Read Ebook: An open verdict by Braddon M E Mary Elizabeth

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Ebook has 1341 lines and 59959 words, and 27 pages

There was a pause, and then she turned sharply upon the butler.

'There is something wrong,' she said, 'and you are trying to hide it from me. Is my father ill?'

Peacock faltered, stammered, and finally explained the state of things.

'When did you last see papa?' asked Beatrix, after he had finished.

'It was half-past ten o'clock, ma'am. I brought wood and coals, and asked if there was anything more wanted, and my master said no.'

'Was he looking ill--or agitated?'

'I did not notice anything particular. He was sitting quietly before the fire.'

'Reading?'

'No. He was not reading.'

Beatrix sank into her father's chair, very pale, and trembling in every limb. She could think of nothing--she could suggest nothing. For the moment the very power of thought seemed suspended, but this state of mental collapse did not last long. Bella leant over her and murmured something indistinctly soothing. Beatrix rose and went quickly to the door.

'Let us look in every room in the house,' she said. 'In my mother's rooms first of all. He may be there.'

'Oh, Miss Beatrix!' cried Peacock, 'why, you know those rooms are never opened.'

'Yes, sometimes by him. He keeps the key. The visitor last night was an old friend of my mother's. The sight of him might bring back thoughts of the past to my father.'

She ran quickly up stairs, and to the passage out of which her mother's rooms opened. It was at the end of the house opposite that in which Beatrix lived.

'See,' she cried, 'the key is in the door of the morning-room. My father is there.'

She knocked softly, and waited for a minute or so, but there was no answer. Then she took courage and went in alone; while Peacock, and the housekeeper, and Miss Scratchell waited breathlessly in the corridor.

There was a pause, which to these listeners seemed long, and then there rose a cry that thrilled them.

They went in all together, full of fear, and found Beatrix Harefield on her knees beside a sofa, on which, stretched at full length, clad in its monk's robe of gray cloth, lay that which a few hours ago had been the master of all things on the Water House estate, ruler of many lives, by the sublime right of ten thousand a year.

'Send some one for Mr. Namby,' cried Peacock.

'Come away with me, Miss Beatrix, love,' cried the housekeeper. 'You can't do any good, and you'll only make yourself unhappy. Come away with me and Miss Scratchell.'

Bella stood looking on, white and scared, and said not a word. Beatrix heard good Mrs. Peters' entreaties, but took no heed. She was still upon her knees, clasping a dead man's icy hand, and all the life within her seemed frozen like his.

'DUST AND AN ENDLESS DARKNESS.'

THE church clock struck twelve, and, as the last stroke died into silence, Little Yafford school-house discharged a torrent of children into the rainy street, boys in red comforters, girls in blue comforters, comforters of the three primary colours and all their secondaries. Overcoats and cloaks were scarce at Little Yafford, and the worsted comforter was the chief winter clothing.

'Rain, rain, go away, come again another day,' shrieked the children, making a choral appeal to the clerk of the weather.

And they went whooping down the street, spinning tops, flying shuttlecocks, as if the rain were rather agreeable than otherwise.

Cyril Culverhouse came out of the school-house, unfurling his well-worn umbrella. He had been holding an examination of the scholars at the end of the year, and was disheartened at finding some of them woefully ignorant, despite the pains he had taken with both pupils and teachers during the last twelve months. It was uphill work. He found the children's minds fairly stored with a collection of hard facts. They knew all about the deluge, and the passage of the Red Sea. They could tell him the names of the prophets, and were as familiar with Daniel and Jonah as if the adventures of those holy men had been events of the last year; but of spiritual things, of the principles and meaning of their religion, they had hardly an idea. Here all was dark. They were Christians because they had been signed with the sign of the Cross, and sprinkled with holy water by the parson. Their catechisms told them all about that. But what Christianity meant, with its Divine law of love, justice, and mercy, they knew nothing.

Mr. Culverhouse sighed as he opened his umbrella and went out into the cold and rain. This Christmastide did not come upon him as a particularly happy season--save in its purely spiritual aspect. He was full of anxiety about Beatrix. It was hard to live so near her, and yet not dare to approach her. He had seen her in church every Sunday morning, and had seen her looking ill and worn. He knew that she was unhappy, and without a friend except Bella Scratchell. What a dismal season Christmas must seem for her, poor child! How cruel a mockery the joy-bells, and holly boughs, and outward semblance of festivity!

His business to-day took him the direction of the bridge. He could see the Water House on the other side of the river, its gray walls and ivy-covered entrance tower looming darkly through a mist of rain. Who was this approaching him along the muddy road, struggling manfully against wind and rain? Cyril could see nothing but a pair of pepper and salt legs under a gingham umbrella. The pepper and salt legs brought the umbrella nearer him. It was an umbrella with a slippery brass handle, and altogether an affliction to its possessor. A sudden gust blew it on one side, and revealed the countenance of Mr. Namby, pale and agitated.

'How d'ye do, Namby?' said Cyril, with no intention of saying more, for the village surgeon was a talkative little man, and the busy curate had no time to waste upon gossip. But Mr. Namby made a dead stop.

'Oh, Mr. Culverhouse, I have just come from the Water House.' This was enough to bring Cyril to a standstill also. 'There is awful trouble there.'

'Good heavens! What trouble? Is Miss Harefield ill?'

'Poor child! She is in a dreadful state. Her father is dead.'

Cyril felt as if his heart had stopped beating. The rainy landscape rocked before his eyes, the muddy road reeled beneath his feet.

'Dead!' he gasped.

'Dead, suddenly. And I'm afraid by poison.'

'What!' cried Cyril. 'You must be mad to say such a thing.'

'It will be for the coroner to decide; there will be an inquest, of course. But I have no doubt as to the cause of death. There are all the symptoms of poisoning by opium.'

'Good God! Was he in the habit of taking opium?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

'But he surely must have been. How else should he come by his death? It must have been an over dose of opium.'

'I never heard him complain of acute pain. He had an iron constitution. He had no reason for taking opium that I can see.'

'No reason! Look at the men who take it without reason, for the pleasure of taking it. Look at Coleridge--De Quincey. Mr. Harefield was just the kind of man to be an opium-eater. That would account for his hermit-like life existence--his seclusion from all the world. He had a world of his own--he had the opium-eater's paradise.'

'It is possible,' said Mr. Namby, doubtfully. 'But it is strange that I should never have perceived the symptoms. There are unmistakable indications in the appearance of the habitual opium-eater.'

'How often did you see Mr. Harefield?'

'Not very often, I confess.'

'Not often enough for your observations of him to be worth much. Dead! It is very awful. When did it happen?'

Mr. Namby proceeded to relate all he had heard at the Water House; and for once in his life he found Cyril Culverhouse a patient listener.

'And Miss Harefield? How does she bear the shock?'

'She is very quiet. She seems stupefied. The whole thing was so sudden. She and Miss Scratchell dined with Mr. Harefield yesterday evening. There was nothing to show that he was ill or agitated, or in any way different from his usual self.'

'Who is with Miss Harefield?'

'Only Miss Scratchell and the servants. That excellent Miss Scales is away in Devonshire, with an ailing relation; but she is expected back daily.'

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