“I am not ill,” — he said faintly— “Not ill at all — no! It was only a sudden giddiness — a foolish nervous fancy, —
I thought — I thought— “he paused, and looking about him saw that Sebastien Douay was in the room, though his face was averted. “Yes — I thought I heard some one say that my wife was dead. Of course it is not — it cannot be true! It would not be possible!”
He waited for a word of reply. Neither Brand nor Douay spoke. He raised himself in his chair and his eyes turned imploringly from one to the other. Then he began to tremble violently.
“I wish to understand,” he murmured— “what all this trouble is? My wife went out into the woods to gather some primroses, and I said I would go and meet her. But I was late in finishing my work, and I sent my friend Mr. Douay, who is dining with us this evening, instead. Will she not come back with him? Shall I go and fetch her myself?”
Brand sat down beside him, laying one hand on his arm.
“Mr. Everton, you believe in God,” — he said— “And you are a naturally brave man. You want all your courage now. Shall I tell you the truth — ?”
He checked himself as Everton suddenly sprang up with an excited gesture.
“Hush-hush!” he muttered— “What’s that?”
And he listened intently to a dull noise outside the window; — the noise of heavy tramping feet crunching the gravel on the garden path with a measured movement as though some burden were being slowly carried towards the house. Brand and Douay exchanged startled glances, and Douay went quickly to the study door, opening it very slightly.
“Keep the child away!” — he called softly to some one outside— “Don’t let him come downstairs! He must not see—”
“Must not see what?” Everton, pale to the lips, came swiftly behind him, thrusting him aside with a wild movement; “Let me go!” — this to Brand, who, himself quite shaken from his usual professional composure, still sought to hold him back— “I must find my wife!”
And he stepped out into the hall, seeing as in a misty blur of bewilderment the servants of the household huddled there together and sobbing unrestrainedly, — then with a cry which no one who heard it ever forgot, he tottered blindly forward to meet a group of men, all Shadbrook villagers, who, bareheaded and moving softly, carried between them a stretcher, on which lay, completely covered over with a rough cloak, a small motionless figure. At sight of this the unhappy Vicar fell on his knees and covered his head with his hands.
“Oh, not Azalea!” he groaned— “Not Azalea! O God of mercy! Not Azalea!”
At a quick sign from Brand the men made a gentle effort to pass him and carry their light burden upstairs, but he struggled to his feet and stopped them. With staring eyes and laboring breath he approached that quiet recumbent form, and putting his hand out tremblingly turned back the cloak that hid it from his view. Oh, what a sweet, small white face! Was it Azalea? Could it be the laughing, radiant, winsome Azalea? With such gently closed eyelids and such a frozen piteous smile?
“Azalea!” His voice was a mere struggling whisper. “My wife!”
The men turned their heads away. They could not bear to look at him. Sebastien Douay drew near, but was unheeded.
“My wife!” The stifled exclamation was like a dying groan. He bent over the corpse, gazing, gazing as though his very soul were ebbing away in vision, — then, all at once his numbed senses started to life, and his heart began to beat fast and ever faster with a maddening rush of fear — what — what were those stains that dyed the whiteness of the breast and garments of the dead, — wet, crimson stains — horrible to see, horrible to touch — God, God, God!
— The hammers clashing in his brain made louder, fiercer noise till it seemed that something worse than death was torturing every nerve in his body, and he almost shrieked out at last in vehement agony, scarcely knowing what he said —
“Tell me, tell me, tell me! For God’s sake! What is it — what does it mean — this terrible thing — what is it — ?”
He threw his arms about wildly, unconscious of his actions, and Brand, hurrying to his side, caught him and held him fast. He heard some one say— “He must be told,” — and then he waited, like a criminal before a judge, his whole being strained to hear his sentence. Brand’s voice, shaken by emotion, sounded like a booming tocsin in his ears, unnaturally loud, unnaturally deep.
“Your wife has been murdered!”
Murdered! He tried to understand. Murdered! He looked intently at the little fair, still face that smiled so strangely, not at him, but at something unknown and unseen. Murdered! An icy coldness congealed his blood, — he tried to speak and his lips moved stiffly as though gripped with an iron ring. He drew himself rigidly upright in the dreary calmness of utter despair.
“Murdered!” he echoed, feebly— “How — who would murder her?”
A murmur came from the men.
“Dan. Dan Kiernan. Kiernan, for sure!”
A wail of intolerable suffering broke from him.
“Kiernan!”
Dr. Brand, still supporting him, felt his figure sway and tremble as though it were struck by a lightning shock.
“It’s best you should know everything at once, Mr. Everton,” — he said, very gently— “Your wife is dead! She has been shot through the heart. Mr. Douay found her lifeless body in the woods, and Kiernan’s discharged gun was lying beside her. It’s an awful tragedy! How the murder was committed we do not know. But — if it can be the least comfort to you — her death must have been instantaneous, and therefore painless. Come! — let me take you back to your room!”
But the stricken man stood like a figure of stone. Douay, with the tears running undisguisedly down his face, ventured to put a hand through his arm.
“My dear friend!” he murmured pleadingly— “Come with me! Let us pray God to help us—”
Then Everton stirred. He turned his wild eyes round about him in vacant horror.
“God!” he cried— “Where is God? Does God live and look on this?”
He pointed, with both trembling hands outstretched, at his dead wife, — and just then one of the men who carried the stretcher, actuated by a kind intention, moved softly from his place to put aside poor Azalea’s basket full of primroses which had been brought home with her body. But Everton caught sight of it. With a sudden imperative force he snatched it from the man’s hold, and stared at the freshly plucked blossoms, all prettily bunched together and full of fragrance, — they were living — they would live for days yet — but she — Azalea — she was dead! And yet — some one spoke of God! He smiled, — as men have been known to smile under the falling knife of the guillotine.
“Come, Douay!” he said brokenly— “These are our primroses — to deck the table to-night! She wishes to make things bright for you — and for me! — she is always so bright herself — you know she is — always bright and merry! — come! — come!—”
His face changed and grew darkly convulsed — his voice died away in an inarticulate gasping sob, — and he fell prone on the ground, lost in the black oblivion of a merciful unconsciousness.
* * * * * *
* * * * *
* * * *
They told little Laurence that his mother was ill, and that he must not go to her room. He was in his nightgown, waiting to see her as usual before getting into bed, when this unexpected news was brought to him. He listened with patient gravity, but in his own mind he did not believe the tale. He was puzzled and worried. He had been shut up in the nursery for some time and the door had been locked, — he had heard a strange commotion in the house and had longed to find out what it was, — heavy footsteps had tramped upstairs and tramped down again, and then there had followed a long silence. He was instinctively sure that something mysterious and terrible had happened, and he wondered what it could be.
“Mummy went out at tea-time to pick primroses,” — he said— “Has she come back?”
Good Nurse Tomkins, who had stayed
on and on with the Evertons solely for love of the child, put her arm tenderly round him.
“Yes, dear, I told you she has come back. But she is ill.”
“Why are you crying?” he demanded.
“Am I crying?” Tomkins affected surprise. “I expect it’s a cold I’ve got.” —
“How did Mummy get ill?” he went on— “She was quite well this afternoon.”
“She — she was badly hurt in the woods,” — said Tomkins hesitatingly— “And she is obliged to be very very quiet. She’s not able to come and kiss you good-night,” — here there was Such a long pause that Laurence was quite bewildered— “But you’ll say your prayers now and go to bed like a good boy, won’t you?”
The little fellow looked at her earnestly with wide-open loving eyes — the eyes of a child-angel rapt in heavenly meditation. Then he obediently knelt down, and folded his hands reverently, murmuring the “Our Father” with slow and careful tenderness. At its conclusion he paused — and heaving a small soft sigh, added:
“Pray God bless Dad and Mummy, and please, dear God, I am sorry Mummy is ill and I hope you will make her well directly unless you want her to be an angel. And if you want her to be an angel, please make me an angel too, and Dad and all of us, and teach us how to come to you in Heaven. Amen.” —
Nurse Tomkins choked back the rising sobs that threatened to break down her forced composure as she heard this quaint petition. Turning away she busied herself in tidying the room, while the boy clambered into bed and lay down, his golden curls spreading out in a kind of halo on the pillow. Then she came and tucked him up and kissed his forehead.
“Good-night, Master Laurence!”
He studied her face anxiously.
“I’m sure you’re crying, Nursie,” — he said— “It’s not a cold. Isn’t Dad coming to see me?”
“Dad is with the doctor,” — she answered him quickly, “He can’t come just now. Go to sleep, dearie!”
She left the room hastily, afraid to stay any longer lest her self-control should give way. Laurence listened to the soft echo of her departing footsteps, and lay very still in his bed, and very wide awake, thinking. There was something wrong in the house, — something dreadful — of that he felt quite sure. Never in all his little life of five years had he been told to go to sleep like this without good-night kisses from one or both of his parents. He could not understand it. His fancies began to drift dreamily backward over the long, sweet summer-like day that had now closed into night, — what pretty pink roses Mummy had planted just at the furthest end of the lawn where the sunlight could warm their opening buds and blossoms! — and there was going to be a new swing put up where the two big pine trees made an arch of shade over the greensward — and — Mummy could certainly toss a ball higher than he could — and she had promised him a wonderful Japanese kite that could fly ever so high even when there wasn’t much wind — and Mummy had raced him round the field and pretended she couldn’t possibly catch him, and when he had thought she was nowhere near she had suddenly run out from behind a tree, and had caught him and carried him riding astride across her shoulders all the way home! He laughed with delight at this recollection — Mummy was such a good playfellow! And now poor Mummy was ill — it would be very lonesome if she had to stay long in bed — perhaps she would be better to-morrow, — here his thoughts became drowsy and confused — his eyes closed, and though he opened them once or twice in a sudden startled expectancy, half hoping that his mother might, after all, come in to him, he was soon asleep.
Everton, meanwhile, lay unconscious for the greater part of two hours. His swoon was deep and heavy, and at moments Brand feared that his life might ebb away. Sebastien Douay, patient and watchful as a faithful dog, remained beside him.
“I will wait,” he said, “all night here. It may be that I shall be useful. I have already sent a message to my housekeeper, — she will not expect me home. I shall not leave my poor friend.”
Strange men came and went from the Vicarage, stepping softly and speaking in whispers, — two inspectors, hastily summoned by telegram from the nearest police-station, were soon on the premises, questioning and examining every one who could tell them as much as was yet known of the crime, and with as brief delay as possible in an out-of-the-world place like Shadbrook, the scouts of the law were sent all over the country in track of Dan Kiernan, the general impression being that he could not have got very far away, and that it would be a comparatively easy matter to run him to earth. At Mr. Minchin’s residence the news had crashed down like a thunderbolt, though Mrs. Minchin’s first exclamation was one of pleasure.
“Azalea Everton murdered? Really dead?” she exclaimed, with sparkling eyes— “What a blessing!”
Whereat her husband turned upon her in a towering rage. —
“Fool of a woman that you are!” he shouted— “Is ruin a blessing? For that’s what it means to me! Ruin! — ruin! If Everton’s wife is killed, and Dan Kiernan — one of my brewery hands, remember! — has killed her, there’ll be the devil to pay!”
By way of suitable response, Mrs. Minchin at once flew into one of her feline furies.
“There always is the devil to pay where you are!” she burst out, stridently— “I suppose you, in common with other male fools like yourself, have a sneaking admiration for baby-faced women—”
“I’d rather have a baby-face than a cat’s face!” he retorted, “Or a cat’s temper!”
These were the trifling sort of domestic endearments usually indulged in by the Minchin wedded pair, — endearments which they fondly imagined were unknown to the outer world, but which their own servants took care to make the common talk of the neighborhood.
The night moved on solemnly in a pomp of dark azure besprinkled with stars, — the outside world of nature expressed a majestic indifference to human sorrow, combined with an equally majestic peace. What matter if the hearts of men break under a strain of suffering too great for them to bear? The sun shines on in the same way — and there are always a host of clowns ready to laugh at every Agony in Gethsemane. One woman more or less foully done to death — is it so much to trouble about? Especially in these days, when each life-unit is so engrossed in whirling round and round in its own limited circle that it can see nothing outside of that — not even God! And Azalea — the thoughtless, frivolous Azalea, whose brief existence had been innocently centered in herself, her husband and child — even she had been drawn out of the narrow ring of Circumstance into the vast possibilities of the Eternal, — while, so far as present time and place were concerned, she was asleep. She lay on her little bed, softly gowned in snowy linen and lace, her long bright golden hair unwound from its many twists and curls, and meekly parted on either side of her brow, — her small hands, waxen-white, crossed on her breast. She looked like the recumbent statue of a saint sculptured in alabaster. Death had given her features a sweet austerity which seemed to mutely express the knowledge of ‘beautiful things made new, for the delight of the sky-children.’ White flowers were set about the room, and a lamp was dimly burning — now and then the door noiselessly opened, and a servant looked in, to retire again quickly with a suppressed sob; and that awful hush which pervades a house when some one who has been the life and soul of it has passed away for ever, hung like an almost palpable cloud in the air. Everton, aroused at last from his long swoon, came back slowly into the dreadful consciousness of his grief, and with that consciousness there arose in him a profound and terrible sense of despairing resignation — a sense that life being over, there was nothing to mourn for, or to regret. Everything was finished, — there was no earth, no heaven, — nothing but the dull acceptance of an inevitable and universal doom. In this fixed and frozen mood, he rose from the couch where he had been laid down in his room insensible, and in quiet, measured tones thanked Brand for all his attention.
“I am sorry,” he said gently— “to have given you so much trouble. I have kept you from your other patients — there is a good
deal of illness about in the village just now — please do not wait with me any longer. I am much better — able to bear—”
His lip quivered — he looked away for a moment. Brand filled in the painful pause hurriedly.
“Yes, you are better, Mr. Everton,” — he said— “And you have a good reserve of strength — I can trust you! I will leave you if you wish it. Mr. Douay is here—”
Douay approached as his name was mentioned.
“Yes, I am here,” — he said— “And here I shall remain till’ to-morrow morning— “he checked himself abruptly as Everton laid a hand on his arm.
“Douay, I would rather be alone!”
“Richard, my friend, it cannot be — you are weak — you are not fit—”
“I am! I am fit, — I must be by myself — by myself to think! — to try and understand what has happened to me. For God’s sake, let me have my way!”
Brand and Douay glanced anxiously at one another. Then Brand spoke: —
“Very well, it shall be as you wish, Mr. Everton,” — he said, “But you will not turn Mr. Douay out at this time of night, will you? It’s nearly eleven o’clock. Let him stay in the house at any rate.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 725
