“You shall come up to the house, then, and [from thence to Applebury, and as you seek justice, you’ll find it there,” said Mark, savagely.
“Have we a right to take him without a warrant?” whispered honest Roger at Mark Shadwell’s ear.
Shadwell made no answer. He merely said, “In a moment,” looking still at Carmel Sherlock.
But Charles Mordant, who had not heard Roger’s question, seized the wounded man by the collar.
Carmel started.
“Take your hand from my throat. Remove your hand, sir,” said he sternly, but with a trembling lip.
“Don’t mind,” said Shadwell, addressing Mordant.
“No, time enough when I get to the gaol for that. I give myself up. No one takes me. I’ve come for the purpose; but you sha’n’t drag or throttle me — let me die; but no profanation.”
“Well, then, come to the house, your hurt must be attended to. I’m sorry, very sorry, but I could not help it. I thought you had something in your hand when you raised it.
I wish I had known your real purpose,” said Mark Shadwell, anxious, no doubt, that all should understand how he came to wound Carmel Sherlock. “Do you think you can walk so far?”
“In the arm,” said Carmel. “I don’t feel it now — it is not much — nothing, in fact.” He looked pale, and spoke faintly, however.
“I’ll fetch some water from the brook, shall I?” said Charles Mordant, and ran off, returning quickly with his flask filled.
“No,” said Carmel Sherlock, “the bone is not broken — nothing. I wish it were through my brain, sir.”
Some twenty minutes after this, the party consisting of Mark Shadwell, Roger Temple, Charles Mordant, and Carmel Sherlock, supporting his bleeding arm, entered the hall-door of Raby.
CHAPTER XXII.
MARK SHADWELL’S OFFER.
THERE were few words spoken till this odd party reached the house. Carmel Sherlock walked among them like a man going to execution. When he came to the door he looked up and about him, and entered the large hall with a great sigh.
Old Robson, the butler and factotum of the family, — who knew something about horses, a little of tailoring, and loved flowers and singing-birds, and, also, having seen service as an officer’s servant at Quatrebras and Waterloo, pretended to surgery, — was, with this accomplishment, now put in requisition. He happened to be in the hall as they entered. His short white hair seemed to bristle up over his purple face, and his little eyes almost to start from their sockets, as he stared on Carmel Sherlock.
“Hey? — Dear me!” he ejaculated. “Mr. Sherlock?”
“Ay, Mr. Robson, the moth returns to the candle. You did not think to see me, sir?” said he, very pale and excited. “Shake hands! That was blood well spilt, sir — a devil cast out — Sir Roke Wycherly, body and soul!”
Robson, the fat old butler, with a shrewd face, drew back without touching the hand he tendered, and Roger Temple answered emphatically, with mild reproof:
“There, Mr. Sherlock, pray don’t. You mustn’t talk that way, and you may injure yourself besides.”
“He has been wounded,” said Mark, sharply. “Don’t mind his talking, but look to his arm; do you hear, Robson? and dress it if you think you can. You’re faint, Sherlock — you must take something. Give him a glass of wine first, and then see about his arm,” said Mark. He touched Temple on the arm, and said in his ear: “You’ll kindly stay with him, won’t you, for a few minutes? I must make out his committal — but I sha’n’t detain you long.”
And with these words he entered the library, leaving Carmel Sherlock seated in the hall with three people about him, and soon in the surgical hands of old Robson.
When Mark Shadwell got into his library and shut the door, he felt suddenly faint and overcome. He bolted it and opened a window, standing before it for a time. He took from a drawer a printed form of committal to the jailer of Applebury jail. But his hand was tremulous. He did not want criticism, and this odd scrawl did not look like his signature. He tore it up, and threw it into the grate, and looked sadly on the extended hand in which was this treacherous tremor. He must wait a little, and let it subside.
Shadwell went out again to the hall. It was empty; but he heard voices from the room at the other side. There he found Carmel Sherlock, with his coat and waistcoat off. He was loaning with his shoulder to the wall, and looking down with a dark apathy upon the floor at his feet — the only man present, you would have said, quite unconcerned in the discussion of his wound. That wound, as it turned out, was trifling. The ball had passed between his left arm and his breast, leaving a severe abrasion, but little more. Two inches to the right would have directed it through his heart, and ended some of his speculations in certainty.
“I’m very glad — I’m very much relieved,” said Mark. “I’m certain, now, he could not have meant me any harm. If I had only had time, Sherlock, to think, I should have known it. Had you not better sit down?”
Carmel Sherlock looked up at Shadwell, and his large eyes rested on his face with a melancholy stare. At this look of reproach, Mark Shadwell’s eyes contracted and were lowered for a moment to the ground.
“Ah, sir, even for a moment that such a thought should have crossed my benefactor’s mind, dishonours me,” said Carmel Sherlock.
“It was not a thought, Sherlock, it was a craze.”
“A craze!” echoed Sherlock. “It is hard to pick your steps among unrealities and substances — umbrâ pro corpore. This house of Raby, sir, is full of false lights and false shadows; there is no true life possible in it.”
“It was an impulse — not even a craze,” said Mark Shadwell, with a strange eagerness. “If I had hurt you seriously, I should never have forgiven myself.”
Sherlock sighed deeply.
“It is nothing, sir — I said so.”
“No, thank God!” said Mark.
“I should have liked, sir, to fall by a friendly hand — by an accident. Where are my things?” he added, turning hastily, and getting on his coat and waistcoat. “I’m ready to go — I’m ready to go, sir. It is not the place, but the way, I hate. Those who like death don’t like dying.”
“Poor fellow!” whispered Roger Temple, shaking his head with a significant glance at Mark Shadwell.
“Yes,” said Mark, with a nod, and beckoned Roger Temple into the hall. “You heard him talk — isn’t it strange?” said Mark, looking darkly into Roger’s honest eyes.
Roger lifted his hands, and shrugged his fat shoulders, saying:
“Poor fellow! isn’t it horrid? It accounts for everything, I think, almost — doesn’t it?”
Mark nodded, and said:
“I’ve known that a long time. He has no idea of deceiving; but, at the same time, you can’t believe a single word he says — half the things he relates are the merest fancies; and, no doubt, one of these delusions has been the cause of this crime — apparently so motiveless, and certainly so unlike him.”
“If he’s mad— “began Roger.
“Can we doubt it?” suggested Mark.
“And I do trust, in the mercy of heaven, that he is quite mad. They can’t think of hanging him,” said Roger.
“We English like hanging people — sane men, if we can get them — madmen, if we can’t. It’s clear, however, they mustn’t hang that wretched maniac.”
“It was a horrible freak. What do you suppose was in his mind?”
“A lunacy — an idea of a duty, or a mission — heaven knows what.”
“Poor, wretched fellow! Certainly he does look miserably,” said Roger, pathetically; “and, by-the-bye, how are we to get him to Applebury?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking, and I fancy the best plan is to swear in some of my men as special constables, and let them go there in Wason’s ‘bus from the town here.”
“You know you must not hesitate if you have not got messengers enough. I can go at a devil of a pace when I like it,” said my fat friend Roger; “and I’ll
run down, if you wish it, to Raby about the ‘bus, and — and I hope this occurrence to-day has not alarmed your young ladies,” he added, lowering his voice tenderly.
“I’m sure I can’t tell,” said Mark, drily; “but I’m very much obliged for your offer. I don’t know how I should have managed if you had not turned up. I think I’ll talk a bit to that strange fellow — quietly by ourselves — he and I, and try and make out what fancy was in his brain when he did it.”
“But you can’t mean to be alone with him, he’s not handcuffed or secured in any way; and, upon my honour, I think he looks quite mad!”
“I’m not afraid. I’ll take care of myself — I’ll try — he’ll talk to me by ourselves; I’ll try — yes, I think I’ll try.” Mark thus talking, they returned to the room where Sherlock and his two custodians were.
Shadwell despatched the servant for three men who were within call; and signing to Roger Temple and young Mordant, they, with some misgivings, left the room together, keeping, however, within easy hearing of any alarm.
“Carmel,” said he, as soon as he had shut the door of this rather dark wainscoted room, “a pretty mess you have made of it! What devil possessed you to run yourself into this frightful fix?”
“I’m guilty,” said Sherlock, with his hands clasped together, looking down with a scowl of agony.
“Of course you are guilty,” said Mark.
“That is,” continued Sherlock, “if guilt there be in seeking the life of a monster predestinated by infallible powers to a bloody death.”
“Well, I sha’n’t debate the question, call it how we may; that has passed which exposes you to death. It is all very fine speculating on death — like Pythagoras or Plato; but I’d like to know what we can make of it, but just the most dreadful thing we can imagine. If there is a futurity, it means judgment; and if there is not, it means annihilation. Now, why should you voluntarily run yourself into that iron trap?” said Shadwell, very pale.
“I think, sir, differently of death. Life is ghastlier. Nature points to a less dreadful life in death.”
“Nature tells you plainly enough the value of life, by giving us the instinct to cling to and defend it, even in privation and torture. Every man has, of course, some theory about that event. I have mine — you have yours; but we need not test it by martyrdom. If we could open the door, and look, and draw back, of course it would be all very simple. But that’s an iron door, Carmel, with a spring lock, of which we have not the key. Once in we are trapped for ever. “We have only a few minutes now to talk; as I said, I won’t discuss it. Now I meant you to understand me.”
“I do, sir — I do — all goodness,” broke out Sherlock.
“Well — well, but that’s not the point. I don’t seek your life. What occurred to-day — if there’s any good in swearing — I swear it was accident. I was more shocked than you when it happened. I don’t know even how it happened; but so far from wishing you any ill, I’ll prove to you that my first wish is to serve you.”
“Oh, sir! did I ever question it?” pleaded Sherlock.”
“I don’t know — I hope not — only listen. I wish to save you. The door here is bolted; raise that window, and a dozen steps will bring you to the edge of the oak-wood you know so well. Hide yourself there in that impenetrable thicket till twelve o’clock tonight. I shall direct pursuit upon a false scent, and visit you at that hour at the old well with provisions, and I’ll bring you money enough to carry you to America, or where you please. You must wait there for a little time, and I’ll bring you supplies every night until pursuit begins to slacken; then you cross to France. I’ll give you the means of disguising yourself; and you are not the shrewd fellow you have proved yourself up to to-day, if you don’t make your way to a place of security. There, raise the window, and go.”
Though Mark Shadwell spoke, or rather whispered all this, in slow, measured articulation, the signs of suppressed agitation were visible in his face, and his eyes were fixed on Sherlock more with the eagerness of a man begging his own life than the coolness of one merely offering an escape to another.
Carmel looked on Mark Shadwell earnestly, and raising his finger, he said:
“Eight days after I left this I was alone on the side of Penmon Maur, and a shadow of a cloud, shaped like a hand, pursued me upwards. I saw it on the low ground first, and my heart died, for it was shaped like the hand I dreamed of. It was gliding up the side of the mountain spread out, and I knew if it seized me it was a sign. All that man could do, to escape, I did; but it caught me near a wall of rock facing southward, and a darkness like night overcast me, and the thunder began — you remember. It was then that fate overtook me.”
“For God’s sake!” whispered Mark, “talk for once like a man of sense; tell your dreams tomorrow. Go now, and do as I’ve said, and leave me to tell my own story.”
Mark Shadwell, whose face was darkened by agitation, pushed him by the shoulder, as he spoke, toward the window.
“Then, sir,” continued Sherlock, “I would have died of cold, or famine, or fatigue, rather than forfeit my liberty. After that happened, I sickened of life, and began to long to give myself up — and so the longing grew and grew — until I could bear it no longer — and I came — and here I am, a willing prisoner — and resolved to be either on or off with death.”
“I say, Carmel Sherlock, you. had better do as I have told you,” said Mark Shadwell, sternly, “I run a risk for your sake; you’ll have no second chance.”
“I have things to tell you about the death of Sir Roke Wycherly that will amaze you — but not now. If you come to me after I go to prison, I will tell you all.”
“Don’t be a d — d fool,” said Shadwell, in a fierce undertone; “try the chance I give you.”
“Forgive me, sir — I can’t — I should come back tomorrow — I should go to the prison and give myself up — I can bear it no longer.”
“Then you are a worse fool than I took you for,” said Mark, with a ghastly laugh; and he looked for a moment as if he would have struck him, but he controlled himself; and he walked to the window which offered the means of escape, in vain — and he looked out for a time — and then turned and said:
“You won’t let me be of use to you. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped, I suppose.”
He paused, as if to allow Sherlock to reconsider his resolve, but there was no sign of change or hesitation; so he proceeded:
“You spoke of circumstances connected with Sir Roke’s death that would surprise me. Well, you choose to go to prison, and to prison you go. But I’ll see you there, and whatever these are; I ask but this — keep them for my ears.”
“I shall seem to you in one sense a victim. I’ve had a partner, sir. I love this house, but I ought to hate it; sleep is haunted in it — whispers round the comers — ha! I know it.”
“Well, if there is anything worth telling, tell me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Me, mind.”
“I know, sir.”
There was in Mark’s mind considerable curiosity respecting this, but also a stronger loathing; and so, whatever the revelation might be, he was glad to put it off to a more convenient season.
Mark went to the door as if to unbolt it, and with his hand to the brass, he paused. He looked at Carmel Sherlock for a moment, and returned a few steps quickly.
“Sherlock,” said he, in a low tone, seizing his arm very hard, “you see how I have trusted you; how in my zeal to save you I have placed myself in your hands.”
“Trusty hands — loving hands,” murmured Carmel.
“Need I tell you that, of our conversation in this room, you must promise that not one syllable is repeated.”
“No, sir, I’m deep and dark.”
“And don’t mistake me, Sherlock. In the presence of others I may seem harsh and unfeeling, but remember, under all disguises, I’m your friend. No, not a word; — only don’t mistake me.”
Again he approached the door, but turned i
n a kind of agony, and extending his hand with an imploring look toward the window, “Change your mind!” said he.
Carmel Sherlock shook his head, with a sigh that resembled a sob, but answered nothing.
“All’s over then!”
And with these words Mark Shadwell stepped to the door and opened it.
Hobson had already got three of the workmen into the hall to be sworn as special constables. The preparations were soon completed, and in their custody Sherlock departed for the prison.
“Vain trying to get him to talk coherently,” said Mark, as he stood upon the steps, and the distant gate closed upon Sherlock and the men in whose safe keeping he was. “It is impossible now to separate his dreams from his facts. Hanging such a creature would be a mere murder, and it is impossible to rely upon any statement he makes — no matter in what good faith.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
JEST AND EARNEST.
As they stood upon the steps, about to depart, Roger, who in the excitement of their strange visit had no practicable opportunity of inquiring for the ladies, repaired the omission. And Charles Mordant mischievously supplemented his politeness by inquiring particularly for Miss Marlyn, which threw honest Roger into a cruel confusion.
“Oh! Miss Marlyn?” answered Mark, quickly, with a glance in the young man’s eyes. “I suppose she’s very well. I hav’n’t seen her for some days. I’ve had too much to think of. It’s very unfeeling, I suppose, but I’m afraid I half forgot her existence; why do you ask?” he inquired, rather oddly.
“Miss Temple’s sure to ask us. She admires Miss Marlyn immensely, doesn’t she, Roger? — and I assure you Temple would get into an awful scrape if he could not give an account of her. You have no idea, and the consequence is that Roger is generally sure to inquire.”
““What a goose you are!” retorted Roger, with a bashful little laugh and a shake of his head, and a jocular menace with his walking stick.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 420