“You can call them presently for the defence, if you think it advisable,” Mr. Mapletoft replied; “but it is scarcely necessary, since the man admits the fact.”
“I admit that I dislike him, your worship,” Ned cried, “and I won’t deny that at one time I should have thought it no great crime to send a bullet through his head. But when I hated him worst I would never have brought a false charge against him, or against any man. I have told nothing but the simple truth.”
“Mere assertion,” Malpas cried. “I will presently demonstrate to you, gentlemen, not only the improbability, but the impossibility of the charge brought against me. It is a tissue of lies which I shall rend in pieces without difficulty. I will show you that I am the victim of a conspiracy between Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe and this man Culcheth, both of whom are my avowed enemies, and are seeking in this manner to blast my character and injure me. Mr. Clitheroe has declared that he obtained information from a gipsy girl of the supposed meeting at a turf-cutter’s hut in Delamere Forest. Where is the girl? Can she be produced to corroborate his assertion?”
“She can,” I replied. “She is without.”
“Call her,” the senior magistrate said.
At this announcement, for which he seemed wholly unprepared, a great change took place in Malpas. His limbs trembled, and he took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. As Tintwisle proceeded to summon the witness, he gazed anxiously at the door, and when, after a short interval, Rue entered, he addressed a supplicating glance at her, which she answered by an inexorable look. Malpas’s discomposure was too evident not to attract the attention of the whole assemblage. The magistrates regarded him with anxiety, and Doctor Sale could not conceal Ins uneasiness. As to poor Mrs. Sale, she again leaned forward from behind the screen, shuddered, and could scarcely repress a cry of terror as she beheld the fiercely-vindictive look which the gipsy girl fixed upon her son. Every one appeared instinctively to feel that on Rue’s testimony Malpas’s fate depended; while no one doubted — not even Malpas himself, I am sure — that her testimony would be adverse to him.
“What questions have you to put to the witness?” Mr. Mapletoft said to me, after Rue had been duly cautioned by Twemlow.
“Let me speak wi’ her first, your worship,” Ned Culcheth interposed, “seein’ as how the matter began wi’ me. Did you not meet me,” he added to Rue, “on the afternoon of the day before yesterday, at Hob’s Hillocks, near Garland Hall?”
“Yes, I saw you there,” Rue replied.
“And you told me to convey a message to Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe?”
“I told you to bid him meet me at a certain spot in Delamere Forest, between nine and ten o’clock on the following night,” Rue answered.
“For what purpose?” I demanded.
“Stop! stop! not so fast,” Mr. Mapletoft cried, checking me.
“I did not mention any purpose,” Rue observed; “but I told Ned to say to you, that if you failed to keep the appointment, you would ever after regret it.”
“Then you led Culcheth to suppose it was on a matter of importance that you wished to see Mr. Clitheroe?” Mr. Mapletoft asked.
“The matter was important — to me,” Rue replied.
“I have no more questions to ask the young woman, gentlemen,” Ned observed. “I undertook to convey her message, and I performed my promise. We both went together to the place of meeting she had fixed — the Chamber of the Forest — at the hour appointed. She was there, and had some discourse with Mr. Clitheroe.”
“Did you hear what passed between them?” Mr. Mapletoft inquired.
“I did not, your worship,” Ned replied. “I was too far off. I could only catch a word here and there; but the young woman seemed wild and angered.”
“Angry with Mr. Clitheroe?” the senior magistrate demanded.
“No, not wi’ him — wi’ Captain Sale,” Ned rejoined.
“How do you know that, fellow, if you did not hear what was said?” Mr. Mapletoft cried, sharply.
“I judged so, your worship,’’ Ned returned.
During the progress of the investigation, Rue’s gaze never for a moment quitted Malpas, and, judging from the fierce smile that curled her beautiful lip, she revelled in the torture he endured, and would willingly have prolonged it. He still addressed a supplicating look to her, but her glance was unpitying.
“Now, young woman, attend to me,” Mr. Mapletoft cried. “What took place during your interview with Mr. Clitheroe? What did you say to him?”
“Much that I cannot relate,” she replied “That won’t do. I must have a direct answer. Ned Culcheth has declared that you appeared angry. Against whom was your anger evinced?”
“Against one who has done me an injury,” she returned.
“But you must name the person,” Mr. Mapletoft cried.
“I decline to do so,” she answered. “It is a matter which relates only to myself.”
Malpas was visibly relieved. But his suddenly-awakened hopes were crushed by her looks, which seemed to say, “I have not done yet.”
“Harkee, young woman,” Mr. Mapletoft called out. “Do you not see, that by leaving the matter in doubt, you create a prejudice against Mr. Clitheroe? You lead us to suppose you were reproaching him, and we may put an entirely erroneous construction on the object of the meeting.”
“You may put what construction you please upon it, sir,” she rejoined. “He who has injured me stands before you, but I won’t name him.”
“Come, woman! speak! Is it Mr. Clitheroe, or Captain Sale?” the magistrate demanded.
“You will get nothing from me on that head,” Rue returned.
“Take care, or I will commit you,” Mr. Mapletoft cried, angrily.
I now thought proper to interpose. “Allow me,” I said to the senior magistrate, “to ask this young woman whether, after our interview, she did not take me and Culcheth to a turf-cutter’s hut in the forest?”
“I pointed out the hovel to you,” Rue replied, “but I left before you entered it.”
“True,” I rejoined. “You had previously told me whom I should find there, and the business on which he was engaged; but in order to make sure, you went forward to listen, and returned with the intelligence that he was within.”
“I said, ‘They are there’ — those were my exact words. Ned Culcheth heard me,” she rejoined.
“I did,” Ned cried. “And I understood you to mean—”
“Never mind what you understood, fellow,” Mr. Mapletoft interrupted. “Keep to facts.”
Seeing that Rue was unwilling to answer, and attributing her reluctance to a natural desire not to utter anything to criminate her father and brother, I said:
“I will betray no confidence you have reposed in me, and will ask no question that you may not desire to answer, but on one point you must speak out plainly — Did you not take me to that hut to revenge yourself on Captain Sale?”
As I put this question, there was a profound silence, broken only by a half-suppressed sob from Mrs. Sale. Looking in the direction whence this sound had proceeded, Rue was made aware of the poor lady’s presence, and became violently agitated. A sudden revulsion seemed to take place in her feelings.
“It is his mother!” she exclaimed, distractedly. “What have I said? — what have I done?”
“You have said nothing, my poor girl,” Mrs. Sale cried. “You will not join in this conspiracy against my son — you will not harm him?”
“For your sake, I will not,” Rue rejoined. “Let me go. You will get nothing more from me.”
“We will see that anon,” Mr. Mapletoft cried. “Madam,” he continued, addressing Mrs. Sale, “this interruption is highly improper, and I am obliged to request you to leave the room. Doctor Sale, you will be good enough to take your lady hence.” The vicar complied, and opened the door for Mrs. Sale, but ere the poor lady disappeared she threw a look of inexpressible gratitude at the gipsy girl.
In vain after this were interrogations addresse
d to Rue by the magistrates and myself. She continued, obstinately silent, and Mr. Mapletoft’s threats to commit her for contumacy were productive of no effect. At last she was removed, but was ordered to be kept in custody by one of the constable’s assistants until the examination had concluded.
This peril over, Malpas entirely recovered his courage. Addressing himself to the magistrates, he said it must be sufficiently evident to them that the accusation brought against him was utterly baseless, and made with malicious intent. I had asserted that he was at a hovel on Delamere Forest on the previous night, but I had been unable to prove it, and he could show that the statement was an entire fabrication. He then called John Baguley, Doctor Sale’s butler, who declared that to the best of his belief the captain was in his own room between nine and ten o’clock on the night before. Baguley had not seen the captain — but he had seen a light in his room. Moreover, he had not seen the captain leave the house at all overnight, or heard him return at a late hour. Jem Millington, Malpas’s groom, was the next witness, and he swore positively that his master’s horse had never been out of the stable on the night before, and he didn’t believe his master had gone out at all.
“Now, gentlemen,” Malpas said, when the groom had given his evidence, “I have proved, I trust to your satisfaction, that I could not have been out on horseback last night at the time mentioned by my accusers, unless I were possessed of a principle of ubiquity, but what will you say when I venture to affirm that the man I am reported to have shot — Simon Pownall — is alive and unhurt at this moment?”
At this assertion, which was made with surprising audacity, and which perfectly confounded Ned Culcheth and myself, great sensation was created amongst the assemblage.
“Prove that, and there is an end of the matter,” Mr. Mapletoft said.
“I will prove it,” Malpas cried. “Call Chetham Quick,” he added to the beadle.
Tintwisle went to the door, summoned the witness, and the next moment Chetham stepped into the room. After bowing to the bench, the impudent rascal looked at me and Ned as much as to say that he would speedily extinguish us. And so he did; for he swore most positively that Pownall was alive, and to the best of his belief uninjured.
“I have received a letter from him this very day,” Chetham said, “and he makes no mention of an accident of any kind having happened to him, and certainly does not write like a man who had received a mortal wound. He has reasons for keeping out of the way, or I could produce him at this moment.”
“What say you to this, sir?” Mr. Mapletoft called out to me.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” I cried. “No such letter as described could have been written by Simon Pownall. I am quite sure that the shot fired at him by Captain Sale took effect, and both myself and Ned Culcheth saw him drop into the dyke.”
“Where you found him, no doubt, this morning?” Malpas rejoined. “You accuse me of assassination: -where is the proof that any crime has been committed? — where is the body of the man I am said to have murdered?”
“Has the body been found?” Mr. Mapletoft inquired.
“It has not, sir,” I replied. “We carefully searched the dyke this morning, but were unable to discover any traces of the unfortunate man we had seen fall into it — except two articles which probably belonged to him. But these relics were found at some distance from the spot were the crime was committed. The body may have been removed — or Pownall may only have been wounded, and crept out of the dyke — that is possible.”
“Pownall is alive, and fully able, I repeat, to contradict this report of his murder,” Chetham Quick cried. “There can be no difficulty in producing him if their worships think it necessary, and this inquiry should be adjourned.”
“Well, really, gentleman, I do not think that any case has been made out, Mr. Vernon said. “An alibi has clearly been established by Captain Sale, and the man said to be shot proves to be alive, and most likely unhurt. I will not make any comment on Mr. Clitheroe’s conduct, or impute motives to him which may not exist, but certainly he has made a charge which he cannot sustain.”
“My opinion is, Mr. Vernon,” Mr. Hazilrigge remarked, “that both my young friend Mervyn Clitheroe and Ned Culcheth have been beguiled by evil spirits. You may smile, gentlemen, but I could adduce many instances of similar delusions as related by learned writers — notably, by Thirseus and Robert de Triez. I was present when the dyke was searched this morning, and I came to this conclusion at the time. My opinion is confirmed by what has since occurred. How, otherwise, let me ask, can you account for Mr. Clitheroe’s conduct? I know him to be utterly incapable of making any false statement — far less of bringing forward a charge like the present, knowing it to be false. Take my word for it, that both he and Ned Culcheth have been deluded. I am glad to find that the individual supposed to be shot is safe and sound, and hope to see him again.”
Old Hazy’s observations elicited a smile from the magistrates, but neither of them made a remark. After a few minutes’ conference in an undertone, with Mr. Vernon, the senior magistrate said: “We are of opinion that no case whatever has been made out against Captain Sale, and we dismiss the inquiry.”
Upon this, the magistrates rose and left the room by the side door, shaking hands with Doctor Sale, and congratulating him as they passed by. The beadle threw open one of the doors at the lower end of the room, and the yeomen went out by it. Old Hazy and Cuthbert Spring had followed the magistrates, and only Major Atherton and myself were left. By this time the vicar had joined his son, and after shaking hands with him, said in a low tone, glancing at me, as he spoke:
“If you will follow my advice, Malpas, you will indict your accusers for conspiracy and perjury.”
Stung by the remark, and unable to contain myself,’ I rejoined with some warmth: “Do not imagine that the matter will be allowed to rest here, Doctor Sale. But the next examination must be in a public court.”
“It must,” Major Atherton cried, coming quickly back from the door, through which he was just about to make an exit— “it must; and I will venture to predict, if the matter is thoroughly sifted, and careful investigations are made in the interim, that if any parties have to be indicted for perjury and conspiracy, it will not be Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe and Ned Culcheth. On the next occasion there must be no suborned hirelings for witnesses. Of Captain Sale’s guilt — notwithstanding all that has been alleged to the contrary — I do not entertain the slightest doubt, and I am sure he will not eventually succeed in evading justice.”
To this address, which was uttered with stem composure, Malpas seemed disposed at first to make an indignant rejoinder, but he manifestly quailed beneath the major’s eagle eye.
“Who are you, sir, that venture to interfere in this matter?” Captain Sale demanded.
“Inquire from your father who I am,” the major rejoined, regarding him scornfully. “He will tell you, and will tell you also by what right I interfere. I am a soldier, sir, and have ever borne myself with honour in my profession. No stain attaches to my name. It would be well for you if you could say as much.”
“You may be all you assert, sir,” Malpas cried; “though as your honour has not been called in question, there seems no need to vaunt of it. But whoever you are, you shall answer with your life for the imputations you have thrown out against me.”
“You must first clear your character before you are entitled to demand satisfaction from any man,” the major replied. “I should refuse to go out with you.”
So saying, Major Atherton turned upon his heel and was about to leave the room, when Doctor Sale hurried after him and arrested him.
“Stay a moment, sir,” he cried; “I did not know you were present. I had not heard of your return.” And he then added, in a lower tone, but which, however, reached my ear, “I wish you would come to me. Perhaps this unpleasant matter may be adjusted. Nay, I am sure it can, if we only meet to talk it over. There shall be no difficulty on my part. Even if a great sacrifice is requir
ed, it shall be made. Anything is better than the scandal which an inquiry like this must occasion. I am sure you will agree with me, on reflection, that on all accounts — on all accounts” he repeated, “this affair had better be hushed up. You would not, I am sure, wish to blast my son’s prospects in life.”
“The affair cannot be hushed up, sir,” the major rejoined, in an inflexible tone: “it has gone too far. But were it in my power to stay further inquiry, I would not. Have you exhibited such generosity yourself as to be entitled to ask for consideration towards your son? I will show him none. Come, sir,” he added to me. And taking my arm, we left the justice-room together.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE THAUMATURGUS AGAIN APPEARS ON THE SCENE.
I MUST now press on with my story. Momentous events await me. Nearly a month must therefore be passed over, with a rapid glance at what has occurred during the interval.
Poor Mrs. Mervyn had been laid in her family vault at the Collegiate Church. Though not invited to the funeral, I, nevertheless, attended it, wishing to pay the last mark of respect to one who for years had almost supplied to me the place of a mother. Many sincere mourners were there besides myself — many who had benefited largely by the good lady’s generosity and charity, and who deeply deplored her loss, fearing that little was to be expected from her successor. All her old servants and dependents followed her to the grave, and bade a tearful adieu to the best and kindest of mistresses. Poor Molly Bailey wept bitterly, and Mr. Comberbach was quite as much affected.
The butler’s apprehensions, however, that he and Molly Bailey would be summarily dismissed, were soon dispelled. On the day after the funeral, Lady Amicia announced that she meant to make no change whatever at present in the establishment, but should maintain the house on precisely the same footing as heretofore. The arrangements, therefore, of the Anchorite’s remained entirely undisturbed; and whatever might be its new mistress’s future plans, she allowed no intimation of them to escape her. No increase of servants was made — no carriage ordered — no display of pomp or state attempted. Lady Amicia and her daughter led a life of strict privacy; and during the short period I have mentioned, there were no visitors to the house that I heard of, except Doctor Foam and Mr. Barton Lever.
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