She knew that the plate-room was on the same level as the library, at the end of a narrow passage behind that apartment. She knew that it was protected by an iron door, which would not be easily violated. She had heard of the perfection to which the art of burglary had been brought of late years, and she knew that it was possible for the skill of an highly-trained thief to set locks and iron doors at defiance; but she knew that this could not be done quickly. There was time for deliberation on her part before she interfered to protect her benefactor’s property.
She slipped off her shoes, and crept softly down the broad oak staircase, and across the wide moonlit hall, to that curtained doorway, dreading lest she should be seen by some one watching on the threshold of the anteroom. But there was no such watcher. She lifted the tapestry, and crept into the anteroom. There was no light except the light of the winter sky reflected upon the snowy whiteness below — a cold ghastly glare, which gave all things an unearthly look. The shutters were unfastened, and one lattice of the mullioned window stood wide open. The wintry air blew in upon her, chilling her to the heart. She had no doubt that this window had been opened by Tom Brook a few minutes ago, and that his accomplices had crept in through the opening. She went through the anteroom to the library. Here all was darkness and emptiness; but the narrow little door leading into the passage was ajar. She could hear the cautious whispers of the men in the passage, and she had very little doubt they were already at work upon the iron door. She pushed the library door a little further open, and looked into the passage. There was a man on his knees before the iron door, working assiduously at the hinges, upon that system of the progressive wedge, which is supposed to be infallible in such cases; another man was holding a pocket-lamp, which gave a vivid concentrated light just where it was wanted; and the third man, Tom Brook, was looking on, upon the watch, with eye and ear, for any interruption. A small black hand-bag on the ground held the instruments necessary for an artistic burglary; a couple of empty carpet-bags were ready to contain the spoil. Tom Brook stood two or three paces behind the two professional burglars. Elizabeth stole close up to him, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.
‘Tom, I want to speak to you,’ she said, in a low voice.
He turned sharply round, clutched her wrist in his fierce grip, and held her as in a vice.
‘What are you doing here? ‘ he muttered savagely.
‘Watching you. I have been watching you from the music-gallery for the last hour. I saw you at the supper, and knew you in spite of your red wig. If you will get away quietly with those men, without taking anything out of this house, I will not give the alarm; I will tell no one about you.’
‘You give the alarm!’ said Mr. Brook. ‘ I should like to see you do it! You, indeed! I’d soon stop your little pipe.’
‘I will do it, unless you take those men away this instant. This house shall not be robbed — this house, which has sheltered me — if I can prevent it!’
‘You’re a nice young woman to cheek your lawful husband like that,’ said Tom Brook, with his eye always looking beyond her towards the end of the dark passage, his keen ear always on the alert for any sound of approaching footsteps. ‘Come, Bess, don’t be a fool. I didn’t spoil your game; don’t you spoil mine. You go to bed, and let us do our work quietly, without hurting anybody. If you try to make a row there’ll be murder.’
‘You had better go before any one stirs,’ she said resolutely, fearless, although he had her in his grip. ‘There are plenty of men in the Castle. If the alarm is once given, you won’t get off, you or your accomplices. I might have rung the alarm-bell, and had the whole house up five minutes ago; but I didn’t want you to be caught. You had better get off quietly, now, while there’s a chance.’
‘You had better hold your noise,, said Tom Brook, taking a knife out of his pocket, and unclasping it with his teeth, his right hand still grasping Elizabeth’s wrist.
In a moment he had swung her down on her knee, he had the blade at her throat, with intent to frighten and to silence her, perhaps, rather than to slay, although his looks were deadly enough as he scowled down at her.
She defied him even then, and, lifting up her voice, shrieked loud and shrill — a shriek that thrilled through the silent vaulted hall, and rang up to the roof, like the sound of a clarion.
Before that wild cry died into silence, the alarm-bell rang clamorously above the roof, calling help from far and wide, as it had rung two hundred and thirty years ago in the Civil Wars, and only once since then, on a summer night, in the reign of George III., when there had been an alarm of fire, beginning and ending in smoke. Tom Brook, not so hardened as the professional brotherhood, hesitated. He did not want to murder this creature, who had done all the harm it was in her power to do him, and who now crouched at his feet breathless, exhausted, looking up at him defyingly even in her helplessness. What could he gain by killing her? All chance of getting into the plate-room was over now; the men had only to make their escape. They huddled their tools together into the black bag, made for the open window of the anteroom, just as a figure carrying a candle in one hand and a pistol in the other appeared at the end of the passage. The men dashed into the library, the shortest cut to the exit they wanted. But the man who went through the library door last had caught sight of that approaching figure. He clapped to the door, and locked it, thus securing a safe retreat for himself and his friend. Tom Brook, who was an outsider, but who had put up the robbery, was thus caught in a trap. He could not follow his friends, but had to make good his own escape in the teeth of the enemy.
He had that knife in his hand, that stout Sheffield blade, which seemed made for murder. His quick eye told him that the bell had as yet brought only that one assailant. It was a question of moments. Half a minute more, and the scared half-awakened household might be upon him. This man must have been awake and dressed, for he had come at the first sound of the bell.
Tom Brook flung off his wife, and made a rush, for the only outlet, the end of the passage which led into the hall, through which he could double back to the open window in the anteroom, and then off across the snow as swift as a stag, to the cold covert of leafless woods.
But as he sprang forward the other man rushed upon him. It was Bruno Challoner.
Before Bruno could do anything — he had no intention of using the pistol, except in self-defence — Tom Brook lifted his knife and grappled with him. Elizabeth saw them close with each other in what seemed a death-struggle: she sprang to her feet, and, as Bruno threw off his antagonist, who fell back a pace or two for a second spring, the girl flung herself between the two men, and the blow, intended for Bruno, fell, with all Tom Brook’s savage strength, upon the breast of his wife.
She gave one low shuddering cry, and sank upon Bruno’s arm. He clasped her to his breast, bathed in her life-blood, with his left arm, while with the right he took a steady aim at her murderer, and would have shot him dead, if his hand had not been arrested by Lord Ingleshaw, who came upon the group just in time to prevent this wild justice. The house-steward was with his master. Both had huddled on their clothes and rushed down to the hall at the sound of the alarm-bell, which had been rung by Mrs. Prince, who had been overtaken by sleep before the lire in her own cosy parlour, after the comfortable Christmas supper, while watching the little silver saucepan of mulled wine which she was preparing as a restorative for Elizabeth May. The wine had all boiled away when Mrs. Prince was awakened from that slumber by the awful sound of Elizabeth’s shriek. She had rushed at once to the little stone vestibule, where the rope of the alarm-bell hung, fully possessed by the idea that the Castle was in flames. When she looked round her, and saw only moonlight and shadow, she began to think that wild long shriek must have been an incident in a dream.
Lord Ingleshaw and his steward secured Tom Brook, and wrenched the knife out of his hand before he could do any more mischief. He did not look as if he meant to renew the attack. Ghastly white, and with unspeakable horror in his countenance
, he stared at his murdered wife, as her pallid face, with death dreadfully visible in every feature, lay on Bruno Challoner’s breast, the glazing eyes looking up at him with infinite unconquerable love — love now made divine by the glory of a soul passing to the spirit-land.
‘I saved you!’ she murmured with her last breath, happier in that one moment of sublimated bliss than some women have been in the lukewarm joys of a long lifetime.
Lucille’s wedding was deferred from January to April — the season of tender promise, of primroses and violets, budding hedgerows, burgeoning trees, the life and light that herald the coming of summer. She and Bruno had both willed it so. They would not be married while the odour of death was in the house — while’ the earth that covered Elizabeth’s coffin in Ingleshaw churchyard had still the freshness of newly-dug mould — before even the flowers could take root above that humble village grave, a grave whose headstone bore only the name ‘ Elizabeth,’ with the date of her death, and the words—’Valued much and lamented much,’ below it.
She who was nothing to them, neither by kindred nor by equality of rank or fortune — who had come and gone out of their lives like a dream, had vanished like a tale that is told, leaving no token behind her — had yet influenced the lives of both loo deeply to be easily forgotten, or to be thought of lightly now she was gone.
In the chill winter gloaming, while the dead girl was lying in the little room at the end of the corridor, her narrow white bed strewn with Christmas roses, snowdrops, and. white hyacinths, Bruno Challoner made a full confession to his betrothed, they two sitting alone by the fireside, in Lucille’s morning-room. He told her how weak he had been, how strongly tempted, and how near he had been to falling. He testified to the loyalty of her who was gone. He bared his heart in all its strength, in all its weakness, to the woman who was to be his wife, and, by that perfect confidence, strengthened the bond between them as only truth can strengthen and sanctify such ties.
‘O Bruno, I am so thankful to you for telling me this!’ faltered Lucille, when he had said his last word. ‘ Nothing less than this could have given me perfect peace — perfect confidence in you and your love. I knew that there was a time when you cared for her — yes, when your heart had been lured away from me by her strange beauty, by all her wayward unconscious graces and charms. And I knew that she loved you. I guessed her secret that night on board the yacht, and there was a time when I almost hated her. But God helped me somehow to bear that agony; and I prayed for patience; for I thought if I were patient your love would come back to me — you had loved me too long to forget me easily. It was a habit of your life to love me; and the old, old love, the love of all our happy years, could not so easily be trampled out of life. I thought of that big bay-tree in the garden, and how, after it had been cut down to the roots one bitter winter, a new tree sprang up in its place, and grew and flourished with a wonderful growth, because the old roots were so strong and deep, the gardener said. And I thought that your love was too deeply rooted to be killed by one frost; and I waited and hoped; but I never felt sure I had not lost you till Christmas-eve, when you came back to me after our parting; and then I saw in your eyes, in your dear smile, that you were all my own again, my true and loyal lover, my true knight, without fear or blame. We will always think tenderly of her who is gone, dear, for she loved us both, and was true to us both. We will remember her, and be sorry for her sad fate all the days of our lives.’
Bruno had told Lucille about the tie between Tom Brook and the dead girl. Mr. Brook was now awaiting the result of the adjourned inquest, in the lock-up at the market-town. His two accomplices had been caught in the park by the Ingleshaw gamekeepers, roused from their beds by the Castle bell, and ready to capture the first stranger they encountered. The men had been caught red-handed, as it were — with the implements of their felonious trade about them — and they too were in the lock-up at the market-town, waiting the issue of an inquiry before the magistrates.
That inquiry resulted in the committal of the two men for an attempted burglary, while Tom Brook was committed for manslaughter, of which crime he was duly convicted at the spring assizes, when his accomplices were sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude, he, Tom, having turned Queen’s evidence, and revealed the whole plan of the robbery. Tom, having thus made himself a useful instrument in furthering the ends of justice, got off lightly for so small a thing as a wife’s life, and was allotted only a three years’ seclusion from society and active usefulness.
The violets were in bloom on Elizabeth’s grave when Lucille and Bruno were married one fair morning in late April. They left the churchyard gate in the carriage which was to take them to the station, from which they were to begin their honeymoon travels; and scarcely was the carriage out of sight when the inhabitants of Ingleshaw, rich and poor, laid their heads together to counterbalance this quiet wedding by a grand display of triumphal arches, flowers, flags, fireworks, and school-children, in honour of the young couple’s home-coming.
GEORGE CAULFIELD’S JOURNEY
CHAPTER I. BY THE NIGHT MAIL.
THE night-mail was to start in five minutes from the great central terminus in the busy commercial city of Grandchester, and the Rev. George Caulfield, with a travelling bag in his hand and a comfortable railway rug over his arm, was walking slowly along the platform, peering into the first-class carriages as he went by, in quest of ease and solitude. He was a man of reserved temper, bookish beyond his years, and he had a horror of finding himself imprisoned among five noisy spirits, cottony, horsey, and of that boisterous and coarsely spoken temperament which the refined and gentle parson would have characterised as rowdy. The Reverend George was a Christian gentleman, but so far as it was possible for his mild nature to hate any one, he hated fast young men. He was not fond of strangers in a general way. He endured them, but he did not love them. He had lingered on the platform till the. train was within three minutes of starting, in the hope of securing for himself the luxury of privacy. As the long hand of the station clock marked the third minute before eleven, he espied an empty carriage, and was in the act of entering it, when a hand was laid very gently on his sleeve.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ said a somewhat agitated voice, ‘are you a medical man?’
Mr. Caulfield turned, and confronted a man of slight figure and middle height, some years younger than himself, a man with a pale face, delicate features, and soft black eyes — a very interesting countenance, thought the curate. The stranger looked anxious and hurried.
‘No,’ answered Mr. Caulfield, ‘I am a clergyman.’
‘That is almost as good. My dear sir, will you do me a great favour? My sister, an invalid, is travelling by this train, alone; but she will be met by friends at Milldale Junction. She is very ill — nothing infectious, chest complaint, poor girl. If you will afford her the privilege of your protection, only as far as Milldale, you will oblige me immensely.’
There was no time for hesitation, the bell was ringing clamorously, people were hurrying to their seats.
‘With pleasure,’ said the good-natured curate, sorry to lose the delight of loneliness; embarrassed at the idea of an unknown invalid, but far too kind to shrink from doing an act of mercy.
The young man ran to the second-class waiting-room, the door of which was just opposite, and returned almost immediately, carrying a muffled figure in his arms, a small, fragile form, which he carried as easily as if it had been that of a child. This slender figure, half buried in a large Rob Roy shawl, he placed with infinite care in one of the seats furthest from the door, then he ran back to the waiting-room for more wraps, a pillow, and a foot-warmer. He administered with womanly tenderness to the comfort of the invalid, who reclined motionless and silent in her corner, and then, hurried and agitated by the imminent departure of the mail, he stood at the door of the carriage talking to Mr. Caulfield, who had taken his seat in the opposite corner to that occupied by the invalid.
‘You are more than good,’ said the strange
r. ‘Don’t talk to her, she is low and nervous, and you will agitate her painfully if you force her to talk. I daresay she will doze all the way. It is only an hour from here to Milldale, and no stoppage till you get there. Oh, by the way, kindly take this bottle, and if she should turn faint or giddy on the way, give her a few drops of the contents. There goes the flag. Will you allow me to offer you my card? I am deeply indebted. Good night.’
All this had been said hurriedly. George Caulfield had hardly time to take the proffered card when the engine puffed itself laboriously out of the great, ghastly terminus, a wilderness of iron-work, a labyrinth of tunnels and sidings and incomprehensible platforms, very gloomy on this cold winter night.
For the first few minutes Mr. Caulfield felt so confused and disturbed by the suddenness of the charge that had been forced upon him that he hardly knew what he was doing. Then he glanced at the lady, and saw with a feeling of relief that her head was reposing comfortably against the padded division of the carriage, and that her face was hidden by a blue gauze veil, which she wore over a small brown straw hat. She was breathing somewhat heavily, he thought, but that was to be expected in a sufferer from chest complaint.
‘I hope her heart is all right,’ thought George, with a sudden sense of the awfulness of his position were his invalid charge to expire while in his care.
He looked at the stranger’s card: —
Mr. ELSDEN,
Briargate,
The address looked well. Briargate was one of the most respectable business streets in Grandchester. Doubtless it had once been a rustic lane, where briars and roses grew abundantly, and the bees and butterflies, and village lads and lasses, made merry amidst odours of new-mown hay. Nowadays Briargate was a narrow street of lofty warehouses, tall enough to shut out the sun, a street that reeked with odours of machine oil.
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