Laid up in Lavender

"Show them your arm!" Ah, but that was just what he could not do! And as he comprehended this he gnashed his teeth. He saw himself entrapped, and his misery was so plainly written in his face that the best and most merciful of those about him turned from him in pity. Even the girl who loved him shrank back, clutching the mantelpiece in the first spasm of doubt, and fear, and anguish. Her words, her suggestion, had taken from him his last chance. He saw that it was so. He felt the Nemesis the more bitterly on that account; and with a wild gesture, and some reckless word of defiance, he turned blindly and hurried from the room, seized his hat, and went down to the street.

His feelings when he found himself outside were such as it is impossible to describe in passionless sentences. He had wrecked his honour and happiness in an hour. He had lost his place among men through a thoughtless word. We talk and read of a thunderbolt from the blue; still the thing is to us unnatural. Some law-abiding citizen whom a moment's passion has made a murderer, some strong man whom a stunning blow has left writhing on the ground, a twisted cripple-only these could fitly describe his misery and despair as he passed through the streets. It was misery he had brought on himself; and yet how far the punishment exceeded the offence! How immensely the shame exceeded the guilt! He had lied in careless will, with no evil intent; and the lie had made him a thief!

He went up to his rooms like one in a dream, and, scarcely knowing what he did, he tore the bauble from his arm and flung it on the mantel-shelf. By his last act-by bringing it away-he had made his position a hundred times more serious. But he did not at once remember this. After he had sat a while, however, with his head between his hands, wondering if this really were himself-if this really had happened to himself, this irrevocable thing! – he began to see things more clearly. But he could not at once make up his mind what to do. Beyond a hazy idea of returning the bracelet by the first post, and going on the Continent-of course, he must resign his employment-he had settled nothing, when a step mounting the staircase made him start to his feet. Some one knocked at the door of his chambers. He stood pallid and listened, struck by a sudden fear.

"The police!" he said to himself.

A moment's thought satisfied him that it was improbable, if not impossible, that they could be on his track so soon; and he went to the door listlessly and threw it open. On the mat stood Burton Smith, in a soft slouched hat, his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat. Wibberley glanced at him, and saw that he was alone; then leaving him to shut the door, he returned to his chair, and sat down in his old attitude, with his head between his hands. He looked already a broken man.

Burton Smith followed him in, and stood a moment looking at him uncomfortably enough. It is bad to have had such a scene as has been described in your house; it is worse, if a man be a man, to face a fellow-creature in his hour of shame. At any rate, Burton Smith felt it so. "Look here, Wibberley," he said at length, as much embarrassed as if he had been the thief. "Look here, it will be better to hush this up. Give me the d-d bracelet to hand back to Lady Linacre, and the thing shall go no farther."

His tone was suggestive both of old friendship and of present pity. But when he had to repeat his question, when Wibberley gave him no answer, his voice grew more harsh. Even then the man with the hidden face did not speak, but pointed with an impatient gesture to the mantel-shelf.

Burton Smith stepped to the fire-place and looked. He was anxious to spare the culprit as far as possible. Yes, there was the bracelet. He took possession of it, anxious to escape from the place with all speed. But he laid it down the next instant as quickly as he had taken it up; and his brows came together as he turned upon his companion.

"This is not the bracelet!" he said. There was no smack of affection in his tone now; it was wholly hostile. His patience was exhausted. "Lady Linacre's was a diamond bracelet of great value, as you know," he said. "This is a plain gold thing worth two or three pounds. For Heaven's sake, man!" he added with sudden vehemence, "for your own sake, don't play the fool now! Where is the bracelet?"

Doubtless despair had benumbed Wibberley's mind, for he did not reply, and Burton Smith had to put his question more than once before he got an answer. When Wibberley at last looked up it was with a dazed face. "What is it?" he muttered, avoiding the other's eyes.

"This is not Lady Linacre's bracelet."

"That's not?"

"No; certainly not."

Still confused, still shunning the other's look, Wibberley rose, took the bracelet in his hand, and frowned at it. Burton Smith saw him start.

"It is of the same shape," the barrister repeated, ice in his voice-he thought the exchange a foolish, transparent artifice-worse than the theft. "But Lady Linacre's has a large brilliant where that has a plain boss. That is not the bracelet."

Wibberley turned away, the thing in his hand, and went to the window, and stood there a long moment looking out into the darkness. The curtains were not drawn. As he stood, otherwise motionless, his shoulders trembled so violently that a dreadful suspicion seized his late host, who desisted from watching him and looked about, but in vain, for a phial or a glass.

At the end of the minute Wibberley turned. For the first time he confronted his visitor. His eyes were bright, his face very pale; but his mouth was set and firm. "I never said it was!" he answered.

"Was what?" the other cried impatiently.

"I never said it was Lady Linacre's. It was you who said that," he continued, his head high, a change in his demeanour, an incisiveness almost harsh in his tone. "It was you-you who suspected me! I could not show you my arm because I had that bracelet on it."

"And whose bracelet is it?" Burton Smith murmured, shaken as much by the sudden change in the man's demeanour as by his denial.

"It is your cousin's-Miss Burton's. We are engaged," Wibberley continued sternly-so entirely had the two changed places. "She intended to tell you to-morrow. I saw it on the table, and secreted it when I thought that no one was looking. I needed a pattern-for a bracelet I am giving her."

"And it was Joanna's bracelet that Vereker May saw you take?"

"Precisely."

Burton Smith said a word about the Civilian which we need not repeat. Then, "But why on earth, old fellow, did you not explain?" he asked.

"First," Wibberley replied with force, "because I should have had to proclaim my engagement to all those fools; and I had not Joanna's permission to do that. Secondly-well, I did not wish to confess to being such an idiot as I was."

"Ah!" said Burton Smith, slowly, an odd light in his eyes. "I think you were a fool, but-I suppose you will shake hands?"

"Certainly, old man." And they did so, warmly.

"Now," continued the barrister, his face becoming serious again, "the question is, where is Lady Linacre's bracelet?"

"I don't care a d-n," Wibberley answered. "I am sure you will excuse me saying so. I have had trouble enough with it-I know that-and, if you do not mind, I am going to bed."

But though his friend left him, Wibberley did not go to bed at once. Burton Smith hurrying homeward-to find when he reached Onslow Mansions that Lady Linacre's bracelet had been discovered in a flounce of her dress-would have been surprised, very much surprised indeed, could he have looked into Wibberley's chambers a minute after his departure. He would have seen his friend down on his knees before a great chair, his face hidden, his form shaken by hysterical sobbing. For Wibberley was moved to the inmost depths of his nature. It is not given to many men to awake and find their doom a dream. Only in dreams, indeed, does the cripple get his strength again, and the murderer his old place among his fellow-men. Wibberley was fortunate.

And the lesson? Did he take it to heart? Well, lessons and morals are out of fashion in these days. Or stay-ask Joanna. She should know.

THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT

"Eighty-eight when he died! That is a great age," I said.

"Yes, indeed. But he was a very clever man, was Robert Evans Court, and brewed good beer," my companion answered. "His home-brewed was known, I am certain, for more than ten miles. You will have heard of his body-birds, sir?"

"His body-birds?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, to be sure. Robert Evans Court's body-birds!" With which he looked at me, quick to suspect that his English was deficient. He had learned it in part from books; hence the curious mixture I presently noted of Welsh idioms and formal English phrases. It was his light trap in which I was being helped on my journey, and his genial chat that was lightening that journey; which lay through a part of Carnarvonshire usually traversed only by wool-merchants and cattle-dealers-a country of upland farms swept by the sea-breezes, where English is not spoken at this day by one person in a hundred, and even at inns and post-offices you get only "Dim Sassenach" for your answer. "Do you not say," he went on, "body-birds in English? Oh, but to be sure, it is in the Bible!" with a sudden recovery of his self-esteem.

"To be sure!" I replied hurriedly. "Of course it is! But as to Mr. Robert Evans, cannot you tell me the story?"

"I'll be bound there is no man in North or South Wales, or Carnarvonshire, that could tell it better, for Gwen Madoc, of whom you shall hear presently, was aunt to me. You see Robert Evans" – and my friend settled himself in his seat and prepared to go slowly up the long steep hill of Rhiw which rose before us-"Robert Evans lived in an old house called Court, near the sea, very windy and lonesome. He was a warm man. He had Court from his father, and he had mortgages, and as many as four lawsuits. But he was unlucky in his family. He had years back three sons who helped on the farm, or at times fished; for there is a cove at Court and good boats. Of these sons only one was married-to a Scotchwoman from Bristol, I have heard, who had had a husband before, a merchant captain; and she brought with her to Court a daughter, Peggy, ready-made as we say. Well, of those three fine men there was not one left in a year. They were out fishing in a boat together, and Evan-that was the married one-was steering as they came into the cove on a spring tide running very high with a south wind. He steered a little to one side-not more than six inches, upon my honour-and pah! in an hour their bodies were thrown up on Robert Evans' land just bits of seaweed. But that was not all. Evan's wife was on the beach at the time, so near she could have thrown a stone into the boat. They do say that before that she was pining at Court-it was bleak, and lonesome, and cold in the winters, and she had been used to live in the towns. But, however, she never held up her head after Evan was drowned. She took to her bed, and died in the short month. And then, of all at Court, there were left only Robert Evans and the child, Peggy."

"How old was the child then?" I asked. He had paused, and was looking to the front, thoughtfully, striving, it would seem, to make the situation clear to himself.

"She was twelve, and the old man eighty and more. She was in no way related to him, you will remember, but he had her stop, and let her want for nothing that did not cost money. He was very careful of money, as was right; it was that made him the man he was. But there were some who would have given money to be rid of her. Year in and year out they never let the old man rest but that he should send her to service at least-though her father had been the captain of a big ship; and if Robert Evans had not been a stiff man of his years, they would have had their will."

"But who-"

By a gesture he stopped the words on my lips; and then there rose mysteriously out of the silence about us the sound of wings, a chorus of shrill cries. A hundred white forms swept overhead, and fell a white cluster about something in a distant field. They were seagulls. "Just those same!" he said proudly, jerking his whip in their direction-"body-birds. When the news that Robert Evans' sons were drowned got about, there was a pretty uprising in Carnarvonshire. There seemed to be Evanses where there had never been Evanses before. As many as twenty walked in the funeral, and you may be sure that afterwards they did not leave the old man to himself. The Llewellyn Evanses were foremost. They had had a lawsuit with Court, but made it up now, to be sure. Besides, there were Mr. and Mrs. Evan Bevan, and the three Evanses of Nant, and Owen Evans, and the Evanses of Sarn, and many more who were all forward to visit Court, and be friendly with old Gwen Madoc, Robert's housekeeper. I am told they could look black at one another, but in this they were all in one tale, that the foreign child should be sent away; and at times one and another would give her the rough word."

"She must have had a bad time," I observed.

"You may say that. But she stayed, and it was wonderful how strong and handsome she grew up, where her mother had just pined away. The sailors said it was her love of the sea; and I have heard that people who live inland about here come to think of nothing but the land-it is certain that they are good at a bargain-while the fishermen who live with a great space before them are finer men, I have heard, in their minds as well as their bodies; and Peggy bach grew up like them, free and open and up-standing, though she lived on land. When she was in trouble she would run down to the sea, where the salt spray washed away her tears and the wind blew her hair, that was of the colour of seaweed, into a tangle. She was never so happy as when she was climbing the rocks among the seagulls, or else sitting with her books in the cove where the farm-people would not go for fear of hearing the church bells that bring bad luck. Books? Oh yes, indeed next to the sea she was fond of books. There were many volumes, I have been told, that were her mother's; and Robert Evans, though he was a Wesleyan, went to church because there was no Wesleyan chapel, the Calvinistic Methodists being in strength here; and the minister lent her many English books and befriended her. And I have heard that once, when the Llewellyn Evanses had been about the girl, he spoke to them so that they were afraid to drive down Rhiw hill that night, but led the horse; and I think it may be true, for they were Calvinists. Still, he was a good man, and I know that many Calvinists walked in his funeral."

"Requiescat in pace," said I.

"Eh! Well, I don't know how that may be," he replied, "but you must understand that all this time the Llewellyn Evanses, and the Evanses of Nant, and the others would be at Court once or twice a week, so that all the neighbourhood called them Robert Evans' body-birds; and when they were there Peggy McNeill would be having an ill time, since even the old man would be hard to her; and more so as he grew older. But, however, there was a better time coming, or so it seemed at first, the beginning of which was through Peter Rees's lobster-pots. He was a great friend of hers. She would go out with him to take up his pots-oh, it might be two or three times a week. So it happened one day, when they had pushed off from the beach, and Peggy was steering, that old Rees stopped rowing on a sudden.

"'Why don't you go on, Peter?' said Peggy.

"'Bide a bit,' said old Rees.

"'What have you forgotten?' said she, looking about in the bottom of the boat. For she knew what he used very well.

"'Nought,' said he. But all the same he began to put the boat about in a stupid fashion, afraid of offending her, and yet loth to lose a shilling. And so, when Peggy looked up, what should she see but a gentleman-whom Rees had perceived, you will understand-stepping into the boat, and Peter Rees not daring to look her in the face because he knew well that she would never go out with strangers.

"Of course the young gentleman thought no harm, but said gaily, 'Thank you! I am just in time.' And what should he do, but go aft and sit down on the seat by her, and begin to talk to Rees about the weather and the pots. And presently he said to her, 'I suppose you are used to steering, my girl?'

"'Yes,' Peggy answered, but very grave and quiet-like, so that if he had not determined that she was old Rees's daughter he would have taken notice of it. But she was wearing a short frock that she used for the fishing, and was wet with getting into the boat moreover.

"'Will you please to hold my hat a minute,' he said; and with that he put it in her lap while he looked for a piece of string with which to fasten it to his button. Well, she said nothing, but her cheeks were scarlet, and by-and-by, when he had called her 'my girl' two or three times more-not roughly, but just offhand, taking her for a fisher-girl-Peter Rees could stand it no longer, shilling or no shilling.

"'You mustn't be speaking that fashion to her,' he said gruffly.

"'What?' said the gentleman looking up. He was surprised, and no wonder, at the tone of the man.

"'You mustn't speak like that to Miss McNeill Court,' repeated old Rees more roughly than before. 'You are to understand she is not a common girl, but like yourself.'

"The young gentleman turned and looked at her just once, short and sharp, and I am told that his face was as red as hers when their eyes met. 'I beg Miss McNeill's pardon,' he said, taking off his hat grandly, yet as if he meant it too; 'I was under a great misapprehension.'

"After that you may believe they did not enjoy the row much. There was scarcely a word said by any one until they came ashore again. The visitor, to the great joy of Peter, who was looking for a sixpence, gave him half a crown; and then walked away with the young lady, side by side with her, but very stiff and silent. However, just as they were parting, Peter could see that he said something, having his hat in his hand the while, and that Miss Peggy, after standing and listening, bowed as grand as might be. Upon which they separated for that time.

"But two things came of this; first, that every one began to call her Miss McNeill Court which was not at all to the pleasure of the Llewellyn Evanses. And then, that whenever the gentleman, who was a painter lodging at Mrs. Campbell's of the shop, would meet her, he would stop and say a few words, and more as the time went on. Presently there came some wet weather; and Mrs. Campbell borrowed for his use books from her, which had her name within; and later he sent for a box of books from London, and then the lending was on the other side. So it was not long before people began to see how things were, and to smile when the gentleman treated old Robert Evans at the Newydd Inn. The fishermen, when he was out with them, would tack so that he might see the smoke of Court over the cliffs; and there was no more Peggy bach to be met, either rowing with Peter Rees or running wild among the rocks, but a very sedate young lady who, to be sure, did not seem to be unhappy.

"The old man was ailing in his limbs at this time, but his mind was as clear as ever, and his grip of the land as tight. He could not bear, now that his sons were dead, that any one should come after him. I am thinking that he would be taking every one for a body-bird. Still the family were forward with presents and such-like, and helped him perhaps about the farm; so that, though there was talk in the village, no one could say what will he would make.

"However, one day towards winter Miss Peggy came in late from a walk, and found the old man very cross. 'Where have you been?' he cried angrily. Then, without any warning, 'You have been courting,' he said, 'with that fine gentleman from the shop?'

"'Well,' my lady replied, putting a brave face upon it, as was her way, 'and what then, grandfather? I am not ashamed of it.'

"'You ought to be!' he cried, banging his stick upon the floor. 'Do you think that he will marry you?'

"'Yes, I do,' she replied stoutly. 'He has told you so to-day, I know.'

"Robert Evans laughed, but his laugh was not a pleasant one. 'You are right,' he said. 'He has told me. He was very forward to tell me. He thought I was going to leave you my money. But I am not! Mind you that, my girl.'

"'Very well,' she answered, white and red by turns.

"'You will remember that you are no relation of mine!' he went on viciously, for he had grown very crabbed of late. 'No relation! And I am not going to leave you money. He is after my money. He is nothing but a fortune-catcher!'

"'He is not!' she exclaimed, as hot as fire, and began to put on her hat again.

"'Very well! We shall see!' answered Robert Evans. 'Do you tell him what I say, and see if he will marry you. Go! Go now, girl, and you need not come back! You will get nothing by staying here!' he cried, for what with his jealousy and the mention of money, he was furious-'not a penny! You had better be off at once!'

"She did not answer for a minute or so, but she seemed to change her mind about going, for she laid down her hat, and went about the house-place getting tea ready-and no doubt her fingers trembled a little-until the old man cried, 'Well, why don't you go? You will get nothing by staying.'

"'I shall stay to take care of you all the same,' she answered quietly. 'You need not leave me anything, and then-and then I shall know whether you are right.'

"'Do you mean it?' he asked sharply, after looking at her in silence for a time.

"'Yes,' said she.

"'Then it's a bargain!' cried Robert Evans-'it's a bargain!' And he said not a word more about it, but took his tea from her and talked of the Llewellyn Evanses who had been to pay him a visit that day. It seemed, however, as if the matter had upset him, for he had to be helped to bed, and complained a good deal, neither of which things were usual with him.

"Well, it is not unlikely that the young lady promised herself to tell her lover all about it next day, and looked to hear many times over from his lips that it was not her money he wanted. But this was not to be, for early the next morning Gwen Madoc was at her door.

"'You are to get up, miss,' she said. 'The master wants you to go to London by the first train.'

"'To London!' cried Peggy, very much astonished. 'Is he ill? Is anything the matter, Gwen?'

"'No,' the old woman answered very short. 'It is just that.'

"And when the girl, having dressed hastily, came down to Robert Evans' room, she found that this was pretty nearly all they would tell her. 'You will go to Mrs. Richard Evans, who lives at Islington,' he said, as if he had been thinking about it. 'She is my second cousin, and will find house-room for you, and make no charge whatever. To-morrow you will take this packet to the address upon it, and the next day a packet will be returned to you, which you will bring back to me. I am not well to-day, and I want to have the matter settled, yes, indeed.'

"'But could not some one else go, if you are not well?' she objected, 'and I will stop and take care of you.'

"He grew very angry at that. 'Do as you are bidden, girl,' he said. 'I shall see the doctor to-day, and for the rest, Gwen can do for me. I am well enough. Do you look to the papers. Richard Evans owes me money, and will make no charge for your living.'

"So Miss Peggy had her breakfast, and in a wonderfully short time, as it seemed to her, she was on the way to London, with plenty of leisure for thinking-very likely for doubting and fearing as well. She had not seen her sweetheart, that was one thing. She had been despatched in a hurry, that was another. And then, to be sure, the big town was strange to her.

"However, nothing happened there, I may tell you. But on the third morning she received a short note from Gwen Madoc, and suddenly rose from breakfast with Mrs. Richard, her face very white. There was news in the letter-news of which all the neighborhood for miles round Court was full. Robert Evans, if you will believe it, was dead. After ailing for a few hours he had died, with only Gwen Madoc to smooth his pillow.

"It was late when she reached the nearest station to Court on her way back, and found a pony trap waiting. She was stepping into it when Mr. Griffith Hughes, the lawyer, saw her, and came up to speak.

"'I am sorry to have bad news for you, Miss McNeill,' he said, and he spoke nicely, for he was a kind man, and, what with the shock and the long journey, she was looking very pale.

"Oh, yes,' she answered, with a sort of weary surprise; 'I know it already. That is why I am come home-to Court, I mean.'

"He saw that she was thinking only of Robert Evans' death, which was not what was in his mind. 'It is about the will,' he said in a whisper, though he need not have been so careful, for every one in the neighbourhood had learned about it from Gwen Madoc. 'It is a cruel will. I would not have made it for him, my dear. He has left Court to the Llewellyn Evanses, and the money between the Evanses of Nant and the Evan Bevans.'

"'It is quite right,' she answered, so calmly that he stared. 'My grandfather explained it to me. I understood that I was not to be in the will.'

"Mr. Hughes looked more and more puzzled. 'Oh, but,' he replied, 'it is not so bad as that. Your name is in the will. He has laid it upon those who get the land and money to provide for you-to settle a proper income upon you. And you may depend upon me for doing my best to have his wishes carried out.'

"The young lady turned very red, and her voice was hard.

"'Who are to provide for me?' she asked. "'The three families who divide the estate,' he said.

"'And are they obliged to do so?'

"'Well-no,' he allowed. 'I am not sure that they are exactly obliged. But no doubt-"

'"I doubt very much,' she answered, taking him up with a smile. And then she shook hands with him and drove away, leaving him wondering at her courage.

"Well, you may suppose it was a dreary house to which she came home. Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was executor, had been before the Llewellyn Evanses in taking possession, and besides a lad or two in the kitchen there were only Gwen Madoc and the servant there, and it was little they seemed to have to tell her about the death. When she had heard what they had to say, and they were all on their way to bed, 'Gwen,' she said softly, 'I think I should like to see him.'

"'So you shall, to-morrow, honey,' answered the old woman. 'But do you know, bach, that he has left you nothing?' and she held up her candle suddenly, so as to throw the light on the girl's tired face.

"'Oh!' she answered with a shudder, 'how can you talk about that now?' But presently she had another question ready. 'Have you seen Mr. Venmore since-since my grandfather's death, Gwen?' she asked timidly.

"'Yes, indeed, bach,' answered the housekeeper. 'I met him at the door of the shop this morning. I told him where you were, and that you would be back to-night. And about the will moreover.'

"The girl stopped at her own door and snuffed her candle. Gwen Madoc went slowly up the next flight, groaning over the steepness of the stairs. When she turned to say good night, the girl was at her side, her eyes shining in the light of the two candles.

"'Oh, Gwen,' she whispered, 'didn't he say anything?'

"'Not a word, bach,' answered the old woman, stroking her hair tenderly. 'He just went into the house in a hurry.'

"Miss Peggy, I am believing, went into her room much in the same way. No doubt she would be telling herself a great many times over before she slept that he would come and see her in the morning: and in the morning she would be saying, 'He will come in the afternoon'; and in the afternoon, 'He will come in the evening.' But evening came, and darkness, and still he did not appear. Then she could endure it no longer. She let herself out of the front door, which there was no one now to use but herself, and with a shawl over her head she ran all the way to the shop. There was no light in the window upstairs; but at the back door stood Mrs. Campbell, looking after some one who had just left her.

"The girl came, shrinking at the last moment, into the ring of light about the door. 'Why, Miss McNeill!' cried the other, starting at sight of her. 'Is it you, honey? And are you alone?'

"'Yes; and I cannot stop. But oh, Mrs. Campbell, where is Mr. Venmore?'

"'I know no more than yourself, my dear,' the good woman said reluctantly. 'He went from here yesterday on a sudden-to take the train, I am supposing.'

"'Yesterday? At what time, please?' the young lady asked. There was a fear, which she had been putting from her all day. It was getting a footing now.

"'Well, it would be about midday. I know it was just after Gwen Madoc called in about the-'

"'But the girl was gone. It was not to Mrs. Campbell she could make a moan. It was only the night-wind that caught the 'Oh, cruel!' which broke from her as she went up the hill. Whether she slept that night at all I am not able to say. Only when it was dawn she was out upon the cliffs, her face very white and sad-looking. The fishermen who were up early going out with the ebb saw her at times walking fast, and then again standing still and looking seaward. But I do not know what she was thinking, only I should fancy that the gulls had a different cry for her now, and it is certain that when she returned and came down into the parlour at Court for the funeral, there were none of the Evanses could look her in the face with comfort.

"They were all there, of course. Mr. Llewellyn Evans-he was an elderly man, with a grey beard like a bird's nest, and thick lips-was sitting with his wife on the horse-hair sofa. The Evanses of Nant, who were young men with lank faces and black hair combed upwards, were by the door. The Evan Bevans were at the table; and there were others, besides Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was undoing some papers when she entered.