One of the ruffians had been watching in the hall, while the others attacked the plate-room, and this man had stabbed Geoffrey before he could give the alarm to his household.
Mrs. Trevannion had not heard her husband leave the room, but waking a little before daybreak, she had taken alarm at his absence, and had rung her bell, and roused the household; and the servant, going to open the hall shutters, found a window open, and his master lying at the foot of the stairs in a pool of blood.
Of course a great deal of this history rested on conjecture — on the constable’s acumen in putting links together, and making them into a chain. There was the violated window; there were the marks on the strong-room door: there was the empty cupboard, which had held not only the racing-cups, but half-a-dozen tankards, from Cromwell to Queen Anne, which would now be worth their weight in gold. There was the broken sword, There were traces of muddy boots on the black and white marble pavement of the hall, and there were confused marks of footsteps on the gravel outside, as if two or three men and passed in and out of the hall door. It was all plain enough in the constable’s mind; he had never known a clearer story.
‘We’ll have the Hue-and-cry out before to-night!’ he said.’ Madam will offer a reward, I suppose?’ he inquired of Mr. Dane, who stood grave and self-possessed amidst the frightened servants.
He had been interrupted in his final preparations for his journey by Mrs. Trevannion’s bell and had been one of the first to come down to the hall when the horrified footman gave the alarm.
‘She will do all that is right. I believe she would give half her fortune to discover the murderer. Poor lady, it is dreadful to think of her grief. She worshipped her husband.’
‘Yes, we all know that,’ answered the constable, who was an old inhabitant. ‘He was a fine English gentleman, a thorough sportsman, and everybody in Boscobel respected him. Folks didn’t take to him just at first you see. It took time. He was a stranger, and hadn’t no property of his own; and we didn’t none of us think him good enough for Miss Trevannion; but he turned out the right stamp. He was true metal, kep’ a good table, and a good stable, and spent his money in the town. That’s what I call a gentleman! It’s a great loss!’
The constable sighed, and thought it was time for him to get something in the way of refreshment. Mr. Dane was too preoccupied to think of such details, but the housekeeper would no doubt attend to the necessities of the hour; even though her master’s corpse had just been carried up yonder staircase to the noble old tapestried bedchamber, where Solomon and the Queen of Sheba had looked down on his placid slumbers, and were now to see him lying stark under the linen sheet. While Jasper Dane stood in the open doorway, lost in thought, Mr. Truepenny, the constable, quietly retired to the servants’ hall, feeling assured that Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper, would know what was right to be done in a liberal household, even under the present distressing circumstances.
Isabel Trevannion lay on a sofa in her dressing-room, next the tapestried chamber, shut in with her mighty grief — such a sorrow, it seemed to her, as no other woman had ever been called upon to bear. Her husband foully murdered in the full flush and vigour of manhood, slumbering peacefully by her side a few hours ago, now sleeping in death’s icy sleep upon the same marriage-bed. Sudden death must always be awful, but could any death be so awful as this — so pitiful — so unnecessary — not the work of Providence, but the wickedness of men; ignorant, brutal men, greedy only for gain; having no grudge against their victim; no injury to avenge; only the professional criminal’s reckless indifference to human life or human misery.
‘I would have given them all my fortune; would have gone out of this house penniless, if they would but have spared him.’
Her grief had to be borne, and borne alone, and in darkness. She would see no one — not even the faithful Abigail who had once been her nurse, and who idolized her — not even Jasper Dane, who sent from time to time to ascertain her commands as the desolate days went by, under gray clouds, or shrouded in their dim autumnal mists, and the dreary ceremonials attending such a death had to be gone through — the inquest — the inquiry before the magistrates — the funeral. All had to be attended to; and Jasper Dane was on the spot, cool, collected, a thorough man of business, ready to answer every question. Of his sincere sorrow for his friend’s untimely fate no one could doubt. It was obvious in his every look and word, but he made no parade of his feelings. He had postponed his journey to London for a short time only, and had transferred himself and his belongings to the Duke’s Head, the chief inn at Boscobel, a quiet, reputable hostelry.
‘I shall stay here as long as I can be of use to Mrs. Trevannion,’ he told the Vicar;’ but I mean to fight the Provincials.’
There was a strong feeling — a thorough-going Tory feeling, the King and Lord North for ever — about the American war at Boscobel, and the Vicar was quite ready to sympathize with Mr. Dane in his desire to take up arms again for King George. Everybody in the town knew that he had fought the blacks, under Olive, and had won some distinction in an outlandish, far-away world. He had contrived to make himself respected in the place. There had been no meanness in his administration of his friend’s affairs, careful as it had been. He had so carried himself in his somewhat delicate position as to win every man’s good word. And now it seemed only natural that the thirst for military glory should revive in him, and that he should want to cross the Atlantic.
He attended Geoffrey Trevannion’s funeral, he waited till all inquiries as to his friend’s death had terminated. The “Hue-and-Cry” had availed nothing — the police of that day had been able to find no trace of the murderer, or of the missing property. It seemed as if the burglary at Boscobel Abbey were doomed to swell the record of undiscovered crimes. Racing-cups and tankards had been melted down, no doubt. The thieves had gone their ways on the evil road to crime, indifferent as to the honest man’s blood that they had shed and the loving woman’s heart that they had broken.
Before he left the little west-country town, Jasper Dane begged for an interview with Mrs. Trevannion; but she refused to see him, albeit Sarah Dodd, her faithful waiting woman, pleaded for him earnestly.
‘He looks so pale and unhappy, madam,’ she said, ‘and I think it would be a comfort to you to talk about poor master to one that loved him as Mr. Dane did.’
‘Nothing can give me any comfort — no one. Not even God, who sees and knows my misery!’ answered Isabel, and in her white rigid face Sarah saw no sign of relenting.
‘It seems hard for him to go away without bidding you good-bye,’ — she said, persistently, not so much because she cared for Mr. Dane’s feelings, as that she thought it would be good to rouse her mistress out of this dull stupor of grief—’after being like one of the family for nearly four years, and he going to America, too, to be shot, I daresay, like so many of our brave soldiers.’
But Isabel Trevannion never lifted her eyes from that spot upon the carpet where their dull gaze rested. For her it seemed as if the world had held only one man, and he was dead. What to her was the war in America — spies hanged on either side — garrisons massacred — victories — defeats, it was of no more account to her than a war in the planet Mars. Her husband, her first and only love, was murdered. She sat staring at the carpet, and thinking of the county ball where she first met Geoffrey Wyatt, where they had been partners in three country dances, and were deep in love with each other before the night was done.
Sarah Dodd went downstairs to Mr. Dane with a point-blank refusal. ‘It ain’t no use, she won’t see no one,’ she said; throwing in superfluous negatives for the sake of emphasis.
‘Did she send me no message — no kindly word?’ asked Jasper, lingering on the threshold of the now cheerless house.
‘Lord, no, sir; she sits all day like a statter — she hasn’t a word for any of us.’
Mr. Dane gave Sarah a guinea, and turned his back upon the Abbey. His trunks and portmanteaux were at the ‘Duke’s Head’ ready fo
r the coach. He was gone before breakfast-time next morning; and before the week was ended Boscobel was beginning to forget him.
It was a surprise for the town when his name appeared during the following year in the newspapers, and when, as the next year, and the next went by, the grave, quiet gentleman who had done a steward’s work at Boscobel Abbey, was praised for the display of distinguished valour during the changing fortunes of that terrible war which now challenged the attention of Europe.
It was two years and a half since the burglary at Boscobel Abbey, and the struggle on the other side of the Atlantic was still raging fiercely, when Isabel Trevannion sat on the terrace in front of the drawing-room windows, with her dogs grouped round her in the clear evening light, very much as she had been seated years ago, when Jasper Dane came to the Abbey — except that the husband, who sat beside her then, could never be her companion again on this side of Eternity. His dog fawned at her knee, Duke, his favourite pointer, which she loved better than all her favourites — for the dead man’s sake. But human companion she had none. She sat alone, her fair face shaded and chastened by a look of settled sorrow.
The Church and Abbey clocks were striking the half-hour after eight, the light was mellowing behind the broad boughs of the cedars on the lawn, twilight shadows were creeping up amidst the foliage of the shrubbery, and the colours of the flowers took a deeper glow as the sunset-hues brightened in the low western sky. Mrs. Trevannion closed the volume on her lap, and sat in a reverie, looking dreamily towards the sinking sun. She had never left the Abbey since her husband’s death. Many women would have fled from the house, as from an accursed place, would have put the ocean between them and the scene of such terrible memories; but Isabel hugged her grief and brooded upon it. She turned a deaf ear to the pleading of those friends who tried to tempt her to their houses. ‘I like to be near him,’ she answered quietly. ‘If his tomb were big enough, I would like to live in it. I stay as near, him as I can.’ Her eyes wandered towards the churchyard, which adjoined the Abbey gardens. She could see her husband’s tomb from her favourite seat on the terrace. The Abbey and the Abbey church had originally been one institution.
Little by little Mrs. Trevannion’s friends had reconciled themselves to her seclusion, and had come to regard the Abbey as the tomb of the living. They called on her occasionally, but such visits were far from festive. The pale, beautiful woman, in deepest sables, exercised a depressing influence on her guests. It was, perhaps, kinder to leave her alone.
To-night her thoughts wandered to Jasper Dane, as they had often done lately, in consequence of the mention of his name in the American news. It was on just such an evening — a sweet, peaceful summer evening — that he had first come to the Abbey. The only difference was that her cup then brimmed over with joy, as it now overflowed with sorrow. While this thought was in her mind, she looked up and saw Jasper Dane coming slowly along the gravel-walk; the white, wan ghost of his former self.
Had she loved him, or had she been superstitious, she might have taken that shrunken figure for a very ghost. As it was she had no such thought. She saw the change, and, in a world from which all she loved had perished, it seemed to her only natural that another should be so changed. He was worn to a shadow, and his empty coat-sleeve was fastened to his breast. His right arm had been amputated.
She rose and gave him her hand, forgetful of everything in the past, save that he had been her husband’s friend.
‘lam going a little further west — to the Cornish moors,’ he said, ‘ and I could not pass so near Boscobel without asking to see you.’
‘I am sorry to see you looking so ill,’ she answered, as they sat down on each side of the table, which held a tea-tray and a pile of books.
The Blenheim spaniel, which had always been a favourite of Mr. Dane’s, received him with evident recognition; but Geoffrey’s pointer slunk away, and did wonderful things with his spine, in the endeavour to creep under Mrs. Trevannion’s armchair, from which shelter he shot baleful glances at the visitor from topaz-coloured eyes.
‘I have been a little unlucky,’ Jasper answered carelessly. ‘I got my arm shot off in our last skirmish, and I had fever pretty badly afterwards — symptomatic fever, I think the doctors called it. They stowed me on board ship as soon as they could. There are no more cats wanted yonder than can catch mice, and my mice-catching days seemed to be over.’
‘That was very ungrateful of them, after you had fought so bravely,’ answered Isabel gently. ‘Did you like being over there?’
‘Very much. It has been a glorious time; though there have been hideous mistakes on our part. The fighting has tested the metal of our fellows, and they have given the true ring. I wish I could have held on to the end. You have been — fairly well — I hope, since I left?’
‘Oh, yes, I am well enough,’ she answered, with a little bitter laugh. ‘I have what the doctors call a wonderful constitution. I believe if you were to cut my head off I should go on living;’ and then she fixed her eyes upon him earnestly, and said,’ The murderer has not been found yet.’
‘No, I know. I have watched the English papers. I fear he will never be found.’
‘Oh, yes, he will!’ Mrs. Trevannion answered confidently. ‘God would not let such a crime as that remain for ever unavenged.’
‘The criminal will be punished in the next world, no doubt.’
‘And in this,’ she answered doggedly. ‘I am sure of it. What had my husband done that he should die such a death — he who was so kind, so generous, who had never injured a living creature, who had not an enemy? Is such a life to be taken, and shall there be no redress in this world as well as in the next? I should cease to believe in the all-seeing eye of Heaven, if God’s judgment failed to overtake such a crime. It may be slow, but it will come. God tries our faith. For a little while the wicked seem to rejoice in their iniquity: but judgment will come.’
‘If this idea is a consolation to you — —’ Jasper began gently, as though he were talking to a child, whose delusions he did not care to dispel.
‘It is. It is my only consolation.’
After this he tried to withdraw her mind from this agonizing theme by talking to her about the neighbourhood, her tenantry, the changes that had taken place in his absence. He stayed with her for an hour; first on the terrace, then, as it grew darker, in the candle-lit drawing-room; and when he left her to go back to the Duke’s Head, where he was to stay that night, she felt just a little cheered by his visit. A friend had come back to her out of the past — her husband’s friend.
Mr. Dane stayed all the next day at Boscobel. He called on the Vicar, and that gentleman, who had always liked him, welcomed him cordially, and was delighted to hear all about his American experiences. The war was the absorbing topic of the day, and here was a man who could tell more about it than all the newspapers put together. Mr. Ponsford, the Vicar, would not hear of Jasper Dane’s going to the Cornish moors. Not yet awhile, at any rate. He must stay at the Vicarage, and fish in Boscobel river — nothing better than a little quiet angling for a man out of health.
‘You will get plenty of air from the hills,’ said Mr. Ponsford; ‘the Cornish moors would be too bleak for you.’
An invitation so heartily given could hardly be refused.
‘I shall be delighted to stay,’ said Jasper. ‘ Your society will put me in good spirits, and I am very fond of Boscobel.’
So Jasper stayed, and fished as well as he could with his single arm, and recovered his health rapidly in that sweet, pure air, the salt breath of the distant sea sweeping over moorland and valley. The river went through the Abbey grounds, and, loitering there with rod and line on the drowsy summer afternoons, Mr. Dane had frequent opportunities for conversation with Mrs. Trevannion. She never went beyond her own gardens, except to go to church, but she spent a great part of her life in those shady old grounds, with her books, her sketching-board, and her dogs. She took no pains to avoid Jasper Dane now. The past, as regarded h
is feelings for her, was to her mind a dead past. She.liked to talk to him because he had been Geoffrey’s, friend; he could tell her of her husband’s youth; that adventurous time in India, when they had both served under Clive. So long as he spoke of Geoffrey she was interested; but Dane saw that his own adventures, all the toil and glory of this late war, had not a spark of interest for her.
Mr. Dane stayed more than a month at the Vicarage, and the benefit he had derived from the Boscobel climate was so great that he determined upon spending the winter in the neighbourhood. He found a decent lodging in a pastoral village about three miles from the town, a mere cluster of cottages on the slope of a heather-clad hill; and here he lived for the next year, walking or riding into Boscobel daily, and resuming the management of ‘Mrs. Trevannion’s estate.
Just a year after his return the end came, which almost everybody except Geoffrey’s widow had foreseen. Mrs. Trevannion consented to marry Mr. Dane, and they were united by Jasper’s good friend, the Vicar, in the same church which had seen Geoffrey’s coffin under its velvet pall, borne by the best gentlemen in the neighbourhood.
She did not profess any love for him, but she was grateful for his devotion; she liked him because he had liked her husband, and she furnished one more example of the way in which any woman may be won if her lover will only persevere in his courtship.
Except by Mr. Ponsford, and by a few of the tradespeople, the marriage did not find favour in the sight of Boscobel. The town had objected in the first instance to Geoffrey Wyatt, as an alien adventurer; but once having adopted him, the town objected still more strongly to a second husband, in the person of Jasper Dane. It was affirmed that Mrs. Trevannion would live to repent her folly.
Life went on very smoothly at the Abbey, in spite of adverse opinion in the town. If Mrs. Dane — the good old name had been renounced at last — were not happy, she was at least contented. She had in her second husband a man who could sympathize with her every taste, join in all her favourite pursuits — a man who was in all things her companion and guide. He was highly accomplished, and had an ardent appreciation of all that is most beautiful in life. There could not be a more refined home, or a better matched couple.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 1137