by Ellen Wood
“Was she already dead?”
“Well, sir, when you first get a person out of the water it’s hard to say whether they be dead or not. She seemed dead, but perhaps if there had been means right at hand, she might have been brought-to again.”
A moan of pain from old Matthew. Mr. Verner continued as it died out —
“Rachel Frost’s voice must have been one of those you heard in dispute?”
“Not a doubt of that, sir,” replied young Broom. “Any more than that there must have been foul play at work to get her into the pond, or that the other disputing voice must have belonged to the man who did it.”
“Softly, softly,” said Mr. Verner. “Did you see any man about?”
“I saw nobody at all, sir, saving Dan Duff and Mrs. Roy; and Rachel’s quarrel could not have been with either of them. Whoever the other was, he had made himself scarce.”
Robin Frost took a step forward respectfully.
“Did you mind, sir, that Mother Duffs Dan spoke to seeing some person in the lane?”
“I do,” replied Mr. Verner. “I should like to ask the boy another question or two upon that point. Call him in, one of you.”
John Massingbird went out and brought back the boy.
“Mind you have your wits sharp about you this time, Mr. Duff,” he remarked. Which piece of advice had the effect of scaring Mr. Duff’s wits more completely away than they had been scared before.
“You tell us that you saw a man pass up the lane when you were in the field after the cat,” began Mr. Verner. “Was the man walking fast?”
“Please, sir, yes. Afore I could get out o’ the gate he was near out o’ sight. He went a’most as fast as the cat did.”
“How long was it, after you saw him, before you met young Broom, and heard that somebody was in the pond?”
“Please, sir, ’twas a’most directly. I was running then, I was.”
As the boy’s answer fell upon the room, a conviction stole over most of those collected in it that this man must have been the one who had been heard in dispute with Rachel Frost.
“Were there no signs about him by which you could recognise him?” pursued Mr. Verner. “What did he look like? Was he tall or short?”
“Please, sir, he were very tall.”
“Could you see his dress? Was it like a gentleman’s or a labourer’s?”
“Please, sir, I think it looked like a gentleman’s — like one o’ the gentlemen’s at Verner’s Pride.”
“Whose? Like which of the gentlemen’s?” rang out Mr. Verner’s voice, sharply and sternly, after a moment’s pause of surprise, for he evidently had not expected the answer.
“Please, sir, I dun know which. The clothes looked dark, and the man were as tall as the gentlemen, or as Calves.”
“Calves?” echoed Mr. Verner, puzzled.
John Massingbird broke into an involuntary smile. He knew that their tall footman, Bennet, was universally styled “Calves” in the village. Dan Duff probably believed it to be his registered name.
But Frederick Massingbird was looking dark and threatening. The suspicion hinted at — if you can call it a suspicion — angered him. The villagers were wont to say that Mr. Frederick had ten times more pride than Mr. John. They were not far wrong — Mr. John had none at all.
“Boy!” Frederick sternly said, “what grounds have you for saying it was like one of the gentlemen?”
Dan Duff began to sob. “I dun know who it were,” he said; “indeed I don’t. But he were tall, and his clothes looked dark. Please, sir, if you basted me, I couldn’t tell no more.”
It was believed that he could not. Mr. Verner dismissed him, and John Massingbird, according to order, went to bring in Mrs. Roy.
He was some little time before he found her. She was discovered at last in a corner of the steward’s room, seated on a low stool, her head bent down on her knees.
“Now, ma’am,” said John, with unwonted politeness, “you are being waited for.”
She looked up, startled. She rose from her low seat, and began to tremble, her lips moving, her teeth chattering. But no sound came forth.
“You are not going to your hanging, Dinah Roy,” said John Massingbird, by way of consolation. “Mr. Verner is gathering the evidence about this unfortunate business, and it is your turn to go in and state what you know, or saw.”
She staggered back a step or two, and fell against the wall, her face changing to one of livid terror.
“I — I — saw nothing!” she gasped.
“Oh, yes, you did! Come along!”
She put up her hands in a supplicating attitude; she was on the point of sinking on her knees in her abject fear, when at that moment the stern face of her husband was pushed in at the door. She sprang up as if electrified, and meekly followed John Massingbird.
CHAPTER VI.
DINAH ROY’S “GHOST.”
The moon, high in the heavens, shone down brightly, lighting up the fair domain of Verner’s Pride, lighting up the broad terrace, and one who was hasting along it; all looking as peaceful as if a deed of dark mystery had not that night been committed.
He, skimming the terrace with a fleet foot, was that domain’s recognised heir, Lionel Verner. Tynn and others were standing in the hall, talking in groups, as is the custom with dependents when something unusual and exciting is going on. Lionel appeared full of emotion when he burst in upon them.
“Is it true?” he demanded, speaking impulsively. “Is Rachel really dead?”
“She is dead, sir.”
“Drowned?”
“Yes, sir, drowned.”
He stood like one confounded. He had heard the news in the village, but this decided confirmation of it was as startling as if he now heard it for the first time. A hasty word of feeling, and then he looked again at Tynn.
“Was it the result of accident?”
Tynn shook his head.
“It’s to be feared it was not, sir. There was a dreadful quarrel heard, it seems, near to the pond, just before it happened. My master is inquiring into it now, sir, in his study. Mr. Bitterworth and some more are there.”
Giving his hat to the butler, Lionel Verner opened the study door, and entered. It was at that precise moment when John Massingbird had gone out for Mrs. Roy; so that, as may be said, there was a lull in the proceedings.
Mr. Verner looked glad when Lionel appeared. The ageing man, enfeebled with sickness, had grown to lean on the strong young intellect. As much as it was in Mr. Verner’s nature to love anything, he loved Lionel. He beckoned him to a chair beside himself.
“Yes, sir, in an instant,” nodded Lionel. “Matthew,” he whispered, laying his hand kindly on the old man’s shoulder as he passed, and bending down to him with his sympathising eyes, his pleasant voice, “I am grieved for this as if it had been my own sister. Believe me.”
“I know it; I know you, Mr. Lionel,” was the faint answer. “Don’t unman me, sir, afore ’em here; leave me to myself.”
With a pressure of his hand on the shoulder ere he quitted it, Lionel turned to Frederick Massingbird, asking of him particulars in an undertone.
“I don’t know them myself,” replied Frederick, his accent a haughty one. “There seems to be nothing but uncertainty and mystery. Mr. Verner ought not to have inquired into it in this semi-public way. Very disagreeable things have been said, I assure you. There was not the least necessity for allowing such absurdities to go forth, as suspicions, to the public. You have not been running from the Willow Pond at a strapping pace, I suppose, to-night?”.
“That I certainly have not,” replied Lionel.
“Neither has John, I am sure,” returned Frederick resentfully. “It is not likely. And yet that boy of Mother Duff’s—”
The words were interrupted. The door had opened, and John Massingbird appeared, marshalling in Dinah Roy. Dinah looked fit to die, with her ashy face and her trembling frame.
“Why, what is the matter?” exclaimed Mr. Verner.
The woman burst into tears.
“Oh, sir, I don’t know nothing of it; I protest I don’t,” she uttered. “I declare that I never set eyes on Rachel Frost this blessed night.”
“But you were near the spot at the time?”
“Oh, bad luck to me, I was!” she answered, wringing her hands. “But I know no more how she got into the water nor a child unborn.”
“Where’s the necessity for being put out about it, my good woman?” spoke up Mr. Bitterworth. “If you know nothing, you can’t tell it. But you must state what you do know — why you were there, what startled you, and such like. Perhaps — if she were to have a chair?” he suggested to Mr. Verner in a whisper. “She looks too shaky to stand.”
“Ay,” acquiesced Mr. Verner. “Somebody bring forward a chair. Sit down, Mrs. Roy.”
Mrs. Roy obeyed. One of those harmless, well-meaning, timid women, who seem not to possess ten ideas of their own, and are content to submit to others, she had often been seen in a shaky state from very trifling causes. But she had never been seen like this. The perspiration was pouring off her pinched face, and her blue check apron was incessantly raised to wipe it.
“What errand had you near the Willow Pond this evening?” asked Mr. Verner.
“I didn’t see anything,” she gasped, “I don’t know anything. As true as I sit here, sir, I never saw Rachel Frost this blessed evening.”
“I am not asking you about Rachel Frost. Were you near the spot?”
“Yes. But—”
“Then you can say what errand you had there; what business took you to it,” continued Mr. Verner.
“It was no harm took me, sir. I went to get a dish o’ tea with Martha Broom. Many’s the time she have asked me since Christmas; and my husband, he was out with the Dawsons and all that bother; and Luke, he’s gone, and there was nothing to keep me at home. I changed my gownd and I went.”
“What time was that?”
“’Twas the middle o’ the afternoon, sir. The clock had gone three.”
“Did you stay tea there?”
“In course, sir, I did. Broom, he was out, and she was at home by herself a-rinsing out some things. But she soon put ’em away, and we sat down and had our teas together. We was a-talking about—”
“Never mind that,” said Mr. Verner. “It was in coming home, I conclude, that you were met by young Broom.”
Mrs. Roy raised her apron again, and passed it over her face but not a word spoke she in answer.
“What time did you leave Broom’s cottage to return home?”
“I can’t be sure, sir, what time it was. Broom’s haven’t got no clock; they tells the time by the sun.”
“Was it dark?”
“Oh, yes, it was dark, sir, except for the moon. That had been up a good bit, for I hadn’t hurried myself.”
“And what did you see or hear, when you got near the Willow Pond?”
The question sent Mrs. Roy into fresh tears; into fresh tremor.
“I never saw nothing,” she reiterated. “The last time I set eyes on Rachel Frost was at church on Sunday.”
“What is the matter with you?” cried Mr. Verner, with asperity. “Do you mean to deny that anything had occurred to put you in a state of agitation, when you were met by young Broom?”
Mrs. Roy only moaned.
“Did you hear people quarrelling?” he persisted.
“I heard people quarrelling,” she sobbed. “I did. But I never saw, no more than the dead, who it was.”
“Whose voices were they?”
“How can I tell, sir? I wasn’t near enough. There were two voices, a man’s and a woman’s; but I couldn’t catch a single word, and it did not last long. I declare, if it were the last word I had to speak, that I heard no more of the quarrel than that, and I wasn’t no nearer to it.”
She really did seem to speak the truth, in spite of her shrinking fear, which was evident to all. Mr. Verner inquired, with incredulity equally evident, whether that was sufficient to put her into the state of tremor spoken of by young Broom.
Mrs. Roy hung her head.
“I’m timid at quarrels, ‘specially if it’s at night,” she faintly answered.
“And was it just the hearing of that quarrel that made you sink down on your knees, and clasp hold of a tree?” continued Mr. Verner. Upon which Mrs. Roy let fall her head on her hands, and sobbed piteously.
Robin Frost interrupted, sarcasm in his tone— “There’s a tale going on, outside, that you saw a ghost, and it was that as frighted you,” he said to her. “Perhaps, sir” — turning to Mr. Verner— “you’ll ask her whose ghost it was.”
This appeared to put the finishing touch to Mrs. Roy’s discomfiture. Nothing could be made of her for a few minutes. Presently, her agitation somewhat subsided; she lifted her head, and spoke as with a desperate effort.
“It’s true,” she said. “I’ll make a clean breast of it. I did see a ghost, and it was that as upset me so. It wasn’t the quarrelling frighted me: I thought nothing of that.”
“What do you mean by saying you saw a ghost?” sharply reproved Mr. Verner.
“It was a ghost, sir,” she answered, apparently picking up a little courage, now the subject was fairly entered upon.
A pause ensued. Mr. Verner may have been at a loss what to say next. When deliberately assured by any timorous spirit that they have “seen a ghost,” it is waste of time to enter an opposing argument.
“Where did you see the ghost?” he asked.
“I had stopped still, listening to the quarrelling, sir. But that soon came to an end, for I heard no more, and I went on a few steps, and then I stopped to listen again. Just as I turned my head towards the grove, where the quarrelling had seemed to be, I saw something a few paces from me that made my flesh creep. A tall, white thing it looked, whiter than the moonlight. I knew it could be nothing but a ghost, and my knees sunk down from under me, and I laid hold o’ the trunk o’ the tree.”
“Perhaps it was a death’s head and bones?” cried John Massingbird.
“Maybe, sir,” she answered. “That, or something worse. It glided through the trees with its great eyes staring at me; and I felt ready to die.”
“Was it a man’s or a woman’s ghost?” asked Mr. Bitterworth, a broad smile upon his face.
“Couldn’t have been a woman’s, sir; ’twas too tall,” was the sobbing answer. “A great tall thing it looked, like a white shadder. I wonder I be alive!”
“So do I,” irascibly cried Mr. Verner. “Which way was it going? Towards the village, or in this direction?”
“Not in either of ‘em, sir. It glided right off at a angle amid the trees.”
“And it was that — that folly, that put you into the state of tremor in which Broom found you?” said Mr. Verner. “It was nothing else?”
“I declare, before Heaven, that it was what I saw as put me into the fright young Broom found me in,” she repeated earnestly.
“But if you were so silly as to be alarmed for the moment, why do you continue to show alarm still?”
“Because my husband says he’ll shake me,” she whimpered, after a long pause. “He never has no patience with ghosts.”
“Serve you right,” was the half-audible comment of Mr. Verner. “Is this all you know of the affair?” he continued, after a pause.
“It’s all, sir,” she sobbed. “And enough too. There’s only one thing as I shall be for ever thankful for.”
“What’s that?” asked Mr. Verner.
“That my poor Luke was away afore this happened. He was fond of hankering after Rachel, and folks might have been for laying it on his shoulders; though, goodness knows, he’d not have hurt a hair of her head.”
“At any rate, he is out of it,” observed John Massingbird.
“Ay,” she replied, in a sort of self-soliloquy, as she turned to leave the room, for Mr. Verner told her she was dismissed, “it’ll be a corn o’ comfort amid my peck o’ troubles. I have f
retted myself incessant since Luke left, a-thinking as I could never know comfort again; but perhaps it’s all for the best now, as he should ha’ went.”
She curtsied, and the door was closed upon her. Her evidence left an unsatisfactory feeling behind it.
An impression had gone forth that Mrs. Roy could throw some light upon the obscurity; and, as it turned out, she had thrown none. The greater part of those present gave credence to what she said. All believed the “ghost” to have been pure imagination; knowing the woman’s proneness to the marvellous, and her timid temperament. But, upon one or two there remained a strong conviction that Mrs. Roy had not told the whole truth; that she could have said a great deal more about the night’s work, had she chosen to do so.
No other testimony was forthcoming. The cries and shouts of young Broom, when he saw the body in the water, had succeeded in arousing some men who slept at the distant brick-kilns; and the tidings soon spread, and crowds flocked up. These people were eager to pour into Mr. Verner’s room now, and state all they knew, which was precisely the evidence not required; but of further testimony to the facts there was none.
“More may come out prior to the inquest; there’s no knowing,” observed Mr. Bitterworth, as the gentlemen stood in a group, before separating. “It is a very dreadful thing, demanding the most searching investigation. It is not likely she would throw herself in.”
“A well-conducted girl like Rachel Frost throw herself wilfully into a pond to be drowned!” indignantly repeated Mr. Verner. “She would be one of the last to do it.”
“And equally one of the last to be thrown in,” said Dr. West. “Young women are not thrown into ponds without some cause; and I should think few ever gave less cause for maltreatment of any kind than she. It appears most strange to me with whom she could have been quarrelling — if indeed it was Rachel that was quarrelling.”