“George,” said the doctor, “you must be a man, there’s need of it. Go and fetch Mr James some wine, and drink some yourself; then come back, we shall want you. Call Wood, too.”
“I think,” said George, as he went, “someone had better look for Hugh.”
“I think so too,” said Mr Dickenson. “If Mr Crichton has any morbid ideas in his head, the sooner they are dispelled the better.”
“He could not have done it,” said James, confusedly; “she was not shot.”
“Of course not, and if she was accidentally startled by the sound of the gun no blame could attach to anyone. Here,” as George returned with the wine, “take some; we have all work before us. Wood,” he added, “do you think poor Mr Spencer right in saying Miss Crofton was startled by the sound of a gun?”
“All I know, sir, is that my daughter she screamed out, ‘The gun – the gun!’ and I ran out of the house, and Mr Arthur came tearing down from the copse without his gun. Mr Crichton he threw his away as he jumped into the water. I heard no gun in the house.”
“Neither did I,” said the doctor, “but, you see, we shall have to have their evidence to-morrow.”
“The inquest!” said James. “Ah, I never thought of that. What? Must poor Arthur? – ”
“I am afraid he must; but, of course, if your brother is there to tell the story, he need say very little. But Mr Crichton must be there, you know, and we must get him home without delay.”
“I had better go and look for him,” said James, “though I hardly like to leave my mother.”
“I can stay here,” said Mr Dickenson; “and I can arrange for to-morrow better than you. Could any lady come to Mrs Crichton; and are there any relations to be sent for?”
“No,” said James, “Mysie has no near relations but my mother. But Miss Venning would come to us I am sure. George, you might go and fetch her.”
“Yes; but where’s Arthur?”
“He fainted; he is asleep. You can’t go to him now. Say nothing about Hugh. Of course, he would come back soon, but I shall go for him. Why, it is getting dusk; is it night or morning? What time can it be?”
“It is eight o’clock,” said Mr Dickenson; “or but a little after.”
James felt as if years had passed since he had seen Arthur come up the path with his sad burden, but the excitement of looking for Hugh came in almost as a relief. James was less alarmed by his absence than anyone less well acquainted with Hugh might have been. He knew the violence with which Hugh’s feelings were apt to overpower him in the first moments of a great shock, and also how completely he was soon able to govern and conceal them. James had little doubt of his speedy return; but it was less wretched to walk rapidly away with Wood, who wanted to return to his children – Alice having been left with the maids at Redhurst – than to sit at home and begin to realise what a blow had fallen on the home which had always seemed, in the few holiday weeks that he spent there, the realisation of sunshine and peace.
They came down towards the lock, which did not yet impress James with any sense of horror, so little realised was the scene connected with it.
“Why, if there ain’t the whole place turned out!” cried Wood, as they came in sight of it, and voices broke on the stillness. The banks of the canal were covered with people, gaping and staring, and surrounding the Wood children, who enjoyed the honour of having been first in the field.
“Well, here’s all Redhurst and half Oxley, and more coming along the path. Get into the house, Bessie, you little forward, unfeeling hussy, a-chattering about the poor dear young lady you saw drowned before your eyes!” cried Wood, not knowing why his real share in the sad tragedy made him so impatient of idle curiosity regarding it. Not but what there would be many genuine tears shed from many eyes for sweet Mysie Crofton; but excitement is a powerful rival at first to grief.
James stood aghast. How could he go and look for Hugh in all this confusion? How would Hugh face it?
Up stepped the inspector of police from Oxley.
“Mr James Crichton, I was fortunately on the spot first, and I have secured the gentlemen’s guns. One was found in the wood and one on the bank; also this rabbit.”
“Is Mr Spencer Crichton here?” said James.
“No, sir, I have not seen him.”
“Can’t you get all these people away?”
“Well, sir, accidents always collect a crowd.”
“My brother,” said James, “was here at the time. Perhaps, if you see him, you would tell him he is wanted at home.”
“Very well, sir,” said the inspector, with an absence of comment which was a great relief to James, who was now beset by a crowd of Redhurst folk, with questions and lamentations.
“It is all true,” James said. “We and all the place are in sad trouble. I think our friends had better go home and leave it to strangers to stare about this place.”
This produced a little effect, and Bessie, picking up the cue, hustled off the younger ones, telling them “to go in and not to be a-staring. Wasn’t Miss Mysie always telling them as little girls shouldn’t run after crowds like that of evenings?”
James ran up into the copse and out on the heath behind it; but he saw no signs of Hugh, and as the light failed he went home in despair, with the picture of his brother, as George had described him, more vividly impressed on his mind than any other of the sad events of the evening. Poor James! he did not know how to contend with the difficulties that he was left alone to bear. He was frightened to death at Hugh’s disappearance, and was almost ready to hope that Arthur might have awakened in his absence to bring his quicker powers of action to bear on the matter. For James felt that he had done just nothing.
It was some relief to find that no one could suggest any other course of action. Miss Venning had arrived and had persuaded his mother to go to bed; and James sat up, waiting and speculating on every possible and impossible cause and result of Hugh’s absence. The unalterable fact of Mysie’s death left no room for fear. Arthur was, for the moment, at rest; but what was Hugh doing?
Part 3, Chapter XXI
The Morning Light
“All joys took wing,
And fled before the dawn.
Oh, love, I knew that I should meet my love —
Should find my love no more.”
In the still grey silence of early morning Arthur awoke slowly, and with a confused sense that things were not as usual. He looked round the room. It had been a hot night, and the window was wide open and the blind up, so that he could see the quiet cloudy sky and hear the twittering of the birds in the ivy. He put his hand to feel for his watch, and could not find it. Then he tried to recollect what he had done with it the night before, and could recollect nothing. Presently the church clock chimed four. It was very early; what could bring James into his room fully dressed, and with a pale wide-awake look on his face? James came up to the bed without speaking, and put his hand on Arthur’s.
“What is the matter; have I been ill?” said Arthur.
“You fainted,” said James, in a much-shaken voice.
“Did I? I am quite well now. I can’t remember.” Poor James blamed himself severely, both then and afterwards, for having no words with which to help or hinder Arthur’s recollection; but the great grey eyes in their black circles, fixed on him with a trouble not yet understood, completely unnerved him: he could not speak or look. Perhaps his silence answered the purpose as well as any speech. Arthur grew frightened; his heart began to beat, and his hands to tremble – his face flushed.
“What is the matter, Jem?” he said again, but with a sharper accent.
“Try to remember all you did yesterday,” said James, at length.
“Yesterday? We went to the rectory with some flowers, and I left Mysie there. Mysie?” He repeated the name with a sort of enquiry, and then James saw the trouble in his face increase as memory began to awaken and pictures, dim, yet terrible, to form themselves in his mind. He dropped back on the pillow, and lay silent, grasping Jem’s hand hard. “Is it a bad dream, Jem?” he said at length.
“No, no; not a dream,” faltered Jem.
“Then I remember; then I know, now.”
Probably his senses were still dulled and quieted by the opiate, for there was no violent outbreak of misery; he only turned away and hid his face, and James dared not put a single question to him, keen as was his curiosity, for Hugh had not yet come home. He thought it best to leave Arthur alone, as the doctor, when obliged some hours since to leave them, had advised that no attempt should be made to rouse him. Arthur lay quiet for a long time, slowly recalling step by step what had passed, till every incident was clear before him; till he saw again the copse and the rabbits, the swirling water, the boat in the sunshine; felt again the burden in his arms, yet was, perhaps, half asleep still; for, all at once, he roused up and sat upright with a start. After all, was it true?
It was quite broad daylight, and he heard movements in the house. He would get up. Had he had a bad dream after all? He got up, and the first thing he saw and touched was the coat he had worn the day before, which had been thrown aside and was still wet through. The keenest pang he had yet known shot through him as he touched it but still he began to dress, and came down stairs and went out into the garden. Was it really only twenty-four hours ago that Mysie had left the print of her footfall on the dew as she gathered the flowers for her Golden wedding gift? Had she really sat here on the top of the steps and filled her basket with them? Arthur looked down the path towards the meadows, then turned towards it. “If I see that,” he thought, “I shall understand. Surely it cannot be!” But he did not set his foot on it, but shrank away with a shiver; for he knew that the sight of the meadows would have brought the truth home, and he knew what was the truth. He went back to the house, and, in a sort of instinctive fashion, turned his steps to the dining-room, where Miss Venning was making breakfast; James and the two younger ones were standing about in a vague, uncertain fashion. They all started at sight of Arthur. George slunk out of the room in a shame-faced, school-boy fashion; while Frederica burst into tears and looked much inclined to follow his example. They were afraid of their brother, afraid of his awful, uncomprehended sorrow. Even Miss Venning could not speak to him as she took his hand, and James said, half-shyly: “Will you have some breakfast, Arthur?”
“Not here,” he said, “not here,” as their manner began to bring the great change home.
James brought some to him in the study, and began affectionately to coax him to eat something.
“You must,” he said. “You know there is something before you to-day. I wish we could spare you from it; but they must have you at – at – ”
“I know,” said Arthur. “Thanks, Jem; but it won’t make much difference. When is it?”
“About eleven. Arthur, I must ask you, do you know anything about Hugh?”
“About Hugh? No; where is he?”
“He has never come back.”
“Never come back?” said Arthur, in a much more wide-awake and natural manner.
“Why, where can he be?”
“George saw him in the copse; he seemed – he seemed to blame himself.”
“What? Because I told him not to fire?”
“You told him not to fire?” ejaculated James.
Arthur leant back and shaded his eyes with his hand.
“I don’t think I’ll talk about it now,” he said gently. “I must tell them by-and-by. But it is nothing – nothing that you fancy.”
“But Hugh should be there?”
“Of course he should. I can’t remember anything about him,” he added, after a moment, “except that I pulled him out of the water.”
“Don’t talk now, my dear boy,” said Jem, as Arthur’s voice failed. “It will soon be over, and Hugh will surely come.”
“Jem!”
“Yes?”
“I know it is true now. Don’t let me forget and get confused again. I feel so stupid.” Then, after a moment: “Let me go and see her.”
“Oh, not now, Arty; not till this wretched business is over. Stay here and rest till then. I’ll call you in time.”
Arthur yielded; he even drank some tea and ate a little at James’s entreaty; and the latter was wondering whether to leave him alone, when he caught sight of Hugh coming up the path. Arthur saw him too, and the presence of another actor in the terrible scene effectually roused him.
“Go to him,” he said. “Go to him; leave me alone; no one can do anything for me. I shall be ready when you want me – don’t be afraid.”
James’s anxiety could endure no longer, and he hurried out to meet his brother, upon whom no merciful boon of unconsciousness had descended; who had had no period of uncertainty in which to grow accustomed to the shadow of the truth.
He had turned his head as he fired, and had seen her fall; and in a moment his ill-tempered disregard of Arthur’s warning flashed back on him, never again to be forgotten. To risk his own life in saving hers was his one thought, and his self-possession and power of judgment had failed him entirely, so that his efforts, even had there been a chance for her, would have been utterly useless. He stood by and heard the doctor’s verdict, and Arthur’s steady “Yes, she is dead;” felt Arthur push him away, and took the unconscious action as a proof of the horror with which Arthur must henceforth regard him, of the horror with which he must regard himself. He stood still, and saw the boat start on its sad and awful way, saw them all follow, forgetful of everything but the freight that it contained.
“Poor, sweet young lady!” groaned Wood, as he followed.
“Poor boy – poor boy; it’s a life ruined,” sighed the doctor. But Hugh stood still, and thought —
“I have done it. Was ever such a fate as mine?”
He slunk away back into the wood, and stood looking at the lock, there from the spot where that last shot had been fired. He repeated over to himself those words exchanged between himself and Arthur; he saw the rabbit lying dead on the ground. “It’s the first I’ve hit to-day,” he thought. A moment’s hastiness, a moment’s want of thought, and this is the result! Oh, it is cruel! Then such an anguish of horror at the desolation that he had caused came over him that it was with a start of something like satisfaction that he caught sight of Arthur’s gun where it had been thrown aside on the grass. He took it up, but it had been discharged; and he remembered that Arthur had not reloaded it after his last shot. “There is always the canal,” thought Hugh. “My life was blank enough and hard enough before; but now – ” It was at this point in his meditations that George had encountered him, and that the boy’s inquiry for Arthur had so maddened him that he had rushed off, unheeding where he went; maddened not only – not so much at the thought that Mysie had died a frightful death and that Arthur’s life was ruined, as that he himself had been the cause of it all. Filled with a wild, exaggerated sense of blood-guiltiness, he counted up every aggravating circumstance, his old jealousy of his cousins’ happiness – his impatience of their laughter and their love, the fact that he was Mysie’s guardian, and so responsible for her lot, and that he had been hardly willing to trust her happiness to Arthur’s care. He made out the case against himself as no one else would have made it out against him; and then, with a not uncommon inconsistency, ascribed to a cruel chance the wretched result, and felt that he was the sport of circumstances. The deeps of faithless, bitter rebellion rose up to overwhelm him, and he did not cry out of them for help. But the image of Violante came before him, fair and sweet, yet full of reproach for his harsh judgment and hasty desertion. He pushed the thought away from him – was not he one who could never indulge in such thoughts again? Yet he stopped in his wild wrath, and threw himself down on the heath, and, in the midst of a remorse and despair that threatened to drive him mad, he wept for his lost love. They were terrible hours, so terrible as to blot out to Hugh the thought of all the other sufferers; so absorbing that he never paused to wonder what was passing at Redhurst; and they were succeeded by a sort of passive exhaustion, in which the acute pain was dulled, and from which he roused himself with a start and sat upright. It was quite dark, clouds had come up over the sunny sky, and neither moon nor stars lighted up the wild waste of moorland. The night was still and absolutely silent. Hugh did not know where he was as his outer life came back upon him with a strange incongruous sense of the necessity of Mr Spencer Crichton’s presence on the scene of action; and, chilled and over-excited as he was, a consciousness of physical discomfort that made him get to his feet and look about him. No, he could not kill himself, nor even lie there to die; all Oxley would be wondering what had become of him – an odd consideration at such a moment; but it brought the further thought of all the painful business to be got through; and who but himself to do it? Somehow, the habit of being forced to consider such necessities did more to bring Hugh to his senses than anything else, and he made up his mind to go home. What right had he to shirk the sight of Arthur’s misery? It was part of his punishment. He was, however, so much exhausted as to be hardly able to support himself, and, moreover, where was he? He looked about, and saw far off a red light, which he knew must shine from Fordham Station. He must make for that. With fatigue and weariness such as he had never known before he stumbled over the heather, and came at last into Fordham village as the church clock struck half-past eleven. He knew that he could not get home without rest, and went into the inn, making some slight excuse of having lost his way – an excuse which he knew would be scattered to the winds to-morrow. However, the hostess knew him, and gave him supper – which he scarcely touched – and a fire; and he lay down for a little, meaning to start as soon as it was light. All sorts of other schemes passed through his mind; of disappearance, of never going home any more or inflicting the sight of himself on his friends; but, somehow, custom and common-sense turned his steps the next morning in the direction of Redhurst, dragging more and more as he drew near, dreading to come up to the house or to show himself; till James rushed out, to his utter surprise, with a cry of relief.
“Thank Heaven, you’re here at last! Where have you been? We were so anxious!”
“I came back because I supposed there would be things to attend to,” said Hugh, in an odd unnatural voice.
“Yes, of course. We must try to get poor Arthur through it.”
“Don’t let him see me.”
“Hugh, I can’t understand this. He must see you – he doesn’t take it so,” said James, much frightened at his brother’s wild, haggard look.
Hugh stood looking down at the gravel. Presently he said: “I’ll go and change my things. Let me have some breakfast. Where is it, and when?”
“At the Red Lion, at eleven.”
“I will attend to it.”
They were such commonplace words, and in one way Hugh seemed so entirely himself, that James was all the more confused and puzzled. Hugh went upstairs, made his toilet, and, after eating a few mouthfuls, went off to the village, without asking for his mother, who – fortunately, had not been aware of his absence – and, indeed, without speaking to anyone. Arthur came out at James’s summons. The dreamy look was gone, and he was evidently concentrating all his strength on the effort to bear up through the coming trial. He did not try to speak till they reached the inn, where, as they sat down in the quietest corner, he whispered: “Don’t be afraid. I shall manage.”
Hugh was being talked to, before the proceedings began, by the coroner and one or two others; but made, it seemed to James, hardly any answer to them.
The scene was first described by Mr Dickenson and by Wood, who could only take up the story after Mysie’s fall, of which Alice had been the only witness on the spot.
The poor little girl, sobbing and trembling, had answered that she had seen Miss Crofton fall, and then —
“Can you give any reason for it?”
“It was the gun, sir.”
“What gun?”
“If you please, sir, I don’t know.”
Then Hugh stood up.
“I do. It was mine. Will you have the goodness to take my evidence next, and I think you will see that there is no occasion to trouble anyone else.”
The coroner assented, and Hugh, having been sworn, went on in a hard, cold voice:
“My cousin and I were shooting in the copse. I was put out of temper because I missed aim twice. My cousin saw her – Miss Crofton – standing by the lock; so did I. He said the gates were dangerous, and I contradicted him, and was irritated by what I thought foolish anxiety. A rabbit got up and I raised my gun. My cousin said: ‘Don’t fire, you’ll startle her – ’” Hugh could not get out the name. “I said, ‘Nonsense, it is too far off;’ and I fired, and she was startled, and she fell off and was drowned. Those are the facts; it is my doing entirely.”
There was a pause of shocked attention, which was broken by Arthur, who came forward and stood by Hugh.
“I wish to say something.”
“Certainly, Mr Spencer. It is my duty to ask you if Mr Spencer Crichton has stated the facts correctly.”
“Yes,” said Arthur. “Those are the facts; but my cousin has given you a wrong impression. He did not, I am sure, see where she was when he fired, and – and – we were at some distance. He could not know, as I do, how easily she is startled.”
“I did know it, Arthur,” said Hugh passionately. “I did know where she was!”
“It might have happened to me,” said Arthur, earnestly. “Indeed, there is no blame.”
“You thought so then,” cried Hugh, losing all sense of the listeners. “You pushed me back; you would not let me touch her! What wonder if you cursed the day I was born!”
“Hugh, hush!” interposed Arthur. “That can do no good.”
“Yes, Mr Crichton,” said the coroner, “it would be better to control yourself. Mr Spencer’s language is generous in the extreme. Of course, no one could doubt for a moment that this unhappy event was entirely accidental; but it is never safe to disregard a warning as to fire-arms, however apparently superfluous. Of course, we can feel and express nothing but the profoundest sympathy for yourself and for all those for whom the neighbourhood entertains such high respect.”
There was no hesitation as to the verdict; and when it was over, and those engaged began to disperse, Arthur went up to Hugh and laid his hand on his arm and said:
“Come, Hugh, let us get home – that will be best for us.”
Hugh shook off the hand and shrank from him with a sort of horror.
“Don’t touch me – don’t speak to me!” he cried.
Arthur looked surprised and disappointed; and James, who had been hitherto utterly silenced by the horror of Hugh’s avowal, hastily drew him away, seeing that he could hardly bear up any longer. Hugh followed them up the garden and into the study, and then broke out into a torrent of self-reproach, so violent and so uncontrollable that Arthur vainly tried to silence it.
“I have broken your heart,” he cried. “There is no atonement I can make – none. My life can’t make it up to you. The sight of your grief will kill me! I have destroyed her, the beautiful, innocent creature. I was jealous of your happiness and of hers, and I have ruined it for ever!”
“Don’t, Hugh, don’t,” said Arthur, faintly; “don’t, I can’t bear it!”
“Bear it! Vent it all on me – tell me how you hate me.”
“Be quiet, Hugh,” interposed James, sternly, as he saw that Arthur grew whiter and whiter. “The least you can do is not to distress him now. This is too much;” as poor Arthur, after vainly attempting to speak, burst into tears. “Oh, mother,” as Mrs Crichton came hurriedly into the room, “Arthur must be quiet now.”
But Arthur turned as she went towards him, hardly seeing her son – of whose special interest in the matter she was quite unconscious – and threw his arms round her, and laid his head on her shoulder, letting his grief have free course at last, while she tenderly soothed him and drew him down by her on the sofa.
“Never mind, Jem,” she said; “leave him to me; this is the best thing that can happen. My poor boy!”
Hugh looked at them for a moment, then turned and went away by himself.