THE LAST WALTZ.
For fully five minutes Colonel Dacre knelt beside the lifeless body,
then he rose up stern and resolute to do his duty. First of all he
roused Wiginton, and had the dead man carried into the inn, and laid
on the bed he had occupied twenty-four hours ago. Wiginton evidently
thought that it was a case of sudden death, for he said, with real
feeling:
“Poor gentleman! And he looked so healthy, too. Hadn’t I better go for
a doctor, sir?”
“Perhaps you had; although it will be of no use,” was Colonel Dacre’s
reply.
“I dare say not; but it might have an ugly look if we tried to hush the
thing up, sir.”
Colonel Dacre saw the reasonableness of this argument, although it had
not occurred to him in the agitated preoccupation of the moment. He
promised to watch beside the dead man while Mr. Wiginton went to the
village to fetch the doctor. But it so happened that Doctor Dale had
been up all night with a patient, and was just passing the house on his
way home as Wiginton issued forth.
His visit was a mere matter of form, naturally. As there were no
signs of violence on the body Doctor Dale drew the same conclusion
as Wiginton, that the man died by the visitation of God. He put a
few questions to Colonel Dacre, as to whether he knew the deceased
gentleman, or had any reason to suppose that he had been the victim
of foul play. And on the other replying in the negative he seemed
perfectly satisfied, and said he would go home and get a little rest,
and send round to the coroner later in the morning.
“He has probably died from heart-disease,” he concluded, moving toward
the door. “But that we shall ascertain, I have no doubt.”
“You will have a post-mortem examination, I suppose.”
“Certainly; at least, I have no doubt of it whatever.”
“You are not prepared, then, to give a certificate as to the cause of
death?”
“Well, not exactly. I like to be very careful in these matters, as
one’s reputation is often at stake. This gentleman’s family will
investigate the case thoroughly we may be sure, and I think it is
better to be beforehand with them. You say you have no idea who the
poor fellow is?”
“Not the faintest. But he may have letters in his pocket that would
enlighten us.”
“Possibly,” replied Doctor Dale, coming back from the door. “It would
be as well to look.”
But save an ordinary-looking cigar-case there was nothing whatever
in the dead man’s pockets. It almost seemed, indeed, as if this
were a precaution, and not an accident, for the mark on his pocket
handkerchief had been cut out, and the initials on the cigar-case
defaced.
Doctor Dale was not a suspicious man, evidently, for this did not
appear to strike him as strange. He simply remarked as he moved away
again:
“The police will, no doubt, be able to trace him. It would be as well
if you were to communicate with them at once, Wiginton, I think. I must
get home to bed or I shall be good for nothing all day,” he added half
apologetically, “and I am nearly worn out. I owe it to my patients as
well as to myself to take rest when I can, for no doctor can trust to
his head when it is confused for want of sleep.”
“I have no doubt you are quite right,” answered Colonel Dacre, with
a secret thrill of satisfaction, for he wanted, above all things, to
gain time. “It is often necessary to consider oneself for the sake of
others.”
“I shall see you later, of course?” said Doctor Dale, as he departed
for his well-earned repose, and Colonel Dacre nodded.
He had no wish to shirk any inquiry, so far as he was personally
concerned, but he meant to shelter the guilty, wretched woman whom he
loved still, in spite of himself, and then forget her--if he could!
If he could! Ah! that was a painful proviso; for, somehow, he could
only think of her even now--standing over her victim--as he had known
her in the early days of her innocent girlhood, when he had believed
her to be as true as steel, and as worthy of his worship as any saint.
And this was her work. How thankful he was to escape from its
contemplation, and lock the door on the white face, which was fast
settling into the solemn calm of death, no words can tell.
He followed Wiginton down-stairs, and when mine host, who looked
thoroughly overcome, suggested that a glass of brandy would not
come amiss, Colonel Dacre welcomed the suggestion, and felt much
fortified for the task before him, when he had taken a good dose of
the stimulant. Then he went to the Grange. He determined that he would
see Lady Gwendolyn at once--even if he had to steal into her house
like a thief--for her only chance was to escape before the post-mortem
examination made the cause of death evident, and set the police on the
track of the murderer.
The dead man’s presence at Turoy once traced to her influence, and
their secret meetings known, there would be no hope of her getting
away; and though she deserved her fate, as he was fain to confess, he
meant to save her, even if he perished in her place. But as he was
leaving the inn, Wiginton said rather dubiously:
“It’s no use my going to the village after the police, for Lady Lenox
sent for the inspector over to her place last night, I heard them say.
At her last ball some thieves got into the house, and stole a good deal
of plate, so that she determined to have somebody to watch the house
this time. I suppose I had better go there, sir, hadn’t I?”
“If you are sure to find him.”
“There’s no doubt about that. I saw him outside the fly that took her
ladyship to the ball. It came from the George, and I suppose the driver
gave him a lift so far on his way.”
“Do you mean that Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur went to the ball, Mr.
Wiginton?”
“I believe so, sir. The two families were always intimate, and it isn’t
likely they would leave her out.”
“But she would surely have returned by this time.”
“I think not. Lady Lenox is noted for keeping up her balls until six
or seven o’clock in the morning, and those who can stand such hours
have breakfast before they go home. She is a very excitable person, and
always turns night into day.”
Colonel Dacre looked at his watch.
“It is not ten minutes past four,” he said. “How long would it take us
to go to Lady Lenox’s house?”
“About half an hour, sir. But I needn’t take you--surely?”
“I should prefer to accompany you, as I want to see somebody whom I am
likely to find there. But we had better be quick.”
“I am ready, sir,” answered Wiginton; and they started at a brisk pace
for Bridgton Hall.
About half-way there they met the inspector with his two men on their
way home, looking none the worse for their night’s watch, thanks to
their numerous visits to the butler’s pantry. Colonel Dacre heard from
them that the ball was virtually over, but that a few favorite guests
still remained, although they could not exactly say who these last were.
“However, Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur is one,” added the inspector,
volunteering the information Colonel Dacre dared not ask; “for the
driver from the George was asleep in the harness-room when I left; and
I don’t expect he would have stayed there unless he had been obliged.”
It did not seem probable, certainly, and so Colonel Dacre left Wiginton
to return with the inspector, and went on alone.
Of course Lady Gwendolyn had gone to the ball, and, of course, she
would be the gayest of them all, outwardly, for had she not a secret to
hide? He could not help pitying her somehow. She had put her hand to a
terrible thing, but maybe she had had a scoundrel to deal with, and had
been sorely tempted, poor, unhappy child!
His heart was beginning to soften strangely when he came within
sight and sound of Bridgton Hall, but it hardened again as he paused
to listen to a waltz he knew only too well. Surely that must be
Lady Gwendolyn’s touch--her spirited playing. For the band had been
dismissed, evidently, and they were keeping up the ball to the music of
the piano, which came surging through the open windows and out into the
dewy shrubberies as if it would have the young man listen and remember.
And he did remember, to his torture.
The waltz finished as he drew near to the door, and two women came
forward to the window, and stood there inhaling the freshness of the
morning. Both were dressed in white: one looked flushed and excited
under her wreath of water-lilies; the other, languid but lovely, turned
her calm deep eyes his way, and, recognizing him, grew suddenly scarlet
to the roots of her hair.
He stepped forward at once and lifted his hat, saying, in a cold,
constrained voice:
“Might I speak with you a moment, Lady Gwendolyn?”
The color faded out of her face, but she looked up at him steadily and
unflinchingly.
“I am afraid I have no time now, Colonel Dacre. I have ordered my fly,
and expect it round every minute.”
“I will not detain your ladyship long,” he said; and his voice was like
ice. “It is absolutely necessary that you should hear what I have to
say, otherwise I would not disturb you at such a time and in such a
place.”
She lifted her head with a haughty gesture.
“It is impossible you should have anything of so much importance to
communicate to me, Colonel Dacre.”
“I think you will find that you are mistaken, Lady Gwendolyn.”
His stern, decided manner evidently startled her, for she turned to
Lady Teignmouth, who was standing at her side, and said quietly:
“Has anything happened, Pauline? Reggie was quite well yesterday----”
Lady Teignmouth laughed a nervous, tuneless laugh.
“Don’t be absurd, Gwen! We should have been sure to hear if anything
had been the matter.”
“Of course. I am very foolish to frighten myself so easily; but I am
tired and nervous, I suppose. I wish Lady Lenox wouldn’t make me stay
so long. I have tried to slip away half a dozen times at least, and she
has caught me and carried me back. It is a great mistake, to my mind,
to bring town habits and town hours into the country, where we are
nothing if we are not rural.”
She yawned demonstratively as she spoke, and appeared to have forgotten
Colonel Dacre’s very existence, until he reminded her of it by saying
formally:
“Perhaps your ladyship will allow me to accompany you as far as Turoy?
I am sorry to annoy you by persisting, but I must speak with you
privately--for your own sake.”
“Oh, you horrible man!” exclaimed Lady Teignmouth, with playful
impertinence. “You are always full of mysteries! When I last saw you at
Teignmouth you had something very important and very secret to say to
Gwen, you know.”
He colored resentfully, remembering how she had sent him to Turoy to
meet the greatest sorrow of his life. Of course she could not know how
tragically and painfully he was to be cured of his infatuation; but she
certainly guessed that he would meet a successful rival at the Grange,
and had taken a malicious pleasure in his discomfiture. He answered
coldly:
“I don’t know why your ladyship should infer that what I had to say
to Lady Gwendolyn the other day was at all secret or mysterious. I
certainly gave you no grounds for such a belief.”
“You forget that women do not always need to be told things, Colonel
Dacre.”
“They have no right to make sure of anything they have not been told,”
he said shortly.
“What a miserable, matter-of-fact place the world would be if it were
forbidden to exercise one’s imagination a little!”
“It would be safer, anyhow,” he replied; and as Lady Gwendolyn’s fly
drove up at this moment, he opened the door and handed her in, a
little surprised that she made no further objection to his plan.
Lady Teignmouth parted from them with a jest, followed by a laugh that
sounded forced and unnatural at the moment, but struck him as strangely
incongruous when, on looking back, he saw her standing still where they
had left her, with such a haggard, troubled face, and intense eyes,
that he shuddered, and wondered if a woman with that countenance could
have an ordinary destiny.
“Well,” she observed at last, “I thought you wished to speak to me.”
He came back to himself with a start.
“So I did. It is necessary for your personal safety that you should
know the truth at once. The gentleman whom you met in the wood last
evening died two hours ago. He told me, with almost his last breath,
that he had been poisoned, and sent you a message of forgiveness.
All this will never transpire, of course, however wrong it may be of
me to conceal the truth; but, unfortunately, there is likely to be a
post-mortem examination, and in that case everything may come out. Are
you prepared to face it?”
“What do you mean? Are you mad?” she exclaimed, with a look of
apprehension that was really splendid acting. “You cannot wonder that
I doubt your sanity, since a few hours ago you were pretending to love
me, and now you actually dare to accuse me of a horrible crime.”
“Look here, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said hoarsely; “my love was no
pretense, and you know it; my accusation is no falsehood, and you know
that, too. I witnessed your first meeting with the wretched man who
is dead. I know that you were together again last night, for I was in
the wood at about nine o’clock, and I heard him address you in terms
of reproach. Of course I witnessed nothing that passed after this,
for I hurried away as fast as I could; but at three o’clock the poor
creature, who had evidently tried to crawl to the inn for aid, died at
the roadside, with his head on my arm; his last words being: ‘Tell her
I forgive her, and----’ Perhaps you can fill up the hiatus. I pretend
to understand nothing that I did not see and hear.”
She listened to him in stupefied silence, and when he had finished, she
said, in a low, shrinking voice:
“Describe the man to me.”
Colonel Dacre had not forgotten his appearance, and drew his portrait
accurately enough.
Lady Gwendolyn’s head sank lower and lower on her breast.
“And he told you he had been poisoned?” she asked.
“Yes; and a man does not lie at such a time.”
“He might have been mistaken,” she said, under her breath.
“Impossible!”
“You would rather believe the worst, I see.”
“On the contrary, I would give my right arm to be able to trust you,
Lady Gwendolyn,” he cried vehemently. “If I live to be a hundred years
old I shall never have such a sorrow as this--to be forced to judge the
woman I loved better than my life.”
He expected a disdainful smile, but none came. She only passed her hand
over her brow, as if she were confused. Then, suddenly, her lips took a
resolute fold, and she lifted her head boldly.
“He did not mention my name?” she said.
“No.”
“Then you know nothing?”
“People do not commit such dark deeds before witnesses; but I fancy
such evidence as I could give, if I chose, would hang any one.”
She shuddered convulsively--it was the first sign of actual fear she
had shown.
“You surely can have no motive for interfering in the matter,” she
said, after a long pause; and watching his face anxiously as she spoke.
“When I have warned you my part in the tragedy is played out, Lady
Gwendolyn, so far as you are concerned. I shall have to appear at the
inquest, of course; but I shall simply state there that I heard the
poor man groan, and found him lying on the bank in a dying state.”
“And if they ask you if he spoke?”
“Then I shall tell a lie for the first time in my life,” he answered
sternly. “I would not do it to save myself, but you----”
“Thank you,” she said, in a quiet, firm tone; “that was all I
wanted to know. Perhaps one of these days you will understand
things better than you do now, Colonel Dacre; meanwhile, I do not
think you will reproach yourself much for what you have done this
day--for--for”--hesitatingly--“things are not always as they seem. I
don’t ask you to shake hands with me, although this is probably the
last time we shall ever meet--and we were once friends--but I shall
always remember you with gratitude.”
“And you will leave England at once?” he said, as the carriage stopped.
“Never mind about me; I can take care of myself,” she answered, and,
jumping lightly down, she disappeared into the house.
Half an hour later a slight figure in black came stealthily out of the
Grange; but instead of passing through the great gate, slipped round
by the shrubberies and out into the road by a gap in the hedge. But
Colonel Dacre, who was watching from his window, saw it plainly in
spite of these precautions, and murmured fervently within himself:
“Thank Heaven, she has thought better of it, and is gone!”