CHAPTER XI.

THE EIGHTH OF MAY.

The eighth of May had come round at last.

Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George intended least to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell out, he could not well avoid doing so.

After the death and burial of Mother Mim—the expenses of the last-named ceremony being defrayed out of Kester’s pocket—it had been his intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so fell out that in the document purloined by him from the pocket of Skeggs when that individual lay dead on the moor, there was given the name of a certain person, still living, who could depose, of his own personal knowledge, to the truth of the facts as put down in the dying woman’s confession. This person was the only witness to the facts there stated who was now alive. The name of the man in question was William Bendall, and the point that Kester had now to clear up was: Who was this William Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was no address given in the Confession, nor any hint as to the man’s whereabouts; but Skeggs had doubtless known where he was to be found, and had, in fact, told Kester that he could put his hand on the man at a day’s notice.

With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it was impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn that Mother Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of a few days, and when the restraining power which had doubtless kept him silent should be removed for ever, what was to prevent him from telling all that he knew, or, at least, from giving such broad hints as to the information in his possession as might lead to inquiry—to many inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would care to encounter—unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven to bay?

But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It behoved him, therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain cautious inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with the view of ascertaining what kind of a man he was, or whether there was any danger to be apprehended from him. And if so, how could the danger best be met?

It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave Park Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at any hour should Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he stayed on at the old place, very much against his will in other respects. But, to a certain extent, his patience had already been rewarded. Mr. Bendall’s address had been discovered, and Mr. Bendall himself had been found to be first cousin to Mother Mim, and a railway ganger by profession. But just at this time he was away from home—his home being at Swarkstone, a great centre of railway industry, about twenty miles from Duxley—he having been sent out to Russia in charge of a cargo of railway plant. He was now expected back in the course of a few days, and Kester determined not to leave the neighbourhood till he had found out for himself what manner of man he was.

We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two days after Kester’s visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg, so that the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen, and it was at once understood how he had come by his death. No one except the girl Nell had seen Kester St. George in his company, so, as it fell out, that gentleman’s name was never even whispered in connexion with the affair.

The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously discussed in his own mind, after Mother Mim’s death. What to do with such a strange girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence. Did she really know anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she not? If anything, how much did she know, and to what use did she intend to put her knowledge? Kester had no opportunity of talking to her in private before the funeral, so he made an appointment with her for the morning following that event. She was to meet him at a certain milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o’clock. Kester was there to the minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all. Kester went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to Mother Mim’s cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the old woman who had been looking after matters previously to the funeral: From her he ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two hours after her return from seeing the last of her grandmother, taking with her her new black frock and a few other things tied up in a bundle, and had given no hint as to where she was going, or whether it was her intention ever to come back.

The girl’s disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude to Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any sign of her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness gradually wore itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself that from that quarter at least there was no possible danger to be apprehended.

But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester St. George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park Newton, not even though he could not have left it till the seventh, and had been compelled to come back to it on the ninth. He would have gone somewhere—anywhere if only for a dozen hours—if only from sunset till sunrise, had it in anyway been possible for him to do so. But it so happened that it was not possible for him to do so. On the fifth he received a letter from his uncle, which astonished him very much. General St. George was still staying at Salisbury with his sick friend, Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:

“All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant, but for a few hours only. I don’t know whether your cousin Richard has told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out to New Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him.”

“The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of life!” muttered Kester. “Of course, it’s Master Richard’s dodge to take him with him, so as to make sure of his money when he dies. Well, if I can only get rid of the young one, the old one may go with him, and welcome.” Then he went on with his uncle’s letter.

“I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope to spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old place, and there are several things I wish to talk to you about. We—that is, Richard and I, leave by the eight o’clock train next morning direct for Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us. By this day next week, I shall have bidden a final farewell to dear Old England.”

“So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it,” said Kester, as he folded up the letter. “I would give much if it was any other day than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But there’s no help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company than to spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that.”

“Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there’s no chance of any of his money coming to me,” he said to himself later on. “That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I don’t suppose he’s got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I wouldn’t mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for ever.”

The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often are. Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and away he started without telling any one where he was going. He was out all day, and did not get back till five o’clock, an hour after the arrival of his uncle, with whom had come Mr. Perrins, the family lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not seen for a long time. He was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester that his uncle had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving England, in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.

“This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England,” said Kester.

“Yes, it is very sudden,” replied the General. “It is not more than three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The reasons he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel left us, I seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I presently made up my mind to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of living alone. I have only you and him—and you; Kester, are too much of a Bohemian, too much a citizen of the world—a wandering Arab who strikes his tent a dozen times a year—for me ever to think of staying with you. Dick is far more of an old fogey than you are, and he and I—I don’t doubt—will get on very well together.”

“All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you.”

Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to dinner, for there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton, the octogenarian Vicar of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally during the course of the trial, but not since. The vicar he had known from boyhood.

It was by Lionel’s express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar had been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell Kester to-night should be told to them also. They were all, in a certain sense, friends of the family; they were all men of honour; with them his secret would be safe. In simple justice to himself, he felt that it was not enough that his uncle and Bristow should be the sole depositories of that secret. There ought to be at least two or three family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly trusted, and whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in exile.

None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular reason why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had any suspicion that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom they all so sincerely mourned. They had simply been invited to a little dinner party given by General St. George on the eve of his departure from England for ever.

The last to arrive at Park Newton—and he did not arrive till two minutes before dinner was served—was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven Miss Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking with Edith till the last minute.

Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General introduced them to each other. Tom had seen Kester several times, knowing well who he was, but the latter had no recollection of having ever seen Tom.

Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as to the particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin that which he had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had kept his own counsel, having spoken no word to any one. It was a subject on which even his wife felt that she could not question him. During the past week he had been even more silent and distrait than usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one subject, to the exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be aware of, what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon her: that she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed for was that the fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come and go without any encounter between her husband and his cousin. Lionel and Tom were to ride across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at the close of the evening—Tom, in order that he might escort Jane back to Pincote: Lionel, because he should then have bidden the old house a last farewell, because he should then have done with the past for ever, and because he should then be ready to start with his wife for their new home on the other side of the world.

“And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to reconsider your determination?” said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand in hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had gone into Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little parlour all to themselves.

“I’m afraid not,” answered Edith with a melancholy smile

“It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight and clear—just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the world! Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it aloud on the housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which he deserves to pay. I would never banish myself from my native country for his sake; he is not worthy of such a sacrifice.”

“You must not talk like that,” said Edith, with a little extra squeeze of Jane’s hand; “but it is easy to see who has been inoculating you with his wild doctrines.”

“They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones,” said Jane emphatically. “There’s nothing wild about them; they are plain common sense.”

“There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are about to do is best for all concerned.”

“I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in this way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you.”

“I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I’m afraid Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear transplanting to a foreign clime.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Jane, with a little sigh. “Only I should so like to travel: I should so like a six months’ voyage to somewhere.”

“The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel so.”

“You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand, some place within four or five days’ journey, where one could run over for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous of you to go so far away.”

“When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the case. If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be the least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable. He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without fear of detection.”

“I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to you to get away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful associations—to hide yourself in some remote valley where no shadow of the past can darken your door; but it seems to me that you need not go quite so far away in order to do that.”

“It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it.”

“No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that effect. But, New Zealand!”

As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith’s uneasiness increase, but she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had told her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to the time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share in the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she was unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might not even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait—wait—wait! If she went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the sound of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be possible to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance away. To and fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned leopardess. White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping and unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess of old, who sees in her mind’s eye a vision of doom—a vision of things to come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched her in silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but there was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.

“I can bear this no longer,” said Edith, at last; “the room suffocates me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel.” She snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside’s, that lay on the sofa, and flung it over her head and shoulders.

“Let me go with you,” cried Jane, “I am almost as anxious as you are.”

“Hush! hush!” cried Edith, suddenly, “I hear them coming!”

Hardly breathing, they all listened.

“I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind,” cried Mrs. Garside, after a few moments.

“Nor I,” said Jane.

“I tell you they are coming,” said Edith. “There are two of them. Listen! Surely you can hear them now!” She flung open the window as she spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them.

Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour. To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all of them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave.

Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith’s white arms were round his neck.

“My darling: what is it?” she said. “What dreadful thing has happened?” He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something in her ear. She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms tightened suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.

At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom and Mr. Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar, did their best to keep the conversation from flagging, but at times with only indifferent success. None of them could forget what day it was—could forget what took place that night twelve months ago, only a few yards from where they were sitting; and so remembering, who could wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless and the wines without flavour, that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to the imagination of more than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the room, invisible to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking when they drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing well all the time which one of the company would be the first to join it in that Land of Shadows to which it now belonged.

Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke at all except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep up some show of conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no one but himself knew how irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel intend to do? Would there be a scene—a fracas—between the two cousins? What would be the end of the wretched business? How fervently he wished that the morrow was safely come, that he had seen that unhappy man’s face for the last time, and that he, and Lionel, and Edith were fairly started on their long journey to the other side of the world!

The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party would break up by ten o’clock at the latest. Not that it mattered greatly to either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton all night. But the vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in decent time, so that when he began to fidget and look at his watch, Lionel, who was only waiting for him to make a move, knew that it would be impossible to detain him much longer.

“I must really ask you to excuse me, General,” said the old man at last. “But I see that it is past ten o’clock, and quite time for gay young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps.”

“I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar,” said Lionel. “I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my uncle’s permission, we will all adjourn there.”

“You must not keep me long,” said the vicar.

“I will not,” said Lionel. “But I know that you like to finish up your evening with a little café noir; and I have, besides, a picture which I want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much—a picture—which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all the other gentlemen who are here to-night.”

They all rose and made a move towards the door.

“As I don’t care for café noir, and don’t understand pictures, you will perhaps excuse me,” said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing himself to his uncle.

“You had better go with us,” said Lionel, turning to his cousin. “You are surely not going to be the first to break up the party.”

“I don’t want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come back,” answered Kester, doggedly.

“You had better go with us,” said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so that the others could not hear him.

“Pray who made you dictator here?” said Kester haughtily. “I don’t choose to go with you. That is enough.”

“You had better go with us,” said Lionel for the third time. “If you still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go.”

“Afraid!” sneered Kester. “Of whom and what should I be afraid?”

“That is best known to yourself.”

“Anyhow, I’m neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do.”

“If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are kept away by some abject fear.”

“Lead on.—I’ll follow.—But mark my words, you and I will have this little matter out in the morning—alone.”

“Willingly.”

The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered: a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as possible.

Lionel’s sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.

“Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” said Lionel. “My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it to you.” So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.

Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now, as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. “Come!” was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his heart there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to him; a dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating on some far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know that he was there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable bitterness, how utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human being anywhere who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret him—not one single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his grave.—But such thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away somehow. He rose and went to the table, poured himself out half a tumbler of brandy, and drank it off without water. “It puts fresh life into me as it goes down,” he muttered to himself.

He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness. Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel—or, as most there took it to be, the voice of Richard—but Lionel himself was unseen.

“Gentlemen,” said the voice, “you all know what day this is. It is the eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered. About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you.”

The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open. The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed canvas, on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel Dering’s Dream.

The scene was Percy Osmond’s bedroom, and the moment selected by the artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent’s heart. Peeping from behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses takable.

Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely accused was one of themselves.

“Now you see how the murder really happened—now you know who the murderer really was,” said Lionel, speaking from some place in the farther room where he could not be seen. “This is no dream but a most dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs—ample proofs—of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!”

At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face; his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one face to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to speak, but could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy. Tom interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it greedily and then he spoke.

“What you have just been told,” he said, “is nothing but a cruel, cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar—because he dare not face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer—we all know that Lionel Dering——”

“Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you to your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!”

Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood Lionel, no longer disguised—the dye washed off his face, his hands, his hair—the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from the dead—his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at a glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair beard.

For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue, glaring across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.

One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so. That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.

“He has fainted,” said the General.

“He is dead,” said Tom.

“Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this,” said Lionel. “None whatever!”