 Chapter 39 So far as a man, not very resolute, can be said to have made up his mind to anything, Charles Fairfield had quite made up his. Driven thus fairly into a corner to fight his battle now and decisively, he would hold no terms and offer no compromise. Let her do her worst. She had found out his secret. Oh, Brother Harry, had you played him false? And she had quoted your opinion against Had you been inflaming this insane enemy with an impracticable confidence? Well, no matter now, all the better perhaps. There was already an end of concealment between that enemy and himself and soon would be of suspense. God help me at the eve of what an abyss I stand. That wretched woman, poor as she is and nearly mad, in a place like London, she'll be certain to find lawyers only too glad to take up her case and force me to a trial, first a trial to prove a marriage and make costs of me and then heaven knows what more. And the publicity and the miserable uncertainty and Alice, poor little Alice, merciful heaven, what had she done to merit this long agony and possible ruin? He peeped into the dining room as he passed, but all was there as he had left it. Alice had not been in it, so at the kitchen door he knocked. Who's there? Is anyone there? Encouraged by his voice, old Dalcy Bella answered from within. The door was opened and he entered. A few moments' silence, except for Alice's murmured and sobbing welcome, a trembling close embrace, and he said with a gentle look and a faint tone, Alice, darling, I have no good news to tell. Everything has gone wrong with me and we must leave this. Let Dalcy Bella go up and get such things as are necessary to take with you. But Dalcy Bella, mind you, tell nobody your mistress is leaving this. And Alice, you'll come with me. We'll go where they can neither follow nor trace us. And let fate do its worst. We may be happier yet in our exile than ever we were at home. And when they have vanished me, they have done their worst. His tenderness for Alice, frozen for a time, had returned. As she clung to him, her large, soft gray eyes looking up in his face so piteously moved him. He had intended a different sort of speech, colder, drier, and under the spell of that look had come this sudden gush of a better feeling. The fond clasp of his arm and the hurried kiss he pressed upon her cheek. I said, Alice, happier, happier, darling, a thousandfold, for the present I speak in riddles. You have seen how miserable I am. I'll tell you everything by and by. A conspiracy, I do believe, an unnatural conspiracy that has worn out my miserable brain and spirits and harassed me to death. I'll tell you all time enough and you'll say it is a miracle I have borne it as I do. Don't look so frightened, you poor little thing. We are perfectly safe. I'm in no danger, but harassed incessantly, only harassed, and that thank God shall end. He kissed her again, very tenderly, and again. And he said, you and Dulcy Bella shall go on. Clinton will drive you to Hatherton, and there you'll get horses and post on to Craneswell, and I will overtake you there. I must go now and give him his directions. And I may as well leave you this note. I wrote it yesterday. You must have some money, there is some in it. And the names of the places, and we'll be there tonight. And what is it, darling? You look as if you wish to ask me something. I was going to ask, but I thought perhaps I ought not, until you can tell me everything. But you spoke of a conspiracy, and I was going to ask whether that dreadful woman who got into my room has anything to do with it. Don said, child, that is a miserable madwoman. He laughed ismally. Just wait a little, and you shall know all I know myself. She's not to stay here. I mean, of course, if anything should prevent her leaving this today. Why should you fancy that, he asked little enigmatically. Mrs. Tarnley said she was going to the madhouse. We'll see time enough. You'll see her no more, he said, and away he went. And she saw him pass by the window and out of the yard. And now she had leisure to think how ill he was looking, or rather to remember how it had struck her when he had appeared at the door. Yes, indeed, worn out and harassed to death. Thank God he was now to escape from that misery, and to secure the repose which it was only too obvious he needed. Dosia Bella returned with such things as she thought indispensable, and she and her mistress were soon in more animated discussion than they had engaged in since the scenes of the past night. Charles Fairfield had to make a call at Farmer Chubbs's to persuade him to lend his horse, about which he made a difficulty. It was not far up the Glen towards Church Carwell, but when he came back he found the Grange again in a new confusion. When Charles Fairfield, ascending the steep and narrow road under which tall trees darkly mounts from the Glen of Carwell to the plateau under the gray walls of the Grange, had reached that Sylvan platform, he saw there looking in the direction of Cressley Common, in that dim religious light, Tom Clinton and his foostie and jacket, scratching his head and looking, it seemed with interest after some receding object. A little behind him, similarly engrossed, stood Old Mildred Tarnley with her hand above her eyes, though there was little need of artificial shade in that solemn grove, and again a little to her rear peeped broad-shouldered Lily Dogger, standing close to the threshold of the yard door. Tom Clinton was first to turn about, and sauntering slowly toward the house, he spoke something to Mrs. Tarnley, who, waiting till he reached her, turned about in the same direction, and talking gravely and looking over their shoulders. As people sometimes do in the direction in which a runaway horse has disappeared, they came to a standstill at the door under the great ash tree whose columnar stem is mantled with thick ivy, and there again looking back, the little girl leaning and listening unheeded against the doorpost, the group remained in conference. Had Charles Fairfield been in his usual state of mind, his curiosity would have been peaked by an appearance of activity so unusual in this drowsy household. As it was, he cared not, but approached, looking down upon the road with his hands in his pocket listlessly. Mrs. Tarnley whispered something to Tom and jogged him in the ribs, looking all the time at the approaching figure of Charles Fairfield. The master of the Grange approached, looked up and saw Tom standing near, with the air of one who had something to say. Mrs. Tarnley had drawn back, a little doubtful possibly, of the effect on his nerves. Well, Tom, Chubbs will lend the horse, said Charles. We'll go round to the stable, I have a word to say. Tom touched his hat, still looking in his face with an inquiring and ominous expression. Do you want to say anything particular, Tom? asked his master with a sudden foreboding of some new ill. Nothing, sir, but Squire Rodney of Rydell has come over from Wickford. He's here, is he? asked Charles, paler, on a sudden. He's gone, sir, please. Gone is he? Well, well. There's not much in that. It was only, sir, that he brought two men with him. Do you mean, you don't mean, what men did he bring? Well, they were constable folk, I believe. They must have been, for they made an arrest. A what? Do you mean? He made out of writing, and he had me in and questioned me, but I had now to tell, sir. And he asked where you was, and I told him, as you ordered. I was to say you was gone, and he took the mistresses, her story, and made her make a no-thought. And the same with the others, Mrs. Tarnley and the little girl and the blind woman. Sheebie took up for murder, or I don't know for what, only he said he could not take no bail for her. So they made her sure, and has took her off, I do suppose, to Wickford Pyrton. Of course that's right, I suppose. All right, eh? Charles looked as if he was going to drop to the earth, so ledden, was his hue, and so meaningless to stare, with which he looked in Tom's face. But, but who sent for him? I didn't. Damn you, who sent for him? It wasn't I. And, and who's master here? Who the devil sent for that meddling rascal from Wickford? Charles's voice had risen to a roar as he shook Tom furiously by the collar. Swinging back a bit, Tom answered, with his hand grasping, his collar where the squire had just clutched him. I don't know, I didn't, and I don't believe no one did. It's a smart run from here across the common. I don't believe no one sent from the Grange. I'm sure no one went from this, not a bit, not a toe, not a soul. I'm sure and certain. What's this? What's this? What the devil's all this, Tom? Said the squire, stamping and shaking his fist in the air, like a mad distracted. Why did you let her go? Why did you let them take her? Damn you! I've a mind to pitch you over the cliff and smash you. Well, sir, said Tom, making another step or two back, and himself pale and stern now, with his open hand raised partly in deprecation. Where's the good of blaming me? What could I do with the log and me? And how could I tell what you'd think? And twart no one from this sent for him, not one. But news travels apace. And who's he can stop it? Not me nor you, said Tom sturdily, and he just came over of his own head and nabbed her. My God, it's done! I thought you would not have allowed me to be trampled on and the place insulted. I took ye for a man, Tom. Where's my horse by heaven? I'll have him. I'll make it a day's work, he'll remember. That damned Rodney, coming down to my house with his catch poles, to pay off all scores and insult me. With his fists clenched and raised, Charles Fairfield ran furiously round to the stable yard, followed cautiously by Tom Clinton. Recording by John Brandon The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafannu Chapter 40 Pursuit Having her own misgivings as to the temper in which her master would take this coup of the arrest, Mildred Tarnley prudently kept her own counsel, and retreated nearly to the kitchen door, while the eclairsis mawn took place outside, hopping in and out to see what would come of it all Mildred affected to be busy about her mops and tubs. After a time in came Tom, looking sulky and hot. Is he coming this way? asked Mildred. Not him, answered Tom. Where is he? Twicks this and Wickford, he answered. Across the common, he's ridin'. To Wickford, eh? To Wickford every foot. If he don't run him down on the way, and when they meet him in Squire Rodney, twill be hot and shrewd work between them, I tell you. I'd rid with him myself if there was a beast to carry me. Four-three again, one, is too long odds. You don't mean to tell me, exclaimed Mildred, planting her mop perpendicularly on the ground, and leaning immovably on this scepter. Tell ye what? There's gonna be rough work like that on the head out. Hot blood, ma'am. Ye know the fair fields. They folk don't stand long, John. It's like when the blood's up, the hand's up, too. And what's he to fight for? Not that blind bell-dam, sure. I want my mug of beer, said Tom, turning the conversation. Yes, sure, she said. Yes. You shall have it. But what for should Master Charles go to rye words, we Squire Rodney? And what for should there be blows and blood spilling between them? Nonsense. I can't help them. I'd lend Master a hand if I could. Squire Rodney's no fool, neither. Twill in be fight dog, fight bear. And there's two stout lads, we him, will make short work out. You don't think he's like to be hurt, do ye? Well, ye know they say fighting dogs comes halting home. He's as strong as two, that's all. And has a good nag under him. Now give me my beer. It won't be nothing, Tom. Don't you think, Tom? It won't come to nothing. If he comes up with them, twill be an up-and-down fight, I take it. Twill's an unlucky maggot bit him. Bit who? Who but the devil brought Squire Rodney over here? Who knows, answered the dame, humbling in her pocket for the key of the beer-seller. I'm gonna fetch your beer, Tom. And away she went, and in a minute returned with his draft of beer. And I think, she said, setting it down before him. Twill's well done. Taking that beast to her right place. Do it, who might. She's just a bedlam best. Clean out of her wits, we wickedness. Mad we drink, and them fits she has. We knows here what she is, and bloody work she'd have made last night with that poor young lady that'll never be the same again. The old limb, and master himself, though he's angered a bit because Justice Rodney would not ask his leave to catch a murderer, if ye please, down here at the Grange. There's more in it, may have, than just that, said Tom blowing the froth off his beer. To come down here, with your leave or by your leave, to squat in the Grange here like Gypsy would on Cressley Common, as though she was a lady of all, to hurt who she pleased, and live as she liked. More in't than that, ye say, what more? Oot, how should I know? May have she thinks she's as good a right as another to a bit and a welcome down here. She was here before, years enough gone by, and long enough she stayed, and cost a pretty penny too, I warrant you. Them was more tired of her than me. Guest ever, welcome never, they say. She was a play actor, or something, long ago a great idle hussy. Never would earn an honest penny, nor do nothing useful all her days. I Joan Real's ill, and wine's worse, and dattle a stomach she has to spin. That'll be the way we her, I swear, ha, ha, ha. She'll not be growin' richer, I warrant, left in the mud and found in the mire. They folk knows nought o' thrift, and small luck, and less good about'em. If ye heard her talk, Tom, ye'd soon know what sort she is, always cravin'. She would not leave a body a shillin' if she could help it. I, I warrant women, priests, and poultry, have never enough, said Tom. I know nought about her, nor who she's a lookin' after here, but she's safe enough now, I take it, and bloody folks, they say, digs their own graves. But as I said, I know's nought about her, and I say nought, and he, that judges as he runs, may hour take repentance. Tis easy judge in here, I'm thinkin', killin' and murders near a kin. And when Mr. Charles cools a bit, he'll thank Squire Rodney for ridin' his house of that blind serpent. Tis somethin' to be so near loosin' his wife, so shores your hands on that mug. It would have been done while the cat's lickin' her ear, if he had not bounced in on the minute, and, once dead, dead as Adam, who looseth his wife in sixpence, hath lost a tester, they do say, answered Tom with a laugh. None but a born beast would say so, said Mildred Tarnley, with a swarthy flush, and striking her hand sternly on the table. Well, tis only a saying, you know, and no new one neither, said Tom, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and standing up. But the mistress is a pretty lady and a kind and a gentle born, as all may see, and I'd give or take a shrewd blow or two, or harm should happen her. Give me no man else, Tom, and I don't doubt ye. Little thought I last night, what was in her head, this sly villain, when I left her back again in her bed, and the cross door shut and locked, Lord of Mercy on us. To think how the fiend works we his own, smooth and sly sometimes, as if butter would not melt in her mouth. Tis an old saying, when the cat winketh, little what's mouse, what the cat thinketh, said Tom with a grin and a wag of his head. She was neither sleek nor soft, nor sly for that matter when I saw her. I thought she'd have had her claws in my chops. Such a catamaran I never did see. And how's the young lady, as Tom, clapping his greasy hat on his head. Hey, dear, I'm glad ye asked, exclaimed the old woman. Easier shall be no doubt, now that devil's gone. But dearie me, all's in a jumble till Master Charles comes back, for she'll not know poor thing, what she's to do till he talks we her. Now all's changed. And Mildred trottered off for herself, and to hear what the young lady might have to say. In their homely sitting-room, with old dulcy-bella and friendly attendants, Mildred tarnally found Alice. It is not always that a dreadful impression makes itself immediately manifest. Nature rallies all her forces at first to meet the danger. A certain excitement of resistance sustains this system through a crisis of horror and often for a long time after, and it is not until this extraordinary muster of the vital forces begins to dissolve and subside that the shattered condition of the normal powers begins to declare itself. The scene which had just occurred was a dreadful ordeal for Alice. To recount, and with effort and minuteness to gather into order, the terrific incidents of the night preceding relate them bit by bit to the magistrate as he wrote them down, make oath to their truth, as the basis of a public prosecution, and most dreadful the having to see and identify the specter who had murderously assailed her on the night before. Every step affrighted her. The shadow of a moving branch upon the wall chilled her with terror. The voices of people who spoke seemed to pierce the naked nerve of her ear, and to sing through her head, even for a moment faces kind and familiar, seem to flicker or darken with direful meanings, alien from their natures. In this nervous condition, old Mildred found her. I come, Mom, to know what you'd wish to be done, said she, standing at the door with her usual grim little courtesy. I don't quite understand. Done about what, inquired she? I mean, Mom, Tom said you asked him to be ready to drive you from here. But his master had come back and things has changed a bit here. I thought you might wish to make a change, may have. Oh, oh, thank you, Mrs. Tarnley. I forgot. I've been so frightened. Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I wish I could cry. I'd be so much better, I'm sure, if I could cry. I feel my throat so odd and my head so confused. It seems so many days. If I could think of anything to make me cry, Mildred looked at her from the corners of her eyes darkly, as if with a heart-heart. But he thinks she pitied her. That blind woman's gone, the beast. I'm glad she's away, and you'll be the better of that, Mom, I'm thinking. I was a fear to her almost myself ever since last night, and Master Charles is gone too, but he'll be back soon. He'll come to-day? She asked in consternation. To-day, of course, Mom. In an hour or less, I do suppose, and it would not be well done, I'm thinking, Mom, for you to leave the Grange till you see him again, for it's like enough he'll have changed his plans. I was thinking so myself. I'd rather wait here to see him. He had so much to distract him that he may easily think differently by this time. I'm glad, Mrs. Tarnley, you think so, for now I feel confident. I may wait for his return. I think I ought to wait. And thank you, Mrs. Tarnley, for advising me in the midst of my distractions. I just speak my mind, Mom, and counsels no command as they say, and I never like to meddlers, and don't love to burn my fingers in other people's bros. So you'll please to mind, Mom, just for your own ear I speak, and your own wit will judge, and I wouldn't have Master Charles looking askew, nor like to be shent by him, for what's kindly meant to you. Not that I owe much kindness nowhere, for since I could scour a platter I ever gave work for wage, so you'll please not tell Master Charles I counseled ye ought in the matter. Certainly, Mrs. Tarnley, just as you wish. Would you please wish anything to eat, Mom, inquired Mildred, relapsing into her dry, official manner. You'll lose heart, Miss, if you don't eat, you must eat. Thanks, Mildred, by and by perhaps. Mrs. Tarnley, like many worthy people, regarded eating as a simply mechanical process, and wondered why people affected difficulty about it under any circumstances. Somewhat heart of heart, and with nerves of wire, she had no idea that a sufficient shock might rob one not only of appetite, but positively of the power of eating for days. Alone for one moment Alice could not endure to be, haunted unintermittently by the vague but intense dread of a return of the woman who had so nearly succeeded in murdering her, and with nerves shattered in that indescribable degree, which even a strongman experiences for a long time after a murder has been attempted upon him, perfidiously and by a surprise. The worst panic comes after an interval of many hours. As the day waned, more miserably nervous she became, and more defied her terror of the Dutch woman's return. That straggling old house with no less than four doors of entrance favored the alarms of her imagination. Often she thought of her kind old kin's woman, Lady Windale, and her proffered asylum at her snug house at Alton. But that was a momentary picture no more, miserable as she was at the Grange, until she had seen her husband, learned his plans, and knew what his wishes were, that loyal little wife could not dream of going to Alton. She remained there as the shades of evening darkened over the steep roof and solemn trees of Carwell Grange, and more and more grew the horror that deepened with darkness, and was aggravated and distracted by the continued absence of her husband. In the sitting room she stood, listening with a beating heart. Every sound, which at another time would have been unheard, now thrilled her with hope or terror. Old Dulcy Bella in the room was also frightened, more a great deal than she could account for. An even mild returnally that hard and grim old lady was touched by the influence of that contagious fear, and barred and locked the doors with jealous care, and even looked to the fastenings of the windows, and caught some faint shadows of that supernatural fear, with which Alice Fairfield had come to regard the wicked woman out of whose hands she had escaped. Now and then would appeal to, she said a short word or two of reassurance respecting Charles Fairfield's unaccountably prolonged absence. But the panic of the young lady in like manner, on this point, began to invade her in uncomfortable misgivings. So uneasy had she grown that at last she dispatched Tom when sunset had come without a sign of Charles Fairfield's return writing to Wickford. Tom had now returned. A boatless errand it had proved. Aunt Wickford, he learned that Charles Fairfield had been there, had been at Squire Rodney's house and about the town, and made inquiries. His pursuit had been misdirected. Aunt Wickford is a house of correction and reformatory which institution acts as the prison of ease to the county jail. But that jail is in the town of Hatherton, as Charles would have easily recollected if his rage had allowed him a moment to think. Tom however made no attempt further to pursue him on conjecture, and had returned to Carwell Grange. No wiser than he went. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafano Chapter 42, Hatherton Charles Fairfield and True Fairfield Wrath had written at a hard pace which helped to keep his blood up, all the way to the bridge at Wickford. He had expected to overtake the magistrate easily before he reached that point, and if he had, who knows what might have happened next. Locked at Wickford and learning there how long a ride interposed before he could reach him, he turned and followed in a somewhat changed mood. He would himself bail that woman. The question felony or no felony. Bailable offense or not bailable? Entered not his uninstructed head. Be she what she might? Assassin? Devil? He could not and would not permit her to lie in jail. Arrested in his own house, with many sufferings and one great wrong to abrade him with, with rights imaginary he insisted, but honestly believed in perhaps by her. With other rights which his tortured heart could not deny. The melancholy rights, which are founded on outlawry and disgrace, ilium mostinary, but quite irresistible, when pleaded with nature is not lost to all good, and which proclaim the dreadful equity. The advice has its duties, no less than virtue. Falked in his first violent impulse, Charles rode his hot horse quietly along the by-road that leads to Hatherton over many a steep and through many a rut. Yes, pleasant it would have been to lick that rascal Rodney and upset his dog heart into the ditch and liberate the distressed damsel, but even Charles Fairfield began to perceive consequences and to approve a more moderate course. At Hatherton was there not Peregrine Hinks, the attorney who carried his brother Harry Fairfield, whose course any more than that of true love did not always run smooth through the short turns and breaks that disturbed it. He would go straight to this artist in all manner of quips and cranks in parchment and tell him what he wanted, the most foolish thing perhaps in the world, to undo that which his good fortune had done for him and let loose again his trouble. Scandal? What did the defiant soul of a Fairfield care for scandal? Impulsive, reckless, affectionate, not ungenuous, all considerations were lost in the one compunctious feeling. Two hours later, he was in the office of Mr. Peregrine Hinks who listened to his statement with a shrewd inflexibility of face. He knew as much as Harry Fairfield did of the person who is now under the turnkey's tutelage, but Charles fancied him quite in the dark and treated the subject accordingly. We'll send you down to the jail and learn what she's committed for, but two will be necessary. Who will execute the recognizance with you? I'm certain Harry will do it in a moment, said Charles. The attorney was very sure that Harry would do no such thing, but it was not necessary to discuss that particular point, nor to insinuate officiously his ideas about the country's scandal, which would follow his interposition in favor of a prisoner committed upon a charge involving an attempt upon the life of his wife, for the information brought back from the prison was such as to convince the attorney that Bale could not be accepted in the case. On learning this, Charles's wrath returned. He stood for a time at the chimney piece, examining in silence a candlestick that stood there, and then to the window he went, with a haggard, angry face, and looked out for a while with his hands in his pockets. Very well, so much the worse for Rodney, said he suddenly. I told you my sole motive was to snub that fellow. He chose to make an arrest in my house. His damned impertence. Without the slightest reference to me, and I made up my mind, if I could, to let his prisoner go. That fellow wants to be kicked. I don't care tuppence about anything else, but it's all one. I'll find some other way. You'd better have a glass of sherry, sir. You're a little tired and a biscuit. I'll have nothing, thanks, till I—till I—what was I going to say? Time enough. I have lots to do at home, a great deal, Mr. Hinks, and my headaches. I am tired. I—but won't mind the wine, thank you. My head is too bad. If I could just clear it of two or three things, I'd be all right, and rest a little. I've been overworked, and I'll ride over here to-morrow. That will do, and we'll talk it over. And I don't choose that wretched crazy woman to be shut up in prison because that stupid prick Rodney pleases to say she's insane, and would like to hang her, just because she was arrested at Carwell. And—and as you say, of course, if she is insane, she's best out of the way. But there are ways of doing things, and I won't be bullied by that vulgar snob. By Krikey? If I had caught him today, I'd have broken his neck, I believe. Glad you did not meet him, sir. A row at any time brings one into mischief. But an interference for the course of law, don't you see? A very serious affair indeed. Well, see, yes, I suppose so. And there was just another thing, believing as I do that wretched person quite mad, don't you see? It would be very hard to let her—to let her half-starve there, where they've put her, don't you think? And I don't care to go down to the place there, and all that. And if you'd just managed to let her have this, it's all I can do just now. But—but it's happening at my house, although I'm not a bit to blame, puts it on me in a way, and I think I can't do less than this. He handed a banknote to the attorney and was looking all the time on a brief that lay on the table. Mr. Hinks, the respectable attorney, was a little shy also as he took it. I'm to say you sent it to—what's her name by the by? He asked, Bertha Velderkost. But you need not mention me. Only say it was sent to her, that's all. I'm so vexed, because, as you may suppose, I had particular reasons for wishing to keep quiet. And I was staying there at the Grange, you know, Carwell, and thought I might keep quiet for a few weeks. And that wretched maniac comes down there while I was for a few days absent. And in one of her fits makes an attack on a member of my family. And so my little hiding place is disclosed, for, of course, such a fracas will be heard of. It is awfully provoking. I'm rather puzzled to know where to go. Charles ceased with a faint, dreary laugh, and the attorney looked at his banknote, which he held by the corners, as the meet in Mudford's fine story might add the letter which Van der Decken wished to send to his long-lost wife in Amsterdam. It was not, however, clear to him that he had any very good excuse for refusing to do this trifling kindness for the brother of his quarrelsome and litigious client, Harry Fairfield, who, although he eschewed costs himself, laid them pretty heavily upon others, and was a valuable feeder for Mr. Hincks' office. This little commission, therefore, accepted. The attorney saw his visitor downstairs. He had already lighted a candle, and in its light he thought he never saw a man upon his legs look so ill as Charles, and the hand which he gave Mr. Hincks at the steps was dry and burning. "'It's a long ride, sir, to car well,' the attorney hesitated. The horse has had some oats thanks down here, and he nodded toward the plume of feathers, at which he had put up his beast, and I shan't be long getting over the ground. And without turning about or a look over his shoulder, he sauntered away in the rising moonlight toward the little inn.' End of Chapter 42, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 43 of The Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafano Chapter 43 The Welcome Charles rode his horse slowly homeward. The moon got up before he reached the wild expanse of Cressley Common. A wide sea of undulating heat. With here and there a gray stone peeping above its surface in the moonlight like a distant sail. Charles was feverish, worn out in body and mind, literally. Some men more than others are framed to endure misery and live on and on and on in despair. Is this melancholy strength better? Or the weakness that faints under the first strain of the rack? Happy that at the longest it cannot be for very long. Happy that a man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, seeing that he is full of misery. Charles was conscious only of extreme fatigue that for days he had eaten little, rested little, and that his short snatches of sleep, harassed by the repetition of his waking calculations and horrors, tired rather than refreshed him. When fever is brewing, just as electric lights glimmer from the sullen mask of cloud on the eve of a storm, there come sometimes odd flickerings that seem to mock and warn. Every overworked man who has been overtaken by fever in the midst of his toil and complications knows well the kind of tricks his brain has played him on the verge of that chaos. Charles put his hand to his breast and felt in his pocket for a letter, the appearance of which was sharp and clear on his retina, as if he had seen it but a moment before. What have I done with it? he asked himself. The letter hinks gave me. He searched his pockets for it, a letter of which this picture was so bright, purely imaginary. He was going to turn about and search the track he had traversed for it. But he bethought him. To whom was the letter written? No answer could he find. To whom? To no one, nothing, an imagination. Conscious on a sudden, he was scared. I want a good rest. I want some sleep, waking dreams. This is the way fellows go mad. What the devil can have put it into my head. Now rose before him the tall trees that gather as you approach the veil of Carwell, and soon the steep gables and chimneys of the Grange glimmered white among their bows. There in his mind, as unaccountably, was the fancy that he had met and spoken with his father, Old Squire Harry, at the cat-stone as he crossed the moor. I'll give his message, yes, I'll give his message. And he thought what possessed him to come out without his hat, and he looked whiter than ever. And then he thought, what brought him there? And then what was his message? Again a shock, a chasm his brain had mocked him. Treadful when that potent servant begins to mutiny, an instead of honest work for its master finds pastime for itself in fearful sport. My God, what am I thinking of? He said with a kind of chill, looking back over his shoulder. His tired horse was plucking a mouth full of grass that drew at the foot of a tree. We are both used up, he said, letting his horse at a quicker pace pursue its homework path. Poor fellow, you're tired as well as I. I'll be all right, I dare say, in the morning if I can only sleep. Something wrong? Something a little wrong that sleep will cure. All right, tomorrow. He looked up as he passed toward the windows of his and Alice's room. When he was out, a piece of the shutter was always open. But if so, tonight there was no light in the room. And with a shock and a dreadful imperfection of recollection, the scene which occurred on the night past returned. Yes, my God. So it was. He said as he stopped at the yard gate. Alice, I forget. Did I see Alice after that? Did I? Did they tell me? What is it? He dismounted and felt as if he were going to faint. His finger was on the latch, but he had not the courage to raise it. Vane was his effort to remember. Painted in hues of light was that dreadful crisis before his eyes. But how had it ended? Was he going quite mad? My God, help me. He muttered again and again. Is there anything bad? I can't recall it. Is there anything very bad? Open the door. It is he, I'm sure. I heard the horse. Cried the clear voice of Alice from within. Yes, I. It's I. He cried in a strange rapture. And in another moment the door was open and Charles had clasped his wife to his heart. Darling, darling, I'm so glad. You're quite well. He almost sobbed. Oh, Rye, my own, my own husband. My Rye, he's safe. He's quite well. Come in. Thank God he's back again with his poor little wife. And, oh, darling, we'll never part again. Come in. Come in, my darling. Old Mildred secured the door and Tom took the horse round to the stable. And as she held her husband, clasped in her arms, tears long denied to her came to her relief. And she wept long and convulsively. Oh, Rye, it has been such a dreadful time, but you're safe, aren't you? Quite. Oh, yes. Quite, darling, very well. But, oh, Rye, you look so tired. You're not ill, are you, darling? Not ill. Only tired. Nothing. Not much. Tired and stupid want of rest. You must have some wine. You look so very ill. Well, yes, I'm tired. Thanks, Mildred, that'll do. And he drank the glass of sherry she gave him. A drop more, inquired Old Mildred, holding the decanter stooped over his glass. No thanks, no. It tastes oddly, or perhaps I'm not quite well, after all. Charles now felt his mind clear again, and his retrospect was uncrossed by those spectral illusions of the memory that seemed to threaten the brain with subjugation. Better the finger of death than of madness should touch his brain, perhaps. His love for his wife, not dethroned, only in obedience was restored. Such dialogues as theirs are a little interesting to any but the interlocers. With their fear and pain agitated, troubled, there is love in their words. Those words, then, though in him, troubled with inward abradings, in her with secret fears and cares, are precious. There may not be many more between them. End of Chapter 43, Recording by John Brandon A few days had passed, and a great change had come. Charles Fairfield, the master of the Grange, lay in his bed, and the Wickford Doctor admitted to Alice that he could not say what might happen. It was a very grave case, fever, and the patient could not have been worse handled in those early days of the attack, on which sometimes so much depends. People went to and fro on tiptoe, and talked in whispers, and the patient moaned and prattled unconscious generally of all that was passing. Awful hours and days of suspense, the Doctor said, and perhaps he was right, to kind Lady Windale, who came over to see Alice, and learned with consternation the state of things that, under the special circumstances, her nerves having been so violently acted upon by terror, this diversion of pain, and thought into quite another channel might be the best thing on the whole that could have happened to her. It was now the sixth day of this undetermined ordeal. Alice watched the Doctor's countenance with her very soul in her eyes, as he made his inspection, standing at the bedside, and now and then putting a question to Dolce Bella, or to Alice, or to the nurse whom he had sent to do duty in the sick room from Wickford. Well, whispered poor Alice, who had accompanied him downstairs, and pairless death drew him into the sitting-room, and asked her question. Well, Doctor, what do you think today? Not much to report. Very little change. We must have patience, you know, for a day or two, and you need not to be told, my dear mum, that good nursing is half the battle, and in better hands he need not be. I'm only afraid that you are undertaking too much yourself. That woman, Marx, you may rely upon, implicitly, a most respectable and intelligent person. I never know her to make a mistake yet, and she has been more than ten years at this work. Yes, I'm sure she is. I like her very much. And don't you think him a little better? She pleaded. Well, you know, as long as he holds his own, and don't lose ground, he is better. That's all we can say, not to be worse, as time elapses is, in effect, to be better, that you may say. She was looking earnestly into the clear blue eyes of the old man, who turned them kindly upon her, from under his shaggy white eyebrows. Oh, thank God! Then you do think him better? In that sense, yes, he answered cautiously. But, of course, we must have patience, and we shall know more, a great deal more, and I do sincerely hope it may all turn out quite right. But the brain has been a good deal overpowered. There's a tendency to a sort of state we call comatose. It indicates too much pressure there, do you see? I'd rather have him talking more nonsense, with less of that sleep, as you suppose it. But it isn't sleep. A very different sort of thing. I've been trying to salivate him. But he's plaguey obstinate. We'll try tonight what dividing the pills into four each, and shortening the intervals a little will do. It sometimes does wonders, we'll see. And a great deal depends on our succeeding and salivating. If we succeeded in effecting that, I think all the rest would proceed satisfactorily. That's one of our little difficulties, just at this moment. If you send over your little messenger, the sooner the better. She shall have the pills, and let him take one the moment they come. Pretty flower, that is, he interpolated, touching the petal of one that stood neglected in its pot, on a little table at the window. That's not a geranium. It's a palagonium. I did not know there were such things down here. And you'll continue. I told her everything else, and go on just as before. And you think he's better? I mean, just a little? She pleaded again. Well, well, you know, I said all I could, and we must hope, we must hope, you know, that everything may go on satisfactorily, and I'll go further. I'll say I don't see at all why we should despair of such a result. Keep up your spirits, ma'am, and be cheery. We'll do our duty all, and leave the rest in the hands of God. And I suppose, Dr. Willett, we shall see you tomorrow at the usual hour. Certainly, ma'am, and I don't think there will be any change to speak of till probably Thursday. And a heart sank down with one dreadful dive at mention of that day of trial that might so easily be a day of doom. And she answered his farewell, and smiled faintly, and followed his steps through the passage, freezing with that fear it seemed, that she did not breathe, and that her heart ceased beating, and that she glided like a spirit. She stopped, and he passed into the yard to his horse, turning his shrewd pale face with a smile and a nod, as he stepped across the doorstone, and he said, Goodbye, ma'am, and look out for me tomorrow as usual, and be cheery, mind. Look at the bright side, you know, there is no reason you shouldn't. She answered his smile as best she could. But her heart was full. An immense sorrow was there. She was frightened. She hurried into the homely sitting room, and wept in an agony unspeakable. The doctor she saw pitted and wished to cheer her, but how dreadful was his guarded language. She thought that he would speak to others in a different vein, and so, in fact, he did. His opinion was clear against Charles Fairfield's chance of ever being on his feet again. It was a great pity, a young fellow. The doctor thought every one young, whose years were ten less than his own, a tall, handsome fellow like that, and squire of Wyvern in a year or two, and a good-natured sort of fellow, he heard. It was a pity, and that poor little wife of his, and likely to be a mother soon, God help her. The dreaded day came and passed, and Charles Fairfield was not dead, but better. The fever was abating, but never did the vital spark burn lower in living man. Seeing that life was so low in his patient, that there was nothing between it and death, the doctor ordered certain measures to be taken. The fever is going, you see, but his strength is not coming, nor won't for a while. It's a very nice thing I can tell you to bring him to land with such fine tackle. I brought a salmon ten-pound weight into my net with a bit of a trout rod, as light as a rush almost. But this is nicer play. Not mind you that I'd have you in the dumps, ma'am, but it will be necessary to watch him as a cat would a mouse. Now you'll have on the table by his bed three bottles, decanted all, and ready for use instantaneously. Beside that claret you'll have a bottle of port, and you must also have a bottle of brandy. He'll be always at his tricks, going to faint, and you mustn't let him. Because, ma'am, it might not be easy to get him out of such a faint, and a faint is death, ma'am, if it lasts long enough. Now you're not to be frightened. Oh no, doctor will it. No, that would not do neither. But I want you clearly to see the importance of it. Let him have the claret to his lips constantly in a tumbler mind. You can't give him too much, and whenever you see him look faint, you must reinforce that with port, and no mincing of matters, none of your half-measures. I'd rather you made him drunk three times a day than run the least risk once of the other thing. And if the port doesn't get him up quick enough, you must fire away with the brandy, and don't spare it. Don't be afraid. We'll get him round in time, with jellies, and other good things. But life must be maintained in the meanwhile, anyway, every way, whatever way we can, so mind three, claret, port, brandy. He held up three fingers as he named them, touching them in succession. That's a fire. It's better should burn a bit too fiercely for an hour than sink too low for a second. Once out, out forever. Thanks, Dr. Willet. I understand quite, and you'll be here tomorrow, won't you, at the usual hour? Certainly, ma'am. And it's high time you should begin to take a little care of yourself. You must indeed, or you'll ruin it. You're too much on your feet, and you've had no rest night or day, and it's quite necessary you should, unless you mean to put yourself out of the world, which would not do at all. We can't spare you, ma'am. We can't indeed. A deal too valuable. For some time, Charles Fairfield continued in very much the same state. At the end of three or four days, he signed faintly to Alice, who was in the room with her large, soft eyes gazing on the invalid whenever she could look unperceived. She got up gently and came close to him. Yes, darling. And she lowered her head that he might speak more easily. Charles whispered, quite well. You feel quite well? Thank God, she answered, her large eyes filling with tears. Not I, you. He whispered with quireless impatience. Ain't you? Quite, darling. His fine blue Fairfield eyes were raised to her face. With a short sigh, he whispered. I'm glad. She stooped gently and kissed his thin cheek. I've been dreaming so much, he whispered. Will you tell me exactly what happened just before my illness? Something happened here. In a low murmur, she told him. When she stopped, he waited, as if expecting more, then he whispered. I thought so, yes. And he sighed heavily. You're tired, darling, she said. You must take a little wine. I hate it, he whispered. Tired of it? But, darling, the doctor says you must. And for my sake, won't you? The faintest possible smile lighted his pale face. Kind, he whispered. And when she placed a glass of claret to his lips, he sipped a little and turned away his head languidly. Enough. Bring me my dressing case, he whispered. She did so. The key was in my purse, I think, open it, Allie. She found the key and unlocked that inlaid box. Underneath, there are two or three letters in a big envelope. Keep them for me. Don't part with them, he whispered. She lifted a long envelope containing some papers, and the faintest nod indicated that they were what he sought. Keep it safe. Put the case away. When she came back, looking at her, he raised his eyebrows ever so little and moved his head. She understood his sign and stooped again to listen. She mustn't be prosecuted. She's mad, Allie, mind. Darling, whatever you wish. Good, Allie, that's enough. There was a little pause. You did not take enough claret, darling Rye. Would you take a little more for your poor little Allie? Whispered she anxiously. I'm very well, darling. By and by sleep is better. So he laid his cheek closer to the pillow and closed his eyes. And Alice Fairfield stole on tiptoe to her chair, and with another look at him, and a deep sigh, she sat down and took her work. Silent was the room except for the low breathing of the invalid. Half an hour passed, and Alice stole softly to the bedside. He was awake, and said faintly, Was it your mother? Who, darling? Talking. No one was talking, darling. I saw her. I thought I heard, not her, someone talking. No, darling, Rye, nothing. Dreams, yes. He murmured, and was quiet again. Sad and Amma seemed those little wanderings, but such things are common in sickness. It was simply weakness. In a little time she came over softly and sat down by his pillow. I was looking down, Allie. He whispered. I'll get it, darling. Something on the floor, is it? She asked, looking down. No, down to my feet. It's very long, stretched. Are your feet warm, darling? Quite. And he sighed and closed his eyes. She continued sitting by his pillow. When Willie died, my brother, I was just fifteen. Then came a pause. Willie was the handsomest, he murmured on. Willie was elder, nineteen, very tall, handsom Willie. He liked me the best. I cried a deal that day. I used to cry alone every day in the orchard, or by the river. He's in the churchyard at Wyvern. I wonder shall I see it any more? There was rain the day of the funeral. They say it is lucky. It was a long coffin. The fair fields, you know. Darling Rye, you were talking too much. It will tire you. Take ever so little, Claret, to please your poor little Allie. This time he did quite quietly and then closed his eyes and dozed. End of Chapter forty-five, Recording by John Brandon Chapter forty-six of The Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lofano Chapter forty-six Harry drinks a glass and spills a glass. About an hour after, old Dulcy Bella came to the door and knocked. Charles Fairfield had slept a little and was again awake. Into that still darkened room she came to whisper her message. Mr. Harry's come and he's downstairs and he'd like to see you and he wanted to know whether he could see the master. I'll go down and see him. Say I'll see him with pleasure, said Alice. Harry is here, darling. She said gently, drawing near to the patient. But you can't see him, of course. I must, whispered the invalid, peremptorily. Darling, are you well enough? I'm sure you ought not. If the doctor were here, he would not allow it. Don't think of it, darling Rye. And he'll come again in a few days when you are stronger. It will do me good, whispered Charles. Bring him. You tire me. Wait. She can tell him. I'll see him alone. Go. Go, Ellie. Go. She would have remonstrated, but she saw that in his flushed and irritated looks, which warned her against opposing him further. You are to go down, Dulcy Bella, and bring Mr. Harry to the room to see your master. And Dulcy Bella, like a dear, good creature, won't you tell him how weak Master Charles is? She urged, following her to the lobby, and begged of him not to stay long. In a minute or two more, the clank of Harry Fairfield's boot was heard on the stair. He pushed open the door and stepped in. Hello, Charlie. Dark enough to blind a horse here. All right now. I hear you'll be on your legs again. I can't see you upon my soul, not a stim a most, before you see three Sundays. You mustn't be tiring yourself. I'm not talking too loud, eh? Would you mind an inch or two more of the shutter open? No, said Charles faintly. A little. There, that isn't much. I'm beginning to see a bit now. You've had a stiff bout this time, Charlie. It wasn't typhus, nothing infectious. Chiefly, the upper story. But you had a squeak for it, my lad. I'd come over to look after you, but my hands was too full. No good, Harry. Could not have spoken nor seen you. Better now. A bit shaky still, said Harry, lowering his voice. You'll get over that, though, fast enough. Keeping your spirits up, I see, and Harry winked at the decanters. Somewhat better than that rat-gut claret, too. This is the stuff to put life in you. Port, yes. He filled his brother's glass, smelled to it, and drank it off. So it is, a rat-gut port. I'll drink your health, Charlie. He added, playfully, filling his glass again. I'm glad you came, Harry. I feel better, said the invalid, and he extended his thin hand upon the bed to his brother. Hoot, of course you do, said Harry, looking hard at him for he was growing accustomed to the imperfect light. You'll do very well, and Alice I hear is quite well also. And so you've had a visit from the old soldier at a bit of a row, eh? Very bad, Harry. Oh, God, help me moan, Charles. She ain't pretty and she ain't pleasant. Bad without and worse within, like a collier's sack, said Harry with a disgusted grimace, lifting his eyebrows and shaking his head. She's headlong and headstrong, and so there has been bad work. I don't know what's to be done. The best thing to be done is to let her alone, said Harry. They've put her up at Hatherton, I hear. That's one thing, murmured Charles with a great sigh. I'm a heartbroken man, Harry. That's easy-mended. Don't prosecute, that's all. Yet out of the country, when you're well enough, and they must let her go and maybe the lesson won't do her no harm. I'm glad I have you to talk to, murmured Charles with another great sigh. I can't get it out of my head. You'll help me, Harry? All I can taint much. And, Harry, there's a thing that troubles me. He paused. It seemed exhausted. Don't mind it now, you're tiring yourself. Drink a glass of this. And he filled the glass from which he had been drinking his port. No, I hate wine, he answered. No, no, buy and buy, perhaps. You know best, he acquiesced. I suppose I must drink it myself. Which necessity he complied with accordingly. I heard the news, you know. And I'd have come sooner, but I'm taken in action next sizes, on a warranty about the gray filly against that damned rogue farmer Lundy, and had to be off to the other side of Wyvern with the lawyer. Tain easy to hold your own with the cheat and chaps that's going now. I can tell you. I'm no good to talk now, Harry. You'll find me better next time. Only, Harry, mind, remember, I may not be long for this world. And I give you my honor. I swear in the presence of God who'll judge me. I never was married to Bertha. It's a lie. I knew she'd give me trouble someday. But it's a lie. Alice is my wife. I never had a wife but Alice. My God Almighty. That other's a lie. Don't you know it's a lie, Harry? Don't be bothering yourself about that now, said Harry, with rather a sullen countenance, looking ascance through the open space in the window shutter to the distant horizon. Long heads, my lad, and lawyers, leer for the quips and cranks of law. What should I know? Harry, I know you love me. You won't let wrong be believed. Said Charles Fairfield in a voice suddenly stronger than he had spoken in before. I won't let wrong be believed, he answered coolly, perhaps sulkily. And he looked at him steadily for a little, with his mouth sullenly open. You know, Harry, he pleaded. There's a little child coming. It would not do to wrong it. Oh, Harry, don't you love your poor only brother? Harry looked as if he was going to say something saucy, but instead of that, he broke into a short laugh. Upon my soul, Charlie, a fellow think you took me for an affidavit man. When did I ever tell Naught but the truth? Sitch rot. A chap like me that's faulted always for being too blunt and plain spoken, and as for Lycan, I'd like to know what else brings me here. Of course, I don't say I love anyone all out, as well as Harry Fairfield. You're my brother, and I stand by you according. But as I said before, I love my shirt very well, but I like my skin better. Hey, and that's all fair. All fair, Harry. I'll... I'll talk no more now, Harry. I'll lie down for a little, and we'll meet again. Harry was again looking through the space of the open shutter, and he yawned. He was thinking of taking his leave. In this round study, he was interrupted by a sound. It was like the beginning of a little laugh. He looked at Charlie, who had uttered it. His thin hand was extended toward the little table at the bedside, and his long arm in its shirt sleeve. His eyes were open, but his face was changed. Harry had seen death often enough to recognize it. With a dreadful start, he was on his feet, and had seized his brother by the shoulder. Charlie, man! Charlie! Look at me! My God! And he seized the brandy bottle and poured ever so much into the open lips. It flowed over from the corners of the mouth, over cheek and chin. The throat swallowed not. The eyes stared their earnest stare, unchanging into immeasurable distance. Charles Fairfield was among the Fairfields of other times. Hope and fear, the troubles and the dream, ended. End of Chapter 46 Recording by John Brandon Chapter 47 Home to Wyvern When a sick man dies, he leaves his bed and his physique. His best friend asks him not to stay, and sweetheart and kindred concur in putting him out of doors, to lie in a bed of clay under the sky come frost or storm or rain. A dumb outcast from fireside tankered in even the talk of others. To all Charles Fairfield of the blue eyes was in due course robed in his strange white suit, boxed up and screwed down with a plated inscription over his cold breast, recounting his Christian and surnames and the tale of his years. If from that serene slumber he could have been called again the loud and exceeding bitter cry, the wild farewell of his poor little alley, would have wakened him. But her loving rye, her hero, slept on, with the unearthly light on his face till the coffin lid hid it, and in the morning the athlete passed downstairs on men's shoulders and was slid reverently into a hearse and went away to old Wyvern churchyard. At ten o'clock in the morning, Charlie Fairfield was on the ground. Was old squire Harry there to meet his son and follow his coffin to the aisle of the ancient little church and thence to his place in the churchyard? Not he. Serve him right, said the squire, when he heard it. I'm damned if he'll lie in our vault. Let him go to parson Maybell yonder under the trees. I'll not have him. So, Charles Fairfield is buried there under the drip of those melancholy old trees, close by the gentle vicar and his good and pretty wife, over whom the grass has grown long, and the leaves of twenty summers have bloomed and fallen, and whose forlorn and beautiful little child was to be his bride and is now his widow. Harry Fairfield was there, with the undertaker's black cloak over his well-knit Fairfield shoulders. He nodded to this friend and that in the crowd, roughly. His face was lowering with thought, his eyes cast down and sometimes raised in an apparent glare to the face of some unobserved bystander for a few moments. Conspicuous above other uncovered heads was his. The tall stature and statuesque proportions of his race would have marked him without the black mantle for the kinsmen of the dead Fairfield. Up to Wyvernhouse, after the funeral was over, went Harry. The old man his hat and his hand was bare-headed on the steps. As he approached, he nodded to his last remaining son. Three were gone now. A faint sunlight glinted on his old features. A chill northern air stirred his white locks. A gloomy but noble image of winter, the gaunt old man presented. Well, that's over. Where's the lad buried? Just where you wished, sir, near Vicker Maybell's grave, under the trees. The old squire grunted in ascent. The neighbors was there, I daresay? Yes, sir, all, I think. I shouldn't wonder, they liked Charlie they did. He's buried up there alone. Well, he deserved it. Was Dobbs there from Craybourne? He was good to Dobbs. He gave that fellow twenty-pun once, like a big fool, when Dobbs was dropped to the wall. The time he lost his cattle. He was there? Yes, I saw Dobbs there, sir. He was crying. More fool, Dobbs, more fool, he said, the squire. And then came a short pause. Crying, was he? He's a big fool. Dobbs is a fool. A man crying always looks a fool. The rum-faces they make when they're blubbing, observed Harry. Some of the Wickford folk was there. Rodney was at his funeral. Rodney? He didn't like a bone in his skin. Rodney's a bad dog. What brought Rodney to my son's funeral? He took up with them preaching folk at Wickford, I'm told, and he came down, I suppose, to show the swaddlers what a forgiven, charitable chap he is. Before he put on his hat, he came over and put out his hand to me. And you took it? You know you took it. Well, the folk was looking on, and he took me so short, said Harry. Charlie wouldn't have done that. He wouldn't have took his hand over your grave. But you're not like us. Never was. You were cut out for a lawyer, I think. Well, the folk would have talked, you know, sir. Talked, sir? Would they? Retorted the squire with an angry leer. I never cared the crack of a cart whip what the folk talked. Let them talk, damn them. And you had no gloves. Dickon says, nor nothing. Buried like a dog, almost. Up in the corner there. He told me not to lay out a shill in, sir, said Harry. If I did, I did. But angry folk don't always mean all they says. No matter. We're done. We had now. It's over. He was worth ye all. Broke out the squire passionately. I could have liked him, if he had a liked me, if he had a let me. But he didn't. And there it is. So the squire walked on a little hastily, which was his way when he chose to be alone, down the steps with gaunt stumbling gate, and slowly away into the tall woods close by. And in that ancestral shadow disappeared. Future present past. The future mist. A tint and shadow. The cloud on which fear and hope project their airy phantoms. Living in imagination and peopled by romance. A dream of dreams. The present only we possess man's momentary dominion. Plastic under his hand as the clay under the potters. Always a moment of the present. In our absolute power. Always that fleeting plastic moment speeding into the past immutable eternal. The metal flows molten by and then chills and fixes forever. So with a life of man. So with the spirit of man. Work while it's called day. The moment fixes the retrospect. And death the character forever. The heart knoweth its own bitterness. The proud man looks on the past he has made. The hammer of Thor can't break it. The fire that is not quenched can't melt it. His thoughtless handiwork will be the same forever. Old squire Harry did not talk any more about Charlie. About a month after this he sent to Craybourne to say that Dobbs must come up to Wyvern. Dobbs' heart failed him when he heard it. Everyone was afraid of Old Squire Harry. For in his anger he regarded neither his own interest nor other men's safety. Ho Dobbs! You're not fit for Craybourne. The farm's too much for you and I've nothing else to geeky. Dobbs' heart quailed at these words. You're a fool, Dobbs. You're a fool. You're not equal to it, man. I wonder you didn't complain to your rent. It's too much, too high by half. I told Cresswell to let you off every rent day a good pen-earth for future. Don't you talk about it to no one. It would stop that. He laid his hand on Dobbs' shoulder and looked not unkindly in his face. And then he turned and walked away and Dobbs knew that his audience was over. And the Old Squire was growing older and grass and weeds were growing a pace over handsome Charlie Fairfield's grave in Wyvern. But the Old Man never sent to Carwell Grange. Nor asked questions about Alice. That wound was not healed. As death heals some. Perry came, but Alice was ill and could not see him. Lady Windale came and her he saw. And that good-natured kinswoman made her promise that she would come and live with her as soon as she was well enough to leave the Grange. And Alice lay still in her bed, as the doctor commanded, and her heart seemed breaking. The summer would return, but Rye would never come again. The years would come and pass. How were they to be got over? And, oh, the poor little thing that was coming, what a sad welcome. It would break her heart to look at it. Oh, Rye, Rye, Rye, my darling. So the morning broke and evening closed, and her great eyes were wet with tears. The rain hit raineth every day. End of Chapter 47, recording by John Brandon. Chapter 48 of Wyvern Mystery. Chapter 48 of Wyvern Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Adrian Stevens. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan LeFennu. Chapter 48. A Twilight Visit. In the evening Tom had looked in at his usual hour, and was recruiting himself with his big mug of beer and lump of bread and cheese at the kitchen table, and now the keen edge of appetite removed he was talking aggrably. This was what he called his supper. The flush of sunset on the sky was fading into twilight, and Tom was chatting with old Mildred Tarnley. He'd think it was only three weeks since the funeral, said Tom. Three weeks to-morrow. Hi, to-morrow! It was a Thursday, I mined, by the little boy coming from Grace's Mill, for the laundress's money by noon. Two months ago to look at him, he'd have said there was forty years life left in him. But death keeps no calendar, they say. I wonder Harry Fairfield isn't here oftener. Though she might not talk with him, nor see him, the sound of his voice in the house would do her good. His own brother, you know. Dead man, to an old saying, is keen to none, said Tom. I goes their own gate, and so does the living. There is that woman in jail, what's to be done with her, and who's to talk with the lawyer folk, said Mildred. I luck come with her to carwell, said Tom. But he ever said eyes on her, for chances will be, and how can cat help, if made be a fool? I don't know nothing of that business, but in this word, now for now, is the most of our wages, and I take it folks know what they are about, more or less. Mildred Tarnley sniffed at this oracular speech, and turned up her nose, and went over to the dresser, and went over to the dresser, and arranged some matters there. The daze is sharpening apace. My old eyes can scarcely see over here without a candle, she said, returning. But there is a many a thing to be settled in this house, I'm thinking. Tom nodded, and acquiescence, and stood up, and stretched himself, and looked up to the darkening sky. The crow is his home in carwell wood. It will be time to be turned in keys and drawing of bolts, said Tom. I, many a thing I'll want settling, I doubt, down here, and who's to do it? I, who's to do it? repeated Mildred. I tell you, Tom, there is many a thing, too many a thing, more than you are off, enough to bring him out of his grave, Tom, as I've heard stories, many a one, with less reason. As she ceased, a clink of a horseshoe was heard in the little yard without. And a tall figure leading a horse, as Charles Fairfield used often to do, on his late returns to his home, looked in at the window. In that uncertain twilight, in stature, attitude, and as well as she could see in face, so much resembling the deceased master of carwell-grange, that Mrs. Towney gasped, Michael, Lord, who's that? Something of the same momentary alarm puzzled Tom, who frowned wildly at it, with his fists clenched beside him. It was Harry Fairfield, who exhibited, as sometimes happens, in certain lights and moments, a family resemblance, which had never struck those most familiar with his appearance. Larrick, it's Mr. Harry, run out, Tom, and take his nag willy. Out went Tom, and in came Harry Fairfield. He looked about him. He did not smile facetiously and nod, and take old Mildred's dubious hand as he was wont, and crack a joke, not always very welcome or very pleasant, to the tune of, nobody's coming to marry me, nobody coming to woo. On the contrary, he looked as if he saw nothing there but walls and twilight, and as heavy laden with gloomy thoughts as the troubled ghosts she had imagined. How is Miss Alley? How is he a mistress? At last he inquired abruptly. Only middling? Ailing, sir, answered Mildred dryly. Tell her I'm here, will ye, and has something to tell her and talk over, and I'll make it as short as I can. Tell her I'd have come earlier, but couldn't, for the sessions at Wickford, and dined with a neighbour in the town, and say I may not be able to come up for a good while again. Is she up? No, sir, the doctor keeps her still to her bed. Well, old Dulcy Crane's there, ain't she? Aye, sir, and Lily Duggar too, little good the sluts to me these days. Harry was trying to read his watch at the darkened window. Tell her all that, quick, for time flies, said Harry. Harry Fairfield remained in the kitchen, while old Mildred did his message, and she speedily returned to say that Alice was sitting up by the far, and would see him. Up the dim stairs went Harry. He had not been up there since the day he saw the undertakers at Charley's coffin, and had his last peep at his darkening face. Up he strode with his hand on the banister, and old Mildred gliding before him like a shadow. She knocked at the door. It was not that of the room which they had occupied, where poor Charles Fairfield had died, but the adjoining one hurriedly arranged with such extemporised comforts as the primitive people of the household could manage, homely enough, but not desolate, it looked. Opening the door she said, Here is Master Harry, ma'am, I come in to see you. Harry was already in the room. There were candles lighted on a little table near the bed, although the shutters were still open, and the faint twilight mingling with the light of the candles made a sort of purple halo. Alice was sitting in a great chair by the fire in her dressing gown, pale and looking very ill. She did not speak. She extended her hand. Come to see you, Allie. Troublesome world. But you must look up a bit, you know. Troubles up at trials, they say, and can't last forever. So don't you be fretting yourself out of the world, lass, and making more food for worms. And with this consolation he shook her hand. I would have seen you, Harry, when you called before. It was very kind of you, but I could not. I'm better now, thank God. I can't believe it still sometimes. And her eyes filled with tears. Well, well, well, said Harry. Where's the good of crying? Crying won't bring him back, you know. There, there. And I want to say a word to you about that woman that's in jail, you know. It is right you should know everything. He should have told you more about that, don't you see? Else you might put your foot in it. Pailer still turned Alice at these words. Tell them to go in there, he said, in a lower turn, indicating with his thumb over his shoulder a sort of recess at the far end of the room, in which stood a table with some work on it. At a word from Alice, old Dolcy Beller called Lily Dogger into that distant alcove, as Muldred termed it. It's about that woman, he continued, in a very low tone. About that one. Bertha. That woman, you know. That's in a hatherton jail, you remember. There's no good prosecuting that one. Poor Charles wouldn't have allowed it at no price. He said so. I wouldn't, for the world, she answered very faintly. No, of course. He wished it. I would like to see his wishes complied with. Poor fellow, now he's gone. Acquiesced Harry with alacrity. And you know about her? He added, in a very low tone. Oh, no, no, Harry, no, please! she answered imploringly. Well, it wouldn't do for you, you know, to be getting up in the witness-box at the sizes to hang her, you know. Oh, dear Harry, no. I never could have thought of it. Well, you're not bound, luckily, nor no one. I saw Rodney today about it. There's no recognizances. He only took the informations, and I said you wouldn't prosecute. Nor I won't, I'm sure. And the crown won't take it up, and so it will fall through and end quietly. The best way for you, for as I told him, you're not in health to go down there, to be battling with lawyers, and all sorts. It would never answer you, you know. So here's a slip of paper, I wrote, and told him I knew you'd sign it, only saying that you have no notion of prosecuting that woman, nor moving more in the matter. He placed it in her hand. I'm sure it's quite right. It's just what I mean. Thank you, Harry. You're very good. Get the income-pen, said Harry, allowed to Dolce Bella. Test downstairs, answered she. I'll fetch it. And Dolce Bella withdrew. Harry was poking about the shelves and the chimney-piece. This is ink, said he. Ain't it? So it was, and a pen. I think it were right. Try it, Ali. So it was signed. And he had fairly described its tenor and effect to his widowed sister-in-law. I'll see Rodney this evening, and show him this, to prevent his bothering you here about it. And, he almost whispered, you know about that woman, or you don't, do you? Her lips moved, but he could hear no words. She was once a fine woman. You wouldn't think a devilish fine woman, I could tell you. And she says, you know to us more than like him. She says she has the whip-hand, oh ye, first come, first served. She's talking a law, and all that. She says, but it won't make no odds now, you know. What she says, well, she says she was his wife. Oh, God! It's a lie! whispered the poor lady, with white lips, and staring at him with darkening eyes. Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't, he answered. But it don't much matter now, and I daresay we'll hear nothing more about it, and dead men's past fooling, you know. Good night, Allie, and God bless you, and take care of yourself, and don't be crying your eyes out like that. And I'll come again as soon as I can, and any business, you know, or anything. I'll always be ready to do for you, and good night, Allie, and mind all I said. Since those terrible words of his were spoken, she had not heard a syllable. He took her icy hand. He looked for a puzzled moment in her clouded eyes, and nodded, and he called to the little girl in the adjoining room. I'm going now, child, and do you look after your mistress? By a coincidence or association, something suggested by Harry Fairfield's looks, was it? Old Mildred Tarnes' head was full of the Dutch woman when Darcy Beller came into the kitchen. You took out the ink, Tom, when you was weighing them oats today, said she, and out went Tom in search of that always errant and mitching article. I was saying to Tom as he came in, Mrs Crane, how I hoped to see that one in her place. I think I'd walk to Hatherton and back to see her hanged, the false jade, with her knife, and her puse police, and her devilry, old witch. Lock, Mrs Tarnley! How can ye? Well now, Master Charles is under the mould. I wouldn't spare her. What for shouldn't Mrs Fairfield make her pay for the pipe she danced to? It's her turn now. When you are anvil, hold you still. When you are hammer, strike your fill. And if I was Mrs Fairfield, maybe I wouldn't make her smoke for all. I think my lady will do just what poor Master Charles wished, and I know nothing about the woman, said Darcy Beller. Only they all say she's not right in her head, Mrs Tarnley, and I don't think she'll slight his last word and punish the woman. It would be the same as sacrilege, I must. And what of her? Much matter about a wooden platter, and it's ill-burning the house to frighten the mice. Harry Fairfield, he assaunted into the kitchen, rolling unspoken thoughts in his mind. The conversation subsided at his approach. Darcy Beller made her curtsy and withdrew, and said he to Tom, who was entering with the ink-buttle. Tom, run out, will ye, and get my nag ready for the road. I'll be off this minute. Tom departed promptly. Well, Mildred, said he, eyeing her darkly from the corners of his eyes. Sorrow comes unsent for. I, sure, she's breaking her heart, poor thing. To won't break, I warrant for all that, he answered. Sorrow for a husband, they say, is a pain in the oboe, sharp and short. All along, o' that ugly Dutch beast, towards an ill-wind, carried her to Carwell, said Mildred. He shut his eyes and shook his head. That couldn't do nowhere, said he. Two cats and one mouse, two wives and one house. Master Charles was no such fool. What for should he ever amare such as that? I couldn't believe no such thing, said Mrs. Charlie, sharply. Two dogs at one bone can never agree in one, repeated Harry, oracularly. There's no need, mine, to set folk's tongues a-ringing, nor much good in trying to hide the matter, for her people won't never let it rest. I lay ye what ye please, never. To'll be strange news up at Wyvern, but I'm a feared she'll prove it only too ready. To'll shame us, finally. Well, let them talk, as the bell clinks, so the fool thinks, and who the worse. I don't believe it, know how. He never would have brought down the fair fields to that, and if he had, he could not have brought the poor young creature upstairs into such trouble and shame. I won't believe it of him till it's proved. I hope they may never prove it. But what can we do? You and I know how they lived here, and I have heard her call him husband, as often as I have fingers and toes. But, bless ye, we'll hold our tongues. You will, eh? Won't you, Mildred? You mustn't be talking. Tarkin, I had nothing to talk about. Fudgeman, I don't believe it. Tis a damn lie, from top to bottom. I hope so, said he. A shameless liar she was, the blackest I ever heard talk. Best let sleeping dogs be, said he. There was some silver loose in his trousers' pocket, and he was fumbling with it, and looking hard at Mildred as he spoke to her. Sometimes, between his finger and thumb, he held the shilling, sometimes the half-crown. He was mentally deciding which to part with, and attended by his presenting Mildred with the shilling, and recommending her to apply the splendid tip to the purchase of tea. Some people experience a glow after they have done a great benevolence. As he walked into the stable-yard, Harry experienced a sensation, but it wasn't a glow, a chill rather. Remembering the oblique look with which she eyed the silver coin in her dark palm, and her scant thanks, he was thinking what a beast he was to part with his money so lightly. Mildred tarnally, cynically, muttered to herself in the kitchen, Farewell, frost! Nothing got, or nothing last. Here's the gift, bless him, and mind the time a fairfield would have been a shave to give an old servant such a veil. Hoot! What's the world are coming to? Tis time we was agone. But Master Harry was ever the same, a thrifty lad, he was, that looked after his pennies sharply. Said old Mildred tarnally, scornfully, and she dropped the coin disdainfully into a little tin porager that stood on the dresser. And Tom came in, and the doors were made sure, and Mildred tarnally made her modest cup of tea, and all was subsiding for the night. But Harry's words had stricken Alice Farefield. Perhaps those viewless arrows often a kill than people think of. Up in her homely room Alice now lay very ill indeed.