by Ellen Wood
It was only his assertion, you see, against the broad basis of suspicion. Anthony Dare’s death must have taken place, as testified by Mr. Glenn, somewhere about half-past eleven; who was to prove that Herbert at that time was not at home? “I was not,” Herbert reiterated, when before the coroner. “I did not return home till between half-past one and two. The churches struck the half-hour as I was coming through the town, and it would take me afterwards some ten minutes to reach home. It must have been about twenty minutes to two when I entered.”
“But where were you? Where had you been? Where did you come from?” he was asked.
“That I cannot state,” he replied. “I was out upon a little business of my own; business that concerns no one but myself; and I decline to make it public.”
On that score nothing more could be obtained from him. The coroner drew his own conclusions; the jury drew theirs; the police had already drawn theirs, and very positive ones.
These were the two facts that excited the ire of Sergeant Delves and his official colleagues: with all their searching, they could find no weapon likely to have been the one used; and they could not discover where Herbert Dare had gone to that evening. It happened that no one remembered to have seen him passing in the town, early or late; or, if they had seen him, it had made no impression on their memory. The appearance of Mr. Dare’s sons was so common an occurrence that no especial note was likely to have been taken of it. Herbert declared that in passing through West Street, Turtle, the auctioneer, was leaning out at his open bedroom window, and that he, Herbert, had called out to him, and asked whether he was star-gazing. Mr. Turtle, when applied to, could not corroborate this. He believed that he had been looking out at his window that night; he believed that it might have been about the hour named, getting on for two, for he was late going to bed, having been to a supper party; but he had no recollection whatever of seeing Mr. Herbert pass, or of having been spoken to by him, or by any one else. When pressed upon the point, Mr. Turtle acknowledged that his intellects might not have been in the clearest state of perception, the supper party having been a jovial one.
One of the jury remarked that it was very singular the prisoner could go through the dining-room, and not observe his brother lying in it. The prisoner replied that it was not singular at all. The room was in darkness, and he had felt his way through it on the opposite side of the table to that where his brother was afterwards found. He had gone straight through, and up to his chamber, as quietly as possible, not to disturb the house; and he dropped asleep as soon as he was in bed.
The verdict returned was “Wilful murder against Herbert Dare,” and he was committed to the county gaol to take his trial at the assizes. Mr. Dare’s house was beyond the precincts of the city. Sergeant Delves and his men renewed their inquiries; but they could discover no trace, either of the weapon, or of where Herbert Dare had passed the suspicious hours. The sergeant was vexed; but he would not allow that he was beaten. “Only give us time,” said he, with a characteristic nod. “The Pyramids of Egypt were only built up stone by stone.”
Tuesday morning — the morning fixed for the funeral of Anthony Dare. The curious portion of Helstonleigh wended its way up to the churchyard; as it is the delight of the curious portion of a town to do. What a sad sight it was! That dark object, covered by its pall, carried by its attendants, followed by the mourners; Mr. Dare, and his sons Cyril and George. He, the father, bent his face in his handkerchief, as he walked behind the coffin to the grave. Many a man in Helstonleigh enjoyed a higher share of esteem and respect than did Lawyer Dare; but not one present in that crowded churchyard that did not feel for him in his bitter grief. Not one, let us hope, that did not feel to his heart’s core the fate of the unhappy Anthony, now, for weal or for woe, to answer before his Maker for his life on earth.
That same day, Tuesday, witnessed the return of Samuel Lynn and William Halliburton. They arrived in the evening, and of course the first news they were greeted with was the prevailing topic. Few things caused the ever-composed Quaker to betray surprise; but William was half-stunned with the news. Anthony Dare dead — murdered — buried that very day; and Herbert in prison, awaiting his trial for the offence! To William the whole affair seemed more incredible than real.
“Sir,” he said to his master, when, the following morning, they were alone together in the counting-house at the manufactory, “do you believe Herbert Dare can be guilty?”
Mr. Ashley had been gazing at William, lost in thought. The change we often see, or fancy we see, in a near friend, after a few weeks’ absence, was apparent in William. He had improved in looks; and yet those looks, with their true nobility, both of form and intellect, had been scarcely capable of improvement. Nevertheless, it was there, and Mr. Ashley had been struck with it.
“I cannot say,” he replied, aroused by the question. “Facts appear conclusively against him; but it seems incredible that he should so have lost himself. To be suspected and committed on such a charge is grief enough, without the reality of guilt.”
“So it is,” acquiesced William.
“We feel the disgrace very keenly — as all must who are connected with the Dares in ever so remote a degree. I feel it, William; feel it as a blow; Mrs. Ashley is the cousin of Anthony Dare.”
“They are relatives of ours also,” said William in a low tone. “My father was first cousin to Mrs. Dare.”
Mr. Ashley looked at him with surprise. “Your father first cousin to Mrs. Dare!” he repeated. “What are you saying?”
“Her first cousin, sir. You have heard of old Mr. Cooper, of Birmingham?”
“From whom the Dares inherited their money. Well?”
“Mr. Cooper had a brother and a sister. Mrs. Dare was the daughter of the brother; the sister married the Reverend William Halliburton, and my father was their son. Mrs. Dare, as Julia Cooper, and my father, Edgar Halliburton, both lived together for some time under their uncle’s roof at Birmingham.”
A moment’s pause, and then Mr. Ashley laid his hand on William’s shoulder. “Then that brings a sort of relationship between us, William. I shall have a right to feel pride in you now.”
William laughed. But his cheek flushed with the pleasure of a more earnest feeling. His greatest earthly wish was to be appreciated by Mr. Ashley.
“How is it I never heard of this relationship before?” cried Mr. Ashley. “Was it purposely concealed?”
“It is only within a year or two that I have known of it,” replied William. “Frank and Gar are not aware of it yet. When we first came to Helstonleigh, the Dares were much annoyed at it; and they made it known to my mother in so unmistakable a manner, that she resolved to drop all mention of the relationship; she would have dropped the relationship itself if she could have done so. It was natural, perhaps, that they should feel annoyed,” continued William, seeking to apologize for them. “They were rich and great in the eyes of the town; we were poor and obscure.”
Mr. Ashley was casting his recollections backwards. A certain event, which had always somewhat puzzled him, was becoming clear now. “William, when Anthony Dare — acting, as he said, for me — put that seizure into your house for rent, it must have been done with the view of driving you from the town?”
“My mother says she has always thought so, sir.”
“I see; I see. Why, William, half the inheritance, enjoyed by the Dares, ought justly to have been your father’s!”
“We shall do as well without it, in the long-run, sir,” replied William, a bright smile illumining his face. “Hard though the struggle was at the beginning!”
“Ay, that you will!” warmly returned Mr. Ashley. “The ways of Providence are wonderful! Yes, William — and I know you have been taught to think so — what men call the chances of the world, are all God’s dealings. Reflect on the circumstances favouring the Dares; reflect on your own drawbacks and disadvantages! They had wealth, position, a lucrative profession; everything, in fact, to help them on, that can be desired b
y a family in middle-class life; whilst you had poverty, obscurity, and toil to contend with. But now, look at what they are! Mr. Dare’s money is dissipated; he is overwhelmed with embarrassment — I know it to be a fact, William; but this is for your ear alone. Folly, recklessness, irreligion, reign in his house; his daughters lost in pretentious vanity; his sons in something worse. In a few years they will have gone down — down. Yes,” added Mr. Ashley, pointing with his finger to the floor of his counting-house, “down to the dogs. I can see it coming, as surely as that the sun is in the heavens. You and they will have exchanged positions, William; nay, you and yours, unless I am greatly mistaken, will be in a far higher position than they have ever occupied; for you will have secured the favour of God, and the approbation of all good men.”
“That Frank and Gar will attain to a position in time, I should be worse than a heathen to doubt, looking back on the wonderful manner in which we have been helped on,” thoughtfully observed William. “For myself I am not sanguine.”
“Do you never cherish dreams on your own account?” inquired Mr. Ashley.
“If I do, sir, they are vague dreams. My position affords no scope for ambition.”
“I don’t know that,” said Mr. Ashley. “Would you not be satisfied to become one of the great manufacturers of this great city?” he continued, laughing.
“Not unless I could be one of the greatest. Such as — —” William stopped.
“Myself, for instance?” quietly put in Mr. Ashley.
“Yes, indeed,” answered William, lifting his earnest eyes to his master. “Were it possible that I could ever attain to be as you are, sir, in all things — in character, in position, in the estimation of my fellow-citizens — it would be sufficient ambition for me, and I should sit down content.”
“Not you,” cried Mr. Ashley. “You would then be casting your thoughts to serving your said fellow-citizens in Parliament, or some such exalted vision. Man’s nature is to soar, you know; it cannot rest. As soon as one object of ambition is attained, others are sought after.”
“So far as I go, we need not discuss it,” was William’s answer. “There’s no chance of my ever becoming even a second-rate manufacturer; let alone what you are, sir.”
“The next best thing to being myself, would perhaps be that of being my partner, William.”
The voice in which his master spoke was so significant, that William’s face flushed to crimson. Mr. Ashley noticed it.
“Did that ambition ever occur to you?”
“No, sir, never. That honour is looked upon as being destined for Cyril Dare.”
“Indeed!” calmly repeated Mr. Ashley. “If you could transform your nature into Cyril, I do not say but that it might be so in time.”
“He expects it himself, sir.”
“Would he be a worthy associate for me, think you?” inquired Mr. Ashley, bending his gaze full on William.
William made no reply. Perhaps none was expected, for his master resumed:
“I do not recommend you to indulge that particular dream of ambition; I cannot see sufficiently into the future. It is my intention to push you somewhat on in the world. I have no son to advance,” he added, an expression of sadness crossing his face. “All I can do for my boy is to leave him at ease after me. Therefore I may, if I live, advance you in his stead. Provided, William, you continue to deserve it.”
A smile parted William’s lips. That, he would ever strive for, heaven helping him.
Mr. Ashley again laid his hand on William, and gazed into his face. “I have had a wonderful account of you from Samuel Lynn. And it is not often the Friend launches into decided praise.”
“Oh, have you, sir?” returned William with animation. “I am glad he was pleased with me.”
“He was more than pleased. But I must not forget that I was charged with a message from Henry. He is outrageous at your not having gone to him last night. I shall be sending him to France one of these days, under your escort, William. It may do him good, in more ways than one.”
“I will come to Henry this evening, sir. I must leave him, though, for half an hour, to go round to East’s.”
“Your conscience is engaged, I see. You know what Henry accused you of, the last time you left him to go to East’s?”
“Of being enamoured of Charlotte,” said William, laughing in answer to Mr. Ashley’s smile. “I will come, at any rate, sir, and battle the other matter out with Henry.”
CHAPTER V.
A BRUISED HEART.
If it were a hopeless task to attempt to describe the consternation of Helstonleigh at the death of Anthony Dare, far more difficult would it be to picture that of Anna Lynn. Believe Herbert guilty, Anna did not; she could scarcely have believed that, had an angel come down from heaven to affirm it. Her state of mind was not to be envied; suspense, sorrow, anxiety filled it, causing her to be in a grievous state of restlessness. She had to conceal this from the eyes of Patience; from the eyes of the world. For one thing, she could not get at the correct particulars; newspapers did not come in her way, and she shrank, in her self-consciousness, from asking. Her whole being — if we may dare to say it here — was wrapt in Herbert Dare; father, friends, home, country; she could have sacrificed them all to save him. She would have laid down her life for his. Her good sense was distorted, her judgment warped; she saw passing events, not with the eye of dispassionate fact, or with any fact at all, but through the unhealthy tinge of fond, blind prejudice. The blow had almost crushed her; the dread suspense was wearing out her heart. She seemed no longer the same careless child as before; in a few hours she had overstepped the barrier of girlish timidity, and had gained the experience which is bought with sorrow.
On the evening mentioned in the last chapter, just before William went out to keep his appointment with Henry Ashley, he saw from the window Anna in his mother’s garden, bending over the flowers, and glancing up at him. Glancing, as it struck William, with a strangely wistful expression. He went out to her.
“Tending the flowers, Anna?”
She turned to him, her fair young face utterly colourless. “I have been so wanting to see thee, William! I came here, hoping thee wouldst come out. At dinner time I was here, and thee only nodded to me from the window. I did not like to beckon to thee.”
“I am sorry to have been so stupid, Anna. What is it?”
“Thee hast heard what has happened — that dreadful thing! Hast thee heard it all?”
“I believe so. All that is known.”
“I want thee to tell it me. Patience won’t talk of it; Hester only shakes her head; and I am afraid to ask Gar. Thee tell it to me.”
“It would not do you good to know, Anna,” he gravely said. “Better try and not think — —”
“William, hush thee!” she feverishly exclaimed. “Thee knew there was a — a friendship between me and him. If I cannot learn all there is to be learnt, I shall die.”
William looked down at the changing cheek, the eyes full of pain, the trembling hands, clasped in their eagerness. It might be better to tell her than to leave her in this state of suspense.
“William, there is no one in the wide world that knows he cared for me, but thee,” she imploringly resumed. “Thee must tell me; thee must tell me!”
“You mean that you want to hear the particulars of — of what took place on Thursday night?”
“Yes. All. Then, and since. I have but heard snatches of the wicked tale.”
He obeyed her: telling her all the broad facts, but suppressing a few of the details. She leaned against the garden-gate, listening in silence; her face turned from him, looking through the bars into the field.
“Why do they not believe him?” was her first comment, spoken sharply and abruptly. “He says he was not near the house at the time the act must have been done: why do they not believe him?”
“It is easy to assert a thing, Anna. But the law requires proof.”
“Proof? That he must declare to them where he h
as been?”
“Undoubtedly. And corroborative proof must also be given.”
“But what sort of proof? I do not understand their laws.”
“Suppose Herbert Dare asserted that he had spent those hours with me, for instance; then I must go forward at the trial and confirm his assertion. Also any other witnesses who may have seen him with me, if there were any. It would be establishing what is called an alibi.”
“And would they acquit him then? Suppose there were only one witness to speak for him? Would one be sufficient?”
“Certainly. Provided the witness were trustworthy.”
“If a witness went forward and declared it now, would they release him?”
“Impossible. He is committed to take his trial at the assizes, and he cannot be released beforehand. It is exceedingly unwise of him not to declare where he was that evening — if he can do so.”
“Where do the public think he was? What do they say?”
“I am afraid the public, Anna, think that he was not out anywhere. At any rate, after eleven or half-past.”
“Then they are very cruel!” she passionately exclaimed. “Do they all think that?”
“There may be a few who judge that it was as he says; that he was really away, and is, consequently, innocent.”
“And where do they think he was?” eagerly responded Anna again. “Do they suspect any place where he might have been?”
William made no reply. It was not at all expedient to impart to her all the gossip or surmises of the town. But his silence seemed to agitate her more than any reply could have done. She turned to him, trembling with emotion, the tears streaming down her face.
