CHAPTER XXX

It is strange that she should have gone out without letting me know,” said Agnes. “I don't think that it is likely she would leave the grounds by the lower gate. She must still be somewhere in the garden. Having fed the pigeons she might have strayed up to the Knoll.”

The Knoll was the small hillock overgrown with pines from which the house took its name.

“She was in her dressing-room since she fed the pigeons,” said the maid. “I fancied that I heard her leave the room, but no one appears to have noticed whether she left the house or not.”

“You will please send a couple of the servants round the grounds and up to the Knoll,” said Agnes. “It is rather important that she should be found with as little delay as possible.”

“I beg your pardon,” cried the maid quickly. “I did not know that you wanted Miss Tristram particularly. I understood that you were making a casual inquiry for her. Not a moment shall be lost in seeking for her.”

When the door closed behind the maid, poor Agnes once again began to take exaggerated views of the simplest occurrences. The disappearance of Clare she thought of as something mysterious. Why should she go away without acquainting any one of the fact that she was leaving the house? Why should she steal out by the lower gate, which involved a walk through the damp grass of the shrubberies? The lower gate was scarcely ever used in the winter months, and but rarely in the summer except by the gardener, whose cottage was at that part of the grounds.

The incident assumed in her excited brain a magnitude which in ordinary circumstances she would never think of attributing to it. And her reflection in regard to this incident was followed by a suspicion that caused her to cover her eyes with her hands.

She was endeavouring to shut out the horrible sight which might be before the eyes of the servants who were searching the grounds. She had heard of sensitive girls, such as Clare undoubtedly was, making away with themselves when overcome with grief; and she began to wonder how it was that she had failed to see something more than usually pathetic in that picture of the girl surrounded by her pigeons on the lawn. That was the picture which had come before the eyes of Claude Westwood, and that was the picture which would always remain in her own memory, Agnes was assured—the last look she had had of the sweet girl who was now—

She shuddered at the thought that came to her; for with it came a cry of self-reproach:

“It is I—I—who have killed her! She may have been alive when I got the letter that should have given her happiness; but I waited—I tried to deceive myself into the belief that I had misread the letter when its meaning was clear to me from the first. I have killed her!”

She rushed from the room and hurried up the stairs to the apartment that Clare had occupied. She turned the handle of the door with trembling fingers, and looked fearfully into the room, not knowing what horrible sight might await her there. Rut the room was the same as ever; only when she entered did she notice that the bed was slightly pressed down in the centre, and that the pillow was no longer smooth; it was tossed, and there was a mark that was still damp upon it.

She knew that Clare had suddenly flung herself down on the bed, and had left the traces of her tears upon the pillow.

She gave a start, hearing the sound of feet on the oak of the hall. The servants had returned from their search, and the shuffling of their feet told her that they were carrying something with them—something with a cloak over it—a pall over it. She put up her hands to her eyes once more to shut out that sight; and then she heard the quiet steps of some one ascending.

She knew what this meant, some one was coming to break the awful news to her as gently as possible.

She was standing at the half-open door when the maid reached the lobby.

“You need tell me nothing; I see upon your face all that you come to tell me,” whispered Agnes.

The woman looked at her in surprise.

“I fear you are not quite well, ma'am,” she said quietly. “We did not need to search far: the gardener came up and told us that he had met Miss Tristram walking on the road not more than half-an-hour ago. He had been down to the larches and Miss Tristram was going in the direction of Unwin Church. It was as I suggested: she was taking a walk, having left the grounds by the lower gate. I am sure that she will be back again before lunch. Are you not well, Miss Mowbray?”

“I am quite well,” said Agnes. “I was only a little surprised that Miss Tristram could have left the grounds without my noticing her do so. I was in the drawing-room all the time.”

She went to her own room and stood at the window, wondering how it was that she had been so certain that Clare had resolved to die. Was it because she herself was ready to welcome death at that moment? She fell on her knees and prayed that she might have strength to live—she prayed that she might have strength to resist the temptation to end in a moment the terrible consciousness that in another week or two all the world would be ringing with the name which she bore—the consciousness that every finger would be pointed at her, while those who pointed at her would whisper the name of her brother. She prayed for strength to bear the appalling burden which had been laid upon her.

In that nervous condition which was hers she felt that she must do something: she could not rest patiently until the return of Clare. She felt that as she had told Claude the secret which had placed a gulf between him and Clare, it was right that she should tell him without delay that, although it was true that the girl was the daughter of Carton Stand-ish, yet Carton Standish was innocent of the crime for which he was suffering imprisonment.

She rang her bell, and gave orders for the brougham; and then, with nervous hands, she put on her fur coat and hat, and went down to the hall fire to wait for the sound of wheels. The butler, who was bringing some silver into the dining-room for the luncheon table, paused for a moment and asked her if she would wish the hour for lunch to be delayed. She told him that lunch was to be served when Miss Tristram should come in.

A sudden thought occurred to her. She would not keep Clare waiting for her good news should she come in before her own return from the Court.

She had thought of driving Claude back with her in the brougham after she had communicated her good news to him—it would be good news to him. What did he care how heavy was the blow that had fallen upon her so long as he was free to marry Clare?

She went into the study and wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper:

“Dearest,—God has been good to you. Something like a miracle has happened, and the barrier which Claude saw between you and him is removed. I am bringing him to you. Wait for our coming.

“Agnes.”

She addressed the cover and desired the butler to give it to Clare the moment she returned.

At last the sound of the broughem was heard on the drive. She entered the carriage after satisfying herself that Cyril's confession was in her pocket.

The butler at the Court said that Mr. Westwood was not at home at that moment; he thought that most likely he was gone to the cottage of Dangan, Sir Percival Hope's keeper, who, as perhaps Miss Mowbray had heard, had been shot during the night. Mr. Westwood had said, before leaving the Court, that he would be back for lunch, so perhaps Miss Mowbray would wait in the drawing-room for his coming. It was unlikely that he would be late.

Miss Mowbray said she would wait, and was shown into the drawing-room.

For a few minutes after seating herself she was calm; but then her brain began to whirl once more. The thought came to her that she was in the very room where Cyril and Dick had sat on that night before the horrible deed was done. She started up, thinking that perhaps she was sitting in the very chair in which her brother had sat looking in the face of the man whom he meant to kill.

She glanced at the portrait on the easel and seemed to see once again the form of Dick Westwood beside the window through which he had gone to his death.

“Why did he do it—why—oh, why?” she whispered. “You were always so good to him, Dick—you were always his friend when every one else shunned him. How could he do it?”

She had begun to pace the room wildly, but after some moments a curious doubt seemed to cross her mind. She took the letter out of her pocket and read it for the third time with beating heart, for the echo of that question of hers, “Why—why—why?” seemed to ring round the room. Surely she must have misread it.

She crushed it into her pocket once more.

“It is there—there,” she whispered. “He confesses it. There is no hope for me. No hope—no hope”—

She had begun pacing the room once more, and as she spoke she found herself standing in front of the glazed case of poisoned arrows which Claude had brought back with him from Africa.

She looked at the arrows and repeated the words, “No hope—no hope.”

The beating of her heart sounded through the stillness.

“I was wrong—I was wrong,” she whispered, with her eyes still gazing at those strange things as if they had power to fascinate her. She looked at them, then with a shudder she turned and fled across the room. “No, no, not that—not that!” she cried.

She stood beside the screen at the other side of the room; and then she seemed to hear again the voice which had said those words in her ear—“The sister of a murderer—the sister of the man who killed his best friend. He will be here in a day or two and all the world will ring with his name—with your name. There is no hope for you—no hope!”

She put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out that dread voice; but it would not be shut out. It came to her with maddening monotony. She walked to and fro saying beneath her breath:

“Mercy—mercy—for God's sake, mercy!”

She made a pause as if listening for something. Then with a cry, in the agony of her despair, she rushed back to the case of arrows and crashed in the glass with both her gloved hands.

In a second her hands were grasped from behind.

“Agnes! Agnes, my beloved!” said Sir Percival.

She turned to him, looking wonderingly up to his face.

“My dearest, what has happened? What does that mean?”

He pointed to the broken glass while he was leading her away.

“You will soon know all,” she said. “I have the letter—it will tell you what I have no words to tell.”

He took the letter from her hand, and with one of his hands still holding hers, he read it.

“This tells me no more than I have known from the first,” said he.

“What, you knew that he was guilty?” she said.

“I knew it: I hoped that he would confess to you.”

“Good God! You knew of his guilt and let the innocent man suffer?”

“I heard nothing of that. I liked the girl for keeping the secret; he will marry her now.”

She stared at him.

“Who is the girl that knew it was he who killed Richard Westwood?” she asked.

“My poor Agnes! You are the victim of some dreadful misapprehension,” said Sir Percival. “This confession refers to Lizzie Dangan's fault.”

“What! But the murder—surely it can have but one meaning?” she cried.

“Oh, my beloved, I see it all now. Thank Heaven that I came in time to save you. You assumed that your brother's confession referred to the murder of Richard Westwood. You were wrong. I have just come from hearing the confession of the man who shot poor Westwood, and who died a quarter of an hour ago. It was Ralph Dangan who shot Richard Westwood with the revolver that by ill-luck he had found on the grass where the man Standish had thrown it. Dangan had seen Mr. Westwood with Lizzie that night—she had gone to him secretly for advice—and he shot him, believing that he was the girl's lover.” Agnes looked at him for a long time. She walked to the window and stood there for some moments; then with a cry she turned and stretched out her arms to him.

“My beloved—my beloved, you have suffered; but your days of suffering are over!” he whispered, as he held her close to him.

There were voices at the door.

Claude Westwood entered, followed by Clare; he hurried to Agnes.

“For God's sake, tell her nothing! It is too late now—she is my wife,” he said, in a low voice.

“Agnes—dearest, you will forgive me—but he sent for me, and I love him,” said Clare.

“Tell him,” said Agnes to Sir Percival, “tell him that it was Ralph Dangan who killed poor Dick.”

THE END