SHORTLY after his arrival at Liverpool, Frank received two letters from
Harleyford. The first from his mother, ran thus—
“MY DEAREST BOY,—
“We received your telegram, with your address, yesterday, and I need
not say how thankful your father and I were to hear that you were safe
and well, and that you had some settled place of abode, where a letter
could be sent. We had begun to fear that with your usual impetuosity,
you would be starting off on some long journey, and it would be weeks
or months before there would be any means of communicating with you.
“I know, where a young lady is concerned, it is almost always lost
labour to attempt to reason with a young man, so it is with little hope
of success that I make one more appeal to your common sense.
“My dearest Frank, can you possibly imagine that you, unversed and
inexperienced in such matters, can hope to meet with success where
well-trained professional men have failed? Have not the science and
ingenuity of first-class London detectives been exhausted in this
search, and what can you hope to do? To my mind one of two things is
certain; either Miss Warden met with some accident (to us
unaccountable) and is long since dead; or else she has contracted some
_mésalliance_, and is remaining voluntarily hidden from her
friends. In either case, search for her, as far as you are concerned,
is equally fruitless; for dead or living she could never be your wife.
“My son, be reasonable, give up a task for which you are utterly
unsuited, and which renders your father and myself equally miserable.
We are ‘wearying’ for you, as your old Scotch tutor used to say, and
the rectory seems very cheerless with my Frank’s chair so long
unoccupied.
“The sculling match will be coming off soon, and I hear that Benson is
likely to be the favourite. What do you wish done about Sultana? I know
you objected to Robert riding her, but she has grown far too frisky for
your father to mount. Let us have a long letter as soon as you possibly
can, and thankful, indeed, shall I be if it contains the welcome news
that you will soon be amongst us again.
“Ever, with much love,
“Your affectionate mother,
“GRACE VARLEY.”
Then there followed a long postscript.
“Do you remember your old playfellow, Mary Burton? I have her staying
with me now (she came over from the Denver’s) and she has grown into
one of the sweetest, handsomest girls, I have ever seen. She is just
twenty-one, and has come into her mother’s large property at
North-over-Fells. She is very anxious to know if you are at all like
the Frank of old times, but I tell her a mother’s description of her
only son cannot be a trustworthy one, so she must wait till she sees
you, and judge for herself. Adieu.”
“Dear mother!” said Frank, when he read her letter, “God bless her, she
means kindly, and may say things to me no one else would dare to!”
Then he wrote a short reply.
“DEAREST MOTHER,—
“Please not to expect me at the rectory until you see me. I have
serious work on hand, which nothing but death or success will induce me
to give up. Thanks for all your news.
“Robert may ride Sultana, but tell him, I’ll thrash him if he spoils
her mouth. I am delighted to hear such good accounts of Mary Burton,
but I have other thoughts in my head than old playfellows and
sweethearts just now.
“With a great deal of love,
“Your affectionate son,
“FRANK VARLEY.”
Mrs. Varley read his letter, and sighed and cried over it. Then she
showed it to Mary Burton, who sighed and smiled over it.
“Why are such coquettes as Amy Warden sent into the world to turn men’s
brains, Mary, will you tell me that?” said Mrs. Varley. “If she had
lived, she would have been a most unsuitable wife for Frank, with her
self-willed, impatient temper. Will you wait for him, Mary? Do you
think he is worth waiting for?”
And Mary had confessed that she thought he was worth waiting for,
and had sighed and smiled again. Why should she not smile, indeed?
There was no rival beauty in her way now!
Frank’s second letter was from Lord Hardcastle, and contained a brief
summary of events at Harleyford—
“I grieve to say,” he wrote, “that Mrs. Warden is in a very weak state
of health. Indeed I think far more seriously of her than Hayward does,
and have suggested that further medical advice should be called in. Mr.
Warden has pulled himself together wonderfully, for his wife’s sake,
and seems, to a certain extent, to have recovered some of his old
strength and energy.
“With regard to Lucy Williams, my own opinion is very strong and
decided. I fail to see matters in the light in which Hill, in his
report to us, has placed them. He seeks to imply that she has been
acting in concert with Miss Warden, or upon some pre-arranged plan, and
was probably commissioned by her mistress to sell the diamonds to
supply her with money. To my mind he is shooting beyond the mark in
such a supposition. I can only look upon the girl as a common thief of
a very ordinary type, who took advantage of the state of confusion into
which the ‘High Elms’ was thrown, to take possession of her mistress’s
jewellery and clothes. She has probably stolen far more than we know,
and when Mrs. Warden becomes stronger (if she ever does) and able to go
into the matter, no doubt many things will be missed.
“I think in following this track, you are most probably wasting time
and energy. Still, as you say one must do something, and it is just
possible that in following up one clue you may come upon another, so I
will say no more, but wish you ‘God speed’ with all my heart.”
Frank growled tremendously over this letter—
“It’s all very well,” he muttered, “for Hardcastle to sit quietly at
home and throw cold water on all my attempts; how on earth does he
think the clue is to be found if one does not look after it? He says so
little, it is difficult to get at the man’s real thoughts on the
matter. It is easy to say it is perfectly useless doing this or doing
that, but what in Heaven’s name does he think ought to be done?”
What indeed! Not once or twice, but every hour in the day did Lord
Hardcastle ask himself the same question. He felt like a man walking in
a circle, for ever on the verge of a mystery, but never approaching any
nearer than a circle permitted. Become now one of the family at the
High Elms, not a look, not a word, not a tone of any one of the
household ever escaped his observation. Mrs. Warden’s severe illness
had thoroughly incapacitated her for the exertion of receiving
visitors, and the family had gradually become all but isolated from
their neighbours. An occasional morning caller, leaving cards only, the
daily visit of the doctor, and the arrival of the London post, was all
that occurred to break the day’s monotony.
Thus the summer wore slowly away, the short autumn days began to grow
chill and stormy, the sad old house looked drear and gray among the
tall, dark elms. Very drear and very gray Lord Hardcastle thought it,
as he rode slowly along the steep avenue leading through the park. He
had been transacting some business in Dunwich for Mr. Warden, and,
somewhat weary and dispirited, was returning in the afternoon twilight.
He looked right and left on a damp misty landscape. The equinoctial
gales had set in early, and the trees were already brown and leafless.
Heavy rains, too, had flooded the country round, and the stream running
through the Park was swollen and turbid, threatening to overflow its
banks. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and a flight of rooks
whirling low and flapping their black wings, with their mournful
cawing, completed the desolateness of the scene.
“It is like entering a graveyard,” he thought, as he rode along. Then
his memory went back to one bright sunny morning, when riding up this
same avenue he had met Amy and her father, well-mounted, coming from
the house. Very lovely had she looked in the summer sunshine, with her
fresh, girlish beauty, and almost royal dignity of manner.
“_A bien-tôt_, Lord Hardcastle,” had been her salutation as she
cantered past, and the sweet, ringing voice echoed in his ears
still—aye, and would until he died. Was it the many-sidedness of Amy’s
character (if the expression be allowed) which made her so dangerously
fascinating? With Varley, generally speaking, her manner had been
that of a finished coquette, alternately commanding or persuading,
wilful or gentle, as the fancy seized her. With Hardcastle, on the
contrary, her bearing was that of a stately, high-bred lady; her
impatience and impetuosity of temper only shown in the vivacity and
variety of her conversation. Was it, could it be all over now for ever?
Was all this bright beauty and loveliness but a memory—a thing of the
past? All this and much more passed through Lord Hardcastle’s mind as
he drew near to the house, standing out grim and gray against the dark,
threatening sky.
“Bad news again, sir,” said the man who came forward to take his horse,
“Mrs. Warden is much worse, but would insist on getting up this
afternoon. Doctor Hayward has been sent for, and master would like to
see you at once in the morning room.”
Thither Lord Hardcastle immediately went. The morning room was one of
the prettiest sitting rooms in the house—Amy’s favourite in the old
days, on account of its long French windows opening on to the lawn, and
from which might be seen a charming miniature landscape of woodland and
park, and the silvery rippling stream now so dark and swollen.
Mr. Warden came forward to meet him. “She would come down and sit
here,” he whispered; “a sudden change has set in, and I have sent for
Hayward; I fear he will be caught in this storm, for a storm we shall
certainly have.” As he spoke, a crash of thunder shook the house from
basement to roof, and flash after flash of brilliant lightning followed
in quick succession.
“Let me move your chair, dear,” he said, tenderly, “a little way from
the window; it is a grand sight, but almost too much for your nerves.”
She yielded at once to his wishes, as she had yielded all through their
married life; and still further to shield her from the bright flashes
he stood between her and the window, bending over her in an almost
lover-like attitude, so as not to lose any of her words, for her voice
had grown alarmingly faint and weak.
“This reminds me of old times, Stephen,” she said, looking up in his
face. At this moment a pitiful howl from old “Presto,” the hound, rang
through the room. The dog himself trembled violently and began to
sniff first under the windows, then at the door. Mr. Warden rang the
bell. “Don’t turn him out, Stephen,” said his wife, “I like him here at
my feet. Don’t you remember he was often like this in a storm. Poor old
doggie,” she added, stooping down to smooth his large head, “stay with
me as long as you can.”
Mr. Warden made no reply. Something in his throat seemed to choke him.
Lord Hardcastle looked from one to the other. Then he wrote on a slip
of paper, “The man must have missed Hayward somehow; I will go myself
after him,” and placing it where Mr. Warden would see it, hurriedly
departed on his mission.
And now the storm seemed to have reached its height. Flash after flash
lighted up the otherwise dark room, peal after peal crashed over
the roof, and the rain dashed in torrents against the window panes. “We
will have lights,” Mr. Warden had said, but his wife had objected,
urging that she wished to see the storm in all its grandeur and beauty.
“We have had dark days together lately, dear,” she said plaintively,
looking up in his face, “but I feel they are ending now. Something
tells me that your Amy will come home again”—Another mournful howl from
“Presto” interrupted her, and again the bright pink and purple of the
lightning played about the room.
“I never saw ‘Presto’ so frightened before,” she exclaimed. “How
strange it is! I used to be so nervous and terrified in a thunderstorm,
and to-night I feel so happy, as if I were beginning my girl’s life
over again.” She broke off suddenly, looking towards the window. “What
was that?” she exclaimed, “surely I heard something more than the rain!”
“Yes,” said her husband, trying to steady his nerves, which were almost
beyond his control, “it is the bough of the oleander against the glass.
How the wind is rising! It is indeed an awful tempest!”
And now Lord Hardcastle and Dr. Hayward came in, drenched to the skin
and out of breath with their hurried ride, then the dog, with one
prolonged howl, flew past them as they entered. “Something is wrong,”
said Hardcastle. “Hey, ‘Presto!’ go, find!” and opening a side door he
let the dog out into the stormy night.
The doctor went softly into the middle of the room and looked at his
patient. The hectic flush was fading from her face, and she seemed to
be sinking into a sweet sound sleep.
“I am so thankful to see her thus,” said Mr. Warden, “she has been so
feverish and excitable all day, I think the storm must have upset her
nerves.”
“Hush!” said the doctor, solemnly, holding up his hand, “this is not
sleep; this is death, Mr. Warden; she will soon be beyond the sound of
storm and tempest.” He yielded his place to the husband, who, kneeling
by her side, took her thin white hand in his. Hardcastle and the doctor
withdrawing to a further corner of the room, waited and watched for the
end to come.
Gradually the storm subsided, and the rain settled down into a slow
steady fall. The breathing of the patient became slower and fainter,
and the doctor whispered to Hardcastle that the end was at hand. At
that moment a long low wail sounded on the outside of the window, and
Hardcastle, peering through the dark panes, could see “Presto’s” brown
head and glittering eyes pressed close against the glass.
He crept softly out of the room to call the dog in, fearful lest he
might disturb the solemn watch in the chamber of death. “Quiet, old
doggie,” he said, stooping down to pat the hound, all wet and
mud-covered as he was. But what is this! What is it makes the young man
start and tremble, and his lips and cheeks turn pale? What is it brings
that look of horror into his face, and makes his eyes distend and his
nostrils quiver? What is this hanging in shreds between the dog’s
firmly-set teeth? What is it? Only a few tattered remnants of dark-blue
silk!