CHAPTER XXIII
ARMED by the extremity of his alarm, Horace ventured, no one being near to spy upon him, to enter, in his miserable search, the chamber of death itself. He dared not look towards the bed, on which lay that rigid outline of humanity, all covered and dressed with white. He could scarcely contain the horror of his trembling as he stood, dismayed and powerless, in the presence of his victim; but, after his first pause of involuntary homage, he turned – though still not daring to turn his back to the bed, overpowered with a terror which he could not explain – to pursue his search. Stealthily moving about, with his head bent, and his step shuffling as if with age, he examined every corner, peering into the wardrobe, where his heart thrilled desperately to see the well-remembered garments which it was so hard to believe could never be worn again; and turning over familiar articles of daily use with awed and trembling fingers, as though they could betray him; but he could not find any trace of the object of his search. Its very absence seemed to him significant and terrible. Had some enemy taken it to testify against him? Had the dead man himself taken measures to secure his own revenge? Heavy, cold, clammy beads of moisture hung upon the young man’s face; a chill as of death entered into his heart; deep to the very centre of his being he himself knew and felt his own guilt – and now another mysterious, gnawing misery was added to his own self-consciousness. Some one else knew also; some one meaning him evil had withdrawn that dreadful instrument of death and vengeance. He had played his horrible game, but the great stakes were further off than ever. Already, in his miserable, excited imagination, he saw, instead of fortune and Amelia, a trial and a scaffold, and the dread name of parricide. A wild agony of impatience and intolerable suffering came over him. Rather than wait till this slow, deadly avenger of blood had found him out, he would rush forth somewhere, and denounce himself, and have it over. His punishment was more than he could bear!
But all was silent in the death-stricken house; not a sound, save the loud ticking of the clock downstairs, and the deep throbs of his own heart, could Horace hear as he stood, stealthy and desperate, at the door of his father’s room. Susan’s face, innocent and wondering; Uncle Edward’s benign countenance, disapproving and sad; and, still more dangerous, Peggy’s troubled eyes, watching where he went and what he did, haunted his imagination. He could fancy them all grouped together under covert somewhere, watching that guilty, stealthy pause of his – watching his secret, clandestine footsteps as he stole downstairs. But still he did go down, in the breathless cowardice of his conscious crime; fearing everything, yet with all his mind fixed, in an intensity which was half insane, upon that dumb witness against him. He did not expect to find it. He could have supposed it possessed by some malicious spirit, and with an actual animate will working against him; but he could not rest till he had, through every corner, sought it out – if, perhaps, it could be found.
When he had got downstairs he paused again to consider where he should go; a faint sound of Peggy’s voice in the kitchen, and the slight stir made now and then for a moment by Colonel Sutherland in the dining parlour, confused and stopped him in his course. He stood for a moment irresolute and breathless, not seeing what to do, and then almost involuntarily opened the closed door of Mr. Scarsdale’s study. The recluse was dead, and could harm no man now; but he was alive when his guilty son stepped into that room so deeply instinct with his presence, where now more than ever he lived and had his sure abode. Almost more awful than the actual presence of the dead was that presence unseen and terrible, the invisible life of life, which death could not touch, and which should remain here for ever. Horace dared scarcely breathe the air of this deserted room. An hour’s imprisonment in it, in his present state of mind, would have driven him into mad superstition, if not to positive frenzy; but he saw something there, set out almost with ostentation on the table, which would have drawn him through fire and water. There it stood, solemnly by itself, the books and papers cleared away from its immediate vicinity, in malign and mischievous state, calling the attention of everyone who entered. Horace made his shuddering way forward, and seized upon it with the grasp of desperation. Yes, there it was, with all its evidence within his own reach, and safe, if he willed it so, to harm him no more!
The little medicine-chest was partially open, with the key in its lock; but this had been done of purpose, and was the result of no accident; and within lay something white – a sheet of paper – which assuredly was not there when he had opened it before. Almost too anxious to pay any attention to these elaborate marks of intention and design, Horace seized the box and the phial which he had filled. He could not pause even to look whether the leather which covered the cork had been removed, or any of the contents were gone, but hastened to the fireplace, where the ashes of a fire still lay in the grate, and with trembling hands broke the neck of the bottle against the grate, and emptied out its contents – for he dared not go outside, lest some one should see him. As he paused, kneeling on the hearth, breathless and with a beating heart, he tried to take comfort and re-assure himself. It was gone; no evidence existed now that the son had entered in, murderous and secret, to the father’s chamber. He tried to persuade himself that he breathed more freely; then he grovelled down upon the hearth, and hid his face in his hands. God help him! what did it matter though no one else suspected? – deep in the bottom of his heart did not he know? – and was there anything in heaven or earth which could wash the horror of that certainty out of Horace Scarsdale’s miserable mind? He had been selfish, malicious, unloving before; but never till now had he been a murderer– and, oh! the horrible difference, the change unspeakable, which that dread distinction made!
However, he got up at last, all shuddering and weak, with the remains of the phial grasped in his hand, and with a morbid curiosity returned again to examine the box. This time he set it open and took out the sheet of paper. He could scarcely distinguish the words at first, for the awe of looking at his father’s writing, and receiving thus, as it were, a direct message from the dead; but when the sense slowly broke upon him the effect was like a stroke of magic. He stood staring at the paper, his eyes starting from his head, his face flushing and paling with wild vicissitudes of colour; then he dropped down heavily on the floor, thrusting aside unconsciously Mr. Scarsdale’s chair, which stood in its usual place by the table. He could neither cry nor help himself; he fell heavily, like a man stunned by a sudden blow – voice, strength, consciousness went out of him; he lay prostrate, with his head upon the fleecy lambskin where his father’s feet had been accustomed to rest, no longer a self-defending, self-torturing, conscious parricide, with a brand upon his soul worse than that of Cain; a figure blind and helpless, an insensible, inanimate mass of dull flesh and blood, conscious of nothing in the world, not even that he lived and was a man.
The paper fell fluttering after him and covered his face. It was of the kind and colour which Mr. Scarsdale always used – a blue flimsy leaf, and had been carefully cut to fit the box in which it was placed. What had tempted the recluse to record thus his suspicions and his precaution, no one in the world could now ever tell; save as the expression of a vindictive sentiment, and secret triumph to himself in his solitude for discovering and baffling a secret enemy, there was no meaning in it, and the chances are that nothing would have brought these words from the unhappy father’s pen could he have known the overpowering transport of relief which at sight of them should overthrow all the strength and make useless the defences of the still more unhappy son. On the paper were written in large letters, in Mr. Scarsdale’s distinctest handwriting, the following words —
“Tampered with by some person to me Unknown, and the contents of this chest left untouched by me since the 3rd May, on which day I have reason to believe this was done.”
This was the date of Horace’s fatal visit to Marchmain; and the solemn statement of the dead man relieving him from the actual guilt with which he believed himself accursed, had overpowered him with an emotion beyond words – beyond thought. Enough was left to sting him all his life long with black suggestions of ineffaceable remorse, but so far as act and deed went, he was not guilty. He could say nothing in his unspeakable relief. The desperate tension of his misery had kept him alive and conscious by very consequence of its sufferings – but when the bow was unstrung it yielded instantly. There he lay senseless where his father’s feet had used to rest, smitten to the heart with an undeserved and unutterable consolation – guilty, yet not guilty, by some strange interposition of God. He could not even be thankful in this overpowering, unbelievable relief from his misery; he could only fall fainting, unconscious, rapt beyond all sense and feeling. He was deeply, miserably guilty; too deeply stained ever to be clear of that remembrance in this life; but he was not a parricide. In spite of himself he was saved from that horror, and human hope might be possible to him still.
CHAPTER XXIV
“AND so the Cornel’s at Marchmain; it’s like you’re acquaint with all the history of that family, Patchey, my lad – tak up your glass; ould comrades like you and me are no in the way of meeting every day, and you’ve a long road and a lone across the moor.”
So said Sergeant Kennedy, possessed with a virtuous curiosity to learn all that could be learned from “the Cornel’s own man,” who, with the instinct peculiar to his class, had speedily found out that good ale and company were to be had at the “Tillington Arms,” where Mrs. Gilsland showed great respect and honour to the important Patchey. Patchey had already taken glasses enough to increase his dignity and solemn demeanour. He had grown slow and big of speech, and eloquent on the great importance of his own services to the Colonel.
“He’s a wise man for other folk,” said Patchey deliberately, “but a child, and nothing but a child, where his own affairs is concerned. If it werena for me that ken the world, and keep a strict eye upon the house, he would be ruined, mum; ye may take my word for it – ten times in the year.”
“Acquaint with all the family? – I’m no a braggart,” said Patchey, in answer to this question; “but it stands to natur that in the coorse of our colloquies upon affairs in general the Cornel says many a thing to me.”
“Not a doubt about it – especially,” said the Sergeant, gravely, “as you’re well known to be a discreet lad, and wan that’s to be trusted – as was known of ye since ever ye entered the regiment, though I say it. Ye see, mistress, he was always a weel-respected man.”
“The Cornel, as I was saying,” continued Patchey, passing loftily over this compliment, “says many a thing to me that it would ill become me to say over again; but this ye a’ ken as well as me. The gentleman at Marchmain was married upon the Cornel’s sister, and died of a stroke, and the visitation of God, the day afore yesterday; and a’ the great fortune that’s been lying gathering this mony a year has come to his son.”
“Eyeh, Mr. Patchey! but the fortin’ – that’s just the thing I cannot make owght of, head nor tail,” cried Mrs. Gilsland; “there was never no signs, as ever I heard tell on, of fortin’ at Marchmain, and for a screw and ould skinflint, that would give nowght but the lowest for whatever she wanted, I’ll engage there’s no the marrow of Peggy from Kenlisle to Cardale; and if you had asked me, I could have vowed with my last breath that the family had seen better days, and were as poor as ever a family pretending to be gentry could be.”
At this statement, which he took to be derogatory to his dignity, Patchey squared his spare shoulders, and erected his head.
“Being near relations of my ain family,” said Patchey, “where persons have oucht to say agin the family at Marchmain, I would rather, of the twa, that it was not said to me.”
“Agin the family!” cried Mrs. Gilsland – “havers! wasn’t Mr. Horry at my house five nights in the week, and the Cornel himsel’ brought Miss here to dine? Do you mean to tell me its agin a family to say it’s seen better days? Eyeh! wae is me! to think there’s no a soul in the Grange but ould Sally, and the young Squire out upon the world to seek his fortin’ like any other man! but where’s the man would dare to say I thought the less o’ Mr. Roger? That’s no my disposition, Mr. Patchey. It may be the way o’ the world, but it isn’t mine.”
“Leftenant Musgrave, if it’s him you’re meaning, he’ll do weel, mum,” said Patchey, with solemnity; “he’s been visiting at our house, and the Cornel’s tooken him up. I would not say but more folk nor the Cornel had a kindness for that lad; but these affairs are awfu’ delicate. I wadna say a word for my life.”
“Eyeh, man! I’ll lay a shilling it’s Miss!” cried Mrs. Gilsland, in great excitement and triumph.
“But all this has little to do with the family at Marchmain,” said Sergeant Kennedy, as Patchey shook his head with mysterious importance – “what’s the rights o’ that story if wan might ask, Patchey, my friend? – for it’s little likely the Cornel would keep a grand family secret like that from a confidential man like you.”
“Ye’re right there, Sergeant; he’ll say more to me, will our Cornel, than to ony other living man, were it Mr. Ned or Mr. Tom, that are but callants,” said Patchey. “I ken mair nor most folk of a’ our ain concerns; but it’s as good as a play to hear this. I’ve made it out, a sma’ bit at a time, mysel’; and if it werena that the gentleman’s dead, ye might hew me down into little bits, before ye would get anything that wasna wanted to be heard, out of me. But he’s gane, poor gentleman, and a’ the better for him, as I’ve little doubt; and Mr. Horry, as ye call him, has come into a great fortune. Ye see the rights of it was this: – the auld man of a’, the grandfather, had been a captious auld sinner, though I say it that should not; and being displeased ae way or anither at his son, this ane that’s now dead, he made a will, strick cutting him off, and leaving the haill inheritance at his death to his son, a baby in his nurse’s arms. That’s just the short and the long of it. I’ve read sichlike in print; but it’s no often ye meet wi’ a devil’s invention like that in living life. And the Cornel’s sister’s husband, ye see, he took it savage, being but a young man then; and the poor lady died, and down came he here, with an ill heart at a’ the world – and the rest ye ken as weel as me.”
“Eyeh, man, is that the tale?” said Mrs. Gilsland. “I wouldn’t say but it was dead hard upon Mr. Horry’s papaw; but, dear life! was the man crazed that he would take it out on his childer? – for more neglected things than them two, begging your pardon, Mr. Patchey, were not in this countryside; and how they’ve comed up to be as they are is just one of the miracles of Providence. Neyther a play nor a lesson like other folks’s childer, nor a soul, to see them frae year’s end to year’s end. It was common talk; that’s the way I know; but, eyeh, Mr. Patchey! had the very Cornel himsel’ no thought for them poor childer there?”
“The Colonel was at his duty, mum,” said Patchey. “He was resident at Rum Chunder station, and me with him; and he served in the Burmah war, and wherever bullets were flying, as the Sergeant can tell you. There was little time to think of our own bairns, let alone ither people’s, in these days. The Colonel was in Indeea, and in het wark, and me with him, for nigh upon forty year.”
“Hot work, ye may well say, Patchey, my friend,” said the Sergeant, authoritatively. “It’s little they know, them easy foulks at home, what the like of huz souldiers goes through. Eat when you can and sleep when you can, but work and fight awlways: them’s the orders of life as was upon you and me.”
“Eyeh, Sergeant!” cried Mrs. Gilsland, suddenly facing round upon the self-betrayed veteran, “was them the words you said to my Sam, when the lad was ’ticed away and ’listed all out of your flatteries? – or to the young Squire, when he hearkened to you? Eyeh, ye deceitful ould man! Is’t a parcel o’ stories, and nowght else, ye tell to the poor young lads, that knaw no better? and make poor mouths, and take pity on the sodgherin’, when ye’re awl by yoursel’?”
“Whisht, mistress, whisht!” said the Sergeant, who had recovered during this speech from his momentary dismay. “Did I say owght but what’s come true? Sam Gilsland’s been home on furlough, Patchey – as pretty a lad as ever handled a gun – corporal, and well spoken on; and the young Squire’s leftenant, and mentioned in the papers – and what could friend or relation, if it was an onreasonable woman, wish for more?”
“Ye may make your mind easy, mum, about Leftenant Musgrave; and your son, if he’s steady, will come well on in the Rifles – ’special when the Cornel’s tooken him up,” said Patchey. “Our Cornel, he’s that kind of a man when he takes an interest in a lad he’s not one that forgets. I should say he would do uncommon well if he’s steady, being come of responsible folk, and the Cornel for a friend.”
“The Lord be thankit, I have little reason to complain!” said Sam’s mother, wiping her eyes with her apron; “and it’s a rael handsome uniform, though it’s no so gaudy as your redcoats. I took my Sam for an officer and a grand gentleman when he came in at the door, before I saw his honest face,” cried the good woman, with a sob of pride; “and the Cornel’s good word is as good as a fortin’, and he’s uncommon kind is the young Squire. I wish them all comfort and prosperity now and evermore,” she concluded, with a little solemn curtsey, giving emphasis to her good wishes – “and Miss and Mr. Horry, as well; though he’s no more like the Cornel than you or me.”
“He takes after the faither’s family – he’s no like none of our folk,” said Patchey; “but, though I wouldna say the Cornel altogether approves of him, he’s much concerned about the young gentleman the noo. He’s showed great feeling after a’, that young man; he was like a lad out of his mind when the faither was ill; and the day of the death, what does the Cornel find but Maister Horace dead on his face, fainted off in the study, and in a high fever ever since. The like of that, ye ken, shows feeling in a young man.”
“Feeling? They were none such good friends in life, if awl tales be true,” said Mrs. Gilsland. “My man, John, was all but put to the door when he went for Mr. Kerry’s things; and a lad like him, that was never greatly knawn for a loving heart, and was coming into a fortin’ besides – feeling here or feeling there, I don’t see no occasion for Mr. Horry fainting away.”
“Nor me,” said the Sergeant, emphatically; “but I ever said, and I’ll ever say, that though he’s the Cornel’s nevvy, and doubtless well connected, and good blood on wan side of the house, I’ll ever say yon’s an inscrutable lad.”
“That may be,” said the solemn Patchey; “but scrutable or no, he’s in a brain fever, and craves guid guiding, and here’s me come for the medicine, if I hadna fallen in with ower guid company. Weel, weel – an hour mair or less will do the lad nae harm. I’ve little faith in physic for such like disorders. If ye’ve a good constitution and a clear conscience, and the help of Providence, ye’ll fight through: if ye havena, ye must e’en drop out of the ranks, and anither man’ll take your place. But I have Mr. Horace’s bottle in my pocket a’ this time; so, with your leave, I’ll bid you good day.”
Saying which, Patchey stalked out of the “Tillington Arms,” and took his solemn way across the moor. His step was slow, and his cogitations momentous. If he did not think much about Horace and his medicine, he settled sundry knotty points in philosophy as he wended through the fragrant heather. Patchey’s gravity and intense sense of decorum increased habitually with every glass he emptied; but, perhaps, when his moralities flourished most, he made least haste about his immediate business, and it is to be feared that the confidential communication which the Colonel made to him when he reached the house was not of a flattering character. Horace got his physic an hour or two later than the proper time; but Patchey’s flowers of eloquence blossomed no more that day in the kitchen of Marchmain.