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The Curse of Carne's Hold: A Tale of Adventure

by G. A. Henty · English · Gutenberg #39374 · 645,223 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Curse of Carne's Hold: A Tale of Adventure

Author: G. A. Henty


        
Release date: April 4, 2012 [eBook #39374]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39374

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CURSE OF CARNE'S HOLD: A TALE OF ADVENTURE ***




Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)











                         THE CURSE OF CARNE'S HOLD

                            A Tale of Adventure

                              BY G. A. HENTY

        AUTHOR OF "ALL BUT LOST," "GABRIEL ALLEN, M.P.," ETC., ETC.


    _NEW EDITION_

    LONDON

    GRIFFITH FARRAN & CO.
    NEWBERY HOUSE, 39, CHARING CROSS ROAD

    _The Right of Translation and Reproduction is reserved._




[Illustration: "_'Hold tight, Mary,' he said, as he cut down a native who
was springing upon him from the bushes._"]




CONTENTS


       CHAPTER I. HOW THE CURSE BEGAN 5

      CHAPTER II. MARGARET CARNE 21

     CHAPTER III. TWO QUARRELS 39

      CHAPTER IV. A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 58

       CHAPTER V. THE INQUEST 75

      CHAPTER VI. RUTH POWLETT 96

     CHAPTER VII. THE VERDICT 112

    CHAPTER VIII. ENLISTED 128

      CHAPTER IX. THE OUTBREAK 147

       CHAPTER X. A SUCCESSFUL DEFENCE 165

      CHAPTER XI. ATTACK ON A WAGGON-TRAIN 183

     CHAPTER XII. IN THE AMATOLAS 202

    CHAPTER XIII. THE RESCUE 219

     CHAPTER XIV. RONALD IS OFFERED A COMMISSION 238

      CHAPTER XV. A PARTING 256

     CHAPTER XVI. SEARCHING FOR A CLUE 273

    CHAPTER XVII. RUTH POWLETT CONFESSES 290

   CHAPTER XVIII. GEORGE FORESTER'S DEATH 307

     CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRE AT CARNE'S HOLD 324

      CHAPTER XX. CLEARED AT LAST 340




THE

CURSE OF CARNE'S HOLD




CHAPTER I.

HOW THE CURSE BEGAN.


There was nothing about Carne's Hold that would have suggested to the
mind of the passing stranger that a curse lay upon it. Houses to which
an evil history is attached lie almost uniformly in low and damp
situations. They are embedded in trees; their appearance is gloomy and
melancholy; the vegetation grows rank around them, the drive is
overgrown with weeds and mosses, and lichens cling to the walls. Carne's
Hold possessed none of these features. It stood high up on the slope of
a hill, looking down into the valley of the Dare, with the pretty
village of Carnesford nestling among its orchards, and the bright stream
sparkling in the sunshine.

There was nothing either gloomy or forbidding about its architecture,
and the family now simply called their abode The Carnes; the term "Hold"
that the country people applied to it was indeed a misnomer, for the
bombardiers of Essex had battered the walls of the old fortified house,
and had called in the aid of fire to finish the work of destruction.
The whole of the present structure was therefore subsequent to that
date; it had been added to and altered many times, and each of its
owners had followed out his own fancies in utter disregard of those of
his predecessors; consequently the house represented a medley of diverse
styles, and, although doubtless an architectural monstrosity, was
picturesque and pleasing to the eye of men ignorant of the canons of
Art.

There were no large trees near it, though a clump rose a few hundred
yards behind it, and took away the effect of bareness it would otherwise
have had. The garden was well kept, and bright with flowers, and it was
clear that no blighting influence hung over them, nor, it would be
thought, over the girl, who, with a straw hat swinging in one hand, and
a basket, moved among them. But the country people for six miles round
firmly believed that a curse lay on Carne's Hold, and even among the
county families no one would have been willing to give a daughter in
marriage to an owner of the place.

Carnesford, now a good-sized village, had once been a tiny hamlet, an
appanage of Carne's Hold, but it had long since grown out of leading
strings, and though it still regarded The Carnes with something of its
old feudal feeling, it now furnished no suit or service unless paid for
so doing. Carnesford had grown but little of late years, and had no
tendency to increase. There was work enough in the neighbourhood for
such of its inhabitants as wanted to work, and in summer a cart went
daily with fruit and garden produce to Plymouth, which lay about twenty
miles away, the coast road dipping down into the valley, and crossing
the bridge over the Dare at Carnesford, and then climbing the hill again
to the right of The Hold.

Artists would sometimes stop for a week or two to sketch the quaint
old-fashioned houses in the main street, and especially the mill of
Hiram Powlett, which seemed to have changed in no way since the days
when its owner held it on the tenure of grinding such corn as the owners
of The Hold required for the use of themselves and their retainers.
Often, too, in the season, a fisherman would descend from the coach as
it stopped to change horses at the "Carne's Arms" and would take up his
quarters there, for there was rare fishing in the Dare, both in the deep
still pool above the mill and for three or four miles higher up, while
sea-trout were nowhere to be found plumper and stronger than in the
stretch of water between Carnesford and Dareport, two miles away.

Here, where the Dare ran into the sea, was a fishing village as yet
untouched, and almost unknown even to wandering tourists, and offering
indeed no accommodation whatever to the stranger beyond what he might,
perchance, obtain in the fishermen's cottages.

The one drawback to Carnesford, as its visitors declared, was the rain.
It certainly rained often, but the villagers scarcely noticed it. It was
to the rain, they knew, that they owed the bright green of the valley
and the luxuriousness of their garden crops, which always fetched the
top price in Plymouth market; and they were so accustomed to the soft
mist brought up by the south-west wind from over the sea that they never
noticed whether it was raining or not.

Strangers, however, were less patient, and a young man who was standing
at the door of the "Carne's Arms," just as the evening was closing in at
the end of a day in the beginning of October, 1850, looked gloomily out
at the weather. "I do not mind when I am fishing," he muttered to
himself; "but when one has once changed into dry clothes one does not
want to be a prisoner here every evening. Another day like this, and I
shall pack up my traps and get back again on board."

He turned and went back into the house, and, entering the bar, took his
seat in the little sanctum behind it; for he had been staying in the
house for a week, and was now a privileged personage. It was a snug
little room; some logs were blazing on the hearth, for although the
weather was not cold, it was damp enough to make a fire pleasant. Three
of the landlord's particular cronies were seated there: Hiram Powlett,
the miller; and Jacob Carey, the blacksmith; and old Reuben Claphurst,
who had been the village clerk until his voice became so thin and
uncertain a treble that the vicar was obliged to find a successor for
him.

"Sit down, Mr. Gulston," the landlord said, as his guest entered. "Fine
day it has been for fishing, and a nice basket you have brought in."

"It's been well enough for fishing, landlord, but I would rather put up
with a lighter basket, and have a little pleasanter weather."

The sentiment evidently caused surprise, which Jacob Carey was the first
to give expression to.

"You don't say, now, that you call this unpleasant weather, sir? Now I
call this about as good weather as we could expect in the first week of
October--warm and soft, and in every way seasonable."

"It may be all that," the guest said, as he lit his pipe; "but I own I
don't care about having the rain trickling down my neck from
breakfast-time to dark."

"Our fishermen about here look on a little rain as good for sport,"
Hiram Powlett remarked.

"No doubt it is; but I am afraid I am not much of a sportsman. I used to
be fond of fishing when I was a lad, and thought I should like to try my
hand at it again, but I am afraid I am not as patient as I was. I don't
think sea life is a good school for that sort of thing."

"I fancied now that you might be a sailor, Mr. Gulston, though I didn't
make so bold as to ask. Somehow or other there was something about your
way that made me think you was bred up to the sea. I was not sure about
it, for I can't recollect as ever we have had a sailor gentleman staying
here for the fishing before."

"No," Mr. Gulston laughed, "I don't think we often take to the rod.
Baiting a six-inch hook at the end of a sea-line for a shark is about
the extent to which we usually indulge; though sometimes when we are at
anchor the youngsters get the lines overboard and catch a few fish. Yes,
I am a sailor, and belong, worse luck, to the flagship at Plymouth. By
the way," he went on, turning to Jacob Carey, "you said last night, just
as you were going out, something about the curse of Carne's Hold. That's
the house up upon the hill, isn't it? What is the curse, and who said
it?"

"It is nothing sir, it's only foolishness," the landlord said, hastily.
"Jacob meant nothing by it."

"It ain't foolishness, John Beaumont, and you know it--and, for that,
every one knows it. Foolishness indeed! Here's Reuben Claphurst can tell
you if it's nonsense; he knows all about it if any one does."

"I don't think it ought to be spoken of before strangers," Hiram Powlett
put in.

"Why not?" the smith asked, sturdily. "There isn't a man on the
country-side but knows all about it. There can be no harm in telling
what every one knows. Though the Carnes be your landlords, John
Beaumont, as long as you pay the rent you ain't beholden to them; and as
for you, Hiram, why every one knows as your great-grandfather bought the
rights of the mill from them, and your folk have had it ever since.
Besides, there ain't nothing but what is true in it, and if the Squire
were here himself, he couldn't say no to that."

"Well, well, Jacob, there's something in what you say," the landlord
said, in the tone of a man convinced against his will; but, indeed, now
that he had done what he considered his duty by making a protest, he had
no objection to the story being told. "Maybe you are right; and, though
I should not like it said as the affairs of the Carnes were gossiped
about here, still, as Mr. Gulston might, now that he has heard about the
curse on the family, ask questions and hear all sorts of lies from those
as don't know as much about it as we do, and especially as Reuben
Claphurst here does, maybe it were better he should get the rights of
the story from him."

"That being so," the sailor said, "perhaps you will give us the yarn,
Mr. Claphurst, for I own that you have quite excited my curiosity as to
this mysterious curse."

The old clerk, who had told the story scores of times, and rather prided
himself on his telling, was nothing loth to begin.

"There is something mysterious about it, sir, as you say; so I have
always maintained, and so I shall maintain. There be some as will have
it as it's a curse on the family for the wickedness of old Sir Edgar. So
it be, surelie, but not in the way they mean. Having been one of the
officers of the church here for over forty year, and knowing the mind of
the old parson, ay, and of him who was before him, I always take my
stand on this. It was a curse, sure enough, but not in the way as they
wants to make out. It wouldn't do to say as the curse of that Spanish
woman had nowt to do with it, seeing as we has authority that curses
does sometimes work themselves out; but there ain't no proof to my mind,
and to the mind of the parsons as I have served under, that what they
call the curse of Carne's Hold ain't a matter of misfortune, and not, as
folks about here mostly think, a kind of judgment brought on them by
that foreign, heathen woman. Of course, I don't expect other people to
see it in that light."

This was in answer to a grunt of dissent on the part of the blacksmith.

"They ain't all had my advantages, and looks at it as their fathers and
grandfathers did before them. Anyhow, there is the curse, and a bitter
curse it has been for the Carnes, as you will say, sir, when you have
heard my story.

"You must know that in the old times the Carnes owned all the land for
miles and miles round, and Sir Marmaduke fitted out three ships at his
own expense to fight under Howard and Blake against the Spaniards.

"It was in his time the first slice was cut off the property, for he
went up to Court, and held his own among the best of them, and made as
brave a show, they say, as any of the nobles there. His son took after
him, and another slice, though not a big one, went; but it was under Sir
Edgar, who came next, that bad times fell upon Carne's Hold. When the
troubles began he went out for the King with every man he could raise in
the country round, and they say as there was no man struck harder or
heavier for King Charles than he did. He might have got off, as many
another one did, if he would have given it up when it was clear the
cause was lost; but whenever there was a rising anywhere he was off to
join it, till at last house and land and all were confiscated, and he
had to fly abroad.

"How he lived there no one exactly knows. Some said as he fought with
the Spaniards against the Moors; others, and I think they were not far
from the mark, that he went out to the Spanish Main, and joined a band
of lawless men, and lived a pirate's life there. No one knows about
that. I don't think any one, even in those days, did know anything,
except that when he came back with King Charles he brought with him a
Spanish wife. There were many tales about her. Some said that she had
been a nun, and that he had carried her off from a convent in Spain, but
the general belief was--and as there were a good many Devonshire lads
who fought with the rovers on the Spanish Main, it's likely that the
report was true--that she had been the wife of some Spanish Don, whose
ship had been captured by the pirates.

"She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that. Such a beauty, they
say, as was never seen before or since in this part. But they say that
from the first she had a wild, hunted look about her, as if she had
either something on her conscience, or had gone through some terrible
time that had well-nigh shaken her reason. She had a baby some months
old with her when she arrived, and a nurse was engaged from the village,
for strangely enough, as every one thought at the time, Sir Edgar had
brought back no attendant either for himself or his lady.

"No sooner was he back, and had got possession of his estates, being in
that more lucky than many another who fought for the Crown, than he set
to work to rebuild The Hold; living for the time in a few rooms that
were patched up and made habitable in the old building. Whatever he had
been doing while he was abroad, there was no doubt whatever that he had
brought back with him plenty of money, for he had a host of masons and
carpenters over from Plymouth, and spared no expense in having things
according to his fancy. All this time he had not introduced his wife to
the county. Of course, his old neighbours had called and had seen her as
well as him, but he had said at once that until the new house was fit to
receive visitors he did not wish to enter society, especially as his
wife was entirely ignorant of the English tongue.

"Even in those days there were tales brought down to the village by the
servants who had been hired from here, that Sir Edgar and his wife did
not get on well together. They all agreed that she seemed unhappy, and
would sit for hours brooding, seeming to have no care or love for her
little boy, which set folk more against her, since it seemed natural
that even a heathen woman should care for her child.

"They said, too, there were often fierce quarrels between Sir Edgar and
her, but as they always talked in her tongue, no one knew what they were
about. When the new house was finished they moved into it, and the ruins
of the old Hold were levelled to the ground. People thought then that
Sir Edgar would naturally open the house to the county, and, indeed,
some entertainments were given, but whether it was that they believed
the stories to his disadvantage, or that they shrank from the strange
hostess, who, they say, always looked on these occasions stately and
cold, and who spoke no word of their language, the country gentry
gradually fell away, and Carne's Hold was left pretty much to its
owners.

"Soon afterwards another child was born. There were, of course, more
servants now, and more state, but Lady Carne was as much alone as ever.
Whether she was determined to learn no word of English, or whether he
was determined that she should not, she at any rate made no attempt to
acquire her husband's language, and many said that it was a shame he did
not get her a nurse and a maid who could speak her tongue; for in the
days of Charles there were foreigners enough in England, and there could
have been no difficulty in procuring her an attendant of her own
religion and race.

"They quarrelled more than ever; but the servants were all of opinion
that whatever it was about it was her doing more than his. It was her
voice to be heard rising in passionate tones, while he said but little,
and they all agreed he was polite and courteous in his manner to her. As
for her, she would walk for hours by herself up and down the terrace,
talking aloud to herself, sometimes wringing her hands and throwing her
arms wildly about. At this time there began to be a report among the
country round that Lady Carne was out of her mind.

"She was more alone than ever now, for Sir Edgar had taken to making
journeys up to town and remaining for weeks at a time, and there was a
whisper that he played heavily and unluckily. So things went on until
the third child was born, and a fortnight afterwards a servant from The
Hold rode through the village late at night on his way for the doctor,
and stopped a moment to tell the news that there was a terrible scene up
at The Hold, for that during a momentary absence of the nurse, Lady
Carne had stabbed her child to death, and when he came away she was
raving wildly, the efforts of Sir Edgar and two of the servants hardly
sufficing to hold her.

"After that no one except the inmates of The Hold ever saw its mistress
again; the windows in one of the wings were barred, and two strange
women were brought down from London and waited and attended on the poor
lady. There were but few other servants there, for most of the girls
from about here soon left, saying that the screams and cries that rang
at times through the house were so terrible that they could not bear
them; but, indeed, there was but small occasion for servants, for Sir
Edgar was almost always away. One night one of the girls who had stayed
on and had been spending the evening with her friends, went home late,
and just as she reached the house she saw a white figure appear at one
of the barred windows.

"In a moment the figure began crying and screaming, and to the girl's
surprise many of her words were English, which she must have picked up
without any one knowing it. The girl always declared that her language
made her blood run cold, and was full of oaths, such as rough sailor-men
use, and which, no doubt, she had picked up on ship-board; and then she
poured curses upon the Carnes, her husband, the house, and her
descendants. The girl was so panic-stricken that she remained silent
till, in a minute or two, two other women appeared at the window, and by
main force tore Lady Carne from her hold upon the bars.

"A few days afterwards she died, and it is mostly believed by her own
hand, though this was never known. None of the servants, except her own
attendants, ever entered the room, and the doctor never opened his lips
on the subject. Doubtless he was well paid to keep silence. Anyhow, her
death was not Sir Edgar's work, for he was away at the time, and only
returned upon the day after her death. So, sir, that is how the curse
came to be laid on Carne's Hold."

"It is a terrible story," Mr. Gulston said, when the old clerk ceased;
"a terrible story. It is likely enough that the rumour was true, and
that he carried her off, after capturing the vessel and killing her
husband, and perhaps all the rest of them, and that she had never
recovered from the shock. Was there ever any question as to whether they
had been married?"

"There was a question about it--a good deal of question; and at Sir
Edgar's death the next heir, who was a distant cousin, set up a claim,
but the lawyer produced two documents Sir Edgar had given him. One was
signed by a Jack Priest, who had, it was said, been one of the crew on
board Sir Edgar's ship, certifying that he had duly and lawfully married
Sir Edgar Carne and Donna Inez Martos; and there was another from a
Spanish priest, belonging to a church at Porto Rico, certifying that he
had married the same pair according to Catholic rites, appending a note
saying that he did so although the husband was a heretic, being
compelled and enforced by armed men, the town being in the possession of
a force from two ships that had entered the harbour the night before.
As, therefore, the pair had been married according to the rites of both
Churches, and the Carnes had powerful friends at Court, the matter
dropped, and the title has never since been disputed. As to Sir Edgar
himself, he fortunately only lived four years after his wife's death.
Had he lived much longer, there would have been no estate left to
dispute. As it was, he gambled away half its wide acres."

"And how has the curse worked?" Mr. Gulston asked.

"In the natural way, sir. As I was saying before it has just been in the
natural way, and whatever people may say, there is nothing, as I have
heard the old parson lay down many a time, to show that that poor
creature's wild ravings had aught to do with what followed. The taint in
the blood of Sir Edgar's Spanish wife was naturally inherited by her
descendants. Her son showed no signs of it, at least as far as I have
heard, until he was married and his wife had borne him three sons. Then
it burst out. He drew his sword and killed a servant who had given him
some imaginary offence, and then, springing at his wife, who had thrown
herself upon him, he would have strangled her had not the servants run
in and torn him off her. He, too, ended his days in confinement. His
sons showed no signs of the fatal taint.

"The eldest married in London, for none of the gentry of Devonshire
would have given their daughter in marriage to a Carne. The others
entered the army; one was killed in the Low Countries, the youngest
obtained the rank of general and married and settled in London. The son
of the eldest boy succeeded his father, but died a bachelor. He was a
man of strange, moody habits, and many did not hesitate to say that he
was as mad as his grandfather had been. He was found dead in his
library, with a gun just discharged lying beside him. Whether it had
exploded accidentally, or whether he had taken his life, none could say.

"His uncle, the General, came down and took possession, and for a time
it seemed as if the curse of the Carnes had died out, and indeed no
further tragedies have taken place in the family, but several of its
members have been unlike other men, suffering from fits of morose gloom
or violent passion. The father of Reginald, the present Squire, was of a
bright and jovial character, and during the thirty years that he was
possessor of The Hold was so popular in this part of the country that
the old stories have been almost forgotten, and it is generally believed
that the curse of the Carnes has died out."

"The present owner," Mr. Gulston asked; "what sort of a man is he?"

"I don't know nothing about him," the old man replied; "he is since my
time."

"He is about eight-and-twenty," the landlord said. "Some folks say one
thing about him, some another; I says nothing. He certainly ain't like
his father, who, as he rode through the village, had a word for every
one; while the young Squire looks as if he was thinking so much that he
didn't even know that the village stood here. The servants of The Hold
speak well of him--he seems kind and thoughtful when he is in the
humour, but he is often silent and dull, and it is not many men who
would be dull with Miss Margaret. She is one of the brightest and
highest spirited young ladies in the county. There's no one but has a
good word for her. I think the Squire studies harder than is good for
him. They say he is always reading, and he doesn't hunt or shoot; and
natural enough when a man shuts himself up and takes no exercise to
speak of, he gets out of sorts and dull like; anyhow, there's nothing
wrong about him. He's just as sane and sensible as you and I."

After waiting for two days longer and finding the wet weather continue,
Mr. Gulston packed up his rods and fishing tackle and returned to
Plymouth. He had learned little more about the family at The Hold,
beyond the fact that Mrs. Mervyn, who inhabited a house standing half a
mile further up the valley, was the aunt of Reginald and Margaret Carne,
she having been a sister of the late possessor of The Hold. In her youth
she had been, people said, the counterpart of her niece, and it was not
therefore wonderful that Clithero Mervyn had, in spite of the advice of
his friends and the reputation of the Carnes, taken what was considered
in the county the hazardous step of making her his wife.

This step he had never repented, for she had, like her brother, been one
of the most popular persons in that part of the county, and a universal
favourite. The Mervyn estate had years before formed part of that of the
Carnes, but had been separated from it in the time of Sir Edgar's
grandson, who had been as fond of London life and as keen a gambler as
his ancestor.

The day before he started, as he was standing at the door of the hotel,
Reginald Carne and his sister had ridden past; they seemed to care no
more for the weather than did the people of the village, and were
laughing and talking gaily as they passed, and Charles Gulston thought
to himself that he had never in all his travels seen a brighter and
prettier face than that of the girl.

[Illustration: "_Charles Gulston thought he had never seen a prettier
and brighter face than that of the girl._"]

He thought often of the face that day, but he was not given to romance,
and when he had once returned to his active duties as first lieutenant
of H.M.S. _Tenebreuse_, he thought no more on the subject until three
weeks later his captain handed him a note, saying:

"Here, Gulston, this is more in your line than mine. It's an invitation
to a ball, for myself and some of my officers, from Mrs. Mervyn. I have
met her twice at the Admiral's, and she is a very charming woman, but as
her place is more than twenty miles away and a long distance from a
railway station, I certainly do not feel disposed to make the journey.
They are, I believe, a good county family. She has two pretty daughters
and a son--a captain in the Borderers, who came into garrison about a
month ago; so I have no doubt the soldiers will put in a strong
appearance."

"I know the place, sir," Gulston said; "it's not far from Carnesford,
the village where I was away fishing the other day, and as I heard a
good deal about them I think I will take advantage of the invitation. I
dare say Mr. Lucas will be glad to go too, if you can spare him."

"Certainly, any of them you like, Gulston, but don't take any of the
midshipmen; you see Mrs. Mervyn has invited my officers, but as the
soldiers are likely to show up in strength, I don't suppose she wants
too many of us."

"We have an invitation to a ball, doctor," Lieutenant Gulston said after
leaving the captain, to their ship's doctor, "for the 20th, at a Mrs.
Mervyn's. The captain says we had better not go more than three.
Personally I rather want to go. So Hilton of course must remain on
board, and Lucas can go. I know you like these things, although you are
not a dancing man. As a rule it goes sorely against my conscience taking
such a useless person as one of our representatives; but upon the
present occasion it does not matter, as there is a son of the house in
the Borderers; and, of course, they will put in an appearance in
strength."

"A man can make himself very useful at a ball, even if he doesn't
dance, Gulston," the doctor said. "Young fellows always think chits of
girls are the only section of the female sex who should be thought of.
Who is going to look after their mothers, if there are only boys
present? The conversation of a sensible man like myself is quite as
great a treat to the chaperones as is the pleasure of hopping about the
room with you to the girls. The conceit and selfishness of you lads
surprise me more and more, there are literally no bounds to them. How
far is this place off?"

"It's about twenty miles by road, or about fifteen by train, and eight
or nine to drive afterwards. I happen to know about the place, as it's
close to the village where I was fishing a fortnight ago."

"Then I think the chaperones will have to do without me, Gulston. I am
fond of studying human nature, but if that involves staying up all night
and coming back in the morning, the special section of human nature
there presented must go unstudied."

"I have been thinking that one can manage without that, doctor. There is
a very snug little inn where I was stopping in the village, less than a
mile from the house. I propose that we go over in the afternoon, dine at
the inn, and dress there. Then we can get a trap to take us up to the
Mervyns', and can either walk or drive down again after it is over, or
come back by train with the others, according to the hour and how we
feel when the ball is over."

"Well, that alters the case, lad, and under those conditions I will be
one of the party."




CHAPTER II.

MARGARET CARNE.


Ronald Mervyn was, perhaps, the most popular man in his regiment. They
were proud of him as one of the most daring steeplechase riders in the
service, and as a man who had greatly distinguished himself by a deed of
desperate valour in India. He was far and away the best cricketer in the
corps; he could sing a capital song, and was an excellent musician and
the most pleasant of companions. He was always ready to do his friends a
service, and many a newly-joined subaltern who got into a scrape had
been helped out by Ronald Mervyn's purse. And yet at times, as even
those who most liked and admired him could not but admit, Ronald Mervyn
was a queer fellow. His fits were few and far between, but when they
occurred he was altogether unlike himself. While they lasted, he would
scarce exchange a word with a soul, but shut himself in his room, or, as
soon as parade was over, mounted his horse and rode off, not to return
probably until late at night.

Mervyn's moods were the subject of many a quiet joke among the young
officers of the regiment. Some declared that he must have committed a
murder somewhere, and was occasionally troubled in his conscience; while
some insisted that Mervyn's strange behaviour was only assumed in order
that he might be the more appreciated at other times. Among the two or
three officers of the regiment who came from that part of the country,
and knew something of the family history of the Mervyns, it was
whispered that he had inherited some slight share of the curse of the
Carnes. Not that he was mad in the slightest degree--no one would think
of saying that of Ronald Mervyn--but he had certainly queer moods.
Perhaps the knowledge that there was a taint in his blood affected him,
and in course of time he began to brood over it.

When this mood was on him, soon after joining the regiment, he himself
had spoken to the doctor about it.

"Do you know, doctor, I am a horrible sufferer from liver complaint?"

"You don't look it, Mervyn," the surgeon replied; "your skin is clear,
and your eye is bright. You are always taking exercise, your muscles are
as hard as nails. I cannot believe that there is much the matter with
you."

"I assure you, doctor, that at times for two or three days I am fit for
nothing. I get into such a state that I am not fit to exchange a word
with a human being, and could quarrel with my best friend if he spoke to
me. I have tried all sorts of medicines, but nothing seems to cure me. I
suppose it's liver; I don't know what else it can be. I have spoken
about it to the Major, and asked him if at any time he sees me look
grumpy, to say a word to the mess, and ask them to leave me to myself;
but I do wish you could give me something."

The doctor had recommended courses of various foreign waters, and had
given him instructions to bathe his head when he felt it coming on; but
nothing had availed. Once a year, or sometimes oftener, Ronald retired
for two or three days, and then emerged as well and cheerful as before.

Once, when the attack had been particularly severe, he had again
consulted the doctor, this time telling him the history of his family on
his mother's side, and asking him frankly whether he thought these
periodical attacks had any connection with the family taint. The doctor,
who had already heard the story in confidence from one of the two men
who knew it, replied:

"Well, Mervyn, I suppose that there's some sort of distant connection
between the two things, but I do not think you are likely to be
seriously affected. I think you can set your mind at ease on that score.
A man of so vigorous a frame as you are, and leading so active and
healthy a life, is certainly not a likely subject for insanity. You
should dismiss the matter altogether from your mind, old fellow. Many
men with a more than usual amount of animal spirits suffer at times from
fits of depression. In your case, perhaps due, to some extent, to your
family history, these fits of depression are more severe than usual.
Probably the very circumstance that you know this history has something
to do with it, for when the depression--which is, as I have said, not
uncommon in the case of men with high spirits, and is, in fact, a sort
of reaction--comes over you, no doubt the thought of the taint in the
blood occurs to you, preys upon your mind, and deeply intensifies your
depression."

"That is so, doctor. When I am in that state my one thought is that I am
going mad, and I sometimes feel then as if it would be best to blow out
my brains and have done with it."

"Don't let such a fancy enter your head, Mervyn," the doctor said,
earnestly. "I can assure you that I think you have no chance whatever of
becoming insane. The fits of depression are of course troublesome and
annoying, but they are few and far apart, and at all other times you are
perfectly well and healthy. You should, therefore, regard it as I do--as
a sort of reaction, very common among men of your sanguine temperament,
and due in a very slight degree to the malady formerly existent in your
family. I have watched you closely since you came to the regiment, and,
believe me, that I do not say it solely to reassure you when I affirm
that it is my full belief and conviction that you are as sane as other
men, and it is likely that as you get on in life these fits of
depression will altogether disappear. You see both your mother and uncle
were perfectly free from any suspicion of a taint, and it is more than
probable that it has altogether died out. At any rate the chances are
slight indeed of its reappearing in your case."

"Thank you, doctor; you can imagine what a relief your words are to me.
I don't worry about it at other times, and indeed feel so thoroughly
well, that I could laugh at the idea were it mooted; but during these
moods of mine it has tried me horribly. If you don't mind, I will get
you to write your opinion down, so that next time the fit seizes me I
can read it over, and assure myself that my apprehensions are
unfounded."

Certainly no one would associate the idea of insanity with Ronald
Mervyn, as upon the day before the ball at his mother's house he sat on
the edge of the ante-room table, and laughed and talked with a group of
five young officers gathered round him.

"Mind, you fellows must catch the seven o'clock train, or else you will
be too late. There will be eight miles to drive; I will have a trap
there to meet you, and you won't be there long before the others begin
to arrive. We are not fashionable in our part of the county. We shall
have enough partners for you to begin to dance by half-past nine, and I
can promise you as pretty partners as you can find in any ball-room in
England. When you have been quartered here a bit longer you will be
ready to admit the truth of the general opinion, that, in point of
pretty women, Devonshire can hold its own against any county in
England. No, there is no fear whatever of your coming in too great
strength. Of course, in Plymouth here, one can overdo the thing, but
when one gets beyond the beat of the garrison, men are at a premium. I
saw my mother's list; if it had not been for the regiment the female
element would have predominated terribly. The army and navy, India and
the colonies, to say nothing of all-devouring London, are the scourges
of the country; the younger sons take wings to themselves and fly, and
the spinsters are left lamenting."

"I think there is more push and go among younger sons than there is in
the elders," one of the young officers said.

"They have not got the same responsibilities," Ronald laughed. "It is
easy to see you are a younger son, Charley; there's a jaunty air about
your forage cap and a swagger in your walk, that would tell any
observant person that you are free from all responsibilities, and could,
as the Latin grammar says, sing before a robber."

There was a general laugh, for Charley Mansfield was notoriously in a
general state of impecuniosity. He, himself, joined merrily in the
laugh.

"I can certainly say," he replied, "'He who steals my purse steals
trash;' but I don't think he would get even that without a tussle.
Still, what I said is true, I think. I know my elder brother is a
fearfully stately personage, who, on the strength of two years'
difference of age, and his heirship, takes upon himself periodically to
inflict ponderous words of wisdom upon me. I think a lot of them are
like that; but after all, as I tell him, it's the younger sons who have
made England what it is. We won her battles and furnished her colonies,
and have done pretty nearly everything that has been done; while the
elder sons have only turned into respectable landowners and prosy
magistrates."

"Very well, Charley, the sentiments do you honour," another laughed;
"but there, the assembly is sounding. Waiter, bring me a glass of
sherry; your sentiments have so impressed me, Charley, that I intend to
drink solemnly to the success of second sons."

"You are not on duty, are you, Mervyn?"

"No, I am starting in half an hour to get home. I shall be wanted to aid
in the final preparations. Well, I shall see you all to morrow night.
Don't forget the seven o'clock train. I expect we shall keep it up till
between three and four. Then you can smoke a cigar, and at five the
carriages will be ready to take you to the station to catch the first
train back, and you will be here in time for a tub and a change before
early parade."

The ball at the Mervyns' was a brilliant one. The house was large, and
as Mr. Mervyn had died four years before, and Ronald had since that time
been absent on foreign service, it was a long time since an
entertainment on a large scale had been given there to the county. A
little to the disappointment of many of the young ladies in the
neighbourhood, the military and naval officers did not come in uniform.
There were two or three girls staying in the house, and one of them in
the course of the evening, when she was dancing with Ronald, said:

"We all consider you have taken us in, Captain Mervyn. We made sure that
you would all be in uniform. Of course those who live near Plymouth are
accustomed to it, but in these parts the red coats are rather a novelty,
and we feel we have been defrauded."

"We never go to balls, Miss Blackmoor, in uniform, except when they are
regular naval or military balls, either given by our own regiment or
some of the regiments in garrison, or by the navy. That is generally the
rule though perhaps in some regiments it is not so strictly adhered to
as with us."

"Then I consider that it is a fraud upon the public, Captain Mervyn.
Gentlemen's dress is so dingy and monotonous that I consider it
distinctly the duty of soldiers to give us a little light and colour
when they get the chance."

"Very well, Miss Blackmoor, I will bear it in mind; and next time my
mother gives a ball, the regiment, if it is within reach, shall come in
uniform. By the way, do you know who is the man my cousin is dancing
with? There are lots of faces I don't know here; being seven or eight
years away makes a difference in a quiet country place."

"That is Mr. Gulston; he is first-lieutenant of the flagship at
Plymouth. I know it because he was introduced to me early in the
evening, and we danced together, and a capital dancer he is, too."

"He is an uncommonly good-looking fellow," Ronald said.

Margaret Carne seemed to think so, too, as she danced with him two or
three times in the course of the evening, and went down to supper on his
arm.

Ronald having, as the son of the house, to divide his attentions as much
as possible, did not dance with his cousin. Lieutenant Gulston had been
accompanied by the third-lieutenant, and by the doctor, who never missed
an opportunity of going to a ball because, as he said, it gave him an
opportunity of studying character.

"You see," he would argue, "on board a ship one gets only the one side
of human nature. Sailors may differ a bit one from another, but they can
all be divided into two or three classes--the steady honest fellow who
tries to do his work well; the reckless fellow who is ready to do his
work, but is up to every sort of mischief and devilment; and the lazy,
loafing fellow who neglects his duty whenever he possibly can, and is
always shamming sick in order to get off it. Some day or other I shall
settle on shore and practise there, and I want to learn something about
the people I shall have to deal with; besides, there's nothing more
amusing than looking on at a ball when you have no idea of dancing
yourself. It's astonishing what a lot of human nature you see if you do
but keep your wits about you."

In the course of the evening he came up to the first-lieutenant.

"Who is that man you have just been talking to, Gulston? I have been
watching him for some time. He has not been dancing, but has been
standing in corners looking on."

"He is Mr. Carne, doctor; a cousin, or rather a nephew, of our hostess."

"Is he the brother of that pretty girl you have been dancing with?"

The lieutenant nodded.

"Then I am sorry for her," the surgeon said, bluntly.

"Sorry! What for?"

The surgeon answered by another question.

"Do you know anything about the family, Gulston?"

"I have heard something about them. Why?"

"Never mind now," the surgeon said. "I will tell you in the morning;
it's hardly a question to discuss here," and he turned away before the
lieutenant could ask further.

It was four o'clock before the dancing ceased and the last carriage
rolled away. Then the military and naval men, and two or three visitors
from Plymouth, gathered in the library, and smoked and talked for an
hour, and were then conveyed to the station to catch the early train.
The next day, as they were walking up and down the quarter-deck, the
first-lieutenant said: "By the way, doctor, what was it you were going
to say last night about the Carnes? You said you were sorry for Miss
Carne, and asked me if I knew anything about the history of the family."

"Yes, that was it, Gulston; it wasn't the sort of thing to talk about
there, especially as I understand the Mervyns are connections of the
Carnes. The question I was going to ask you was this: You know their
family history; is there any insanity in it?"

The lieutenant stopped suddenly in his walk with an exclamation of
surprise and pain.

"What do you mean, Mackenzie? Why do you ask such a question?"

"You have not answered mine. Is there insanity in the blood?"

"There has been," the lieutenant said, reluctantly.

"I felt sure of it. I think you have heard me say my father made a
special study of madness; and when I was studying for my profession I
have often accompanied him to lunatic asylums, and I devoted a great
deal of time to the subject, intending to make it my special branch
also. Then the rambling fit seized me and I entered the service; but I
have never missed following the subject up whenever I have had an
opportunity. I have therefore visited asylums for lunatics whenever such
existed, at every port which we have put into since I have been in the
service.

"When my eye first fell upon Mr. Carne he was standing behind several
other people, watching the dancing, and the expression of his face
struck me as soon as my eye fell upon him. I watched him closely all
through the evening. He did not dance, and rarely spoke to any one,
unless addressed. I watched his face and his hands--hands are, I can
tell you, almost as expressive as faces--and I have not the smallest
hesitation in saying that the man is mad. It is possible, but not
probable, that at ordinary times he may show no signs of it; but at
times, and last night was one of those times, the man is mad; nay, more,
I should be inclined to think that his madness is of a dangerous type.

"Now that you tell me it is hereditary, I am so far confirmed in my
opinion that I should not hesitate, if called upon to do so, to sign a
certificate to the effect that, in my opinion, he was so far insane as
to need the most careful watching, if not absolute confinement."

The colour had faded from the lieutenant's face as the doctor spoke.

"I am awfully sorry," he said, in a low tone, "and I trust to God,
doctor, that you are mistaken. I cannot but think that you are. I was
introduced to him by his sister, and he was most civil and polite,
indeed more than civil, for he asked me if I was fond of shooting, and
when I said that I was extremely so, he invited me over to his place. He
said he did not shoot himself, but that next week his cousin Mervyn and
one or two others were coming to him to have two or three days' pheasant
shooting, and he would be glad if I would join the party; and, as you
may suppose, I gladly accepted the invitation."

"Well," the doctor said, drily, "so far as he is concerned, there is no
danger in your doing so, if, as you say, he doesn't shoot. If he did, I
should advise you to stay away; and in any case, if you will take the
advice which I offer, you won't go. You will send an excuse."

The lieutenant made no answer for a minute or two, but paced the room in
silence.

"I won't pretend to misunderstand you, Mackenzie. You mean there's no
danger with him, but you think there may be from her. That's what you
mean, isn't it?"

The doctor nodded.

"I saw you were taken with her, Gulston; that is why I have spoken to
you about her brother."

"You don't think--confound it, man--you can't think," the lieutenant
said, angrily, "that there is anything the matter with her?"

"No, I don't think so," the doctor said, gravely. "No, I should say
certainly not; but you know in these cases where it is in the blood it
sometimes lies dormant for a generation and then breaks out again. I
asked somebody casually last night about their father, and he said that
he was a capital fellow and most popular in the country; so if it is in
the blood it passed over him, and is showing itself again in the son. It
may pass over the daughter and reappear in her children. You never know,
you see. Do you mind telling me what you know about the family?"

"Not now; not at present. I will at some other time. You have given me a
shock, and I must think it over."

The doctor nodded, and commenced to talk about other matters. A minute
or two later the lieutenant made some excuse, and turned into the cabin.
Dr. Mackenzie shook his head.

"The lad is hard hit," he said, "and I am sorry for him. I hope my
warning comes in time; it will do if he isn't a fool, but all young men
are fools where women are concerned. I will say for him that he has more
sense than most, but I would give a good deal if this had not happened."

Lieutenant Gulston was, indeed, hard hit; he had been much struck with
the momentary glance he had obtained of Margaret Carne as he stood on
the steps of the "Carne Arms," and the effect had been greatly
heightened on the previous day. Lieutenant Gulston had, since the days
when he was a middy, indulged in many a flirtation, but he had never
before felt serious. He had often laughed at the impressibility of some
of his comrades, and had scoffed at the idea of love at first sight,
but now that he began to think matters seriously over, the pain the
doctor's remarks had given him opened his eyes to the fact that it was a
good deal more than a passing fancy.

Thinking it over in every light, he acknowledged the prudent course
would be to send some excuse to her brother, with an expression of
regret that he found that a matter of duty would prevent his coming
over, as he had promised, for the shooting. Then he told himself that
after all the doctor might be mistaken, and that it would be only right
that he should judge for himself. If there was anything in it, of course
he should go no more to The Hold, and no harm would be done. Margaret
was certainly very charming; she was more than charming, she was the
most lovable woman he had ever met. Still, of course, if there was any
chance of her inheriting this dreadful thing, he would see her no more.
After all, no more harm could be done in a couple of days than had been
done already, and he was not such a fool but that he could draw back in
time. And so after changing his mind half-a-dozen times, he resolved to
go over for the shooting.

"Ruth, I want to speak to you seriously," Margaret Carne said to her
maid two days after the ball. Ruth Powlett was the miller's daughter,
and the village gossips had been greatly surprised when, a year before,
they heard that she was going up to The Hold to be Miss Carne's own
maid; for although the old mill was a small one, and did no more than a
local business, Hiram was accounted to have laid by a snug penny, and as
Ruth was his only child, she was generally regarded as the richest
heiress in Carnesford. That Hiram should then let her go out into
service, even as maid to Miss Carne at The Hold, struck every one with
surprise.

It was generally assumed that the step had been taken because Hiram
Powlett wanted peace in the house. He had, after the death of his first
wife, Ruth's mother, married again, and the general verdict was that he
had made a mistake. In the first place, Hiram was a staunch Churchman,
and one of the churchwardens at Carnesford; but his wife, who was a
Dareport woman--and that alone was in the opinion of Carnesford greatly
against her--was a Dissenter, and attended the little chapel at
Dareport, and entertained the strongest views as to the prospects and
chances of her neighbours in a future state; and in the second place,
perhaps in consequence of their religious opinions, she was generally on
bad terms with all her neighbours.

But when Hiram married her she had a good figure, the lines of her face
had not hardened as they afterwards did, and he had persuaded himself
that she would make an excellent mother for Ruth. Indeed, she had not
been intentionally unkind, and although she had brought her up strictly,
she believed that she had thoroughly done her duty; lamenting only that
her efforts had been thwarted by the obstinacy and perverseness of her
husband in insisting that the little maid should trot to church by his
side, instead of going with her to the chapel at Dareport.

Ruth had grown up a quiet and somewhat serious girl; she had blossomed
out into prettiness in the old mill, and folks in the village were
divided as to whether she or Lucy Carey, the smith's daughter, was the
prettiest girl in Carnesford. Not that there was any other matter in
comparison between them, for Lucy was somewhat gay and flirty, and had a
dozen avowed admirers; while Ruth had from her childhood made no secret
of her preference for George Forester, the son of the little farmer
whose land came down to the Dare just where Hiram Powlett's mill stood.

He was some five years older than she was, and had fished her out of the
mill-stream when she fell into it, when she was eight years old. From
that time he had been her hero. She had been content to follow him about
like a dog, to sit by his side for hours while he fished in the deep
pool above the mill, under the shadow of the trees, quite content with
an occasional word or notice. She took his part heartily when her
stepmother denounced him as the idlest and most impertinent boy in the
parish; and when, soon after she was fifteen, he one day mentioned that,
as a matter of course, she would some day be his wife, she accepted it
as a thing of which she had never entertained any doubt whatever.

But Hiram now took the alarm, and one day told her that she was to give
up consorting with young Forester.

"You are no longer a child, Ruth, and if you go on meeting young
Forester down at the pool, people will be beginning to talk. Of course I
know that you are a good girl, and would never for a moment think of
taking up with George Forester. Every one knows what sort of young
fellow he is; he never does a day's work on the farm, and he is in and
out of the 'Carne Arms' at all hours. He associates with the worst lot
in the village, and it was only the other day that when the parson tried
to speak to him seriously, he answered him in a way that was enough to
make one's hair stand on end."

Ruth obeyed her father, and was no more seen about with George Forester;
but she believed no tale to his disadvantage, and when at times she met
with him accidentally, she told him frankly enough that though her
father didn't like her going about with him, she loved him and meant to
love him always, whatever they might say. Upon all other points her
father's will was law to her, but upon this she was firm; and two years
afterwards, when some words young Forester had spoken at a public-house
about his daughter came to his ears, Hiram renewed the subject to her,
she answered staunchly that unless he gave his consent she would not
marry George Forester, but that nothing would make her give him up or go
back from her word.

For once Hiram Powlett and his wife were thoroughly in accord. The
former seldom spoke upon the subject, but the latter was not so
reticent, and every misdeed of young Forester was severely commented
upon by her in Ruth's hearing. Ruth seldom answered, but her father saw
that she suffered, and more than once remonstrated with his wife on what
he called her cruelty, but found that as usual Hesba was not to be
turned from her course.

"No, Hiram Powlett," she said, shutting her lips tightly together; "I
must do my duty whether it pleases you or not, and it is my duty to see
that Ruth does not throw away her happiness in this world and the next
by her headstrong conduct. She does not belong to the fold, but in other
respects I will do her credit to say she is a good girl and does her
duty as well as can be expected, considering the dulness of the light
she has within her; but if she were to marry this reprobate she would be
lost body and soul; and whatever you may think of the matter, Hiram
Powlett, I will not refrain from trying to open her eyes."

"I am quite as determined as you are, Hesba, that the child shall not
marry this young rascal, but I don't think it does any good to be always
nagging at her. Women are queer creatures; the more you want them to go
one way the more they will go the other."

But though Hiram Powlett did not say much, he worried greatly. Ruth had
always been quiet, but she was quieter than ever now, and her cheeks
gradually lost their roses, and she looked pale and thin. At last Hiram
determined that if he could not obtain peace for her at home he would
elsewhere, and hearing that Miss Carne's maid was going to be married he
decided to try to get Ruth the place. She would be free from Hesba's
tongue there, and would have other things to think about besides her
lover, and would moreover have but few opportunities of seeing him. He
was shy of approaching the subject to her, and was surprised and pleased
to find that when he did, instead of opposing it as he had expected, she
almost eagerly embraced the proposal.

In fact, Ruth's pale cheeks and changed appearance were not due, as her
father supposed, to unhappiness at her stepmother's talk against George
Forester; but because in spite of herself she began to feel that her
accusations were not without foundation. Little by little she learnt,
from chance words dropped by others, that the light in which her father
held George Forester was that generally entertained in the village. She
knew that he often quarrelled with his father, and that after one of
these altercations he had gone off to Plymouth and enlisted, only to be
bought out a few days afterwards.

She knew that he drank, and had taken part in several serious frays that
had arisen at the little beershop in the village; and hard as she fought
against the conviction, it was steadily making its way, that her lover
was wholly unworthy of her. And yet, in spite of his faults, she loved
him. Whatever he was with others, he was gentle and pleasant with her,
and she felt that were she to give him up his last chance would be gone.
So she was glad to get away from the village for a time, and to the
surprise of her father, and the furious anger of George Forester, she
applied for and obtained the post of Margaret Carne's maid.

She had few opportunities of seeing George Forester now; but what she
heard when she went down to the village on Sundays was not encouraging.
He drank harder than before, and spent much of his time down at
Dareport, and, as some said, was connected with a rough lot there who
were fonder of poaching than of fishing.

Margaret Carne was aware of what she considered Ruth's infatuation. She
kept herself well informed of the affairs of the village--the greater
portion of which belonged to her and her brother--and she learnt from
the clergyman, whose right hand she was in the choir and schools, a good
deal of the village gossip. She had never spoken to Ruth on the subject
during the nine months she had been with her, but now she felt she was
bound to do so.

"What is it, Miss Margaret?" Ruth said, quietly, in answer to her
remark.

"I don't want to vex you, and you will say it is no business of mine,
but I think it is, for you know I like you very much, besides, your
belonging to Carnesford. Of course I have heard--every one has heard,
you know--about your engagement to young Forester. Now a very painful
thing has happened. On the night of the dance our gamekeepers came
across a party of poachers in the woods, as of course you have heard,
and had a fight with them, and one of the keepers is so badly hurt that
they don't think he will live. He has sworn that the man who stabbed him
was George Forester, and my brother, as a magistrate, has just signed a
warrant for his arrest.

"Now, Ruth, surely this man is not worthy of you. He bears, I hear, on
all sides a very bad character, and I think you will be more than
risking your happiness with such a man; I think for your own sake it
would be better to give him up. My brother is very incensed against him;
he has been out with the other keepers to the place where this fray
occurred and he says it was a most cowardly business, for the poachers
were eight to three, and he seems to have no doubt whatever that
Forester was one of the party, and that they will be able to prove it. I
do think, Ruth, you ought to give him up altogether. I am not talking to
you as a mistress, you know, but as a friend."

"I think you are right, Miss Margaret," the girl said, in a low voice.
"I have been thinking it over in every way. At first I didn't think what
they said was true, and then I thought that perhaps I might be able to
keep him right, and that if I were to give him up there would be no
chance for him. I have tried very hard to see what was my duty, but I
think now that I see it, and that I must break off with him. But oh! it
is so hard," she added, with a quiver in her voice, "for though I know
that I oughtn't to love him, I can't help it."

"I can quite understand that, Ruth," Margaret Carne agreed. "I know if I
loved any one I should not give him up merely because everybody spoke
ill of him. But, you see, it is different now. It is not merely a
suspicion, it is almost absolute proof; and besides, you must know that
he spends most of his time in the public-house, and that he never would
make you a good husband."

"I have known that a long time," Ruth said, quietly; "but I have hoped
always that he might change if I married him. I am afraid I can't hope
any longer, and I have been thinking for some time that I should have to
give him up. I will tell him so now, if I have an opportunity."

"I don't suppose you will, for my brother says he has not been home
since the affair in the wood. If he has, he went away again at once. I
expect he has made either for Plymouth or London, for he must know that
the police would be after him for his share in this business. I am very
sorry for it, Ruth, but I do think you will be happier when you have
once made up your mind to break with him. No good could possibly come
of your sacrificing yourself."

Ruth said no more on the subject, but went about her work as quietly and
orderly as usual, and Margaret Carne was surprised to see how bravely
she held up, for she knew that she must be suffering greatly.




CHAPTER III.

TWO QUARRELS.


Three days later the shooting party assembled. Several gentlemen came to
stay at the house, while Ronald Mervyn and his party, of course, put up
at Mervyn Hall. The shooting was very successful, and the party were
well pleased with their visit. Reginald Carne was quiet and courteous to
his guests, generally accompanying them through the day, though he did
not himself carry a gun. After the first day's shooting there was a
dinner party at Mervyn Hall, and the following evening there was one at
The Hold.

Lieutenant Gulston enjoyed himself more than any one else, though he was
one of the least successful of the sportsmen, missing easy shots in a
most unaccountable manner, and seeming to take but moderate interest in
the shooting. He had, very shortly after arriving at the house, come to
the conclusion that the doctor was altogether mistaken, and that
Reginald Carne showed no signs whatever of being in any way different
from other men. "The doctor is so accustomed to us sailors," he said to
himself, "that if a man is quiet and studious he begins to fancy
directly there must be something queer about him. That is always the
way with doctors who make madness a special study. They suspect every
one they come across of being out of their mind. I shouldn't be at all
surprised if he doesn't fancy I am cracked myself. The idea is perfectly
absurd. I watched Carne closely at dinner, and no one could have been
more pleasant and gentlemanly than he was. I expect Mackenzie must have
heard a word let drop about this old story, and of course if he did he
would set down Carne at once as being insane. Well, thank goodness,
that's off my mind; it's been worrying me horribly for the last few
days. I have been a fool to trouble myself so about Mackenzie's
croakings, but now I will not think anything more about it."

On the following Sunday, as Ruth Powlett was returning from church in
the morning, and was passing through the little wood that lay between
Carnesford and The Hold, there was a rustle among the trees, and George
Forester sprang out suddenly.

"I have been waiting since daybreak to see you, Ruth, but as you came
with that old housekeeper I could not speak to you. I have been in
Plymouth for the last week. I hear that they are after me for that
skirmish with the keepers, so I am going away for a bit, but I couldn't
go till I said good-bye to you first, and heard you promise that you
would always be faithful to me."

"I will say good-bye, George, and my thoughts and prayers will always be
with you, but I cannot promise to be faithful--not in the way you mean."

"What do you mean, Ruth?" he asked, angrily. "Do you mean that after all
these years you are going to throw me off?"

Ruth was about to reply, when there was a slight rustling in the bushes.

"There is some one in the path in the wood."

George Forester listened for a moment.

"It's only a rabbit," he said, impatiently. "Never mind that now, but
answer my question. Do you dare to tell me that you are going to throw
me over?"

"I am not going to throw you off, George," she said, quietly; "but I am
going to give you up. I have tried, oh! how hard I have tried, to
believe that you would be better some day, but I can't hope so any
longer. You have promised again and again that you would give up
drinking, but you are always breaking your promise, and now I find that
in spite of all I've said, you still hold with those bad men at
Dareport, and that you have taken to poaching, and now they are in
search of you for being one of those concerned in desperately wounding
John Morton. No, George, I have for years withstood even my father. I
have loved you in spite of his reproaches and entreaties, but I feel now
that instead of your making me happy I should be utterly miserable if I
married you, and I have made a promise to Miss Carne that I would give
you up."

"Oh, she has been meddling, has she?" George Forester said with a
terrible imprecation; "I will have revenge on her, I swear I will. So
it's she who has done the mischief, and made you false to all you
promised. Curse you! with your smooth face, and your church-going ways,
and your canting lies. You think, now they are hunting me away, you can
take up with some one else; but you shan't, I swear, though I swing for
it."

And he grasped her suddenly by the throat; but at this moment there was
a sound of voices in the road behind them, and dashing Ruth to the
ground with a force that stunned her, he sprang into the woods. A minute
later the stablemen at The Hold came along the road and found Ruth still
lying on the ground.

[Illustration: "_He grasped her suddenly by the throat._"]

After a minute's consultation they determined to carry her down to her
father's house, as they had no idea what was the best course to pursue
to bring her round. Two of them, therefore, lifted and carried her down,
while the other hurried on to prepare the miller for their arrival.

"Master Powlett," he said as he entered, "your girl has hurt herself; I
expect she slipped on a stone somehow, going up the hill, and came down
heavy; anyhow we found her lying there insensible, and my two mates are
bringing her down. We saw her two or three hundred yards ahead of us as
we came out of the churchyard, so she could not have laid there above a
minute or so when we came up."

Ruth was brought in. Mrs. Powlett had not yet returned from Dareport,
but a neighbour was soon fetched in by one of the men while another went
for the doctor, and in a few minutes Ruth opened her eyes.

"Don't talk, dear," her father said, "lie quiet for a few minutes and
you will soon be better; you slipped down in the road, you know, and
gave yourself a shake, but it will be all right now."

Ruth closed her eyes again and lay quiet for a short time, then she
looked up again and tried to sit up.

"I am better now, father."

"Thank God for that, Ruth. It gave me a turn when I saw you carried in
here, I can tell you; but lie still a little time longer, the doctor
will be here in a few minutes."

"I don't want him, father."

"Yes, you do, my dear, and anyhow as he has been sent for he must come
and see you; you need not trouble about going up to The Hold, it was
three of the men there that found you and brought you down; I will send
a note by them to Miss Carne telling her you had a bad fall, and that we
will keep you here until to-morrow morning. I am sure you will not be
fit to walk up that hill again to-day. Anyhow we will wait until the
doctor comes and hear what he says."

Ten minutes later the doctor arrived, and after hearing Hiram's account
of what had happened, felt Ruth's pulse and then examined her head.

"Ah, here is where you fell," he said; "a good deal of swelling, and it
has cut the skin. However, a little bathing with warm water is all that
is wanted. There, now, stand up if you can and walk a step or two, and
tell me if you feel any pain anywhere else.

"Ah, nowhere except in the shoulder. Move your arm. Ah, that is all
right, nothing broken. You will find you are bruised a good deal, I have
no doubt. Well, you must keep on the sofa all day, and not do any
talking. You have had a severe shake, that's evident, and must take care
of yourself for a day or two. You have lost all your colour, and your
pulse is unsteady and your heart beating anyhow. You must keep her quite
quiet, Hiram. If I were you I would get her up to bed. Of course you
must not let her talk, and I don't want any talking going on around her,
you understand?"

Hiram did understand, and before Mrs. Powlett returned from chapel,
Ruth, with the assistance of the woman who had come in, was in bed.

"I look upon it as a judgment," Mrs. Powlett said upon her return, when
she heard the particulars. "If she had been with me at chapel this never
would have happened. It's a message to her that no good can come of her
sitting under that blind guide, the parson. I hope it will open her
eyes, and that she will be led to join the fold."

"I don't think it is likely, Hesba," Hiram said, quietly, "and you will
find it hard to persuade her that loose stone I suppose she trod on was
dropped special into the road to trip her up in coming from church.
Anyhow you can't talk about it to-day; the doctor's orders are that she
is to be kept perfectly quiet, that she is not to talk herself, and that
there's to be no talking in the room. He says she can have a cup of tea
if she can take it, but I doubt at present whether she can take even
that; the poor child looks as if she could scarce open her eyes for
anything, and no wonder, for the doctor says she must have fallen
tremendous heavy."

Mrs. Powlett made the tea and took it upstairs. Any ideas she may have
had of improving the occasion, in spite of the doctor's injunctions,
vanished when she saw Ruth's white face on the pillow. Noiselessly she
placed the little table close to the bed and put the cup upon it. Ruth
opened her eyes as she did so.

"Here is some tea, dearie," Hesba said, softly. "I will put it down
here, and you can drink it when you feel inclined." Ruth murmured "Thank
you," and Hesba stooped over her and kissed her cheek more softly than
she had ever done before, and then went quietly out of the room again.

"She looks worse than I thought for, Hiram," she said, as she proceeded
to help the little servant they kept to lay the cloth for dinner. "I
doubt she's more hurt than the doctor thinks. I could see there were
tears on her cheek, and Ruth was never one to cry, not when she was hurt
ever so much. Of course, it may be because she is low and weak; still I
tell you that I don't like it. Is the doctor coming again?"

"Yes; he said he would look in again this evening."

"I don't like it," Hesba repeated, "and after dinner I will put on my
bonnet and go down to the doctor myself and hear what he has got to say
about her. Perhaps he will tell me more than he would you; he knows what
poor creatures men are. They just get frighted out of what wits they've
got, if you let on any one's bad; but I will get it out of him. It
frets me to think I wasn't here when she was brought in, instead of
having strangers messing about her."

It came into Hiram's mind to retort that her being away at that moment
was a special warning against her going to Dareport; but the low,
troubled voice in which she spoke, and the furtive passing of her hand
across her cheek to brush away a tear, effectually silenced him. It was
all so unusual in the case of Hesba, whom, indeed, he had never seen so
soft and womanly since the first day she had crossed the threshold of
the house, that he was at once touched and alarmed.

"I hope you are wrong, wife; I hope you are wrong," he said, putting his
hand on her shoulder. "I don't think the doctor thought badly of it, but
he seemed puzzled like, I thought; but if there's trouble, Hesba, we
will bear it together, you and I; it's sent for good, we both know that.
We goes the same way, you know, wife, if we don't go by the same road."

The woman made no answer, for at that moment the girl appeared with the
dinner. Hesba ate but a few mouthfuls, and then saying sharply that she
had no appetite, rose from the table, put on her bonnet and shawl, and,
without a word, walked out.

She was away longer than Hiram expected, and in the meantime he had to
answer the questions of many of the neighbours, who, having heard from
the woman who had been called in of Ruth's accident, came to learn the
particulars. When Hesba returned she brought a bundle with her.

"The doctor's coming in an hour," she said. "I didn't get much out of
him, except he said it had been a shock to her system, and he was afraid
that there might be slight concussion of the brain. He said if that was
so we should want some ice to put to her head, and I have been up to The
Hold and seen Miss Carne. I had heard Ruth say they always have ice up
there, and she has given me some. She was just coming down to inquire
about Ruth, but of course I told her she couldn't talk to nobody. That
was the doctor's orders. Has she moved since I have been away?"

Hiram shook his head. "I have been up twice, but she was just lying with
her eyes closed."

"Well, I will go and sit up there," Hesba said. "Tell that girl if she
makes any noise, out of the house she goes; and the best thing you can
do is to take your pipe and sit in that arbour outside, or walk up and
down if you can't keep yourself warm; and don't let any one come
knocking at the door and worriting her. It will be worse for them if I
has to come down."

Hiram Powlett obeyed his wife's parting injunction and kept on guard all
the afternoon, being absent from his usual place in church for the first
time for years. In the evening there was nothing for him to do in the
house, and his wife being upstairs, he followed his usual custom of
dropping for half an hour into the snuggery of the "Carne Arms."

"Yes, it's true," he said in answer to the questions of his cronies,
"Ruth has had a bad fall, and the doctor this afternoon says as she has
got a slight concussion of the brain. He said he hoped she would get
over it, but he looked serious-like when he came downstairs. It's a bad
affair, I expect. But she is in God's hands, and a better girl never
stepped, though I says it." There was a murmur of regret and consolation
among the three smokers, but they saw that Hiram was too upset for many
words, and the conversation turned into other channels for a time, Hiram
taking no share in it but smoking silently.

"It's a rum thing," he said, presently, during a pause in the
conversation, "that a man don't know really about a woman's nature, not
when he has lived with her for years and years. Now there's my wife
Hesba, who has got a tongue as sharp as any one in this village." A
momentary smile passed round the circle, for the sharpness of Hesba
Powlett's tongue was notorious. "It scarce seemed to me, neighbours, as
she had got a soft side to her or that she cared more for Ruth than she
did for the house-dog. She always did her duty by her, I will say that
for her; and a tidier woman and a better housewife there ain't in the
country round. But duty is one thing and love is another. Now you would
hardly believe it, but I do think that Hesba feels this business as much
as I do. You wouldn't have knowed her; she goes about the house with her
shoes off as quiet as a mouse, and she speaks that soft and gentle you
wouldn't know it was her. Women's queer creatures anyway."

There was a chorus of assent to the proposition, and, in fact, the
discovery that Hesba Powlett had a soft side to her nature was
astonishing indeed.

For three days Ruth Powlett lay unconscious, and then quiet and good
nursing, and the ice on her head, had their effect; and one evening the
doctor, on visiting her, said that he thought a change had taken place,
and that she was now sleeping naturally. The next morning there was
consciousness in her eyes when she opened them, and she looked in
surprise at the room darkened by a curtain pinned across the window, and
at Hesba, sitting by her bedside, with a huge nightcap on her head.

"What is it, mother, what has happened?"

"You have been ill, Ruth, but thank God you are better now. Don't talk,
dear, and don't worry. I have got some beef-tea warming by the fire; the
doctor said you were to try and drink a cup when you woke, and then to
go off to sleep again."

Ruth looked with a feeble surprise after Hesba as she left the room,
missing the sharp, decisive foot-tread. In a minute she returned as
noiselessly as she had gone.

"Can you hold the cup yourself, Ruth, or shall I feed you?"

Ruth put out her hand, but it was too weak to hold the cup. She was
able, however, slightly to raise her head, and Hesba held the cup to her
lips.

"What have you done to your feet, mother?" she asked, as she finished
the broth.

"I have left my shoes downstairs, Ruth; the doctor said you were to be
kept quiet. Now try to go to sleep, that's a dear."

She stooped and kissed the girl affectionately, and Ruth, to her
surprise, felt a tear drop on her cheek. She was wondering over this
strange circumstance when she again fell asleep.

In a few days she was about the house again, but she was silent and
grave, and did not gain strength as fast as the doctor had hoped for.
However, in three weeks' time she was well enough to return to The Hold.
Hiram had strongly remonstrated against her doing so, but she seemed to
set her mind upon it, urging that she would be better for having
something to think about and do than in remaining idle at home; and as
the doctor was also of opinion that the change would be rather likely to
benefit than to do her harm, Hiram gave way.

The day before she left she said to her father:

"Do you know whether George Forester has been caught, or whether he has
got away?"

"He has not been caught, Ruth, but I don't think he has gone away; there
is a talk in the village that he has been hiding down at Dareport, and
the constable has gone over there several times, but he can't find signs
of him. I think he must be mad to stay so near when he knows he is
wanted. I can't think what is keeping him."

"I have made up my mind, father, to give him up. You have been right,
and I know now he would not make me a good husband; but please don't say
anything against him, it is hard enough as it is."

Hiram kissed his daughter.

"Thank God for that news, Ruth. I hoped after that poaching business you
would see it in that light, and that he wasn't fit for a mate for one
like you. Your mother will be glad, child. She ain't like the same woman
as she was, is she?"

"No, indeed, father, I do not seem to know her."

"I don't know as I was ever so knocked over in my life as I was
yesterday, Ruth, when your mother came downstairs in her bonnet and
shawl, and said, 'I am going to church with you, Hiram.' I didn't open
my lips until we were half-way, and then she said as how it had been
borne in on her as how her not being here when you was brought in was a
judgment on her for being away at Dareport instead of being at church
with us; and she said more than that, as how, now she thought over it,
she saw as she hadn't done right by me and you all these years, and
hoped to make a better wife what time she was left to us. I wasn't sure
at church time as it wasn't a dream to see her sitting there beside me,
and joining in the hymns, listening attentive to the parson as she has
always been running down. She said on the way home she felt just as she
did when she was a girl, five-and-twenty years ago, and used to come
over here to church, afore she took up with the Methodies."

Ruth kissed her father.

"Then my fall has done good after all," she said. "It makes me happy to
know it."

"I shall be happy when I see you quite yourself again, Ruth. Come back
to us soon, dear."

"I will, father; in the spring I will come home again for good, I
promise you," and so Ruth returned for a time to The Hold.

"I am glad you are back again, Ruth," Miss Carne, who had been down
several times to see her, said. "I told you not to hurry yourself, and I
would have done without you for another month, but you know I am really
very glad to have you back again. Mary managed my hair very well, but I
could not talk to her as I do to you."

Ruth had not been many hours in the house before she learnt from her
fellow-servants that Mr. Gulston had been over two or three times since
the shooting party, and that the servants in general had an opinion that
he came over to see Miss Carne.

"It's easy to see that with half an eye," one of the girls said, "and I
think Miss Margaret likes him too, and no wonder, for a properer-looking
man is not to be seen; but I always thought she would have married her
cousin. Every one has thought so for years."

"It's much better she should take the sailor gentleman," one of the
elder women said. "I am not saying anything against Mr. Ronald, who is
as nice a young gentleman as one would want to see, but he is her
cousin, and I don't hold to marriages among cousins anyhow, and
especially in a family like ours."

"I think it is better for us not to talk about it at all," Ruth said,
quietly; "I don't think it right and proper, and it will be quite time
enough to talk about Miss Margaret's affairs when we know she is
engaged."

The others were silent for a minute after Ruth's remark, and then the
under-housemaid, who had been an old playmate of Ruth's, said:

"You never have ideas like other people, Ruth Powlett. It is a funny
thing that we can't say a word about people in the house without being
snapped up."

"Ruth is right," the other said, "and your tongue runs too fast, Jane.
As Ruth says, it will be quite time enough to talk when Miss Margaret
is engaged; till then the least said the better."

In truth, Lieutenant Gulston had been several times at The Hold, and his
friend the doctor, seeing his admonition had been altogether thrown
away, avoided the subject, but from his gravity of manner showed that he
had not forgotten it; and he shook his head sadly when one afternoon the
lieutenant had obtained leave until the following day. "I wish I had
never spoken. Had I not been an old fool I should have known well enough
that he was fairly taken by her. We have sailed together for twelve
years, and now there is an end to our friendship. I hope that will be
all, and that he will not have reason to be sorry he did not take my
advice and drop it in time. Of course she may have escaped and I think
that she has done so; but it's a terrible risk--terrible. I would give a
year's pay that it shouldn't have happened."

An hour before Lieutenant Gulston left his ship, Ronald Mervyn had
started for The Hold. A word that had been said by a young officer of
the flagship who was dining at mess had caught his ears. It was
concerning his first-lieutenant.

"He's got quite a fishing mania at present, and twice a week he goes off
for the day to some place twenty miles away--Carnesford, I think it is.
He does not seem to have much luck; anyhow, he never brings any fish
home. He is an awfully good fellow, Gulston; the best first-lieutenant I
ever sailed with by a long way."

What Ronald Mervyn heard was not pleasant to him. He had noticed the
attentions Gulston had paid to Margaret Carne at the ball, and had been
by no means pleased at meeting him, installed at The Hold with the
shooting party, and the thought that he had been twice a week over in
that neighbourhood caused an angry surprise. The next morning,
therefore, he telegraphed home for a horse to meet him at the station,
and started as soon as lunch was over. He stayed half an hour at home,
for his house lay on the road between the station and Carne's Hold. The
answer he received from his sister to a question he put did not add to
his good temper.

Oh, yes. Mr. Gulston had called a day or two after he had been to the
shooting party, and they had heard he had been at The Hold several times
since.

When he arrived there, Ronald found that Margaret and her brother were
both in the drawing-room, and he stood chatting with them there for some
time, or rather chatting with Margaret, for Reginald was dull and moody.
At last the latter sauntered away.

"What's the matter with you, sir?" Margaret said to her cousin. "You
don't seem to be quite yourself; is it the weather? Reginald is duller
and more silent than usual, he has hardly spoken a word to-day."

"No, it's not the weather," he replied, sharply. "I want to ask you a
question, Margaret."

"Well, if you ask it civilly," the girl replied, "I will answer it, but
certainly not otherwise."

"I hear that that sailor fellow has been coming here several times. What
does it mean?"

Margaret Carne threw back her head haughtily. "What do you mean, Ronald,
by speaking in that tone; are you out of your mind?"

"Not more than the family in general," he replied, grimly; "but you have
not answered my question."

"I have not asked Lieutenant Gulston what he comes here for," she said,
coldly; "and, besides, I do not recognise your right to ask me such a
question."

"Not recognise my right?" he repeated, passionately. "I should have
thought that a man had every right to ask such a question of the woman
he is going to marry."

"Going to marry?" she repeated, scornfully. "At any rate this is the
first I have heard of it."

"It has always been a settled thing," he said, "and you know it as well
as I do. You promised me ten years ago that you would be my wife some
day."

"Ten years ago I was a child. Ronald, how can you talk like this! You
know we have always been as brother and sister together. I have never
thought of anything else of late. You have been home four or five
months, anyhow, and you have had plenty of time to speak if you wanted
to. You never said a word to lead me to believe that you thought of me
in any other way than as a cousin."

"I thought we understood each other, Margaret."

"I thought so too," the girl replied, "but not in the same way. Oh,
Ronald, don't say this; we have always been such friends, and perhaps
years ago I might have thought it would be something more; but since
then I have grown up and grown wiser, and even if I had loved you in the
way you speak of, I would not have married you, because I am sure it
would be bad for us both. We have both that terrible curse in our blood,
and if there was not another man in the world I would not marry you."

"I don't believe you would have said so a month ago," Ronald Mervyn
said, looking darkly at her. "This Gulston has come between us, that's
what it is, and you cannot deny it."

"You are not behaving like a gentleman, Ronald," the girl said, quietly.
"You have no right to say such things."

"I have a right to say anything," he burst out. "You have fooled me and
spoilt my life, but you shall regret it. You think after all these years
I am to be thrown by like an old glove. No, by Heaven; you may throw me
over, but I swear you shall never marry this sailor or any one else,
whatever I do to prevent it. You say I have the curse of the Carnes in
my blood. You are right, and you shall have cause to regret it."

He leapt from the window, which Margaret had thrown open a short time
before, for the fire had overheated the room, ran down to the stables,
leapt on his horse, and rode off at a furious pace. Neither he nor
Margaret had noticed that a moment before a man passed along the walk
close under the window. It was Lieutenant Gulston. He paused for a
moment as he heard his name uttered in angry tones, opened the hall door
without ceremony, and hurried towards that of the drawing-room. Reginald
Carne was standing close to it, and it flashed across Gulston's mind
that he had been listening. He turned his head at the sailor's quick
step. "Don't go in there just at present, Gulston, I fancy Margaret is
having a quarrel with her cousin. They are quiet now, we had best leave
them alone."

"He was using very strong language," the sailor said, hotly. "I caught a
word or two as I passed the windows."

"It's a family failing. I fancy he has gone now. I will go in and see. I
think it were best for you to walk off for a few minutes, and then come
back again. People may quarrel with their relatives, you know, but they
don't often care for other people to be behind the scenes."

"No, you are quite right," Gulston answered; "the fact is, for the
moment I was fairly frightened by the violence of his tone, and really
feared that he was going to do something violent. It was foolish, of
course, and I really beg your pardon. Yes, what you say is quite right.
If you will allow me I will have the horse put in the trap again. I got
out at the gate and walked across the garden, telling the man to take
the horse straight round to the stables; but I think I had better go
and come again another day. After such a scene as she has gone through
Miss Carne will not care about having a stranger here."

"No, I don't think that would be best," Reginald Carne said. "She would
wonder why you did not come, and would, likely enough, hear from her
maid that you had been and gone away again, and might guess you had
heard something of the talking in there. No, I think you had better do
as I said--go away, and come again in a few minutes."

The lieutenant accordingly went out and walked about the shrubbery for a
short time, and then returned. Miss Carne did not appear at dinner, but
sent down a message to say that she had so bad a headache she would not
be able to appear downstairs that evening.

Reginald Carne did not play the part of host so well as usual. At times
he was gloomy and abstracted, and then he roused himself and talked
rapidly. Lieutenant Gulston thought that he was seriously discomposed at
the quarrel between his sister and his cousin; and he determined at any
rate not to take the present occasion to carry out the intention he had
formed of telling Reginald Carne that he was in love with his sister,
and hoped he would have no objection to his telling her so, as he had a
good income besides his pay as first-lieutenant. When the men had been
sitting silently for some time after wine was put on the table, he said:

"I think, Carne, I will not stop here to-night. Your sister is evidently
quite upset with this affair, and no wonder. I shall feel myself
horribly _de trop_, and would rather come again some other time if you
will let me. If you will let your man put a horse in the trap I shall
catch the ten o'clock train comfortably."

"Perhaps that would be best, Gulston. I am not a very lively companion
at the best of times, and family quarrels are unpleasant enough for a
stranger."

A few minutes later Lieutenant Gulston was on his way to the station. He
had much to think about on his way home. In one respect he had every
reason to be well satisfied with what he had heard, as it had left no
doubt whatever in his mind that Margaret Carne had refused the offer of
her cousin, and that the latter had believed that he had been refused
because she loved him--Charlie Gulston. Of course she had not said so;
still she could not have denied it, or her cousin's wrath would not have
been turned against him.

Then he was sorry that such a quarrel had taken place, as it would
probably lead to a breach between the two families. He knew Margaret was
very fond of her aunt and the girls. Then the violence with which Ronald
Mervyn had spoken caused him a deal of uneasiness. Was it possible that
a sane man would have gone on like that? Was it possible that the curse
of the Carnes was still working? This was an unpleasant thought; but
that which followed was still more anxious.

Certainly, from the tone of his voice, he had believed that Ronald
Mervyn was on the point of using violence to Margaret, and if the man
was really not altogether right in his head there was no saying what he
might do. As for himself, he laughed at the threats that had been
uttered against him. Mad or sane, he had not the slightest fear of
Ronald Mervyn. But if, as was likely enough, this mad-brained fellow
tried to fix a quarrel upon him in some public way, it might be horribly
unpleasant--so unpleasant that he did not care to think of it. He
consoled himself by hoping that when Mervyn's first burst of passion had
calmed down, he might look at the matter in a more reasonable light, and
see that at any rate he could not bring about a public quarrel without
Margaret's name being in some way drawn into it; that her cousin could
not wish, however angry he might be with her.

It was an unpleasant business. If Margaret accepted him, he would take
her away from all these associations. It was marvellous that she was so
bright and cheerful, knowing this horrible story about that Spanish
woman, and that there was a taint in the blood. That brother of hers,
too, was enough to keep the story always in her mind. The doctor was
certainly right about him. Of course he wasn't mad, but there was
something strange about him, and at times you caught him looking at you
in an unpleasant sort of way.

"He is always very civil," the lieutenant muttered to himself; "in fact,
wonderfully civil and hospitable, and all that. Still I never feel quite
at my ease with him. If I had been a rich man, and they had been hard
up, I should have certainly suspected there was a design in his
invitations, and that he wanted me to marry Margaret; but, of course,
that is absurd. He can't tell that I have a penny beyond my pay; and a
girl like Margaret might marry any one she liked, at any rate out of
Devonshire. Perhaps he may not have liked the idea of her marrying this
cousin of hers; and no doubt he is right there, and seeing, as I daresay
he did see, that I was taken with Margaret, he thought it better to give
me a chance than to let her marry Mervyn.

"I don't care a snap whether all her relations are mad or not. I know
that she is as free from the taint as I am; but it can't be wholesome
for a girl to live in such an atmosphere, and the next time I go over I
will put the question I meant to put this evening, and if she says yes,
I will very soon get her out of it all." And then the lieutenant
indulged in visions of pretty houses, with bright gardens looking over
the sea, and finally concluded that a little place near Ryde or Cowes
would be in every way best and most convenient, as being handy to
Portsmouth, and far removed from Devonshire and its associations. "I
hope to get my step in about a year; then I will go on half-pay. I have
capital interest, and I daresay my cousin in the Admiralty will be able
to get me a dockyard appointment of some sort at Portsmouth; if not, I
shall, of course, give it up. I am not going to knock about the world
after I am married."

This train of thought occupied him until almost mechanically he left the
train, walked down to the water, hailed a boat, and was taken alongside
his ship.




CHAPTER IV.

A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.


Margaret Carne's message as to her inability to come down to dinner was
scarcely a veracious one. She was not given to headaches, and had not,
so far as she could remember, been once laid up with them, but after
what had been said, she did not feel equal to going downstairs and
facing Charlie Gulston. She had never quite admitted to herself that she
loved the young sailor who had for the last few weeks been so much at
the house, and of whose reason for so coming she had but little doubt;
but now, as she sat alone in the room, she knew well enough the answer
she should give to his question, when it came.

At present, however, the discovery of her own feelings caused alarm
rather than pleasure. There had been no signs of fear in her face when
her cousin raged and threatened, but she did not believe that the
threats were empty ones; he had often frightened her when she was a
child by furious bursts of passion, and although it was many years now
since she had seen him thus, she felt sure that he would do as he had
threatened, and was likely enough to take any violent step that might
occur to him in his passion, to carry out his threat.

Although she had put a bold front on it, Margaret felt at heart that his
reproach was not altogether unjustified. There had been a boy and girl
understanding between them, and although it had not been formally
ratified of late years, its existence was tacitly recognised in both
families, and until a few months before she herself had considered that
in the natural course of events she should some day be Ronald Mervyn's
wife.

Had he reproached her gently, she would have frankly admitted this, and
would have asked him to forgive her for changing her mind now that years
had wrought a change in her feelings; but the harshness and suddenness
of his attack had roused her pride, and driven her to take up the ground
that there was no formal engagement between them, and that as he had not
renewed the subject for years she was at perfect liberty to consider
herself free. She had spoken but the truth in saying that their near
relationship was in her eyes a bar to their marriage. Of late years she
had thought much more than she had when a girl over the history of the
family and the curse of the Carnes, and although she had tried her best
to prevent herself from brooding over the idea, she could not disguise
from herself that her brother was at times strange and unlike other men,
and her recollections of Ronald's outbursts of temper, as a boy, induced
the suspicion that he, too, had not altogether escaped the fatal taint.
Still, had not Charlie Gulston come across her path, it was probable
that she would have drifted on as before, and would, when the time came
have accepted Ronald Mervyn as her husband.

The next morning, when Ruth Powlett went as usual to call her mistress,
she started with surprise as she opened the door, for the blind was
already up and the window open. Closing the door behind her, she went in
and placed the jug of hot water she carried by the washstand, and then
turned round to arouse her mistress. As she did so a low cry burst from
her lips, and she grasped a chair for support. The white linen was
stained with blood, and Margaret lay there, white and still, with her
eyes wide open and fixed in death. The clothes were drawn a short way
down in order that the murderer might strike at her heart. Scarce had
she taken this in, when Ruth felt the room swim round, her feet failed
her, and she fell insensible on the ground.

In a few minutes the cold air streaming in through the open window
aroused her. Feebly she recovered her feet, and, supporting herself
against the wall, staggered towards the door. As she did so her eye fell
on an object lying by the side of the bed. She stopped at once with
another gasping cry, pressed her hand on her forehead, and stood as if
fascinated, with her eyes fixed upon it. Then slowly and reluctantly, as
if forced to act against her will, she moved towards the bed, stooped
and picked up the object she had seen.

She had recognised it at once. It was a large knife with a spring blade,
and a silver plate let into the buckhorn handle, with a name, G.
Forester, engraved upon it. It was a knife she herself had given to her
lover a year before. It was open and stained with blood. For a minute or
two she stood gazing at it in blank horror. What should she do, what
should she do? She thought of the boy who had been her playmate, of the
man she had loved, and whom, though she had cast him off, she had never
quite ceased to love. She thought of his father, the old man who had
always been kind to her. If she left this silent witness where she had
found it there would be no doubt what would come of it. For some minutes
she stood irresolute.

"God forgive me," she said at last. "I cannot do it." She closed the
knife, put it into her dress, and then turned round again. She dared not
look at the bed now, for she felt herself in some way an accomplice in
her mistress's murder, and she made her way to the door, opened it, and
then hurried downstairs into the kitchen, where the servants, who were
just sitting down to breakfast, rose with a cry as she entered.

"What is it, Ruth? What's the matter? Have you seen anything?"

Ruth's lips moved but no sound came from them, her face was ghastly
white, and her eyes full of horror.

"What is it, child?" the old cook said, advancing and touching her,
while the others shrank back, frightened at her aspect.

"Miss Margaret is dead," came at last slowly from her lips. "She has
been murdered in the night," and she reeled and would have fallen again
had not the old servant caught her in her arms and placed her in a
chair. A cry of horror and surprise had broken from the servants, then
came a hubbub of talk.

"It can't be true." "It is impossible." "Ruth must have fancied it." "It
never could be," and then they looked in each other's face as if seeking
a confirmation of their words.

"I must go up and see," the cook said. "Susan and Harriet, you come
along with me; the others see to Ruth. Sprinkle some water on her face.
She must have been dreaming."

Affecting a confidence which she did not feel, the cook, followed
timidly by the two frightened girls, went upstairs. She stood for a
moment hesitating before she opened the door; then she entered the room,
the two girls not daring to follow her. She went a step into the room,
then gave a little cry and clasped her hands.

"It is true," she cried; "Miss Margaret has been murdered!"

Then the pent-up fears of the girls found vent in loud screams, which
were echoed from the group of servants who had clustered at the foot of
the stairs in expectation of what was to come.

A moment later the door of Reginald Carne's room opened, and he came out
partly dressed.

"What is the matter? What is all this hubbub about?"

"Miss Margaret is murdered, sir," the two girls burst out, pausing for
an instant in their outcry.

"Murdered!" he repeated, in low tones. "You are mad; impossible!" and
pushing past them he ran into Margaret's room.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a long, low note of pain and horror. "Good God,
who can have done this?" and he leaned against the wall and covered his
face with his hands. The old servant had advanced to the bed, and laid a
hand on the dead girl. She now touched her master.

"You had better go away now, Mr. Reginald, for you can do nothing. She
is cold, and must have been dead hours. We must lock the door up till
the police come."

So saying, she gently led him from the room, closed the door and locked
it. Reginald Carne staggered back to his room.

"Poor master," the old servant said, looking after him, "this will be a
terrible blow for him; he and Miss Margery have always been together.
There's no saying what may come of it," and she shook her head gravely;
then she roused herself, and turned sharply on the girls.

"Hold your noise, you foolish things; what good will that do? Get
downstairs at once."

Driving them before her, she went down to the kitchen, and out of the
door leading to the yard, where one of the maids was at the moment
telling the grooms what had happened.

"Joe, get on a horse and ride off and fetch Dr. Arrowsmith. He can't be
of any good, but he ought to come. Send up Job Harpur, the constable,
and then ride on to Mr. Volkes; he is the nearest magistrate, and will
know what to do."

Then she went back into the kitchen.

"She has come to, Mrs. Wilson; but she don't seem to know what she is
doing."

"No wonder," the cook said, "after such a shock as she has had; and she
only just getting well after her illness. Two of you run upstairs and
get a mattress off her bed and two pillows, and lay them down in the
servants' hall; then take her in there and put her on them. Jane, get
some brandy out of the cellaret and bring it here; a spoonful of that
will do her good."

A little brandy and water was mixed, and the cook poured it between
Ruth's lips, for she did not seem to know what was said to her, and
remained still and impassive, with short sobs bursting at times from her
lips. Then two servants half lifted her, and took her into the servants'
hall, and laid her down on the mattress. All were sobbing and crying,
for Margaret Carne had been greatly loved by those around her.

In half an hour the doctor arrived.

"Is it possible the news is true?" he asked as he leapt from his gig;
the faces of those around were sufficient answer. "Good Heavens, what a
terrible business! Tell Mr. Carne I am here."

Reginald Carne soon came down. He was evidently terribly shaken. He held
out his hand in silence to the doctor.

"What does it all mean?" the latter said, huskily. "It seems too
horrible to be true. Can it be that your sister, whom I have known since
she was a child, is dead? Murdered, too! It seems impossible."

"It does seem impossible, doctor; but it is true. I have seen her
myself," and he shuddered. "She has been stabbed to the heart."

The doctor wiped his eyes.

"Well, I must go up and see her," he said. "Poor child, poor child. No,
you need not ring. I will go up by myself."

Dr. Arrowsmith had attended the family for many years, and knew
perfectly well which was Margaret's room. The old cook was standing
outside the door of the drawing-room.

"Here is the key, sir. I thought it better to lock the door till you
came."

"Quite right," the doctor replied. "Don't let any one up till Mr. Volkes
comes. The servant said he was going for him. Ah, here is Harpur. That
is right, Harpur; you had better come up with me, but I shouldn't touch
anything if I were you till Mr. Volkes comes; besides, we shall be
having the Chief Constable over here presently, and it is better to
leave everything as it is." They entered the room together.

"Dear, dear, to think of it now," the constable murmured, standing
awe-struck at the door, for the course of his duty was for the most part
simple, and he had never before been face to face with a tragedy like
this.

The doctor moved silently to the bed, and leant over the dead girl.

"Stabbed to the heart," he murmured; "death must have been
instantaneous." Then he touched her arm and tried to lift it.

"She has been dead hours," he said to the constable, "six or seven
hours, I should say. Let us look round. The window is open, you see.
Can the murderer have entered there?" He looked out. The wall was
covered with ivy, and a massive stem grew close to the window. "Yes," he
went on, "an active man could have climbed that. See, there are some
leaves on the ground. I think, Harpur, your best plan will be to go down
and take your station there and see no one comes along or disturbs
anything. See, this jewel-box on the table has been broken open and the
contents are gone, and I do not see her watch anywhere. Well, that is
enough to do at present; we will lock this room up again until Mr.
Volkes comes."

When they came downstairs, the cook again came out.

"Please, sir, will you come in here? Ruth Powlett, Miss Margaret's maid,
seems very bad; it was she who first found it out, and it's naturally
given her a terrible shock. She came down looking like a mad woman, then
she fainted off, and she doesn't seem to have any sort of consciousness
yet."

"Ruth Powlett! why, I have been attending her for the last three weeks.
Yes, such a shock may be very serious in her case," and the doctor went
in.

"Have you any sal volatile in the house?" he asked, after he had felt
her pulse.

"There's some in the medicine chest, I think, sir, but I will soon see."

She went out and presently returned with a bottle. The doctor poured a
teaspoonful into a glass and added a little water. Then he lifted Ruth's
head, and forced it between her lips. She gasped once or twice, and then
slightly opened her eyes.

"That is right, Ruth," the doctor said, cheeringly, "try and rouse
yourself, child. You remember me, don't you?" Ruth opened her eyes and
looked up.

"That's right, child, I mustn't have you on my hands again, you know."
Ruth looked round with a puzzled air, then a sharp look of pain crossed
her face.

"I know, Ruth," said the doctor, soothingly; "it is terrible for every
one, but least terrible for your poor young mistress; she passed away
painlessly, and went at once from life into death. Every one loved her,
you know; it may be that God has spared her much unhappiness."

Ruth burst into a paroxysm of crying; the doctor nodded to the old
servant.

"That's what I wanted," he whispered, "she will be better after this.
Get a cup of hot tea for her, or beef-tea will be better still if you
have any, make her drink it and then leave her for a time. I will see
her again presently."

Immediately the doctor left him, Reginald Carne wrote a telegram to the
Chief Constable of the county, and despatched a servant with orders to
gallop as fast as he could to the station and send it off.

Mr. Volkes, the magistrate, arrived half an hour later, terribly shocked
by the news he had heard. He at once set about making inquiries, and
heard what the doctor and constable had to say. No one else had been in
the room except the old cook, Mr. Carne, and the poor girl's own maid.

"It would be useless for you to question the girl to-day, Volkes. She is
utterly prostrate with the shock, but I have no doubt she will be able
to give her evidence at the inquest. So far as I can see there does not
seem to be the slightest clue. Apparently some villain who knows
something about the house has climbed through the window, stabbed her,
and made off with her jewellery."

"It is a hideous business," the magistrate said; "there has not been
such a startling crime committed in the county in all my experience. And
to think that Margaret Carne should be the victim, a girl every one
liked; it is terrible, terrible. What's your opinion, doctor? Some
wandering tramp, I suppose?"

"I suppose so. Certainly it can be none of the neighbours. In the first
place, as you say, every one liked her and in the second, a crime of
that sort is quite out of the way of our quiet Devonshire people. It
must have been some stranger, that's evident. Yet on the other hand it
is singular that the man should have got into her room. I don't suppose
there has been a window fastened or a door locked on the ground floor
for years; the idea of a burglary never occurs to any one here. By the
way, the coroner ought to be informed at once. I will speak to Carne
about it; if we do it this morning he will have time to send over this
evening and summon a jury for to-morrow; the sooner it is over the
better. Directly the Chief Constable arrives he will no doubt send round
orders everywhere for tramps and suspicious persons to be arrested.
Plymouth is the place where they are most likely to get some clue; in
the first place it's the largest town in this part, and in the second
there are sure to be low shops where a man could dispose of valuables."

In the afternoon, Captain Hendricks, the Chief Constable, arrived, and
took the matter in hand. In the first place he had a long private
conversation with Job Harpur, who had been steadily keeping watch in the
garden beneath the window, leaving him with strict orders to let no one
approach the spot.

He then, with a sergeant who had arrived with him, made a thorough
search of the bedroom. After this he examined every one who knew
anything about the matter, with the exception of Ruth Powlett, for whom
the doctor said absolute quiet was necessary, as to all they knew about
it. Then he obtained a minute description of the missing watch and
jewels, and telegraphed it to Plymouth and Exeter. Having done this he
went out into the garden again, and there a close search was made on the
grass and borders for the marks of footsteps. When all this was done he
had a long private conversation with Reginald Carne.

The news of Margaret Carne's murder created an excitement in Carnesford,
such as had never been equalled since the day when Lady Carne murdered
her child and the curse of Carne's Hold began its work. There was not a
soul in the valley but knew her personally, for Margaret had taken great
interest in village matters, had seen that soups and jellies were sent
down from The Hold to those who were sick, had begged many a man off his
rent when laid up or out of work, and had many pensioners who received
weekly gifts of money, tea, or other little luxuries. She gave prizes in
the school; helped the parson with his choir; and scarcely a day passed
without her figure being seen in the streets of Carnesford. That she
could be murdered seemed incredible, and when the news first arrived it
was received with absolute unbelief. When such confirmation was received
that doubt was no longer possible, all work in Carnesford was suspended.
Women stood at their doors and talked to their neighbours and wept
freely. Men gathered in knots and talked it over and uttered threats of
what they would do if they could but lay hands on the murderer. Boys and
girls walked up the hill and stood at the edge of the wood, talking in
whispers and gazing on the house as if it presented some new and
mysterious attraction. Later in the day two or three constables arrived,
and asked many questions as to whether any one had heard any one passing
through the street between one and three in the morning; but Carnesford
had slept soundly, and no one was found who had been awake between those
hours.

The little conclave in the sanctum at the "Carne's Arms" met half an
hour earlier than usual. They found on their arrival there a stranger
chatting with the landlord, who introduced him to them as Mr. Rentford,
a detective officer from Plymouth.

"A sad affair, gentlemen, a sad affair," Mr. Rentford said, when they
had taken their seats and lit their churchwardens. "As sad an affair, I
should say, as ever I was engaged in."

"It is that," Jacob Carey said. "Here's Mr. Claphurst here, who has been
here, man and boy, for nigh eighty years. He will tell you that such an
affair as this has never happened in this part in his time."

"I suppose, now," the detective said, "there's none in the village has
any theory about it; I mean," he went on, as none of his hearers
answered, "no one thinks it can be any one but some tramp or stranger to
the district?"

"It can't be no one else," Jacob Carey said, "as I can see. What do you
say, Hiram Powlett? I should say no one could make a nearer guess than
you can, seeing as they say it was your Ruth as first found it out."

"I haven't seen Ruth," Hiram said; "the doctor told me, as he came down,
as she was quite upset with the sight, and that it would be no good my
going up to see her, as she would have to keep still all day. So I can't
see farther into it than another; but surely it must be some stranger."

"There was no one about here so far as you have heard, Mr. Powlett, who
had any sort of grudge against this poor lady?"

"Not a soul, as far as I know," Hiram replied. "She could speak up
sharp, as I have heard, could Miss Carne, to a slatternly housewife or a
drunken husband; but I never heard as she made an enemy by it, though,
if she had, he would have kept his tongue to himself, for there were not
many here in Carnesford who would have heard a word said against Miss
Carne and sat quiet over it."

"No, indeed," Jacob Carey affirmed, bringing down his fist with a heavy
thump on his knee. "The Squire and his sister were both well liked, and
I for one would have helped duck any one that spoke against them in the
Dare. She was the most liked, perhaps, because of her bright face and
her kind words and being so much down here among us; but the Squire is
well liked, too; he is not one to laugh and talk as she was, but he is a
good landlord, and will always give a quarter's rent to a man as gets
behindhand for no fault of his own, and if there is a complaint about a
leaky roof or any repairs that want doing, the thing is done at once and
no more talk about it. No, they have got no enemies about here as I know
of, except maybe it's the poachers down at Dareport, for though the
Squire don't shoot himself, he preserves strictly, and if a poacher's
caught he gets sent to the quarter sessions as sure as eggs is eggs."

"Besides," the old clerk put in, "they say as Miss Carne's watch and
things has been stolen; that don't look as if it was done out of
revenge, do it?"

"Well, no," the detective said, slowly; "but that's not always to be
taken as a sign, because you see if any one did a thing like that, out
of revenge, they would naturally take away anything that lay handy, so
as to make it look as if it was done for theft."

The idea was a new one to his listeners, and they smoked over it
silently for some minutes.

"Lord, what evil ways there are in the world," Reuben Claphurst said at
last. "Wickedness without end. Now what do you make out of this,
mister? Of course these things come natural to you."

The detective shook his head. "It's too early to form an opinion yet,
Mr. Claphurst--much too early. I dare say we shall put two and two
together and make four presently, but at present you see we have got to
learn all the facts, and you who live close ought to know more than we
do, and to be able to put us on the track to begin with. You point me
out a clue, and I will follow it, but the best dogs can't hunt until
they take up the scent."

"That's true enough," the blacksmith said, approvingly.

"Have there been any strangers stopping in the village lately?" the
detective asked.

"There have been a few stopping off and on here, or taking rooms in the
village," the landlord answered; "but I don't think there has been any
one fishing on the stream for the last few days."

"I don't mean that class; I mean tramps."

"That I can't tell you," the landlord replied; "we don't take tramps in
here; they in general go to Wilding's beershop at the other end of the
village. He can put up four or five for the night, and in summer he is
often full, for we are just about a long day's tramp out from Plymouth,
and they often make this their first stopping-place out, or their last
stopping-place in, but it's getting late for them now, not many come
along after the harvest is well over. Still, you know, there may have
been one there yesterday, for aught I know."

"I will go round presently and ask. Any one who was here the night
before might well have lain in the woods yesterday, and gone up and done
it."

"I don't believe as you will ever find anything about it. There's a
curse on Carne's Hold, as every one knows, and curses will work
themselves out. If I were the Squire, I would pull the place down,
every stick and stone of it, and I would build a fresh one a bit away. I
wouldn't use so much as a brick or a rafter of the old place, for the
curse might stick to it. I would have everything new from top to
bottom."

"Yes, I have heard of the curse on Carne's Hold," the detective said. "A
man who works with me, and comes from this part of the country, told me
all about it as we came over to-day. However, that has nothing to do
with this case."

"It's partly the curse as that heathen woman, as Sir Edgar brought home
as his wife, laid on the place," the old clerk said, positively; "and it
will go on working as long as Carne's Hold stands. That's what I says,
and I don't think as any one else here will gainsay me."

"That's right enough," the blacksmith agreed, "I think we are all with
you there, Mr. Claphurst. It ought to have been pulled down long ago
after what has happened there. Why, if Mr. Carne was to say to me, 'Have
the house and the garden and all rent free, Jacob Carey, as long as you
like,' I should say, 'Thank you, Squire, but I wouldn't move into it,
not if you give me enough beside to keep it up.' I call it just flying
in the face of Providence. Only look at Hiram Powlett there; he sends
his daughter up to be Miss Carne's maid at The Hold, and what comes of
it? Why, she tumbles down the hill a-going up, and there she lies three
weeks, with the doctor coming to see her every day. That was a clear
warning if ever there was one. Who ever heard of a girl falling down and
hurting herself like that? No one. And it would not have happened if it
hadn't been for the curse of Carne's Hold."

"I shouldn't go so far as that," Hiram Powlett said. "What happened to
my lass had nothing to do with The Hold; she might have been walking up
the hill at any time, and she might have slipped down at any time. A
girl may put her foot on a loose stone and fall without it having
anything to say to The Hold one way or the other. Besides, I have never
heard it said as the curse had aught to do except with the family."

"I don't know about that," the smith replied. "That servant that was
killed by the Spanish woman's son; how about him? It seems to me as the
curse worked on him a bit, too."

"So it did, so it did," Hiram agreed. "I can't gainsay you there, Jacob
Carey; now you put it so, I see there is something in it, though never
before have I heard of there being anything in the curse except in the
family."

"Why, didn't Miles Jefferies, father of one of the boys as is in the
stables, get his brains kicked out by one of the old Squire's horses?"

"So he did, Jacob, so he did; still grooms does get their brains kicked
out at other places besides The Hold. But there is something in what you
say, and if I had thought of it before, I would never have let my Ruth
go up there to service. I thought it was all for the best at the time,
and you knows right enough why I sent her up there, to be away from that
George Forester; still, I might have sent her somewhere else, and I
would have done if I had thought of what you are saying now. Sure enough
no good has come of it. I can't hold that that fall of hers had aught to
do with the curse of the Carnes, but this last affair, which seems to me
worse for her than the first, sure enough comes from the curse."

"Who is this George Forester, if you don't mind my asking the question?"
the detective said. "You see it's my business to find out about people."

"Oh, George hadn't nothing to do with this business," Hiram replied.
"He's the son of a farmer near here, and has always been wild and a
trouble to the old man, but he's gone away weeks ago. He got into a
poaching scrape, and one of the keepers was hurt, and I suppose he
thought he had best be out of it for a time; anyhow, he has gone. But he
weren't that sort of a chap. No, there was no harm in George Forester,
not in that way; he was lazy and fonder of a glass than was good for
him, and he got into bad company down at Dareport, and that's what led
him to this poaching business, I expect, because there was no call for
him to go poaching. His father's got a tidy farm, and he wanted for
nothing. If he had been there he couldn't have wanted to steal Miss
Carne's jewellery. He was passionate enough, I know, and many a quarrel
has he had with his father, but nothing would have made me believe, even
if he had been here, that old Jim Forester's son had a hand in a black
business like this; so don't you go to take such a notion as that into
your head."

"He would not be likely to have any quarrel with Miss Carne?" the
detective asked.

"Quarrel? No," Hiram replied sharply, for he resented the idea that any
possible suspicion of Margaret Carne's murder should be attached to a
man with whom Ruth's name had been connected. "I don't suppose Miss
Carne ever spoke a word to him in her life. What should she speak to him
for? Why, he had left the Sunday school years before she took to seeing
after it. 'Tain't as if he had been one of the boys of the village."

As Jacob Carey, Reuben Claphurst, and the landlord, each gave an
assenting murmur to Hiram's words, the detective did not think it worth
while to pursue the point further, for there really seemed nothing to
connect this George Forester in any way with Margaret Carne's death.

"Well," he said, taking up his hat, "I will go round to this beershop
you speak of, and make inquiries as to whether any tramps have been
staying there. It is quite certain this young lady didn't put an end to
herself. What we have got to find out is: Who was the man that did it?"




CHAPTER V.

THE INQUEST.


It was six o'clock, and already quite dark, when, as Lieutenant Gulston
was writing in his cabin, his servant told him that Dr. Mackenzie had
just come off from the shore, and would be glad if he could spare him a
few minutes' conversation.

"Tell him I will be on the quarter-deck in a minute." He added a few
lines to the letter he was writing, put it in an envelope, and, taking
his cap, went out, dropping the letter into the post-bag that hung near
his cabin, and then went on to the quarter-deck. He was rather pleased
with the doctor's summons, for he highly esteemed him, and regretted the
slight estrangement which had arisen between them.

"Well, doctor," he asked, cheerily, "have some of the men been getting
into mischief ashore?"

"No, lad, no," the doctor replied, and the first-lieutenant felt that
something more serious was the matter, for since he had obtained his
rank of first-lieutenant the doctor had dropped his former habit of
calling him lad. "No, I have heard some news ashore that will affect you
seriously. I am sorry, dear lad, very sorry. I may have thought that you
were foolish, but that will make no difference now."

"What is it, doctor?" Lieutenant Gulston asked, with a vague alarm at
the gravity of the doctor's manner of treating him.

"The evening papers came out with an early edition, Gulston, and the
boys are shouting out the news of a terrible affair, a most terrible
affair at your friends the Carnes'. Be steady, lad, be steady. It's a
heavy blow for a man to have to bear. Miss Carne is dead."

"Dead! Margaret dead!" the lieutenant repeated, incredulously. "What are
you saying, doctor? There must be some mistake. She was well yesterday,
for I was over there in the evening and did not leave until nine
o'clock. It can't be true."

"It is true, lad, unhappily; there is no mistake. She was found dead in
her bed this morning."

The lieutenant was almost stunned by the blow.

"Good God!" he murmured. "It seems impossible."

The doctor walked away and left him for a minute or two to himself. "I
have not told you all as yet, lad," he went on, when he returned; "it
makes no difference to her, poor girl--none. She passed out of life, it
seems, painlessly and instantly, but it is worse for those who are
left."

He paused a moment. "She was found stabbed to the heart by a midnight
robber."

An exclamation of horror broke from the sailor. "Murdered? Good
Heavens!"

"Ay, lad, it is true. It seems to have been done in her sleep, and death
was instantaneous. There, I will leave you for a while, now. I will put
the paper in your cabin, so that when you feel equal to reading the
details you can do so. Try and think it is all for the best, lad. No one
knows what trouble might have darkened her life and yours had this thing
not happened. I know you will not be able to think so now, but you will
feel it so some day."

An hour later Lieutenant Gulston entered the doctor's cabin. There was a
look of anger as well as of grief on his face that the doctor did not
understand.

"Doctor, I believe this is no murder by a wandering tramp, as the paper
says. I believe it was done from revenge, and that the things were
stolen simply to throw people off the scent. I will tell you what took
place yesterday. I drove up as far as the gate in the garden; there one
road sweeps round in front of the house, the other goes straight to the
stables; so I got down, and told the man he might as well drive straight
in, while I walked up to the house. The road follows close under the
drawing-room windows, and, one of these being open, as I passed I heard
a man's voice raised loud in anger, so loudly and so passionately,
indeed, that I involuntarily stopped. His words were, as nearly as I can
recollect, 'You have fooled me and spoilt my life, but you shall regret
it. You think after all these years I am to be thrown off like an old
glove. No, by Heaven; you may throw me over, but I swear you shall never
marry this sailor or anybody else, whatever I may have to do to prevent
it. You say I have the curse of the Carnes in my blood! You are right,
and you shall have cause to regret it.' The voice was so loud and
passionate that I believed the speaker was about to do some injury to
Margaret, for I did not doubt that it was to her he was speaking, and I
ran round through the hall-door to the door of the room; but I found
Carne himself standing there. He, too, I suppose, when he had been about
to enter, had heard the words. He said, 'Don't go in just at present,
Margaret and her cousin are having a quarrel, but I think it's over
now.' Seeing that he was there at hand I went away for a bit, and found
afterwards that Mervyn had jumped from the window, gone to the stable
and ridden straight off. Margaret didn't come down to dinner, making an
excuse that she was unwell. Now, what do you think of that, doctor? You
know that Mervyn's mother was a Carne, and that he has this mad blood
that you warned me against in his veins. There is his threat, given in
what was an almost mad outburst of passion. She is found dead this
morning; what do you think of it?"

"I don't know what to think of it, Gulston; I know but little of Mervyn
myself, but I have heard men in his regiment say that he was a queer
fellow, and though generally a most cheery and pleasant companion, he
has at times fits of silence and moroseness similar, I should say, to
those of his cousin, Reginald Carne. It is possible, lad, though I don't
like to think so. When there is madness in the blood no one can say when
it may blaze out, or what course it can take. The idea is a terrible
one, and yet it is possible; it may indeed be so, for the madness in the
family has twice before led to murder. The presumption is certainly a
grave one, for although his messmates may consider Mervyn to be, as they
say, a queer fellow, I do not think you would find any of them to say he
was mad, or anything like it. Remember, Gulston, this would be a
terrible accusation to bring against any man, even if he can prove--as
probably he can prove--that he was at home, or here in Plymouth, at the
time of the murder. The charge that he is mad, and the notoriety such a
charge would obtain, is enough to ruin a man for life."

"I can't help that," the lieutenant said, gloomily. "I heard him
threaten Margaret, and I shall say so at the coroner's inquest
to-morrow. If a man is such a coward as to threaten a woman he must put
up with any consequences that may happen to befall him."

The coroner and jury met in the dining-room at The Hold; they were all
Carnesford men. Hiram Powlett, Jacob Carey, and the landlord of the
"Carne's Arms" were upon it, for the summoning officer had been careful
to choose on such an important occasion the leading men of the village.
After having gone upstairs to view the body, the coroner opened the
proceedings. The room was crowded. Many of the gentry of the
neighbourhood were present. Lieutenant Gulston, with a hard set look
upon his face, stood in a corner of the room with the doctor beside him.
Ronald Mervyn, looking, as some of the Carnesford people remarked in a
whisper, ten years older than he did when he drove through the village a
few days before, stood on the other side of the table talking in low
tones to some of his neighbours.

"We shall first, gentlemen," the coroner said, "hear evidence as to the
finding of the body. Ruth Powlett, the maid of the deceased lady, is the
first witness."

A minute later there was a stir at the door, and Ruth was led in by a
constable. She was evidently so weak and unhinged that the coroner told
her to take a chair.

"Now, Miss Powlett, tell us what you saw when you entered your
mistress's room."

"Upon opening the door," Ruth said, in a calmer and more steady voice
than was expected from her appearance, "I saw that the window was open
and the blind up. I was surprised at this, for Miss Carne did not sleep
with her window open in winter, and the blind was always down. I walked
straight to the washstand and placed the can of hot water there; then I
turned round to wake Miss Carne, and I saw her lying there with a great
patch of blood on her nightdress, and I knew by her face that she was
dead. Then I fainted. I do not know how long I lay there. When I came to
myself I got up and went to the door, and went downstairs to the kitchen
and gave the alarm."

"You did not notice that any of Miss Carne's things had been taken from
the table?" the coroner asked.

"No, sir."

"Were there any signs of a struggle having taken place?"

"No, sir, I did not see any. Miss Carne lay as if she was sleeping
quietly. She was lying on her side."

"The bedclothes were not disarranged?"

"No, sir, except that the clothes were turned down a short distance."

"You were greatly attached to your mistress, Miss Powlett?"

"Yes, sir."

"She was generally liked--was she not?"

"Yes, sir. Every one who knew Miss Carne was fond of her."

"Have any of you any further questions to ask?" the coroner asked the
jury.

There was no reply.

"Thank you, Miss Powlett. I will not trouble you further at present."

The cook then gave her testimony, and Dr. Arrowsmith was next called. He
testified to the effect that upon his arrival he found that the room had
not been disturbed in any way; no one had entered it with the exception,
as he understood, of Miss Carne's maid, the cook, and Mr. Carne. The
door was locked. When he went in, he found the deceased was dead, and it
was his opinion, from the coldness and rigidity of the body, that she
must have been dead seven or eight hours. It was just nine o'clock when
he arrived. He should think, therefore, that death had taken place
between one and half-past two in the morning. Death had been caused by a
stab given either with a knife or dagger. The blow was exactly over the
heart, and extended down into the substance of the heart itself. Death
must have been absolutely instantaneous. Deceased lay in a natural
position, as if asleep. The clothes had been turned down about a foot,
just low enough to uncover the region of the heart.

After making an examination of the body, he examined the room with the
constable, and found that a jewel-box on the table was open and its
contents gone. The watch and chain of the deceased had also disappeared.
He looked out of the window, and saw that it could be entered by an
active man by climbing up a thick stem of ivy that grew close by. He
observed several leaves lying on the ground, and was of the opinion that
the assassin entered there.

"From what you say, Dr. Arrowsmith, it is your opinion that no struggle
took place?"

"I am sure that there was no struggle," the doctor replied. "I have no
question that Miss Carne was murdered in her sleep. I should say that
the bedclothes were drawn down so lightly that she was not disturbed."

"Does it not appear an extraordinary thing to you, Dr. Arrowsmith, that
if, as it seems, Miss Carne did not awake, the murderer should have
taken her life?"

"Very extraordinary," the doctor said, emphatically. "I am wholly unable
to account for it. I can understand that had she woke and sat up, a
burglar might have killed her to secure his own safety, but that he
should have quietly and deliberately set himself to murder her in her
sleep is to me most extraordinary."

"You will note this circumstance, gentlemen," the coroner said to the
jury. "It is quite contrary to one's usual experiences in these cases.
As a rule, thieves are not murderers. To secure their own safety they
may take life, but as a rule they avoid running the risk of capital
punishment, and their object is to effect robbery without rousing the
inmates of the house. At present the evidence certainly points to
premeditated murder rather than to murder arising out of robbery. It is
true that robbery has taken place, but this might be merely a blind."

"You know of no one, Dr. Arrowsmith, who would have been likely to
entertain any feeling of hostility against Miss Carne?"

"Certainly not, sir. She was, I should say, universally popular, and
certainly among the people of Carnesford she was regarded with great
affection, for she was continually doing good among them."

"I am prepared to give evidence on that point," a voice said from the
corner of the room, and there was a general movement of surprise as
every one turned round to look at the speaker.

"Then perhaps, sir, we may as well hear your evidence next," the coroner
said, "because it may throw some light upon the matter and enable us to
ask questions to the point of further witnesses."

The lieutenant moved forward to the table: "My name is Charles Gulston.
I am first-lieutenant of the _Tenebreuse_, the flagship at Plymouth. I
had the honour of the acquaintance of Mr. and Miss Carne, and have spent
a day or two here on several occasions. I may say that I was deeply
attached to Miss Carne, and had hoped some day to make her my wife. The
day before yesterday I came over here upon Mr. Carne's invitation to
dine and spend the night. His dogcart met me at the station. As we drove
up to the last gate--that leading into the garden--I alighted from the
trap and told the man to drive it straight to the stable, while I walked
across the lawn to the house. The drawing-room window was open, and as I
passed I heard the voice of a man raised in tones of extreme passion, so
much so that I stopped involuntarily. His words were:

"'You have fooled me and spoilt my life, but you shall regret it. You
think that after all these years I am to be thrown off like an old
glove. No, by Heaven! You may throw me over, but I vow that you shall
never marry this sailor, or any one else, whatever I may have to do to
prevent it. You say I have the curse of the Carnes in my blood. You are
right, and you shall have cause to regret it.'

"The words were so loud and the tone so threatening that I ran round
into the house and to the door, and should have entered it had not Mr.
Carne, who was standing there, having apparently just come up, begged me
not to do so, saying that his sister and cousin were having a quarrel,
but that it was over now. As he was there I went away for a few minutes,
and when I returned I found that Miss Carne had gone upstairs, and that
her cousin had left, having, as Mr. Carne told me, left by the open
window."

While Lieutenant Gulston was speaking a deep silence reigned in the
room, and as he mentioned what Reginald Carne had said, every eye turned
towards Ronald Mervyn, who stood with face as white as death, and one
arm with clenched hand across his breast, glaring at the speaker.

"Do you mean, sir----?" he burst out as the lieutenant ceased; but the
coroner at once intervened.

"I must pray you to keep silent for the present, Captain Mervyn. You
will have every opportunity of speaking presently.

"As to these words that you overheard, Mr. Gulston, did you recognise
the speaker of them before you heard from Mr. Carne who was with his
sister in the drawing-room?"

"Certainly. I recognised the voice at once as that of Captain Mervyn,
whom I have met on several occasions."

"Were you impressed with his words, or did they strike you as a mere
outburst of temper?"

"I was so impressed with the tone in which they were spoken that I ran
round to the drawing-room to protect Miss Carne from violence."

"Was it your impression, upon thinking of them afterwards, that the
words were meant as a menace to Miss Carne?"

"No, sir. The impression left upon my mind was that Captain Mervyn
intended to fix some quarrel on me, as I had no doubt whatever that it
was to me he alluded in his threats. The matter dwelt in my mind all the
evening, for naturally nothing could have been more unpleasant than a
public quarrel with a near relative of a lady to whom one is attached."

There was a long silence. Then the coroner asked the usual question of
the jurymen.

None of them had a question to ask; indeed, all were so confounded by
this new light thrown upon the matter that they had no power of framing
a question.

Job Harpur was then called. He testified to entering the bedroom of the
deceased with Dr. Arrowsmith, and to the examination he had made of it.
There he had found the jewel-box opened, its contents abstracted, and
the watch gone. He could find nothing else disarranged in the room, or
any trace whatever that would give a clue as to the identity of the
murderer. He then looked out of the window with Dr. Arrowsmith, and saw
by a few leaves lying on the ground, and by marks upon the bark of the
ivy, that some one had got up or down.

Dr. Arrowsmith had suggested that he should take up his post there, and
not allow any one to approach, as a careful search might show footsteps
or other marks that would be obliterated were people allowed to approach
the window. When Captain Hendricks came they examined the ground
together. They could find no signs of footsteps, but at a distance of
some ten yards, at the foot of the wall, they found a torn glove, and
this he produced.

"You have no reason in connecting this with the case in any way, I
suppose, constable?" the coroner asked as the glove was laid on the
table before him. "It might have been lying there for some time, I
suppose."

"It might, sir."

It was a dog-skin glove stitched with red, with three lines of black and
red stitching down the back. While the glove was produced and examined
by the jury, Ronald Mervyn was talking in whispers to some friends
standing round him.

"I wish to draw your attention," Lieutenant Gulston said in a low tone
to Captain Hendricks, "that Captain Mervyn is at this moment holding in
his hand a glove that in point of colour exactly matches that on the
table; they are both a brighter yellow than usual." The Chief Constable
glanced at the gloves and then whispered to the coroner. The latter
started, and then said, "Captain Mervyn, would you kindly hand me the
glove you have in your hand. It is suggested to me that its colour
closely resembles that of the glove on the table." Mervyn, who had not
been listening to the last part of the constable's evidence, turned
round upon being spoken to.

"My glove, yes, here it is. What do you want it for?" The coroner took
the glove and laid it by the other. Colour and stitching matched
exactly; there could be no doubt but that they were a pair. A smothered
exclamation broke from almost every man in the room.

"What is it?" Ronald Mervyn asked.

"The constable has just testified, Captain Mervyn, that he found this
glove a few feet from the window of the deceased. No doubt you can
account for its being there, but until the matter is explained it has,
of course, a somewhat serious aspect, coupled with the evidence of
Lieutenant Gulston."

Again Ronald Mervyn whitened to the hair.

"Do I understand, sir," he said in a low voice, "that I am accused of the
murder of my cousin?"

"No one is at present accused," the coroner said, quietly. "We are only
taking the evidence of all who know anything about this matter. I have
no doubt whatever that you will be able to explain the matter perfectly,
and to prove that it was physically impossible that you could have had
any connection whatever with it."

Ronald Mervyn passed his hand across his forehead.

"Perhaps," the coroner continued, "if you have the fellow of the glove
now handed to me in your pocket, you will kindly produce it, as that
will, of course, put an end to this part of the subject."

"I cannot," Ronald Mervyn answered. "I found as I was starting to come
out this morning that one of my gloves was missing, and I may say at
once that I have no doubt that the other glove is the one I lost; though
how it can have got near the place where it was found I cannot explain."

The men standing near fell back a little. The evidence given by Mr.
Gulston had surprised them, but had scarcely affected their opinion of
their neighbour, but this strong piece of confirmatory evidence gave a
terrible shock to their confidence in him.

Mr. Carne was next called. He testified to being summoned while dressing
by the cries of the servants, and to having found his sister lying dead.

"Now, Mr. Carne," the coroner said, "you have heard the evidence of
Lieutenant Gulston as to a quarrel that appears to have taken place on
the afternoon of this sad event, between your sister and Captain Mervyn.
It seems from what he said that you also overheard a portion of it."

"I beg to state that I attach no importance to this," Reginald Carne
said, "and I absolutely refuse to give any credence to the supposition
that my cousin, Captain Mervyn, was in any way instrumental in the death
of my sister."

"We all think that, Mr. Carne, but at the same time I must beg you to
say what you know about the matter."

"I know very little about it," Reginald Carne said, quietly. "I was
about to enter the drawing-room, where I knew my cousin and my sister
were, and I certainly heard his voice raised loudly. I opened the door
quietly, as is my way, and was about to enter, when I heard words that
showed me that the quarrel was somewhat serious. I felt that I had
better leave them alone, and therefore quietly closed the door again. A
few seconds later Lieutenant Gulston rushed in from the front door, and
was about to enter when I stopped him. Seeing that it was a mere family
wrangle, it was better that no third person should interfere in it,
especially as I myself was at hand, ready to do so if necessary, which I
was sure it was not."

"But what were the words that you overheard, Mr. Carne?"

Reginald Carne hesitated. "I do not think they were of any consequence"
he said. "I am sure they were spoken on the heat of the moment, and
meant nothing."

"That is for us to judge, Mr. Carne. I must thank you to give them us as
nearly as you can recollect."

"He said then," Reginald Carne said, reluctantly, "'I swear you shall
never marry this sailor or any one else, whatever I may have to do to
prevent it.' That was all I heard."

"Do you suppose the allusion was to Lieutenant Gulston?"

"I thought so at the time, and that was one of the reasons why I did not
wish him to enter. I thought by my cousin's tone that did Lieutenant
Gulston enter at that moment an assault might take place."

"What happened after the lieutenant, in compliance with your request,
left you?"

"I waited a minute or two and then went in. My sister was alone. She was
naturally much vexed at what had taken place."

"Will you tell me exactly what she said?"

Again Reginald Carne hesitated.

"I really don't think," he said after a pause, "that my sister meant
what she said. She was indignant and excited, and I don't think that her
words could be taken as evidence."

"The jury will make all allowances, Mr. Carne. I have to ask you to tell
them the words."

"I cannot tell you the precise words," he said, "for she spoke for some
little time. She began by saying that she had been grossly insulted by
her cousin, and that she must insist that he did not enter the house
again, for if he did she would certainly leave it. She said he was mad
with passion; that he was in such a state that she did not feel her life
was safe with him. I am sure, gentlemen, she did not at all mean what
she said, but she was in a passion herself and would, I am sure, when
she was cool, have spoken very differently."

There was a deep silence in the room. At last the coroner said:

"Just two more questions, Mr. Carne, and then we have done. Captain
Mervyn, you say, had left the room when you entered it. Is there any
other door to the drawing-room than that at which you were standing?"

"No, sir, there is no other door; the window was wide open, and as it is
only three feet from the ground I have no doubt he went out that way. I
heard him gallop off a minute or two later, so that he must have run
straight round to the stables."

"In going from the drawing-room window to the stables, would he pass
under the window of your sister's room?"

"No," Reginald replied. "That is quite the other side of the house."

"Then, in fact, the glove that was found there could not have been
accidentally dropped on his way from the drawing-room to the stable?"

"It could not," Reginald Carne admitted, reluctantly.

"Thank you; if none of the jury wish to ask you any question, that is
all we shall require at present."

The jury shook their heads. They were altogether too horrified at the
turn matters were taking to think of any questions to the point. The
Chief Constable then called the gardener, who testified that he had
swept the lawn on the afternoon of the day the murder was committed, and
that had a glove been lying at that time on the spot where it was
discovered he must have noticed it.

When the man had done, Captain Hendricks intimated that that was all the
evidence that he had at present to call.

"Now, Captain Mervyn," the coroner said, "you will have an opportunity
of explaining this matter, and, no doubt, will be able to tell us where
you were at the time Miss Carne met her death, and to produce witnesses
who will at once set this mysterious affair, as far as you are
concerned, at rest."

Ronald Mervyn made a step forward. He was still very pale, but the look
of anger with which he had first heard the evidence against him had
passed, and his face was grave and quiet.

"I admit, sir," he began in a steady voice, "the whole facts that have
been testified. I acknowledge that on that afternoon I had a serious
quarrel with my cousin, Margaret Carne. The subject is a painful one to
touch upon, but I am compelled to do so. I had almost from boyhood
regarded her as my future wife. There was a boy and girl understanding
between us to that effect, and although no formal engagement had taken
place, she had never said anything to lead me to believe that she had
changed her mind on the subject; and I think I may say that in both of
our families it was considered probable that at some time or other we
should be married.

"On that afternoon I spoke sharply to her--I admit that--as to her
receiving the attentions of another man; and upon her denying altogether
my right to speak to her on such a subject, and repudiating the idea of
any engagement between us, I certainly, I admit it with the greatest
grief, lost my temper. Unfortunately I have been from a child given to
occasional fits of passion. It is long since I have done so, but upon
this occasion the suddenness of the shock, and the bitterness of my
disappointment, carried me beyond myself, and I admit that I used the
words that Lieutenant Gulston has repeated to you. But I declare that I
had no idea whatever, even at that moment, of making any personal threat
against her. What was in my mind was to endeavour in some way or other
to prevent her marrying another man."

Here he paused for a minute. So far the effect of his words had been
most favourable, and as he stopped, his friends breathed more easily,
and the jury furtively nodded to each other with an air of relief.

"As to the glove," Ronald Mervyn went on, deliberately, "I cannot
account for its being in the place where it was found. I certainly had
both gloves on when I rode over here; how I lost it, or where I lost it,
I am wholly unable to say. I may also add that I admit that I went
direct from the drawing-room to the stable, and did not pass round the
side of the house where the glove was found." He again paused. "As to
where I was between one o'clock and half-past two the next morning, I
can give you no evidence whatever." A gasp of dismay broke from almost
every one in the room.

"It was becoming dark when I mounted my horse," he said, "and I rode
straight away; it is my custom, as my fellow-officers will tell you,
when I am out of spirits, or anything has upset me, to ride away for
hours until the fit has left me, and I have sometimes been out all
night. It was so on this occasion. I mounted and rode away. I cannot say
which road I took, for when I ride upon such occasions, I am absorbed in
my thoughts and my horse goes where he will. Of myself, I do not know
exactly at what hour I got home, but I asked the stableman, who took my
horse, next morning, and he said the clock over the stable-gate had just
struck half-past three when I rode in. I do not know that I have
anything more to say."

The silence was almost oppressive for a minute or two after he had
finished, and then the coroner said: "The room will now be cleared of
all except the jury."

The public trooped out in silence. Each man looked in his neighbour's
face to see what he thought, but no one ventured upon a word until they
had gone through the hall and out into the garden. Then they broke up in
little knots, and began in low tones to discuss the scene in the
dining-room. The shock given by the news of the murder of Miss Carne was
scarcely greater than that which had now been caused by the proceedings
before the coroner. A greater part of those present at the inquest were
personal friends of the Carnes, together with three or four farmers
having large holdings under them. Very few of the villagers were
present, it being felt that although, no doubt, every one had a right to
admission to the inquest, it was not for folks at Carnesford to thrust
themselves into the affairs of the family at The Hold.

Ronald Mervyn had, like the rest, left the room when it was cleared. As
he went out into the garden, two or three of his friends were about to
speak to him, but he turned off with a wave of the hand, and paced up
and down the front of the house, walking slowly, with his head bent.

"This is a horribly awkward business for Mervyn," one of the young men,
who would have spoken to him, said. "Of course Mervyn is innocent; still
it is most unfortunate that he can't prove where he was."

"Most unfortunate," another repeated. "Then there's that affair of the
glove and the quarrel. Things look very awkward, I must say. Of course,
I don't believe for a moment Mervyn did it, because we know him, but I
don't know what view a jury of strangers might take of it."

Two or three of the others were silent. There was present in their minds
the story of The Hold, and the admitted fact of insanity in the family
of Ronald Mervyn, which was in close connection with the Carnes. Had it
been any one else they, too, would have disbelieved the possibility of
Ronald Mervyn having murdered Margaret Carne. As it was, they doubted:
there had been other murders in the history of the Carnes. But no one
gave utterance to these thoughts, they were all friends or acquaintances
of the Mervyn family. Ronald might yet be able to clear himself
completely. At any rate, at present no one was inclined to admit that
there could be any doubt of his innocence.

"Well, what do you think, doctor, now?" Lieutenant Gulston asked his
friend, as separated from the rest they strolled across the garden.

"I don't quite know what to think," Dr. Mackenzie said, after a pause.

"No?" Gulston said in surprise. "Why it seems to me as clear as the sun
at noon-day. What I heard seemed pretty conclusive. Now there is the
confirmation of the finding of the glove, and this cock and bull story
of his riding about for hours and not knowing where he was."

"Yes, I give due weight to these things," the doctor said, after another
pause, "and admit that they constitute formidable circumstantial
evidence. I can't account for the glove being found there. I admit that
is certainly an awkward fact to get over. The ride I regard as
unfortunate rather than damnatory, especially if, as he says, his fellow
officers can prove that at times, when upset, he was in the habit of
going off for hours on horseback."

"But who else could have done it, Mackenzie? You see the evidence of the
doctor went to show that she was murdered when asleep; no common burglar
would have taken life needlessly, and have run the risk of hanging; the
whole thing points to the fact that it was done out of revenge or out of
ill-feeling of some sort, and has it not been shown that there is not a
soul in the world except Mervyn who had a shadow of ill-feeling against
her?"

"No, that has not been shown," the doctor said, quietly. "No one was her
enemy, so far as the witnesses who were asked knew; but that is a very
different thing; it's a very difficult thing to prove that any one in
the world has no enemies. Miss Carne may have had some; some servant may
have been discharged upon her complaint, she may have given deep offence
to some one or other. There is never any saying."

"Of course that is possible," said the lieutenant again, "but the
evidence all goes against one man, who is known to have an enmity
against her, and who has, to say the least of it, a taint of insanity in
his blood. What are the grounds on which you doubt?"

"Principally on his own statement, Gulston. I watched him narrowly from
the time that you gave your evidence, and I own that my impression is
that he is innocent. I give every weight to your evidence and that
afforded by the glove, and to his being unable to prove where he was;
and yet, alike from his face, his manner, and the tone of his voice, I
do not think that he is capable of murder."

No other words were spoken for some time, then the lieutenant asked:

"Do you think that an insane person could commit a crime of this kind
and have no memory of it in their saner moments?"

"That is a difficult question, Gulston. I do believe that a person in a
sudden paroxysm of madness might commit a murder, and upon his recovery
be perfectly unconscious of it; but I do not for a moment believe that a
madman sufficiently sane to act with the cunning here shown in the mode
of obtaining access, by the quiet stealthiness in which the victim was
killed whilst in her sleep, and by the attempt to divert suspicion by
the abstraction of the trinkets, would lose all memory of his actions
afterwards. If Captain Mervyn did this thing, I am sure he would be
conscious of it, and I am convinced, as I said, that he is not
conscious."

"What will the jury think?" the lieutenant asked after a long pause.

"I think they are sure to return a verdict against him. A coroner's jury
are not supposed to go to the bottom of a matter; they are simply to
declare whether there is _prima facie_ evidence connecting any one with
a crime; such evidence as is sufficient to justify them in coming to a
conclusion that it should at any rate be further examined into. It's a
very different thing with a jury at a trial; they have the whole of the
evidence that can be obtained before them. They have all the light that
can be thrown on the question by the counsel on both sides, and the
assistance of the summing-up of the judge, and have then to decide if
the guilt of the man is absolutely proven. A coroner's jury is not
supposed to go into the whole merits of the case, and their finding
means no more than the decision of a magistrate to commit a prisoner for
trial. I think the coroner will tell the jury that in this case such
evidence as there is before them points to the fact that Captain Mervyn
committed this murder, and that it will be their duty to find such a
verdict as will ensure the case being further gone into."

"Most of the jury are tenants of the Carnes," Gulston said; "two or
three of them I know are, for I met them at the inn when I was over here
fishing. They will scarcely like to find against a relation of the
family."

"I don't suppose they will," the doctor argued, "but at the same time
the coroner will not improbably point out to them that their verdict
will simply lead to further investigation of the case, and that even for
Captain Mervyn's own sake it is desirable that this should take place,
for that the matter could not possibly rest here. Were they to acquit
him, I imagine the Chief Constable would at once arrest him and bring
him before a magistrate, who, upon hearing a repetition of the evidence
given to-day, would have no choice but to commit him for trial."

"I suppose he would do that, anyhow?" Lieutenant Gulston said.

"Not necessarily. I fancy a man can be tried upon the finding of a
coroner's jury as well as upon that of a magistrate. Perhaps, however,
if the coroner's jury finds against him he may be formally brought up
before the magistrates, and a portion of the evidence heard, sufficient
to justify them in committing him for trial. See, people are going into
the house again. Probably they have thrown the door open, and the jury
are going to give their finding. I don't think we need go in."




CHAPTER VI.

RUTH POWLETT.


Lieutenant Gulston and his companion had not long to wait to learn the
verdict, for in a few minutes the people began to pour out of the house,
and a constable came out, and, after looking round, walked up to the
lieutenant.

"Mr. Gulston," he said, "your presence will be required to-morrow at
eleven o'clock at Mr. Volkes's. Captain Mervyn will be brought up there
at eleven o'clock to-morrow."

"Very well," Mr. Gulston replied. "What verdict have the coroners jury
found?"

"They have found Captain Mervyn guilty of wilful murder," the man
replied.

The next morning the inquiry was heard before Mr. Volkes and two other
magistrates, and the doctor's evidence, that of Mr. Gulston, the
gardener, the cook, and the constable who found the glove, was
considered sufficient. Mr. Carne was not summoned, and although Ruth
Powlett's name was called, she did not answer to it, Dr. Arrowsmith
explaining to the bench that she was too ill to be present. Captain
Mervyn was asked if he had any questions to ask the witnesses, or any
statement to make; but he simply said that he should reserve his
defence, and the case was then adjourned for a week to see if any
further evidence would be forthcoming, the magistrates intimating that
unless some altogether new light was thrown upon the subject they should
commit the prisoner for trial.

Very gravely and silently the men who composed the coroner's jury walked
down to Carnesford; scarce a word was spoken on the way, and a
stranger, meeting them, might have supposed, not unnaturally, that they
were returning from a funeral. The news had arrived before them, having
been carried down at full speed by one of the few villagers who had been
present. It had at first been received with absolute incredulity. The
idea that Captain Mervyn should kill Margaret Carne seemed so wild a
proposition that the first person to arrive with it was wholly
disbelieved, and even the confirmation of those who followed him was
also doubted. People, however, moved towards the foot of the hill to
meet the jury, and a small crowd had collected by the time they had come
down. The jury, upon being questioned, admitted that they had found
Ronald Mervyn guilty, and when the fact was grasped, a sort of awed
silence fell upon their hearers.

"Why, whatever were you all thinking of?" one of the men said. "Why, you
must have been downright mad. You find that Captain Mervyn was the
murderer of his own cousin, and Mr. Carne your own landlord, too! I
never heard tell of such a thing."

The jury, indeed, were regarded almost as culprits; even to themselves
now, their verdict seemed monstrous, though at the time the evidence had
appeared so strong that they had felt themselves unable to resist the
coroner's expressed opinion that, upon the evidence before them, they
had no course open but to return a verdict of wilful murder against
Ronald Mervyn.

"You will hear about it presently, lads," Hiram Powlett said. "If you
had been in our place, and had heard what we have heard, you would have
said the same. I should have no more believed it myself this morning, if
any one had told me that Captain Mervyn had murdered his cousin, than I
should if they had told me that the mill stream was running the wrong
way; but now I sees otherwise. There ain't one of us here as wouldn't
have given another verdict if we could have done so, but having heard
what we heard there weren't no other verdict to be given. I would have
given a hundred pounds myself to have found any other way, but I
couldn't go against my conscience; and besides, the coroner told us that
if Captain Mervyn is innocent, he will have full opportunity of proving
it at the trial. And now I must be off home, for I hear Mr. Carne sent
down Ruth, as soon as she had given her evidence, in one of his
carriages."

Ruth had so far recovered that she was sitting on a chair by the fire
when her father entered. She had heard nothing of what had taken place
at the inquest beyond her own evidence, and she looked anxiously at her
father as he slowly took off his coat and hat and hung them up, and came
over to the fire beside her.

"How are you feeling now, Ruth? You were looking sadly when you were in
the court."

"I believe you will kill the child between you," Mrs. Powlett said,
testily, as she entered with the dinner. "Any one can see with half an
eye that she ain't fit to be going before a court and giving evidence
after the shock as she 'as had. She ought to have been left quiet. If
you had half the feeling of a man in you, Hiram Powlett, you wouldn't
have let them do it. If I had been there I should have got up and said:
'Your worship can see for yourself as my daughter is more fit to be in
bed than to be worrited and questioned here. She ain't got nothing to
tell you more than you knows yourself. She just came in and found her
mistress dead, and that's all she knows about it.'"

"And what verdict did you find, father?" Ruth asked, as soon as her
mother had finished.

[Illustration: "'_What verdict did you find, father?' Ruth asked._"]

"Verdict! What verdict should they find," Mrs. Powlett said, angrily,
"but that they just knew nothing at all about it?"

"That wasn't the verdict, Hesba," Hiram Powlett said, as he seated
himself at the table; "I wish to God it had been. There was things came
out at the trial as altogether altered the case. We found as one had
been quarrelling with Miss Carne, and threatening what he would do to
her. We found as something belonging to him had been found close at
hand, where it could only have been put somewhere about the time of the
murder. We found as the person couldn't tell us where he had been at the
time; and though it were sorely against us to do it, and seemed the most
unnatural thing in the world, we had to find a verdict of wilful murder
against Captain Mervyn."

Ruth had risen from her seat as her father was speaking; her face had
grown whiter and whiter as he went on, and one hand had gone to her
heart, while the other clutched at the back of the chair. As he finished
she gave a sudden start, and burst into a scream of hysterical laughter,
so startling Hiram Powlett and his wife, neither of whom was looking at
her, that the former upset his chair as he started to his feet, while
the latter dropped the plate she was in the act of setting before him.

For some minutes the wild laughter rang through the house. Hesba had at
once taken the girl in her arms, and seated her in the chair again, and
after trying for a minute or two vainly to soothe her, turned to Hiram.

"Don't stand staring there, Hiram; run for the doctor. Look what you
have done, with your stories about your courts and your verdicts. You
have just scared her out of her mind."

Fortunately as Hiram ran up into the village street he saw Dr.
Arrowsmith--who had waited at The Hold, talking over the matter to some
of his neighbours--driving down the hill, and at once fetched him in to
Ruth.

"The girl is in violent hysterics, Hiram," the doctor said, as soon as
he had entered. "Carry her upstairs, and lay her down on the bed; it's
no use trying to get her to drink that now"--for Mrs. Powlett was trying
in vain to get Ruth to take some brandy--"she cannot swallow. Now I will
help you upstairs with her. The great thing is to get her to lie down."

It seemed hours to Hiram Powlett, as he listened to the wild screaming
and laughter overhead, but in reality it was not many minutes before the
doctor came down again.

"I am going to drive home and get some chloroform," he said, "I shan't
be two minutes gone;" and before Hiram could ask a question he hurried
out, jumped into his dogcart, and drove off.

There was no change until his return, except that once or twice there
was a moment's cessation in the screaming. Hiram could not remain in the
house, but went out and walked up and down until the doctor returned.

"No change, I hear," the latter remarked, as he jumped down from the
dogcart, for Ruth's cries could be heard down at the gate of the garden.

Then he hurried on into the house and upstairs, poured some chloroform
into a handkerchief, and waved it in Ruth's face. Gradually the screams
abated, and in two or three minutes the girl was lying quiet and still.

"Now, lift her head, Mrs. Powlett, while I pour a few drops of this
narcotic between her lips."

"Can she swallow, sir?"

"Not consciously, but it will find its way down her throat. I don't like
doing it, but we must send her to sleep. Weak as she is, and shaken by
all she has gone through, she will kill herself if she goes on with
these hysterics."

As soon as Ruth showed signs of returning consciousness, the doctor
again placed the handkerchief near her face, keeping his fingers
carefully on her pulse as he did so.

This was repeated again and again, and then the opiate began to take
effect.

"I think she will do now," he said, at last; "it's a hazardous
experiment, but it was necessary. Now you can go down to your husband
for a few minutes, and tell him how she is. I shall remain here for a
time."

"She is off now," Mrs. Powlett said, as she came downstairs.

"Asleep?" Hiram asked.

"Well, it's sleep, or chloroform, or laudanum, or a little of each of
them," Mrs. Powlett said. "Anyhow, she is lying quiet, and looks as if
she were asleep. Dear, dear, what things girls are. And to think that
all these years we have never had a day's sickness with her, and now it
all comes one on the top of the other; but, of course, when one's got a
husband who comes and blurts things out before a girl that's that
delicate that the wind would blow her over, what can you expect?"

"I didn't mean----" Hiram began, but Hesba cut him short.

"That's the way with men; they never do mean; they never use the little
sense they have got. I don't expect that there's a man, woman, or child
in Carnesford that wouldn't have known better. Here you had her down
here for well nigh a month as bad as she could be; then she gets that
terrible shock and goes off fainting all day; then she has to go into
court, and as if that wasn't enough for her, you comes and blurts out
before her that you found as Captain Mervyn murdered his cousin. I
wouldn't call myself a man if I was you, Hiram Powlett. I had a better
idea of you before."

"What could I have said?" urged Hiram, feebly.

"Said?" Hesba repeated, scornfully. "In the first place you need not
have said anything; then if you couldn't hold your tongue, you might
have said that, of course, you had found a verdict of wilful murder
against some one or other, which would be quite true; but even if it
hadn't been you need not have minded that when it comes to saving your
own daughter's life. There, sit down and have some food, and go out to
your mill."

Hiram Powlett had no appetite whatever, but he meekly sat down, ate a
few mouthfuls of food, and then, when Hesba left the room for a moment,
took his cap from the peg and went out. Mrs. Powlett ate her meal
standing; she had no more appetite for it than her husband, but she knew
she should not have an opportunity of coming downstairs again when once
the doctor had left, so she conscientiously forced herself to eat as
much as usual, and then, after clearing away the things, and warning the
little servant that she must not make the slightest sound, she went into
the parlour and sat down until the doctor came downstairs.

"She is quiet now. I will come back again when I have had my dinner. Sit
close by her, and if you see any signs of change, sprinkle a little
water on her face and send for me; and you may pour a few drops of
brandy down her throat. If her breathing continues regular, and as slow
as it is at present, do nothing until I return."

For a fortnight Ruth Powlett lay between life and death, then she turned
the corner, and very slowly and gradually began to recover. Six weeks
had passed by, and she was about again, a mere shadow of her former
self. No further evidence of any kind had been obtained with reference
to the murder at The Hold. Mrs. Mervyn had a detective down from
London, and he had spent days in calling at all the villages within
twenty miles in the endeavour to find some one who had heard a horseman
pass between the hours of twelve and three. This, however, he failed to
do; he had tracked the course of Ronald Mervyn up to ten o'clock, but
after that hour he could gather no information. Even a reward of fifty
pounds failed to bring any tidings of a horseman after that hour. Ronald
Mervyn had followed a circuitous route, apparently going quite at
random, but when heard of at ten o'clock he was but thirteen miles
distant, which would have left an ample margin of time for him to have
ridden to The Hold and carried out his designs.

The description of Margaret Carne's watch and jewellery had been
circulated by the police throughout England, but so far none of it
appeared to have been offered for sale at any jeweller's or pawnbroker's
in the country. In South Devonshire, people were divided into two
parties on the subject of Ronald Mervyn's guilt or innocence. No one
remained neutral on the subject. Some were absolutely convinced that, in
spite of appearances, he was innocent. Others were equally positive that
he was guilty. The former insisted that the original hypothesis as to
the murder was the correct one, and that it had been committed by some
tramp. As to the impossibility of this man having killed Margaret Carne
in her sleep, they declared that there was nothing in it. Every one knew
that tramps were rough subjects, and this man might be an especially
atrocious one. Anyhow, it was a thousand times more probable that this
was how it came about than that Ronald Mervyn should have murdered his
cousin.

The other party were ready to admit that it was improbable that a man
should murder his cousin, but they fell back upon the evidence that
showed he and no one else had done it, and also upon the well-known
curse upon Carne's Hold, and the fact that Mervyn on his mother's side
had the Carne blood in his veins. Every one knew, they argued, that mad
people murder their husbands, wives, or children; why, then, not a
cousin?

There was a similar difference of opinion on the subject among the
little conclave in the snuggery at the "Carne's Arms."

Jacob Carey and the old clerk were both of opinion that Ronald Mervyn
was guilty, the former basing his opinion solely upon the evidence, and
the latter upon the curse of the Carnes. The landlord maintained a
diplomatic reserve. It was not for him to offend either section of his
customers by taking a decided side. He therefore contented himself by
saying, "There's a great deal in what you say," to every argument
brought forward in the coffee-room, the tap-room, or snuggery.

The "Carne's Arms" was doing a larger trade than it had ever done
before. There were two detectives staying in the house, and every day
coaches brought loads of visitors from Plymouth; while on Saturday and
Monday hundreds of people tramped over from the railway station, coming
from Plymouth and Exeter to have a view of the house where the tragedy
had taken place. The pressure of business was indeed so great that the
landlord had been obliged to take on two extra hands in the kitchen, and
to hire three girls from the village to attend to the customers in the
coffee-room and tap-room.

Hiram Powlett was Captain Mervyn's champion in the snuggery. It was true
he had few arguments to adduce in favour of his belief, and he allowed
the smith and Reuben Claphurst to do the greater part of the talking,
while he smoked his pipe silently, always winding up the discussion by
saying: "Well, neighbours, I can't do much in the way of arguing, and I
allow that what you say is right enough, but for all that I believe
Captain Mervyn to be innocent. My daughter Ruth won't hear a word said
as to his being guilty, and I think with her."

Hiram Powlett and his wife had indeed both done their best to carry out
the doctor's orders that nothing should be said in Ruth's hearing of the
murder. But the girl, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered to talk,
was always asking questions as to whether any further clue had been
discovered as to the murderer, and she was indeed so anxious and urgent
on the matter that the doctor had felt it better to withdraw his
interdict, and to allow her father to tell her any little scraps of
gossip he had picked up.

"The idea has evidently got possession of her mind, Hiram," the doctor
said. "She was very attached to her mistress, and is no doubt most
anxious that her murderer shall be brought to justice. I have changed my
opinion, and think now that you had better not shirk the subject. She
has been a good deal more feverish again the last day or two. Of course
she must stay here now until after the trial, which will come off in a
fortnight. When that is over, I should strongly recommend you to send
her away from here for a time; it doesn't matter where she goes to, so
that she is away from here. If you have any friends or relations you can
send her to, let her go to them; if not, I will see about some home for
convalescent patients where she would be taken in. There are several of
them about; one at the Isle of Wight, I believe. That would suit her
very well, as the climate is mild. Anyhow, she must not stop here. I
shall be heartily glad myself when the trial is over. Go where I will I
hear nothing else talked about. No one attends to his own business, and
the amount of drunkenness in the place has trebled. If I had my way, I
would have a regulation inflicting a heavy fine upon every one who
after the conclusion of the trial ventured to make any allusion, however
slight, to it. It's disgusting to see the number of people who come here
every day and go up the hill to have a look at the house."

As the day for the trial approached, Ruth Powlett became more and more
anxious and nervous about it. It kept her awake at nights, and she
brooded on it during the day. For hours she would sit with her eyes
fixed upon the fire without opening her lips, and the doctor became
seriously anxious lest she should be again laid up before it became
necessary to give her evidence.

There was indeed a terrible fight going on in Ruth's mind. She knew that
Captain Mervyn was innocent; she knew that George Forester was guilty,
and yet the memory of her past life was still so strong in her that she
could not bring herself to denounce him, unless it became absolutely
necessary to do so to save Ronald Mervyn's life. Ronald had insulted and
threatened her mistress, and had not George Forester been beforehand
with him, he might have done her some grievous harm, or he might perhaps
have murdered Lieutenant Gulston, for whom Ruth felt a strong attraction
because she had discerned that Margaret loved him.

It was right, then, that Ronald Mervyn should suffer, but it was not
right that he should be hung. If he could clear himself without her
being obliged to denounce George Forester, let him do so; but if not, if
he were found guilty, then she had no other course open to her. She must
come forward and produce the knife and describe how she had found it,
and confess why she had so long concealed it. All this would be very
terrible. She pictured to herself the amazement of the court, the
disapproval with which her conduct would be received, the way in which
she would be blamed by all who knew her, the need there would be for
going away from home afterwards and living somewhere where no one would
know her story; but not for this did she ever waver in her
determination. Ronald Mervyn must be saved from hanging, for she would
be as bad as a murderess if she kept silent and suffered him to be
executed for a crime she knew that he had not committed.

Still she would not do it until the last thing; not till everything else
failed would she denounce George Forester as a murderer. She loved him
no longer; she knew that had he not been interrupted he would perhaps
have killed her. It was partly the thought of their boy-and-girl life,
and of the hours they had spent together by the side of the Dare, that
softened her heart; this and the thought of the misery of the kind old
man, his father.

"I don't understand Ruth," the doctor said one day to Mrs. Powlett. "She
ought to get better faster than she does. Of course she has had a
terrible shock, and I quite understand its affecting her as it did, just
as she was recovering from her former illness; but she does not mend as
she ought to do. She has lost strength instead of gaining it during the
past week. She is flushed and feverish, and has a hunted look about her
eyes. If I had known nothing of the circumstances of the case I should
have said that she has something on her mind."

"There is nothing she can have on her mind," Hesba Powlett replied. "You
know we had trouble with her about that good-for-nothing George
Forester?" The doctor nodded. It was pretty well known throughout the
village how matters stood.

"She gave him up weeks and weeks ago, just at the time he went away,
when he was wanted for the share he had in that poaching business up in
the Carne Woods. She told her father that she saw we had been right, and
would have nothing more to say to him. That was a week or more before
she had that fall on the hill, and I have never heard her mention his
name since. I feel sure that she is not fretting about him. Ruth has
always been a sensible girl, and once she has made up her mind she
wasn't likely to turn back again."

"No, I should not say that she was fretting on his account, Mrs.
Powlett. Fretting in young women shows itself in lowness of spirits and
general depression and want of tone. In her case it appears to me to be
rather some sort of anxiety, though about what I cannot guess. If it had
been any other girl in the village, I should have had my suspicion that
she had taken a fancy in some way to Ronald Mervyn, and was anxious
about the trial; but of course that is out of the question in Ruth's
case. No doubt she is anxious about the trial, and has a nervous dread
of being obliged to stand up and describe the scene again in a crowded
court, and perhaps be questioned and cross-questioned. It's a trying
thing for any one; still more so, of course, for a girl whose nerves
have been shattered, and who is in a weak and debilitated state of
health. Well, I shall be heartily glad when it's all over, and we settle
down into our ordinary ways."

"What do you think will be the verdict, sir? Do you think they will find
Captain Mervyn guilty?"

"I do not like to give an opinion, Mrs. Powlett. It depends so much on
the jury, and on the way the counsel and judge put it, but I hardly
think that the evidence is sufficient to hang a man. There are, of
course, grave grounds for suspicion, but I should doubt whether any jury
would find Mervyn guilty upon them. It would be amply sufficient if it
were merely a case of robbery, but men don't like to find a verdict when
there is a possibility of their finding out too late to save a man's
life that they have been mistaken. At any rate, Mrs. Powlett, do your
best to keep Ruth's thoughts from dwelling on the subject. I wish it was
summer weather, and that she could sit out in the garden. Of course she
is not strong enough to be able to walk, except for a hundred yards or
so, but I would get her to take a little turn, if it's only once round
the garden now and then."

"I don't think she would walk if she could, sir. When I was speaking the
other day about her getting well enough to go out for walks, she turned
white and shivered, and said she didn't want to go outside the door
again, not for ever so long. That fall she got seems to have changed her
altogether."

"Well, well, we must get her away, as I said, Mrs. Powlett. She wants
more bracing air than you have got here, and to have the wind either
coming straight off the sea or else to be in some hilly, breezy place."

"I am sure I don't know how it's to be managed. She can't go by herself,
and I don't see how I am to leave Hiram."

"You will have to leave Hiram for a day or two, and take her wherever we
fix upon as the best place and settle her there. Hiram will get on very
well without you for a day or two. She is no more fit to travel alone
than a baby. However, I must be off. Keep up her spirits as well as you
can, and don't let her brood over this business."

At last the day when Ronald Mervyn was to be tried for murder arrived.
The Assizes were at Exeter, and never in the memory of man had there
been such numerous applications to the sheriff and other officials for
seats in the court. The interest in the case had extended far beyond the
limits of Devonshire. The rank in life of the victim and the accused,
the cold-blooded nature of the murder, and the nature of the evidence
rendered the affair a _cause celebre_, and the _pros_ and _cons_ of the
case were discussed far and wide.

The story of the curse of Carne's Hold had been given at full length by
the reporters of the local papers and copied by all the journals of the
kingdom, and the fact that madness was hereditary in the family went for
much in the arguments of those who held that Captain Mervyn was guilty.
Had it not been for this, the tide of public feeling would have been
distinctly in favour of the accused.

By itself, the rest of the evidence was inconclusive. Men who have been
jilted not unfrequently use strong language, and even threats, without
anything coming of it. The fact of the glove having been found where it
was was certainly suspicious, but, after all, that in itself did not
count for much; the glove might have been blown to where it was found,
or a dog might have picked it up and carried it there. A dozen
explanations, all possible even if not probable, could be given for its
presence, and before a man could be found guilty of murder upon
circumstantial evidence, there must be no room whatever left for doubt.
Therefore, the quarrel, the finding of the glove, and even the fact that
Captain Mervyn was unable to prove an _alibi_, would scarcely have
caused public opinion to decide against him had it not been for the fact
of that taint of insanity in his blood. Call a dog mad and you hang him.
Call a man mad and the public will easily credit him with the commission
of the most desperate crimes; therefore, the feeling of the majority of
those who assembled at the Court House at Exeter, was unfavourable to
Ronald Mervyn.

The attitude of the prisoner did much to dispel this impression; he was
grave, as one might well be with such a charge hanging over him, but
there was nothing moody or sombre, still less wild, in his expression;
he looked calmly round the court, acknowledged the encouraging nods
given him by some of his fellow officers, who had come over to bear
witness on the point of character, and who to a man believed him to be
innocent. Certainly there was nothing to suggest in the slightest degree
the suspicion of madness in his appearance; and many of those who had
before been impressed by the story of the family taint, now veered round
and whispered to their friends that the story of insanity was all
nonsense, and that Ronald Mervyn looked wholly incapable of such a crime
as that of which he was accused.

Dr. Arrowsmith had brought Ruth over under his personal charge. As she
came out, when he called in his trap to take her to the station, he was
surprised at the change which had taken place since he saw her the
evening before. The anxious and nervous expression of her face was gone,
and she looked calm and composed. There was indeed a certain determined
expression in her face that led the doctor to believe that she had by a
great effort conquered her fear of the ordeal to which she was to be
exposed, and had nerved herself to go through it unflinchingly. As they
journeyed in the train she asked him:

"Shall we be in the court all the time, doctor?"

"No, Ruth, I do not think you will be in court. I fancy the witnesses
remain in a room together until they are wanted. I myself shall be in
court, as the solicitor for the defence is a personal friend of mine,
and will give me a place at his table."

"Do you think, sir, that after I have given my evidence they would let
me stand there until it is done?"

"I should hardly think so, Ruth, and I am sure it would be a very bad
thing for you."

"I have a particular reason for wanting to be there, Dr. Arrowsmith, and
to hear it to the end. A most particular reason. I can't tell you what
it is, but I must be there."

The doctor looked at her in surprise.

"You think you will not feel the suspense as much if you are in the
court as you would outside Ruth? Is that what you mean?"

"That's it, partly, sir. Anyhow, I feel that I must be there."

"Very well, Ruth, if you see it in that way, I will do what I can for
you. I will ask Captain Hendricks to speak to the policemen in the
court, and tell them to let you remain there after you have given your
evidence. There will be a great crowd, you know, and it will be very
close, and altogether I think it is foolish and wrong of you."

"I am sorry you think so, sir; but I do want to be there, whatever
happens to me afterwards."

"Of course you can do as you like, Ruth; but the probability is that you
will faint before you have been there five minutes."

"I will try not to, sir, and I don't think I shall. It is only when I
get a sudden shock that I faint, and I don't think I can get one there."




CHAPTER VII.

THE VERDICT.


The trial of Ronald Mervyn for the murder of Margaret Carne was marked
by none of the unexpected turns or sudden surprises that not
unfrequently give such a dramatic interest to the proceedings. All the
efforts of the police had failed in unearthing any facts that could
throw a new light upon the subject, and the evidence brought forward was
almost identical with that given at the coroner's inquest; the counsel
asked a great many questions, but elicited no new facts of importance;
the only witnesses called for the defence were those as to character,
and one after another the officers of Mervyn's regiment came forward to
testify that he was eminently popular, and that they had never observed
in him any signs of madness.

They said that at times he got out of spirits, and was in the habit of
withdrawing himself from their society, and that on these occasions he
not infrequently went for long rides, and was absent many hours; he was,
perhaps, what might be called a little queer, but certainly not in the
slightest degree mad. Old servants of the family and many neighbours
gave testimony to the same effect, and Dr. Arrowsmith testified that he
had attended him from childhood, and that he had never seen any signs of
insanity in his words or actions.

Ruth had escaped the one question which she dreaded, whether she had
seen anything in the room that would afford a clue to the discovery of
the perpetrator of the crime. She had thought this question over a
hundred times, and she had pondered over the answer she should give. She
was firmly resolved not to tell an actual lie, but either to evade the
question by replying that when she recovered her senses she made
straight to the door without looking round; or, if forced to reply
directly, to refuse to answer, whatever the consequences might be. It
was then with a sigh of deep relief that she left the witness-box, and
took up her station at the point to which the policeman made way for
her. As she did so, however, he whispered:

"I think you had better go out, my girl. I don't think this is a fit
place for you. You look like to drop now;" but she shook her head
silently, and took up her station in the corner, grasping in one hand
something done up in many folds of paper in her pocket.

The same question had been asked other witnesses by the counsel for the
defence, and he had made a considerable point of the fact that the
constable and Dr. Arrowsmith both testified that the candles were
standing one on each side of the looking-glass, and although the room
had been carefully searched, no half-burnt match had been discovered. In
his address for the defence he had animadverted strongly upon this
point.

"It was a dark night, gentlemen. A dark night in November. You will
remember we had the evidence that whoever committed this murder must
have moved about the room noiselessly; the evidence shows that the
murderer drew down the clothes so gently and softly that he did not
awaken the sleeper. Now, as intelligent men, you cannot but agree with
me that no man could have made his way about this absolutely dark room
with its tables and its furniture, and carried out this murder in the
way stated, without making some noise; it would be an utter
impossibility. What is the conclusion? He was either provided with a
light, or he was forced to strike a match and light a candle.

"In the latter case he must have been provided with silent matches, or
the noise would have awakened the sleeper. Of one thing you may be sure,
Captain Mervyn had not provided himself with silent matches; but even
had not the sound of an ordinary match being struck awakened the
sleeper, surely the sudden light would have done so. I ask you from your
own experience whether, however soundly you might be sleeping, the
effect of a candle being lit in your room would not awaken you;
therefore I think it safe to assume that in the first place, because no
match was found, and in the second place, because had a candle been lit
it would assuredly have awakened the sleeper, and we know that she was
not awakened, that no candle was lighted in the room.

"How then did the assassin manage after entering the room to avoid the
dressing-table, the chairs, and other furniture, and to see to
manipulate the bedclothes so gently that the sleeper was not awakened?
Why, gentlemen, by means of the implement carried by every professional
burglar, I mean, of course, a dark lantern. Opening the shade slightly,
and carefully abstaining from throwing the light towards the bed, the
burglar would make his way towards it, showing sufficient light to carry
out his diabolical purpose, and then opening it freely to examine the
room, open the trinket-box, and carry away the valuables.

"The counsel for the prosecution, gentlemen, has not even ventured to
suggest that the prisoner, Captain Mervyn, was possessed of such an
article. His course has been traced through every village that he rode,
up to ten o'clock at night, by which time every shop had long been
closed, and had he stopped anywhere to buy such an article we should
surely have heard of it. Therefore, gentlemen, I maintain that even if
this fact stood alone, it ought to convince you of the innocence of the
prisoner.

"In his reply, the counsel for the prosecution had admitted that some
weight must be attached to this point, but that it was quite possible
that whoever entered the window might have felt on the table until he
found a candlestick, and lit it, stooping down behind the table, or at
the bottom of the bed, and so shading it with his coat that its light
would not fall on the face of the sleeper. As for the point made that no
match had been found, no great weight could be attached to it; the
prisoner might have put it in his pocket or thrown it out of the
window."

When the defence was concluded, and the counsel for the prosecution rose
to speak, the feeling in the court was still against the prisoner.

In all that had been said the evidence pointed against him, and him
only, as the author of the crime; no hint of suspicion had been dropped
against any other person; and the manner in which the crime had been
committed indicated strongly that it was the act of a person actuated by
jealousy, or animosity rather than that of a mere burglar. This view of
the case was strongly brought out by the counsel for the prosecution.

"The theory of the prosecution is," he said, "not that this unfortunate
gentleman, while in the full possession of his senses, slew this lady,
to whom he was nearly related, and for whom he had long cherished a
sincere affection--the character you have heard given him by so many
witnesses would certainly seem to show him to be a man incapable of such
a crime. Our theory is that the latent taint of insanity in his
blood--that insanity which, as you have heard from Dr. Arrowsmith and
other witnesses, is hereditary in his ancestors on his mother's side,
and has, before now, caused calamities, almost if not quite as serious
as this--suddenly flamed out. We believe that, as has been shown by
witnesses, he galloped away many miles over the country, but we believe
that at last, wrought up to the highest pitch of frenzy, he returned,
scaled the wall, opened the window, and murdered Miss Carne. You have
heard that he was subject to moody fits, when he shunned all society;
these fits, these wild rides you have heard of, are symptoms of a
disordered mind. Perhaps had all gone happily with him, the malady would
not have shown its

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