XXI
By the first dawn of the new day Tatham was in the saddle. Just as he wasstarting from the house, there arrived a messenger, and a letter wasput into his hand. It was from Undershaw, who, on leaving Duddon thenight before, had motored back to the Tower, and taken Faversham incharge. The act bore testimony to the little doctor's buffeted but stillsurviving regard for this man, whom he had pulled from the jaws of death.He reported in his morning letter that he had passed some of the night inconversation with Faversham, and wished immediately to pass on certainfacts learnt from it, first of all to Tatham, and then to any friend ofFaversham's they might concern.
He told, accordingly, the full story of the gems, leading up to thequarrel between the two men, as Faversham had told it to him.
"Faversham," he wrote, "left the old man, convinced that all was at anend as to the will and the inheritance. And now he is as much the heir asever! I find him bewildered; for his _mind_, in that tragic half-hour,had absolutely renounced. What he will do, no one can say. As to themurderer, we have discussed all possible clues--with little light. Butthe morning will doubtless bring some new facts. That Faversham has notthe smallest fraction of responsibility for the murder is clear to anysane man who talks with him. But that there will be a buzz of slanderoustongues as soon as ever the story is public property, I am convinced. SoI send you these fresh particulars as quickly as possible--for yourguidance."
Tatham thrust the letter into his pocket, and rode away through theDecember dawn. His mother would soon be in the thick of her own task withthe two unconscious ones at Duddon. _His_ duty lay--with Lydia! The"friend" was all alive in him, reaching out to her in a manly andgenerous emotion.
The winter sunrise was a thing of beauty. It chimed with the intensity offeeling in the young man's breast. The sky was a light saffron over theeastern fells, and the mountains rose into it indistinguishably blue, thelight mists wrapped about their feet. Among the mists, plane behindplane, the hedgerow trees, still faintly afire with their last leaf,stood patterned on the azure of the fells. And as he rode on, the firstrays of the light mounting a gap in the Helvellyn range struck upon thevalleys below. The shadows ran blue along the frosty grass; here andthere the withered leaf began to blaze; the streams rejoiced. Under theirsycamores and yews, the white-walled farms sent up their morning smoke;the cocks were crowing; and as he mounted the upland on which the cottagestood, from a height in front of him, a tiny church--one of the smallestand loneliest in the fells--sent forth a summoning bell. The sound, withall its weight of association, sank and echoed through the morningstillness; the fells repeated it, a voice of worship toward God, ofappeal toward man.
In Tatham, fashioned to the appeal by all the accidents of blood andnurture, the sound made for a deepened spirit and a steadied mood. Hepressed on toward the little house and garden that now began to showthrough the trees.
Lydia had not long come downstairs when she heard the horse at the gate.The cottage breakfast was nominally at half-past eight. But Mrs. Penfoldnever appeared, and Susy was always professionally late, it beingunderstood that inspiration--when it alights--is a midnight visitant, andmust be wooed at suitable hours.
Lydia was generally down to the minute, and read prayers to their twomaids. Mrs. Penfold made a great point of family prayers, but rarely ornever attended them. Susy did not like to be read to by anybody. Lydiatherefore had the little function to herself. She chose her favouritepsalms, and prayers from the most various sources. The maids liked itbecause they loved Lydia; and Lydia, having once begun, would notwillingly have given it up.
But the ceremony was over; and she had just opened the casement to seewho their visitor might be, when Tatham rode up to the porch.
"May I speak to you for ten minutes?"
His aspect warned her of things unusual. He tied up his horse, and shetook him into their little sitting-room, and closed the door.
"You haven't seen a newspaper?"
She assured him their post would not arrive from Keswick for anotherhour, and stood expectant.
"I wanted to tell you before any one else, because there are things toexplain. We're friends--Lydia?"
He approached her eagerly. His colour had leapt; but his eyes reassured.
"Always," she said simply, and she put her hand in his.
Then he told her. He saw her waver, and sink, ghost-like, on a chair. Itwas clear enough that the news had for her no ordinary significance. Hisheart knew pain--the reflex of a past anguish; only to be lost at once inthe desire to soothe and shield her.
"Mr. Faversham was there?" she asked him, trembling.
"He did not see the shot fired. The murderer rushing from the gallerybrushed past him as he was coming out of his room, and escaped."
"There had been a quarrel?"
He gave her in outline the contents of Undershaw's letter.
"He still inherits?" Her eyes, shone as he came to the climax of thestory--Faversham's refusal of the gems--Melrose's threat. The tremblingof her delicate mouth urged him for more--and yet more--light.
"Everything--land, money, collections--under the will made in August. Yousee"--he added, sorely against his will, yet compelled, by the need ofprotecting her from shock--"the opportuneness of the murder. Theirrelations had been very bad for some time."
"Opportuneness?" She just breathed it. He put out his hand again, andtook hers.
"You know--Faversham has enemies?"
She nodded.
"I've been one myself," he said frankly. "I believe you knew it. But thisthing's brought me up sharp. One may think as one likes of Faversham'sconduct--but you knew--and I know--that he's not the man to pay anotherman to commit murder!"
"And that's what they'll say?" The colour had rushed back into hercheeks.
"That's what some fool _might_ say, because of the grudge against him.Well, now, we've got to find the murderer!" He rose, speaking in his mostcheerful and practical voice, "I'm going on to see what the police havebeen doing. The inquest will probably begin to-morrow. But I wanted toprevent your being startled by this horrible news. Trust me to let youknow--and to help--all I can."
Then for a moment, he seemed to lose his self-possession. He stood beforeher awkwardly conscious--a moral trespasser--who might have been passingbounds. But it was her turn to be frank. She came and put both her handson his arm--looking up--drawing her breath with difficulty.
"Harry, I'm going to tell you. I ought to have told you more thatnight--but how could I? It was only just then I knew--that I cared.A little later Mr. Faversham asked me to marry him, and I refused,because--because of this money. I couldn't take it--I begged him notto. Never mind!" She threw her head back, gulping down tears. "Hethought me unreasonable. But--"
"He refused--and left you!" cried Tatham, drinking in the sweetness ofher pale beauty, as Orpheus might have watched the vanishing Eurydice.
"He had such great ambitions--as to what he'd do--with this money," shesaid, lightly brushing her wet eyes, and trying to smile. "It wasn't themere fortune! Oh, I knew that!"
Tatham was silent. But he gently touched her hand with his own.
"You'll stand by him?--if he needs it?" she asked piteously.
He assured her. Then, suddenly, raising herself on tiptoe, shekissed him on the cheek. The blood flew into his face, and bendingforward--timidly--he laid his lips on her soft brow. There was apledge in it--and a farewell. She drew herself away.
"The first--and the last," she said, smiling, and sighing. "Now we'recomrades. I await your news. Tell me if I can help--throw light? I knowthe people--the neighbourhood, well. And when you see Mr. Faversham,greet him from me. Tell him his friends here feel with him--and for him.And as to what you say--ah, no!--I'm not going to believe--I can'tbelieve--that any one can have such--such vile thoughts! The truthwill soon come out!"
She held herself steadily.
"We must find the-murderer," Tatham repeated, and took up his cap.
* * * * *
/>
Lydia was left alone in the little breakfast-room. Susy could be heardmoving about overhead; she would be down directly. Meanwhile the wintersunshine came broadly in; the singing of the tea-kettle, the crackle ofthe fire made domestic music. But Lydia's soul was far away. It stoodbeside Faversham, exulting.
"Free!"--she said to herself, passionately--"free!" and then with thehyperbole of love--"I talked and moralized--he _did it_!"
A splendid pride in him possessed her; so that for long shescarcely realized the tragedy of the murder, or the horror of theslanderous suspicion now starting through the dales. But yet, longbefore the day was over, she was conquered by grief and fear--a verymiserable and restless Lydia. No word came from him; and she could notwrite. These were men's affairs, and women must hold their peace. Yet,in spirit, as the hours passed, she gave herself wholly to the man sheloved; she glorified him; she trampled on her own past doubts; sheprotected him against a world in arms. The plant of love grew fast andfuriously--watered by pity--by indignation.
Meanwhile Susy treated her sister very kindly. She specially insisted onordering dinner, and writing various business letters; though Lydia wouldhave been thankful to do both. And when the evening came on, Mrs. Penfoldtrembling with excitement and horror, chattered endlessly about themurder, as each visitor to the cottage brought some fresh detail. Lydiaseldom answered her. She sat on the floor, with her face against hermother's knee, while the soft, silly voice above her head rambled andrambled on.
* * * * *
Tatham rode back to Pengarth. As he approached one of the lodge gates ofDuddon, a man came toward him on a bicycle. Boden, hot and dishevelled,dismounted as he saw Tatham.
"I thought I should just meet you. Lady Tatham has had a telephonemessage from the Chief Constable, Colonel Marvell. There is a manmissing--and a gun. Brand's younger son has not been seen for thirty-sixhours. He has been helping Andover's head keeper for part of the year, asa watcher; and this man, Simpson, had let him have an old gun of his--amuzzle-loader--some months ago. That gun can't be found."
Tatham sat thunderstruck, lights breaking on his face.
"Well--there was cause enough."
Boden's eyes shone.
"Cause? It smelled to heaven! Wild justice--if you like! I was in thehouse yesterday afternoon," he added quietly, "just before the old mandied."
"You were?" cried Tatham, amazed. Yet he knew well that whenever Bodencame to recruit at Duddon, he spent half of his time among the fell-farmsand cottages. His mind was invincibly human, greedy of common life andincident, whether in London or among the dales. He said little of hisexperiences at Duddon; not a word, for instance, to Tatham or Victoria,the night before, had revealed his own share in the old farmer's deathscene; but, casually, often, some story would drop out, some unsuspectedfacts about their next-door neighbours, their very own people, whichwould set Victoria and Tatham looking at each other, and wondering.
He turned now to walk beside Tatham's horse. His plain face with itsbeautiful eyes, and lanky straying hair, spoke of a ruminating mind.
Tatham asked if there was any news from the railway.
"No trace so far, anywhere. All the main line stations have been closelywatched. But Marvell is of opinion that if young Brand had anything to dowith it he would certainly give the railway a wide berth. He is much morelikely to take to the fells. They tell the most extraordinary tales ofhis knowledge of the mountains--especially in snow and wild weather. Theysay that shepherds who have lost sheep constantly go to him for help!"
"--You know him?"
"I have talked to him sometimes. A queer sulky fellow with one or twofixed ideas. He certainly hated Melrose. Whether he hated him enough tomurder him is another question. When I visited them, the mother told methat Will had rushed out of the house the night before, because he couldnot endure the sight of his father's sufferings. The jury I suppose willhave to know that. Well!--You were going on to Pengarth?"
Tatham assented. Boden paused, leaning on his bicycle.
"Take Threlfall on your way. I think Faversham would like to see you.There are some strange things being said. Preposterous things! The hatredis extraordinary."
The two men eyed each other gravely. Boden added:
"I have been telling your mother that I think I shall go over toThrelfall for a bit, if Faversham will have me."
Tatham wondered again. Faversham, prosperous, had been, it seemed to him,a special target for Boden's scorn, expressed with a fine range ofrevolutionary epithet.
But calamity of any kind--for this queer saint--was apt to change all thevalues of things.
They were just separating when Tatham, with sudden compunction, asked fornews of Mrs. Melrose, and Felicia.
"I had almost forgotten them!"
"Your mother did not tell me much. They were troubled about Mrs. Melrose,I think, and Undershaw was coming. The poor little girl turned verywhite--no tears--but she was clinging to your mother."
Tatham's face softened, but he said nothing. The road to Threlfallpresented itself, and he turned his horse toward it.
"And Miss Penfold?" said Boden, quietly. "You arrived before thenewspapers? Good. I think, before I return, I shall go and have a talkwith Miss Penfold."
And mounting his bicycle he rode off. Tatham looking after him, feltuncomfortably certain that Boden knew pretty well all there was to knowabout Lydia--Faversham--and himself. But he did not resent it.
Tatham found Threlfall a beleaguered place, police at the gates and inthe house; the chief constable and the Superintendent of policeestablished in the dining-room, as the only room tolerably free from theall encumbering collections, and interviewing one person after another.
Tatham asked to see the chief constable. He made his way into thegallery, which was guarded by police, for although the body of Melrosehad been removed to an upper room, the blood-stain on the Persian carpet,the overturned chair and picture, the mud-marks on the wall remaineduntouched, awaiting the coroner's jury, which was to meet in the housethat evening.
As Tatham approached the room which was now the headquarters of thepolice, he met coming out of it a couple of men; one small and sinewy,with the air of a disreputable athlete, the other a tall pasty-faced manin a shabby frock coat, with furtive eyes. The first was Nash, Melrose'slegal factotum through many years; the other was one of the clerks in thePengarth office, who was popularly supposed to have made much money outof the Threlfall estate, through a long series of small peculations neverdiscovered by his miserly master. They passed Tatham with downcast eyesand an air of suppressed excitement which did not escape him. He foundthe chief constable pacing up and down, talking in subdued tones, andwith a furrowed brow, to the Superintendent of police.
"Come in, come in," said Marvell heartily, at sight of the young man, whowas the chief landowner of the district, and likely within a couple ofyears to be its lord lieutenant. "We want your help. Everything points toyoung Brand, and there is much reason to think he is still in theneighbourhood. What assistance can you give us?"
Tatham promised a band of searchers from the estate. The Duddon estateitself included a great deal of mountain ground, some of the loneliestand remotest in the district, where a man who knew the fells might verywell take hiding. Marvell brought out a map, and they pored over it.
The superintendent of police departed.
Then Marvell, with a glance at the door to see that it was safely shut,said abruptly:
"You know, Faversham has done some unlucky things!"
Tatham eyed him interrogatively.
"It has come out that he was in the Brands' cottage about a week ago,and that he left money with the family. He says he never saw the youngerson, and did not in fact know him by sight. He offered the elder onesome money in order to help him with his Canadian start. The lad refused,not being willing, so his mother says--I have seen her myself thismorning--to accept anything from Melrose's agent. But she, not knowingwhere to look for the expenses of her
husband's illness, took five poundsfrom Faversham, and never dared tell either of her sons."
"All perfectly straightforward and natural," said Tatham.
Marvell looked worried.
"Yes. But you see how the thing may be twisted by men like thosetwo--curs!--who have just been here. You saw them? They came, ostensibly,to answer my questions as to whether they could point us to any onewith a particular grudge against Mr. Melrose."
"They could have named you a hundred!" interrupted Tatham.
"No doubt. But what their information in the end amounted to"--the chiefconstable came to stand immediately in front of Tatham, lowering hisvoice--"was that the only person with a really serious motive fordestroying Melrose, was"--he jerked his thumb in the direction ofFaversham's sitting-room--"our friend! They claim--both of them--to havebeen spectators of the growing friction between the two men. Nash saysthat Melrose had spoken to him once or twice of revoking, or alteringhis will; and both of them declare that Faversham was quite aware of thepossibility. Of course these things were brought out apologetically--youunderstand!--with a view of 'giving Mr. Faversham the opportunityof meeting the reports in circulation,' and so on--'calming publicopinion'--and the rest of it. But I see how they will work it up! Then,of course, that the man got access to the house through Faversham'sroom--Faversham's window left open, and the light left burning--by hisown story--is unfortunate."
"But what absurdity," cried Tatham, indignantly, as he rose. "As if theman to profit by the plot would have left that codicil on the table!"
Marvell shrugged his shoulders.
"That too might be twisted. Why not a supremely clever stroke? Well, ofcourse the thing is absurd--but disagreeable--considering thecircumstances. The moral is--find the man! Good-day, Lord Tatham. Iunderstand you will have fifty men out by this evening, assisting thepolice in their search?"
"At least," said Tatham, and departed.
Outside, after a moment's hesitation, he inquired of the police in chargewhether Faversham was in his room. Being told that he was, he asked leaveto pass along the gallery. An officer took him in charge, and he stepped,not without a shudder, past the blood-stained spot, where a cruel spirithad paid its debt. The man who led him pointed out the picture, thechair, the marks of the muddy soles on the wainscotting, and along thegallery--reconstructing the murder, in low tones, as though the dead manstill lay there. A hideous oppression indeed hung over the house.Melrose's ghost held it.
The police officer knocked at Faversham's door. "Would Mr. Favershamreceive Lord Tatham?"
Faversham, risen from his writing-table, looked at his visitor in a dullastonishment.
"I have come to bring you a message," said Tatham advancing, neither manoffering to shake hands. "I saw Miss Penfold early this morning--beforeshe got the newspapers. She wished me to bring you her--her sympathy. Shewas very much shocked." He spoke with a certain boyish embarrassment. Buthis blue eyes looked very straight at Faversham.
Faversham changed colour a little, and thanked him. But his aspect wasthat of a man worn out, incapable for the time of the normal responses offeeling. He showed no sense of strangeness, with regard to Tatham'svisit, though for weeks they had not been on speaking terms. Absentlyoffering his visitor a chair, he talked a little--disjointedly--ofthe events of the preceding evening, with frequent pauses forrecollection.
Tatham eyed him askance.
"I say! I suppose you had no sleep?"
Faversham smiled.
"Look here--hadn't you better come to us to-night?--get out of thishorrible place?" exclaimed Tatham, on a sudden but imperative impulse.
"To Duddon?" Faversham shook his head. "Thank you--impossible." Then helooked up. "Undershaw told you what I told him?"
Tatham assented. There was an awkward pause--broken at last by Faversham.
"How did Miss Melrose get home?"
"Luckily I came across her at the foot of the Duddon hill, and I helpedher home. She's all right--though of course it's a ghastly shock forthem."
"I never knew she was here--till she had gone," exclaimed Faversham, withsudden animation, "Otherwise--I should have helped her."
He stood erect, his pale look fixed threateningly on Tatham.
"I'm sure you would," said Tatham, heartily. "Well now, I must be off. Ihave promised Marvell to put as many men as possible to work in with thepolice. You have no idea at all as to the identity of the man who ranpast you?"
"None!" Faversham repeated the word, as though groping in his memory."None. I never saw Will Brand that I can recollect. But the descriptionof him seems to tally with the man who knocked me over."
"Well, we'll find him," said Tatham briskly. "Any message for GreenCottage?"
"My best thanks. I am very grateful to them."
The words were formal. He sank heavily into his chair, as though wishingto end the interview. Tatham departed.
* * * * *
The inquest opened in the evening. Faversham and the Dixons gave theirevidence. So did Undershaw and the police. The jury viewed the body, andleave to bury was granted. Then the inquiry adjourned.
For some ten days afterward, the whole of the Lake district hung upon thesearch for Brand. From the Scawfell and Buttermere group on its westernverge, to the Ullswater mountains on the east; from Skiddaw andBlencathra on the north, southward through all the shoulders and edges,the tarns and ghylls of the Helvellyn range; through the craggy fells ofThirlmere, Watendlath, Easedale; over the high plateaus that run up tothe Pikes, and fall in precipice to Stickle Tarn; through the wild cleftsand corries of Bowfell, the Crinkles, Wetherlam and the Old Man; over thedesolate backs and ridges that stretch from Kirkstone to Kentmere andLong Sleddale, the great man-hunt passed, enlisting ever fresh feet, andfresh eyes in its service. Every shepherd on the high fells became adetective, speeding news, or urging suggestions, by the old freemasonryof their tribe; while every farmhouse in certain dales, within reach ofthe scene of the murder, sent out its watchers by day and night, eagerlycontributing its men and its wits to the chase.
For in this chase there was a hidden motive which found no expressionin the local papers; of which men spoke to each other under theirbreaths, when they spoke at all; but which none the less became in avery short time, by the lightning spread of a few evil reports, throughthe stubble of popular resentment, the animating passion at the heart ofit. The police and Faversham's few friends were searching for themurderer of Melrose; the public in general were soon hunting Faversham'saccomplice. The discovery of Will Brand meant, in the one case, thearrest of a poor crazy fellow who had avenged by murder his father'spersecution and ruin; in the other case, it meant the unmasking of aneducated and smooth-spoken villain, who, finding a vast fortune indanger, had taken ingenious means to secure it. In this black suspicionthere spoke the accumulated hatred of years, stored up originally, in themind of a whole countryside, against a man who had flouted every law ofgood citizenship, and strained every legal right of property to breakingpoint; and discharging itself now, with pent-up force, upon the tyrant'stool, conceived as the murderous plotter for his millions. To realize thestrength of the popular feeling, as it presently revealed itself, was tolook shuddering into things elemental.
It was first made plain on the day of Melrose's funeral. In order toavoid the concourse which might attend a burial in Whitebeck parishchurch, lying near the main road, and accessible from many sides, itwas determined to bury him in the graveyard of the little mountainchapel on the fell above the Penfolds' cottage. The hour was sunrise; andall the preparations had been as secretly made as possible. But when thedark December morning arrived, with sleet showers whitening all theslopes of Helvellyn and the gashed breast of Blencathra, a dense crowdthronged all the exits of the Tower, and lined the steep lanes leading tothe chapel. Faversham, Cyril Boden, and a Carlisle solicitor occupied theonly carriage which followed the hearse. Tatham and his mother met thedoleful procession at the chapel. Lady Tatham, very pale and queenly,walke
d hand in hand with a slight girl in mourning. As the multitudeoutside the churchyard caught sight of the pair, a thrill ran through itsranks. Melrose's daughter, and rightful heiress--disinherited, andsupplanted--by the black-haired man standing bareheaded behind thecoffin. The crowd endured the mockery of the burial service in a sullensilence. Not a head uncovered. Not a voice joined in the responses.
Felicia threw back her veil, and the onlookers pressed to the churchyardrailings to see the delicate face, with its strong likeness to herfather. She meanwhile saw only Tatham. Her eyes were fixed on him fromfirst to last.
But there were two other ladies in the churchyard. After the hurriedceremony was over, one of them approached Faversham. He took her hand insilence, looking down into the eyes--the soul--of Lydia. With whatangelic courage and cheer that look was charged, only its recipient knew.
"Come and see us," she said, softly.
He shook his head, with a look of pain. Then he pressed her hand and theyseparated. As he appeared at the churchyard gate, about to enter thecarriage which was waiting, a grim low groan ran through the throngwhich filled the lane. There was something in the sound to strike ashiver through the strongest. Faversham grew perhaps a little paler, butas he seated himself in the carriage he examined the scowling faces nearhim with a quiet indifference, which scarcely altered when Tatham cameconspicuously to the carriage-door to bid him farewell.
The days that followed reminded some of the older dalesmen of the storiestold by their fathers of the great and famous hunt, a century ago, afterthe sheep-slaying "dog of Ennerdale," who for five months held a wholedistrict at bay; appearing and disappearing phantom-like among the cragsand mists of the high fells, keeping shepherds and farming-folk inperpetual excitement, watched for by night and day, hunted by hounds andby men, yet never to be captured; frightening lovers from their trysts,and the children from school; a presence and a terror prevading men'sminds, and suspending the ordinary operations of life. So in some sortwas it with the hunt for Will Brand. It was firmly believed that in thecourse of it he was twice seen; once in the loneliness of Skiddaw Forest,not far from the gamekeeper's hut, the only habitation in that moorlandwaste; and once in a storm on the slopes of Great Dodd, when a shepherd,"latin" his sheep, had suddenly perceived a wild-looking fellow, with agun between his knees, watching him from the shelter of a rock. So farfrom making any effort to capture the man, the shepherd had fled interror; but both neighbours and police firmly believed that he had seenthe murderer. There were also various mysterious thefts of food reportedfrom mountain farms, indications hotly followed up but to no purpose.Would the culprit, starved out, be forced in time to surrender; or wouldhe die of privation and exposure among the high fells, in the snowdrifts,and leave the spring, when it came, to uncover his bones?
Toward the end of the month the snowstorms of its earlier days passedinto a chilly and continuous rain; there was still snow on the heights.The steady downpour presently flooded the rivers, and sent the streamsracing in torrents down the hills.
Christmas was over. The new year was at hand. One afternoon, Boden,oppressed in spirit, sallied forth from the Tower into the floods andmists of St. John's Vale. He himself had taken no part in the greatpursuit. He believed now that the poor hunted creature would find hislonely end among the wintry mountains, and rejoiced to think it might beso. The adjourned inquest was to be resumed the following day, and nodoubt some verdict would be returned. It was improbable, in spite of themalice at work, that any attempt would be made--legally--to incriminateFaversham.
It was of Faversham that he was chiefly thinking. When he had firstproposed his companionship, the day after the murder, it had been quietlyaccepted, with a softened look of surprise, and he and Undershaw hadsince kept watch over a bewildered man, protecting him as far as theycould from the hostile world at his gates.
How he would emerge--what he meant to do with Melrose's vast heritage,Boden had no idea. His life seemed to have shrunk into a dumb, trancelikestate. He rarely or never left the house; he could not be induced togo either to Duddon or to the Cottage; nor would he receive visitors. Hehad indeed seen his solicitors, but had said not a word to Boden on thesubject. It was rumoured that Nash was already endeavouring to persuadea distant cousin of Melrose and Lady Tatham to dispute the will.
Meanwhile, through Boden, Lydia Penfold had been kept in touch with a manwho could not apparently bring himself to reopen their relation. Bodensaw her nearly every day; they had become fast friends. Victoria too wasas often at the cottage as the state of Netta Melrose allowed, and sheand Lydia, born to understand each other, had at last arrived thereat.
But Mrs. Melrose was dying; and her little daughter, a more romanticfigure than ever, in the public eye, was to find, it said, a secondmother in Lady Tatham.
The rain clouds were swirling through the dale, as Boden reached itsmiddle point, pushing his way against a cold westerly blast. The stream,which in summer chatters so gently to the travellers beside it, wasrushing in a brown swift flood, and drowning the low meadows on itswestern bank. He mounted a stone foot-bridge to look at it, when, of asudden, the curtain of cloud shrouding Blencathra was torn aside, andits high ridge, razor-sharp, appeared spectrally white, a seat of thestorm-god, in a far heaven. The livid lines of just-fallen snow,outlining the cliffs and ravines of the great mountain, stamped itsmajesty, visionlike, on the senses. Below it, some scattered woods, inkyblack, bent under the storm, and the crash and darkness of the lower airthrew into clear relief the pallid splendour of the mountain-top.
Boden stood enthralled, when a voice said at his elbow:
"Yo're oot on a clashy night, Muster Boden!"
He turned. Beside him stood the fugitive!--grinning weakly. Boden behelda tottering and ghastly figure. Distress--mortal fatigue--breathed fromthe haggard emaciation of face and limbs. Round the shoulders was foldeda sack, from which the dregs of some red dipping mixture it had oncecontained had dripped over the youth's chest and legs, his tatteredclothes and broken boots, in streams of what, to Boden's startled sense,looked like blood. And under the slouched hat, a pair of sunken eyeslooked out, expressing the very uttermost of human despair.
"Brand!--where have you been?"
"Don't touch me, sir! I'll go--don't touch me! There ha' been hunnerdsafter me--latin me on t' fells. They've not catcht me--an' they'd not ha'catcht me noo--but I'm wore oot. I ha' been followin yo' this half-hour,Muster Boden. I could ha' put yo' i' the river fasst enoof."
A ghastly chuckle in the darkness. Boden considered.
"Well, now--are you going to give yourself up? You see--I can do nothingto force you! But if you take my advice, you'll go quietly with me, tothe police--you'll make a clean breast of it."
"Will they hang me, Muster Boden?"
"I don't think so," said Boden slowly. "What made you do it?"
"I'd planned it for months--I've follered owd Melrose many times--I'vebeen close oop to 'im--when he had noa noshun whativver. I might ha'killt him--a doosen times over. He wor a devil--an' I paid him oot! I wascreepin' round t' hoose that night--and ov a suddent, there was a dooropenin', an' a light. It seemed to be God sayin', 'Theer's a way, mon!go in, and do't! So I went in. An' I saw Muster Faversham coom oot--an'Dixon. An' I knew that he wor there--alone--the owd fox!--an' Iwaited--an' oot he came. I shot 'un straight, Muster Boden! I shot 'unstraight!"
"You never told any one what you were going to do, Brand? Nobody helpedyou?"
"Not a soul! I'm not yo'r blabbin' sort! But now I'm done--I'm clemmed!"
And he tottered against the bridge as he spoke. Baden caught him.
"Can you walk with my help? I have some brandy."
And taking from his pocket the tiny flask that a man with a weak heart isapt to carry, he put it into a shaking hand. Brand drank it greedily.
They stumbled on together, down the narrow road, through thestreaming rain. It was a mile to the Whitebeck police station. Brandgave a gasping, incoherent account of his doings during his ten daysof h
iding--the various barns and outhouses he had sheltered in--thefood he had been able to steal--the narrow escapes he had run. And everynow and then, the frenzy of his hatred for the murdered man would breakin, and he would throw out hints of the various mad schemes he hadentertained at different times for the destruction of his enemy.
But presently he ceased to talk. It was evident that his weakness wasgreat; he clung heavily to Boden's arm.
They reached a point where a road branched to the left. A roar of furiouswater greeted their ears.
"That's t' beck unner Wanthwaite Bridge," said Brand feebly. "Wait a bit,sir."
He sank down on a stone by the roadside. Through the trees on the leftthe foaming river glimmered in the departing light. Boden bent over him,encouraging him with the promise of shelter and food, murmuring also ofGod, the help of the sinner. Suddenly the lad leapt up.
"Aye! that'll end it!--an' a good job!"
He began to run up the left-hand road. Boden pursued him, struggled withhim, but in vain. Brand threw him off, reached the bridge, mounted theparapet, and from there flung himself headlong into the spate rushingfuriously below.
At the same moment a dog-cart driven by two young farmers appeared on themain road of the valley. Boden's shouts reached them, and they came tohis aid. But Brand had disappeared. The river swept him down like awithered branch; and it was many hours before the body was recovered,half a mile from the spot where he sank.