages: why should he not from this one?"
Before that day was over, they saw Alice again. She walked over to Crabb
Cot in the evening with her little girl--a sprightly child with Jack's
own honest and kindly eyes. Alice put a sealed paper into the Squire's
hand.
"I know you will think me silly," she said to him, in a low tone:
"perhaps gone a little out of my senses; but, as I told you this
morning, nothing has ever impressed me so greatly and so unpleasantly
as this dream. I cannot get it out of my mind for a moment; every
hour, as it goes by, only serves to render it clearer. I have written
it down here, every particular, more minutely than I related it to
you this morning, and I have sealed it up, you see; and I am come to
ask you to keep it. Should my husband ever be accused, it may serve
to----"
"Now, child, don't you talk nonsense," interrupted the pater. "Accused
of what?"
"I don't know. I wish I did. I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Todhetley,"
she went on, in deprecation; "but indeed there lies upon me a dread--an
apprehension that startles me. I dare say I express myself badly; but
it is there. And, do you know, Jack has lately experienced the same
sensation; he told me so on Sunday. He said it was like an instinct of
coming evil."
"Then that accounts for it," cried the Squire, considerably relieved,
and wondering how Jack could be so silly, if she was. "If your husband
told you that, Alice, of course the first thing you'd do would be to go
and dream of it."
"Perhaps so. What he said made no impression on me; he laughed as he
said it: I don't suppose it made much on him. Please keep the paper."
The Squire carried the paper upstairs and locked it up in the little old
walnut bureau in his bedroom. He told Alice where he had put it. And
she, declining any refreshment, left again with little Polly for
Timberdale Rectory.
"Has Herbert come to?" asked Tod laughingly, as he went to open the gate
for her.
"Oh dear, no," answered Alice. "He never will, if you mean as to hearing
me tell the dream."
They had a hot argument after she left: Mrs. Todhetley maintaining that
some dreams were to be regarded as sacred things; while Tod ridiculed
them with all his might, asserting that there never had been, and never
could be anything in them to affect sensible people. The Squire, now
taking one side, now veering to the other, remained in a state of
vacillation, something like Mahomet's coffin hovering between earth
and heaven.
And, you will now readily understand that when the following morning,
Wednesday, Colonel Letsom brought the Squire the news of Pym's death,
calling it murder, and that Jack was suspected, and the ship had gone
out without him, this dream of Alice Tanerton's took a new and not at
all an agreeable prominence. Even Tod, sceptical Tod, allowed that it
was "queer."
On this same morning, Wednesday, Alice received a letter from her
husband. He spoke of the mishap to the ship, said that she had put back,
and had again gone out; he himself being detained in London on business,
but he expected to be off in a day or two and join her at some place
down channel. But not a word did he say of the cause of his detention,
or of the death of Edward Pym. She heard it from others.
With this confirmation, as it seemed, of her dream, Alice took it up
more warmly. She went over to the old lawyer at Islip, John Paul,
recounted the dream to him, and asked what she was to do. Naturally,
old Paul told her "nothing:" and he must have laughed in his sleeve as
he said it.
* * * * *
The good ship, _Rose of Delhi_, finally went away with all her sails set
for the East; but John Tanerton went not with her.
The inquest on the unfortunate young man, Pym, was put off from time to
time, and prolonged and procrastinated. Captain Tanerton had to wait its
pleasure; the ship could not.
The case presented difficulties, and the jury could not see their way to
come to a verdict. Matters looked rather black against Captain Tanerton;
that was not denied; but not sufficiently black, it would seem, for
the law to lay hold of him. At any rate, the law did not. Perhaps the
persistent advocacy of Sir Dace Fontaine went some way with the jury.
Sir Dace gave it as his strong opinion that his misguided nephew, being
the worse for drink, had fallen of himself, probably with his head on
the iron fender, and that Captain Tanerton's denial was a strictly true
one. The end finally arrived at was--that there was not sufficient
evidence to show how the death was caused.
At the close of the investigation Jack went down to Timberdale. Not
the open-hearted, ready-handed Jack of the old days, but a subdued,
saddened man who seemed to have a care upon him. The foolish speech he
had thoughtlessly made to Mr. Freeman preceded him: and Herbert
Tanerton--always looking on the darkest side of everything and
everybody, considered it a proof that Jack had done the deed.
Timberdale (including Crabb) held opposite opinions; half of it taking
Captain Tanerton's side, half the contrary one. As to the Squire, he was
more helpless than an old sheep. He had always liked Jack, had believed
in him as in one of us: but, you see, when one gets into trouble, faith
is apt to waver. A blow, argued the pater in private, is so easily given
in the heat of passion.
"A pretty kettle of fish this is," croaked Herbert to Jack, on his
brother's arrival.
"Yes, it is," sighed Jack.
"The ship's gone without you, I hear."
"She had to go. Ships cannot be delayed to await the convenience of one
man: you must know that, Herbert."
"How came you to do it, John?"
"To do what?" asked Jack. "To stay? It was no fault of mine. I was one
of the chief witnesses, and the coroner would not release me."
"You know what I mean. Not that. How came you to do it, I ask?"
"To do what?" repeated Jack.
"Kill Pym."
Jack's face took a terrible shade of pain as he looked at his brother.
"I should have thought, Herbert, that you, of all people, might have
judged me better than that."
"I don't mean to say you did it deliberately; that you meant to do it,"
returned the Rector in his coldest manner. "But that was a very awkward
threat of yours--that if the brokers persisted in sending Pym out with
you, there'd be murder committed. Very incautious!"
"You can't mean what you say; you cannot surely reflect on what you
would imply--that I spoke those words with intention!" flashed Jack.
"You did speak them--and they were verified," contended Herbert. Just
the same thing, you see, that Mr. Freeman had said to Jack in London.
Poor Jack!
"How did you hear that I had said anything of the kind?"
"Somebody wrote it to Timberdale," answered the parson, crustily. There
could be no question that the affair had crossed him more than anything
that had ever happened in this world. "I think it was Coralie Fontaine."
"I am deeply sorry I ever spoke them, Herbert--as things have turned
out."
"No doubt you are. The tongue's an evil and dangerous member. Let us
drop the subject: the less it is recurred to now, the better."
Captain Tanerton saw how it was--that all the world suspected him,
beginning with his brother.
And he certainly did not do as much to combat the feeling as he might
have done. This was noticed. He did not assert his innocence strenuously
and earnestly. He said he was not guilty, it's true, but he said it too
quietly. A man accused of so terrible a crime would move heaven and
earth to prove the charge false--if false it were. Jack denied his
guilt, but denied it in a very tame fashion. And this had its effect
upon his upholders.
There could be no mistaking that some inward trouble tormented him. His
warm, genial manners had given place to thoughtfulness and care. Was
Jack guilty?--his best friends acknowledged the doubt now, in the depths
of their heart. Herbert Tanerton was worrying himself into a chronic
fever: chiefly because disgrace was reflected on his immaculate self,
Jack being his brother. Squire Todhetley, meeting Jack one day in
Robert Ashton's cornfield, took Jack's hands in his, and whispered that
if Jack did strike the blow unwittingly, he knew it was all the fault of
that unhappy, cross-grained Pym. In short, the only person who retained
full belief in Jack was his wife. Jack had surely done it, said
Timberdale under the rose, but done it unintentionally.
Alice related her dream to Jack. Not being given to belief in dreams,
Jack thought little of it. Nothing, in fact. It was no big, evil-faced
man who harmed Pym, he answered, shaking his head; and he seemed to
speak as one who knew.
Timberdale was no longer a pleasant resting-place for John Tanerton,
and he quitted it for Liverpool, with Alice and their little girl.
Aunt Dean received him coolly and distantly. The misfortune had put
her out frightfully: with Jack's income threatened, there would be
less for herself to prey upon. She told him to his face that if he
wanted to correct Pym, he might have waited till they got out to sea:
blows were not thought much of on board ship.
The next day Jack paid a visit to the owners, and resigned his command.
For, he was still attached ostensibly to the _Rose of Delhi_, though
another master had temporarily superseded him.
"Why do you do this?" asked Mr. Charles Freeman. "We can put you into
another ship, one going on a shorter voyage, and when your own comes
home you can take her again."
"No," said Jack. "Many thanks, though, for your confidence in me. All
the world seems to believe me guilty. If I were guilty I am not fit to
command a ship's crew."
"But you were not guilty?"
More emphatically than Jack had yet spoken upon the affair, he spoke
now: and his truthful, candid eyes went straight into those of his
questioner.
"_I was not._ Before Heaven, I say it."
Charles Freeman heaved a sigh of relief. He liked Jack, and the matter
had somewhat troubled him.
"Then, Captain Tanerton--I fully believe you--why not reconsider your
determination, and remain on active service? The _Shamrock_ is going to
Madras; sails in a day or two; and you shall have her. She'll be home
again before the _Rose of Delhi_. For your own sake I think you should
do this--to still rancorous tongues."
Jack sighed. "I can't feel free to go," he said. "This suspicion has
troubled me more than you can imagine. I must get some employment on
shore."
"You should stand up before the world and assert your innocence in this
same emphatic manner," returned the owner. "Why have you not done it?"
Jack's voice took a tone of evasion at once. "I have not cared to do
it."
Charles Freeman looked at him. A sudden thought flashed into his mind.
"Are you screening some one, Captain Tanerton?"
"How can you ask such a question?" rejoined Jack. But the deep and
sudden flush that rose with the words, gave fresh food for speculation
to Mr. Freeman. He dropped his voice.
"Surely it was not Sir Dace Fontaine who--who killed him? The uncle and
nephew were not on good terms."
Jack's face and voice brightened again--he could answer this with his
whole heart. "No, no," he impressively said, "it was not Sir Dace
Fontaine. You may at least rely upon that."
* * * * *
When I at length got back to Crabb, the Fontaines were there. After the
inquest, they had gone again to Brighton. Poor Verena looked like a
ghost, I thought, when I saw her on the Sunday in their pew at church.
"It has been a dreadful thing," I said to her, as we walked on together
after service; "but I am sorry to see you look so ill."
"A dreadful thing!--ay, it has, Johnny Ludlow," was her answer, spoken
in a wail. "I expect it will kill some of us."
Sir Dace looked ill too. His furtive eyes had glanced hither and thither
during the service, like a man who has a scare upon him; but they seemed
ever to come back to Verena.
Not another word was said by either of us until we were near the barn.
Then Verena spoke.
"Where is John Tanerton?"
"In Liverpool, I hear."
"Poor fellow!"
Her tone was as piteous as her words, as her looks. All the bloom had
gone from her pretty face; its lips were white, dry, and trembling.
In Coralie there was no change; her smiles were pleasant as ever, her
manners as easy. The calamity had evidently passed lightly over her; as
I expect most things in life did pass.
Saying good-morning at the turning, Sir Dace and Verena branched off to
Maythorn Bank. Coralie lingered yet, talking with Mr. Todhetley.
"My dear, how ill your father is looking!" exclaimed the Squire.
"He does look ill," answered Coralie. "He has never been quite the same
since that night in London. He said one day that he could not get the
sight of Pym out of his mind--as he saw him lying on the floor in Ship
Street."
"It must have been a sad sight."
"Papa is also, I think, anxious about Verena," added Coralie. "She has
taken the matter to heart in quite an unnecessary manner; just, I'm
sure, as if she intended to die over it. That must vex papa: I see him
glancing at her every minute in the day. Oh, I assure you I am the only
cheerful one of the family now," concluded Coralie, lightly, as she ran
away to catch the others.
That was the last we saw of them that year. On the morrow we left for
Dyke Manor.
* * * * *
In the course of the autumn John Tanerton ran up to Timberdale from
Liverpool. It had come to his knowledge that the Ash Farm, belonging to
Robert Ashton, was to let--Grace had chanced to mention it incidentally
when writing to Alice--and poor Jack thought if he could only take it
his fortune was made. He was an excellent, practical farmer, and knew he
could make it answer. But it would take two or three thousand pounds to
stock the Ash Farm, and Jack had not as many available shillings. He
asked his brother to lend him the money.
"I always knew you were deficient in common sense," was the Rector's
sarcastic rejoiner to the request. "Three thousand pounds! What next?"
"It would be quite safe, Herbert: you know how energetic I am. And I
will pay you good interest."
"No doubt you will--when I lend it you. You have a cheek!"
"But----"
"That will do; don't waste breath," interrupted Herbert, cutting him
short. And he positively refused the request--refused to listen to
another word.
Strolling past Maythorn Bank that same afternoon, very much down in
looks and spirits, Jack saw Sir Dace Fontaine. He was leaning over his
little gate, looking just as miserable as Jack. For Sir Dace to look out
of sorts was nothing unusual; for Jack it was. Sir Dace asked what was
amiss: and Jack--candid, free-spoken, open-natured Jack--told of his
disappointment in regard to the Ash Farm: his brother not feeling
inclined to advance him the necessary money to take it--three thousand
pounds.
"I wonder you do not return to the sea, Captain Tanerton," cried Sir
Dace.
"I do not care to return to it," was Jack's answer.
"Why?"
"I shall never go to sea again, Sir Dace," he said in his candour.
"Never go to sea again!"
"No. At any rate, not until I am cleared. While this dark cloud of
suspicion lies upon me I am not fit to take the command of others. Some
windy night insubordinate men might throw the charge in my teeth."
"You are wrong," said Sir Dace, his countenance taking an angry turn.
"You know, I presume, your own innocence--and you should act as if you
knew it."
He turned back up the path without another word, entered his house,
and shut the door. Jack walked slowly on. Presently he heard footsteps
behind him, looked round, and saw Verena Fontaine. They had not met
since the time of Pym's death, and Jack thought he had never seen such a
change in any one. Her bright colour was gone, her cheeks were wasted--a
kind of dumb despair sat in her once laughing blue eyes. All Jack's
pity--and he had his share of it--went out to her.
"I heard a little of what you said to papa at the garden-gate, Captain
Tanerton--not much of it. I was in the arbour. _Why_ is it that you will
not yet go to sea again? What is it you wait for?"
"I am waiting until I can stand clear in the eyes of men," answered
Jack, candid as usual, but somewhat agitated, as if the topic were a
sore one. "No man with a suspicion attaching to him should presume to
hold authority over other men."
"I understand you," murmured Verena. "If you stood as free from
suspicion with all the world as you are in my heart, and--and"--she
paused from emotion--"and I think in my father's also, you would have no
cause to hesitate."
Jack took a questioning glance at her; at the sad, eager eyes that were
lifted beseechingly to his. "It is kind of you to say so much," he
answered. "It struck me at the time of the occurrence that you could
not, did not, believe me guilty."
Verena shivered. As if his steady gaze were too much for her, she turned
her own aside towards the blue sky.
"Good-bye," she said faintly, putting out her hand. "I only wanted to
say this--to let you know that I believe in your innocence."
"Thank you," said Jack, meeting her hand. "It is gratifying to hear that
_you_ do me justice."
He walked quietly away. She stood still to watch him. And of all the
distressed, sad, _aching_ countenances ever seen in this world, few
could have matched that of Miss Verena Fontaine.