Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  Captain Bywater had followed the housekeeper into a little room off the hall, a chilly disused parlour, where the very furniture had a phantasmal look, like a dream of the past.

  ‘Lord bless your heart, sir, there is so little to tell. We went to her room one morning and found her gone — the bed had not been slept in — she must have gone over night.’

  ‘Did she go to her room that night, at the usual hour? You are early people here, I know.’

  ‘Well, sir, that’s a thing that has never been quite clear to my mind. Miss Helen used to be fond of walking out alone those fine summer evenings, while her grandpapa and Mr. Thomas sat over their port. Both gentlemen are fond of a good glass of port, you know, sir. They dined at live, and they used to sit a long time, as late as nine o’clock sometimes — and then the old gentleman would go to bed, and Mr. Thomas would smoke his pipe on the lawn, all by himself, or with Mr. Elphinstone, his secretary, as it might happen. And Miss usen t always to go back to the dining-room after she came m from her walk. She’d go straight up to her room sometimes, and sit and read there before she went to bed. Now on the night before we lost her it happened that neither I nor the maid saw her go upstairs to her room. ft was a lovely evening. I remember it particularly, because it was such a red sunset.’

  Captain Bywater shivered. It was an idle thought to come into his mind at such a moment, but there flashed upon him that picture in the theatre last night. The body hidden among the rushes. The whole scene steeped in. red light, like blood.

  ‘No, sir, nobody saw her come indoors or go upstairs to her room that night, and if I was put upon my oath I couldn’t say that she ever came back to the house after she left the two gentlemen sitting at their wine.’

  ‘Where was tins Mr. Elphinstone, the secretary, that night?’

  ‘At his work in the study, copying and compiling for Mr. Thomas Leeworthy’s book, so far as I know, sir.’

  ‘So far as you know. That means that he may just as easily have been any where else.’

  ‘I could take my oath as to where he was from nine to ten,’ said the house-keeper, somewhat offended.

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘Because I saw him from my sitting-room window walking tip and down the lawn with Mr. Thomas Leeworthy. It was moonlight, a lovely night after a lovely evening, and the two gentlemen were walking up and down talking for an hour. The clock struck ten as they came in to go to bed.’

  ‘Mr. Elphinstone slept in the house that night?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m certain of that. If you’ve got the notion that Mr. Elphinstone had any hand in Miss Helen’s running away you’re quite mistaken. If there was a lover at the bottom of it, as some folks say, it must have been some other lover. I’ll take my oath it wasn’t Mr. Elphinstone.’

  ‘Why are you so certain?’

  ‘Because she hated him.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I could see it in all her ways. Perhaps hatred is too harsh a word to use about any one so gentle as Miss Helen. She could hardly have hated any one if she had tried ever so. But I’ve seen her shrink from him, and avoid him in a way that was almost cruel. I’ve seen him stung by it, too, though he was a proud young man, that seldom let any one see what he felt. As to anything like a love affair between those two, it isn’t possible.’

  ‘Who then could have lured her away? Was any one else ever suspected.’

  ‘Lord, no, sir. Mr. Elphinstone was the only young man that ever crossed this threshold, except Mr. Chipping, the doctor, with a wife and three children and a wart on his nose.’

  ‘How did Elphinstone behave when Miss Leeworthy’s disappearance was discovered?’ asked Captain Bywater, still harping on the secretary.

  ‘He was the only one of us that seemed to keep his senses. He was as calm and quiet as could be, ready to make him self useful in any way. He rode over to the market town before twelve o’clock, to set the constables at work. He was riding about all over the country for the next fortnight. If Miss Helen had been his sister, he couldn’t have worked harder, or have seemed more anxious; which was very good of him, considering that poor Miss Helen had never taken kindly to him.’

  ‘Was there nothing discovered, not a trace of her?’

  ‘ No, sir nothing was ever found; nothing was ever heard. People had their fancies: some said gipsies; some said Gretna Green. But a sweet, innocent young lady of seventeen can’t go off to Gretna Green by herself, can she, sir? Some talked about the river; but the poor dear wouldn’t have come to harm that way unless she’d thrown herself in, and why should she do that? God bless her, there wasn’t a happier young lady in the county. Ah, sir, if you could have heard her talk of you. She loved you truly. When we had stormy weather she used to come to my room looking so unhappy, and say, ‘Oh! Mrs. Dill, mustn’t it be dreadful for those at sea. I sha’n’t sleep to-night for thinking of shipwrecks.’ And I know she has spent many a wakeful night for your sake, sir, thinking of your danger and praying for you.’

  ‘And I have thought of her in storm and in calm,’ said the captain. ‘Have you told me everything, Mrs. Dill — everything?’

  ‘Yes, sir; there isn’t a word more to be said. Five long years have come and gone, and we have heard nothing about her. We’ve left off hoping. The old gentleman is getting a little weak in his head. You won’t get much out of him.”

  ‘Do you know what became of this Elphinstone? Is he still with Mr. Leeworthy?’

  ‘No, sir. He stayed till the end of the year, and then Mr. Leeworthy’s book was finished, and Mr. Elphinstone left him. Mr. Thomas had only hired him to help with the book. He was a very learned young man, I believe. I heard gay that he went abroad after he left Mr. Thomas.’

  Captain Bywater went to the cedar parlour to pay a duty visit to old Squire Leeworthy. He found the owner of the Grange sitting by a fire, for the fresh May breezes were sharp enough to find out the weak points in his ancient anatomy. He wore a black velvet skull cap on the top of his silver locks, and had an ivory handled cane at his side, with which to rap the floor when he wanted attendance. He was the shrunken ruin of a man who had once been handsome, commanding, and aristocratic.

  ‘Fine weather, sir!’ he exclaimed testily, in answer to the Captain’s conventional remark; ‘what do you mean by talking about fine weather, when the wind’s in the east.

  ‘I haven’t looked at the weathercock, Squire.’

  ‘Weathercock be hanged, sir; when you’re half as old as I am you’ll want no weathercock to tell you where the wind is. You’ll be your own weathercock. The east wind finds at every joint in my body. I can feel it in my knees, in my elbows, in my wrists even. The lubricating oil is exhausted, sir. I’m dried up and shrivelled, and there’s nothing left in me to resist the cold. Let me see, you’re Charles Bywater, the lad that went to sea.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I am Charles.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you so,’ cried the old man testily. ‘You’re Charley, and you would go to sea. They couldn’t keep you at home. Your uncle was a soldier, captain in the 49th Foot. Yes, and he was killed at Corunna. Where did I tell you he was killed? Hah! at Corunna. Yes. He was killed at Corunna, you know.’

  The Captain tried to look grateful for this information.

  ‘Your mother was an uncommonly pretty woman — a little fair woman. I remember her well, She was a Vernon, and had money. Yes, she had money. I remember the bells being rung when your father brought her home. Yes, foolish thing that bell-ringing. The ringers always want money and beer — lots of beer — your father gave them beer, I daresay. I remember your father, too, a fine made man, broad shouldered, straight as an arrow. You’ll never be so good-looking as your father. Young men never are. The race is degenerating, sir. The human species will be hideous in a generation or two, and every way inferior. I’m glad I sha’n’t be here to see ‘em.’

  ‘I have heard the sad news about your granddaughter, sir,’ said Captain Bywater, gravely.

  It pained him to
hear the old man twaddling on without a thought of the lost one.

  ‘Yes, very sad. Naughty girl. She’s given us a great deal of anxiety. If it hadn’t been for that estimable young man — El — El — Elphindean — —’

  ‘Elphinstone!

  ‘Yes, Elphinstone. never could remember names. If it hadn’t been for Elphindon we shouldn’t have known what to do. But he was indefatigable — made every inquiry — searched in every direction.’

  ‘And found no trace of her.’

  ‘No, that was unfortunate. And now, let me see, it must be nearly a year since she went.’

  ‘It is five years, sir.’

  ‘Five years, bless my soul. How short the years are when we are going down-hill to our graves.’

  After this Captain Bywater could not endure any more of the old man’s society. He took a civil leave of him and went out to explore familiar scenes. Great heaven, with what a heavy heart! Far away amidst tropical seas, under the southern cross, he had pictured to himself the joy of this return, fancied the delight of revisiting each favourite spot, with Helen by his side. He had come back, and all was gloom.

  He bent his steps towards a gate that opened out of the Grange garden into a footpath that led through some meadows, park-like meadows, with good old trees overshadowing the grass, and giving beauty to the landscape. This meadow path led to the banks of a narrow winding river. The footpath and the river-bank had both been favourite walks of Helen’s. How often had Charles Bywater met her there; how often had he walked with her beside the silvery unpolluted stream.

  The sun was sinking as he came through the last meadow to the river side. The light was crimson behind the long line of rush, and mallow, and wild entanglement of weeds that edged the stream.

  Again there flashed back upon his mind that scene in the theatre last night — the red light behind the reeds — revenge and murder.

  How lonely the landscape was in that fading light. He lingered there, pacing slowly along the narrow path, till the last low streak of crimson melted into gray, and in all that time he had not met a creature, or seen a human figure in the distance, or heard any voice more human than the hoot of a far-off owl, making its melancholy moan to the swift coming night. What deed of darkness might not be done in a spot like this, unsuspected, buried in impenetrable night!

  Charles Bywater left that river path with a feeling of indescribable melancholy. He could not dissociate the scene with the mystery of Helen Leeworthy’s fate. It had been her favourite walk. She had come here perhaps on that last night, and some ruffian, some loathsome brute in human shape, with a wild beast’s ferocity and a man’s cunning, bad met her in the September sunset, alone, helpless, remote from the aid of man. He fancied her in the clutches of such a wretch, like some sweet struggling bird in the talons of a hawk. Her poor little purse, with its slender money, her girlish trinkets, would be enough to tempt a brute to murder. A knife drawn quickly across the fair round throat, one faint gurgling cry, and then the splash of a body flung to the river rats, and all fool things that dwell in the nooks and crannies of the reedy bank

  ‘Yes, I believe she was murdered,’ thought Captain Bywater. ‘It was not in that gentle spirit to be reckless of the feelings of others. If it were possible that she could leave her home in an unmaidenly fashion, it is not possible that she could leave her poor old grandfather to grieve in ignorance of her fate. She was always thoughtful of others.’

  The impression was so strong upon him to-night at this spot, that it was almost as it’ be had seen the deed done. The picture was as vivid to his mental vision as that other picture which he had seen last night with his bodily eyes on the stage at Drury Lane.

  ‘What comes of Dorrell’s theory, that every murder is discovered?’ he asked himself bitterly. ‘Here is some low village ruffian who has cunning enough to keep the secret of his crime. He swoops like a hawk upon his victim, and flies off like a hawk to unknown skies. A wretch, perhaps, who could not write his name, and yet had cleverness enough to cheat the gallows.’

  He walked slowly back to the village green, and the inn where his supper was waiting for him.

  ‘I would give a good deal to see the secretary,’ he thought. ‘His superior intelligence might assist me. Yet if he could do nothing to unravel the mystery, while it was still fresh in men’s minds, is it likely he could throw any light upon it now?

  ‘The landlord of the Sun waited on Captain Bywater while he eat his simple supper, a meal to which he did scanty justice. He had eaten nothing since noon, yet the tender young chicken and the home cured ham were as tasteless as dust and ashes.

  ‘You’re looking very ill, sir,’ said the host. ‘I’m afraid it’s been a shock to you hearing about poor Miss Lee-worthy.’

  ‘It has, Jarvis.I had known her from a child, remember.’

  ‘All the village had known her from a child,’ said Mr. Jarvis. ‘I think it seemed to all of us as if we’d lost one of our own.’

  ‘You told me you would have gone out of your way to avoid meeting Mr. Elphinstone, the secretary,’ said the Captain, pushing away his plate, and throwing himself back in his chair. ‘Why was that? was there anything repulsive about the man?’

  ‘Well, no, s, I can’t take upon myself to say he was repulsive. He looked the gentleman, he was a neat dresser, he had a good foot and ankle, carried himself well, and was civil spoken enough whenever he condescended to open his lips to any of us villagers, which wasn’t often. But there was something inside me that turned against him, somehow, just as one man’s stomach will tarn against a dish that another man relishes. There was something in his dark eye that gave me a chilly feeling when he looked at me.’

  ‘Should you call him a handsome man?’

  ‘Far, from it, sir. He was small and insignificant. You could have passed him by in a crowd without taking notice of him, if you hadn’t happened to meet his eye. That would have fixed you.’

  ‘There was something serpent-like in it, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes, sir — cold, and still, and stealthy, and yet piercing.’

  ‘Did he bear a good character while he was with you?’

  ‘I never heard any one speak against him, but he was no favourite. He was one of those well-behaved young men that nobody likes.’

  This was all that Captain Bywater could hear about Mr. Thomas Leeworthy’s secretary. He bade good-by to Clerevale next morning, and the coach carried him back to London. The scenes of his boyhood had become hateful to him. Everything was darkened by the shadow of his irreparable loss.

  CHAPTER III. DRIVEN BY THE FURIES.

  CHARLES BYWATER found himself in London with a long spell of idleness before him, very few friends or even acquaintance, a well-filled purse and a broken heart. The pleasures of the town could offer him no distraction, the vices of the town could not tempt him. His grief was as honest as it was deep. The dream of his life was ended. He had nothing to look forward to beyond his profession — nothing to hope for but the distinction of an honourable career, and perchance to die in a cock-pit, like Nelson, while his sailors were fighting over his head.

  He ordered a suit of black, and put crape on his hat, having no doubt that the woman he loved was dead.

  A week after his return he went to see Phillimore Dorrell, who was shocked at seeing the change in his friend.

  ‘Why, man alive, what have you been doing to yourself?’ he exclaimed. ‘You look as if you had died and come to life again.’

  ‘That may well be,’ answered Captain Bywater, ‘for the best part of me is dead.’

  And then he told Dorrell his story, and asked his advice.

  ‘You know more of the dark secrets of this wicked world than any one else,’ he said, in conclusion, ‘you may help me to unravel the mystery.’

  ‘My dear Bywater, my experience in matters of this kind has led me to take a very commonplace view of such cases. I have found that when a young lady vanishes she generally knows very well where she is going. I do not be
lieve in mysterious disappearances, or undiscovered murders.’

  ‘You did not know Helen Leeworthy. She was little more than a child in years, and quite a child in innocence, utterly incapable of double dealing. It is my firm belief that she was waylaid and murdered within half a mile of her home.’

  ‘And all this happened five years ago. I’m afraid, my dear Bywater, if the poor young lady did come to an untimely end at the hand of some ruffian, this will be one of those exceptional murders which go to prove my rule, that the generality of such crimes are found out. This is a case which would interest Elyard, as a probable murder that has not come to light. He was here a few nights ago discussing his favourite thesis.

  ‘What a ghoulish temper the man must have to dwell upon such a revolting subject.’

  ‘Well, I grant that his conversation savours somewhat of the charnel house. I fancy that the hit he has made in that horrible tragedy, “The Venetian Husband,” has given his mind a twist in that direction. He sups full of horrors. But the man is interesting, and he exercises a powerful fascination over me. Not altogether a pleasant influence I admit. There is something snaky in his eye that chills me when I am most familiar with him. But he is no lump of common clay. He is a being of light and fire.’

  ‘So is Lucifer,’ said Captain Bywater, ‘but I shouldn’t consider him an agreeable acquaintance.’

  ‘Oh, my dear Charley, this world is so given over to humdrum, so thickly peopled with a kind of human vegetable, that any man who has intellect and courage enough to be original affords an agreeable variety, no matter what turn his eccentricity takes.’

  ‘You might say that of the man who picks your pocket.’

  ‘Why, no, Charley, there is nothing eccentric in pocket-picking. It is the commonest thing in life, a recognized profession. Come and sup with me to-night. I have asked Elyard, and one or two others. Cast aside care for a couple of hours. Rely upon it, my dear friend, the young lady is safe and sound, and that black suit of yours is an anachronism.’