“Mr. Dale.” she said, “command my brother Gordon; he will be proud to obey you. I will go out myself to aid in the search, if you will let me do so.”
Douglas Dale clasped her hand in both his with grateful emotion.
“You are a noble girl,” he cried; “but you cannot help me in this. Your brother Gordon may, perhaps, and I will call upon his friendship without reserve. And now leave us, Miss Graham; this is no fitting scene for a lady. Come, gentlemen!” he exclaimed, “the horses are ready. I go by the village, and thence to the river; you will each take different roads, and will all meet me on the river-bank, at the spot where we crossed to-day.”
In less than five minutes all had mounted, and the trampling of hoofs announced their departure. Reginald was amongst them, hardly conscious of the scene or his companions.
Sight, hearing, perception of himself, and of the world around him, all seemed annihilated. He rode on through dense black shadows, dark clouds which hemmed him in on every side, as if a gigantic pall had fallen from heaven to cover him.
How he became separated from his companions he never knew; but when his senses awoke from that dreadful stupor, he found himself alone, on a common, and in the far distance he saw the glimmer of lights — very feeble and wan beneath the starless sky.
It seemed as if the horse knew his desolate ground, and was going straight towards these lights. The animal belonged to the rector, and was, no doubt, familiar with the country.
Reginald Eversleigh had just sufficient consciousness of surrounding circumstances to remember this. He made no attempt to guide the horse. What did it matter whither he went? He had forgotten his promise to meet the other men on the river-brink; he had forgotten everything, except that the work of a demon had progressed in silence, and that its fatal issue was about to burst like a thunder-clap upon him.
“Victor Carrington has told me that this fortune shall be mine; he has failed once, but will not fail always,” he said to himself.
The disappearance of Lionel Dale had struck like a thunderbolt on the baronet; but it was a thunderbolt whose falling he had anticipated with shuddering horror during every day and every hour since his arrival at Hallgrove.
The lights grew more distinct — feeble lamps in a village street, glimmering candles in cottage windows scattered here and there. The horse reached the edge of the common and turned into a high road. Five minutes afterwards Reginald Eversleigh found himself at the beginning of a little country town.
Lights were burning cheerily in the windows of an inn. The door was open, and from within there came the sound of voices that rang out merrily on the night air.
“Great heaven!” exclaimed Reginald, “how happy these peasants are — these brutish creatures who have no care beyond their daily bread!”
He envied them; and at that moment would have exchanged places with the humblest field-labourer carousing in the rustic tap-room. But it was only now and then the anguish of a guilty conscience took this shape. He was a man who loved the pleasures and luxuries of this world better than he loved peace of mind; better than he loved his own soul.
He drew rein before the inn-door, and called to the people within. A man came out, and took the bridle as he dismounted.
“What is the name of this place?” he asked.
“Frimley, sir — Frimley Common it’s called by rights. But folks call it
Frimley for short.”
“How far am I from the river-bank at the bottom of Thorpe Hill?”
“A good six miles, sir.”
“Take my horse and rub him down. Give him a pail of gruel and a quart of oats. I shall want to start again in less than an hour.”
“Sharp work, sir,” answered the ostler. “Your horse seems to have done plenty already.”
“That is my business,” said Sir Reginald, haughtily.
He went into the inn.
“Is there a room in which I can dry my coat?” he asked at the bar.
He had only lately become aware of a drizzling rain which had been falling, and had soaked through his hunting-coat.
“Were you with the Horsely hounds to-day, sir?” asked the landlord.
“Yes.”
“Good sport, sir?”
“No,” answered Sir Reginald, curtly.
“Show the way to the parlour, Jane,” said the landlord to a chambermaid, or barmaid, or girl-of-all-work, who emerged from the tap-room with a tray of earthenware mugs. “There’s one gentleman there, sir; but perhaps you won’t object to that, Christmas being such a particularly busy time,” added the landlord, addressing Reginald. “You’ll find a good fire.”
“Send me some brandy,” returned Sir Reginald, without deigning to make any further reply to the landlord’s apologetic speech.
He followed the girl, who led the way to a door at the end of a passage, which she opened, and ushered Sir Reginald into a light and comfortable room.
Before a large, old-fashioned fire-place sat a man, with his face hidden by the newspaper which he was reading.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh did not condescend to look at this stranger. He walked straight to the hearth; took off his dripping coat, and hung it on a chair by the side of the roaring wood fire. Then he flung himself into another chair, drew it close to the fender, and sat staring at the fire, with a gloomy face, and eyes which seemed to look far away into some dark and terrible region beyond those burning logs.
He sat in this attitude for some time, motionless as a statue, utterly unconscious that his companion was closely watching him from behind the sheltering newspaper. The inn servant brought a tray, bearing a small decanter of brandy and a glass. But the baronet did not heed her entrance, nor did he touch the refreshment for which he had asked.
Not once did he stir till the sudden crackling of his companion’s newspaper startled him, and he lifted his head with an impatient gesture and an exclamation of surprise.
“You are nervous to-night, Sir Reginald Eversleigh,” said the man, whose voice was still hidden by the newspaper.
The sound of the voice in which those common-place words were spoken was, at this moment, of all sounds the most hateful to Reginald Eversleigh.
“You here!” he exclaimed. “But I ought to have known that.”
The newspaper was lowered for the first time; and Reginald Eversleigh found himself face to face with Victor Carrington.
“You ought, indeed, considering I told you you should find me, or hear from me here, at the ‘Wheatsheaf,’ in case you wished to do so, or I wished you should do so either. And I presume you have come by accident, not intentionally. I had no idea of seeing you, especially at an hour when I should have thought you would have been enjoying the hospitality of your kinsman, the rector of Hallgrove.”
“Victor Carrington!” cried Reginald, “are you the fiend himself in human shape? Surely no other creature could delight in crime.”
“I do not delight in crime, Reginald Eversleigh; and it is only a man with your narrow intellect who could give utterance to such an absurdity. Crime is only another name for danger. The criminal stakes his life. I value my life too highly to hazard it lightly. But if I can mould accident to my profit, I should be a fool indeed were I to shrink from doing so. There is one thing I delight in, my dear Reginald, and that is success! And now tell me why you are here to-night?”
“I cannot tell you that,” answered the baronet. “I came hither, unconscious where I was coming. There seems a strange fatality in this. I let my horse choose his own road, and he brought me here to this house — to you, my evil genius.”
“Pray, Sir Reginald, be good enough to drop that high tragedy tone,” said Victor, with supreme coolness. “It is all very well to be addressed by you as a fiend and an evil genius once in a way; but upon frequent repetition, that sort of thing becomes tiresome. You have not told me why you are wandering about the country instead of eating your dinner in a Christian-like manner at the rectory?”
“Do you not know the reaso
n, Carrington?” asked the baronet, gazing fixedly at his companion.
“How should I know anything about it?”
“Because to-day’s work has been your doing,” answered Reginald, passionately; “because you are mixed up in the dark business of this day, as you were mixed up in that still darker treachery at Raynham Castle. I know now why you insisted upon my choosing the horse called ‘Niagara’ for my cousin Lionel; I know now why you were so interested in the appearance of that other horse, which had already caused the death of more than one rider; I know why you are here, and why Lionel Dale has disappeared in the course of the day.”
“He has disappeared!” exclaimed Victor Carrington; “he is not dead?”
“I know nothing but that he has disappeared. We missed him in the midst of the hunt. We returned to the rectory in the evening, expecting to find him there.”
“Did you expect that, Eversleigh?”
“Others did, at any rate.”
“And did you not find him ?”
“No. We left the house, after a brief delay, to seek for him; I among the others. We were to ride by different roads; to make inquiries of every kind; to obtain information from every source. My brain was dazed. I let my horse take his own road.”
“Fool! coward!” exclaimed Victor Harrington, with mingled scorn and anger. “And you have abandoned your work; you have come here to waste your time, when you should seem most active in the search — most eager to find the missing man. Reginald Eversleigh, from first to last you have trifled with me. You are a villain; but you are a hypocrite. You would have the reward of guilt, and yet wear the guise of innocence, even before me; as if it were possible to deceive one who has read you through and through. I am tired of this trifling; I am weary of this pretended innocence; and to-night I ask you, for the last time, to choose the path which you mean to tread; and, once chosen, to tread it with a firm step, prepared to meet danger — to confront destiny. This very hour, this very moment, I call upon you to make your decision; and it shall be a final decision. Will you grovel on in poverty — the worst of all poverty, the gentleman’s pittance? or will you make yourself possessor of the wealth which your uncle Oswald bequeathed to others? Look me in the face, Reginald, as you are a man, and answer me, Which is it to be — wealth or poverty?”
“It is too late to answer poverty,” replied the baronet, in a gloomy and sullen tone. “You cannot bring my uncle back to life; you cannot undo your work.”
“I do not pretend to bring the dead to life. I am not talking of the past — I am talking of the future.”
“Suppose I say that I will endure poverty rather than plunge deeper into the pit you have dug — what then?”
“In that case, I will bid you good speed, and leave you to your poverty and — a clear conscience,” answered Victor, coolly. “I am a poor man myself; but I like my friends to be rich. If you do not care to grasp the wealth which might be yours, neither do I care to preserve our acquaintance. So we have merely to bid each other good night, and part company.”
There was a pause — Reginald Eversleigh sat with his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the fire. Victor watched him with a sinister smile upon his face.
“And if I choose to go on,” said Reginald, at last; “if I choose to tread farther on the dark road which I have trodden so long — what then? Can you ensure me success, Victor Carrington?”
“I can,” replied the Frenchman.
“Then I will go on. Yes; I will be your slave, your tool, your willing coadjutor in crime and treachery; anything to obtain at last the heritage out of which I have been cheated.”
“Enough! You have made your decision. Henceforward let me hear no repinings, no hypocritical regrets. And now, order your horse, gallop back as fast as you can to the neighbourhood of Hallgrove, and show yourself foremost amongst those who seek for Lionel Dale.”
“Yes, yes; I will obey you — I will shake off this miserable hesitation.
I will make my nature iron, as you have made yours.”
Sir Reginald rang, and ordered his horse to be brought round to the door of the inn.
“Where and when shall I see you again?” he asked Victor, as he was putting on the coat which had hung before the fire to be dried.
“In London, when you return there.”
“You leave here soon?”
“To-morrow morning. You will write to me by to-morrow night’s post to tell me all that has occurred in the interval.”
“I will do so,” answered Reginald.
“Good, and now go; you have already been too long out of the way of those who should have witnessed your affectionate anxiety about your cousin.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER XXIV.
“I AM WEARY OF MY PART.”
Reginald mounted his horse, questioned the ostler respecting the way to the appointed spot on the river-bank, and rode away in the direction indicated. He had no difficulty in discovering the scene of the appointed meeting. The light of the torches in the hands of the searchers guided him to the spot.
Here he found gentlemen and grooms, huntsmen and farmers, on horseback, riding up and down the river-bank; some carrying lighted torches, whose lurid glare shone red against the darkness of the night; all busy, all excited.
Amongst these the baronet found Douglas Dale, who rode up to meet his cousin, as the other approached.
“Any news, Reginald?” he asked, in a voice that was hoarse with fatigue and excitement.
“None,” answered Sir Reginald: “I have ridden miles, and made many inquiries, but have been able to discover no traces. Have you no tidings?”
“None but evil ones,” replied Douglas Dale, in a tone of despair “we have found a battered hat on the edge of the river — hat which my brother’s valet identifies as that worn by his master. We fear the worst, Reginald — the very worst. All inquiries have been made in the village, at every farm-house in the parish, and far beyond the parish. My brother has been seen nowhere. Since we rode down the hill, it seems as if no human eye had rested on him. In that moment he vanished as utterly as if the earth had opened to swallow him up alive.”
“What is it that you fear?”
“We fear that he tried to cross the river at some point higher up, where the stream is swollen to a perilous extent, and that both horse and rider were swept away by the current.”
“In that case both horse and rider must be found — alive or dead.”
“Ultimately, perhaps, but not easily,” answered Douglas; “the bed of the stream is a mass of tangled weeds. I have heard Lionel say that men have been drowned in that river whose bodies have never been discovered.”
“It is horrible!” exclaimed Reginald; “but let us still hope for the best. All this may be needless misery.”
“I fear not, Reginald,” answered Douglas; “my brother Lionel is not a man to be careless about giving anxiety to those who love him.”
“I will ride farther along the bank,” said the baronet; “I may hear something.”
“And I will wait here,” replied Douglas, with the dull apathy of despair. “The news of my brother’s death will reach me soon enough.”
Reginald Eversleigh rode on by the river brink, following a group of horsemen carrying torches. Douglas waited, with his ear on the alert to catch every sound, his heart beating tumultuously, in the terrible expectation that each moment would bring him the news he dreaded to hear.
Endless as that interval of expectation and suspense appeared to Douglas Dale, in reality it was not of very long duration. The cold of the winter’s night did not affect him, the burning fever of fear devoured him. Soon he lost sight of the glimmering of the torches, as the bearers followed the bend of the river, and the sound of the men’s voices died out of his ears. But after a while he heard a shout, then another, and then two men came running towards him, as fast as they could in the darkness. Douglas Dale knew them both, and called out, “What is it, Freeman? What is it, Carey? Bad news, I fear.”<
br />
“Yes, Mr. Douglas, bad news. We’ve found the rector’s hunting-whip.”
“Where?” stammered Douglas.
“Below the bridge, sir, close by the ash-tree; and the bank is broken. I’m afraid it’s all up, sir; if he went in there, the horse and he are both gone, sir.”
Like a man walking in a dream, Douglas Dale accompanied the bearers of the evil tidings to the spot where the group of searchers was collected together. In the midst stood Squire Mordaunt, holding in his hand a heavy hunting-whip, which all present recognized, and many had seen in the rector’s hand only that morning. They all made way for Douglas Dale; they were very silent now, and hopeless conviction was on every face.
“This makes it too plain, Douglas,” said Squire Mordaunt, as he handed the whip to the rector’s brother; “bear it as well as you can, my dear fellow. There’s nothing to be done now till daylight.”
“Nothing more?” said Reginald, while Douglas covered his face, and groaned in unrestrained anguish; “the drags can surely be used? the—”
“Wait a minute, Sir Reginald,” said the squire, holding up his hand; “of course your impatience is very natural, but it would only defeat itself. To drag the river by torchlight would be equally difficult and vain. It shall be done as soon as ever there is light. Till then, there is nothing for any of us to do but to wait. And first, let us get poor Douglas home.”
Douglas Dale made no resistance; he knew the squire spoke truth and common-sense. The melancholy group broke up, the members of the rectory returned to its desolate walls, and Douglas at once shut himself up in his room, leaving to Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Squire Mordaunt the task of making all the arrangements for the morrow, and communicating to the ladies the dire intelligence which must be imparted.
Early in the morning, Squire Mordaunt went to Douglas Dale’s room. He found him stretched upon the bed in his clothes. He had made no change in his dress, and had evidently intended to prolong his vigil until the morning, but nature had been exhausted, and in spite of himself Douglas? Dale slept. His old friend stole softly from the room, and cautioning the household not to permit him who must now be regarded as their master to be disturbed, he went out, and proceeded to the search.
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