The witchs head 1884, p.13
The Witch’s Head (1884), page 13
Instinctively Ernest took off his hat, and as he did so some fragments of his curly hair fell to the ground. There was a neat hole through the felt, and a neat groove along his thick hair. His cousin had meant to kill him; and he was a good shot — so good that he thought that he could put a ball through Ernest’s head. But he forgot that a heavy American revolver, with forty grains of powder behind the ball, is apt to throw a trifle high.
They all stood silent and looked at the body; and the lark, that had been frightened by the noise, began to sing again.
“This will not do,” said Mr. Alston presently. “We had better move the body in there,” and he pointed to the deserted hut. “Captain Justice, what do you intend to do?”
“Give myself up to the authorities, I suppose,” was the gallant Captain’s scared answer.
“Very well. I don’t advise you to do that, but it you are determined to, there is no need for you to be in a hurry about it. You must give us time to get clear first.”
They lifted the corpse, reverently bore it into the deserted hut, and laid it on the floor. Ernest remained standing looking at the red stain where it had been. Presently they came out again, and Mr. Alston kicked some sand over the stain and hid it.
“Now,” he said, “we had better make an addition to those documents, to say how this came about.”
They all went back to the hut, and the addition was made, standing there by the body. When it came to Ernest’s turn to sign, he almost wished that his signature was the one missing from the foot of that ghastly postscriptum. Mr. Alston guessed his thoughts.
“The fortune of war,” he said, coolly. “Now, Captain Justice, we are going to catch the early boat, and we hope that you will not give yourself up before midday, if you can help it. The inquiry into the affair will not then be held before to-morrow; and by eleven to-morrow morning I hope to have seen the last of England for some years to come.”
The Captain was a good fellow at bottom, and had no wish to see others dragged into trouble.
“I shall certainly give myself up,” he said; “but I don’t see any reason to hurry about it. I don’t think that they can do much to me here. Poor Hugh! he can well afford to wait,” he added, with a sigh, glancing down at the figure that lay so still, with a coat thrown over the face. “I suppose that they will lock me up for six months — pleasant prospect! But I say, Mr. Kershaw, you had better keep clear; it will be more awkward for you. You see, he was your cousin, and by his death you become, unless I am mistaken, next heir to the title.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ernest, vaguely.
Here it may be stated that Captain Justice found himself sadly mistaken. Instead of the six months he expected, he was arraigned for murder, and finally sentenced to a term of penal servitude. He received a pardon, however, after serving about a year of his time.
“Come, we must be off,” said Mr. Alston, “or we shall be late for the boat;” and, bowing to Captain Justice, he left the hut.
Ernest followed his example, and, when he had gone a few yards, glanced round at the hateful spot. There stood Captain Justice in the doorway of the hut, looking much depressed, and there, a few yards to the left, was the impress in the sand that marked where his cousin had fallen. He never saw either the man or the place again.
“Kershaw,” said Mr. Alston, “what do you propose doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you must think; remember, you are in an awkward fix. You know by English law duelling is murder; and now I come to think of it, I expect that this place is subject to the English law in criminal matters, or at least that the law is identical.”
“I think I had better give myself up, like Captain Justice.”
“Nonsense. You must hide away somewhere for a year or two till the row blows over.”
“Where am I to hide?”
“Have you any money, or can you get any?”
“Yes, I have nearly two hundred and fifty pounds on me now.”
“My word, that is fortunate! Well, now, what I have to suggest is, that you should assume a false name, and sail for South Africa with me. I am going up country on a shooting expedition, outside British territory, so there will be little fear of your being caught and extradited. Then, in a year or so, when the affair is forgotten, you can come back to England. What do you say to that?”
“I suppose I may as well go there as anywhere else. I shall be a marked man all my life, anyhow. What does it matter where I go?”
“Ah, you are down on your luck now; by-and-by you will cheer up again.”
Just then they met a fisherman, who gazed at them, wondering what the two gentlemen were doing out walking at that hour; but concluding that, after the mad fashion of Englishmen, they had been to bathe, he passed them with a civil “Bonjour.” Ernest coloured to the eyes under the scrutiny; he was beginning to feel the dreadful burden of his secret. Presently they reached the steamer, and found Mr. Alston’s little boy Roger, who, though he was only nine years old was as quick and self-reliant as many English lads of fourteen, waiting for them by the bridge.
“Oh, here you are, father; you have been walking so long that I thought you would miss the boat. I have brought the luggage down all right, and this gentleman’s too.”
“That’s right, my lad. Kershaw, do you go and take the tickets; I want to get rid of this;” and he tapped the revolver-case, that was concealed beneath his coat.
Ernest did so, and presently met Mr. Alston on the boat. A few minutes more and, to his intense relief, she cast off and stood out to sea. There were not very many passengers on board, and those there were, were too much taken up in making preparations to be sea-sick to take any notice of Ernest. Yet he could not shake himself free from the idea that everybody knew that he had just killed a man. His own self-consciousness was so intense that he saw his guilt on the faces of all he met. He gazed around him in awe, expecting every moment to be greeted as a murderer. Most people who have ever done anything they should not are acquainted with this sensation.
Overcome with this idea, he took refuge in his berth, nor did he emerge therefrom till the boat reached Weymouth. There both he and Mr. Alston bought some rough clothes, and, to a great extent, succeeded in disguising themselves; then made their way across country to Southampton in the same train, but in separate compartments. Reaching Southampton without let or hindrance, they agreed to take passages in the Union Company’s R.M.S. Moor, sailing on the following morning. Mr. Alston obtained a list of the passengers; fortunately there was no one among them whom he knew. For greater security, however, they took steerage passages, and booked themselves under assumed names. Ernest took his second Christian name, and figured on the passenger list as E. Beyton, while Mr. Alston and his boy assumed the name of James. They took their passages at different times, and feigned to be unknown to each other. These precautions they found to be doubly necessary, inasmuch as at Southampton Mr. Alston managed to get hold of a book on English criminal law, from which it appeared that the fact of the duel having been fought in Guernsey did not in the least clear them from the legal consequences of the act, as they had vaguely supposed would be the case, on the insufficient authority of Captain Justice’s statement.
At last the vessel sailed, and it was with a sigh of relief that Ernest saw his native shores fade from view. As they disappeared a fellow-passenger, valet to a gentleman going to the Cape for his health, politely offered him a paper to read. It was the Standard of that day’s date. He took it and glanced at the foreign intelligence. The first thing that caught his eye was the following paragraph, headed “A fatal Duel”:
“The town of St. Peter’s in Guernsey has been thrown into a state of consternation by the discovery of an English gentleman, who was this morning shot dead in a duel. Captain Justice, of the —— Hussars, who was the unfortunate gentleman’s second, has surrendered himself to the authorities. The other parties, who are at present unknown, have absconded. It is said that they have been traced to Weymouth; but there all trace of them has been lost. The cause of the duel is unknown, and in the present state of excitement it is difficult to obtain authentic information.”
By the pilot who left the vessel Ernest despatched two letters, one to Eva Ceswick, and the other — which contained a copy of the memoranda drawn up before and after the duel, and attested by Mr. Alston — to his uncle. To both he told the story of his misfortune, fully and fairly, imploring the former not to forget him and to wait for happier times, and asking the forgiveness of the latter for the trouble that he had brought upon himself and all belonging to him. Should they wish to write to him, he gave his address as Ernest Beyton, Post-office, Maritzburg.
The pilot-boat hoisted her brown sail with a huge white P. upon it and vanished into the night; and Ernest, feeling that he was a ruined man, and with the stain of blood upon his hands, crept to his bunk and wept like a child.
Yesterday he had been loved, prosperous, happy, with a bright career before him. To-day he was a nameless outcast, departing into exile, and his young life shadowed by a cloud in which he could see no break.
Well might he weep; it was a hard lesson.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
MY POOR EVA
TWO DAYS AFTER the pilot-boat, flitting away from the vessel’s side like some silent-flighted bird, had vanished into the night, Florence Ceswick happened to be walking past the village post-office on her way to pay a visit to Dorothy, when it struck her that the afternoon post must be in, and that she might as well ask if there were any letters for Dum’s Ness. There was no second delivery at Kesterwick, and she knew that it was not always convenient to Mr. Cardus to send in. The civil old postmaster gave her a little bundle of letters, remarking at the same time that he thought that there was one for the Cottage.
“Is it for me, Mr. Brown?” asked Florence.
“No, miss; it is for Miss Eva.”
“O, then, I will leave it; I am going up to Dum’s Ness. No doubt Miss Eva will call.”
She knew that Eva watched the arrival of the posts very carefully. When she got outside the office she glanced at the bundle of letters in her hand, and noticed with a start that one of them, addressed to Mr. Cardus, was in Ernest’s handwriting. It bore a Southampton post-mark. What, she wondered, could he be doing at Southampton? He should have been in Guernsey.
She walked on briskly to Dum’s Ness, and on her arrival found Dorothy sitting working in the sitting-room. After she had greeted her she handed over the letters.
“There is one from Ernest,” she said.
“O, I am so glad!” answered Dorothy. “Who is it for?”
“For Mr. Cardus. O, here he comes.”
Mr. Cardus shook hands with her, and thanked her for bringing the letters, which he turned over casually, after the fashion of a man accustomed to receive large quantities of correspondence of an uninteresting nature. Presently his manner quickened, and he opened Ernest’s letter. Florence fixed her keen eyes upon him. He read the letter; she read his face.
Mr. Cardus was accustomed to conceal his emotions, but on this occasion it was clear that they were too strong for him. Astonishment and grief pursued each other across his features as he proceeded. Finally he put the letter down and glanced at an enclosure.
“What is it, Reginald, what is it?” asked Dorothy.
“It is,” answered Mr. Cardus solemnly, “that Ernest is a murderer and a fugitive.”
Dorothy sank into a chair with a groan, and covered her face with her hands. Florence turned ashy pale.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Read the letter for yourself, and see. Stop, read it aloud, and the enclosure too. I may have misunderstood.”
Florence did so in a quiet voice. It was wonderful how her power came out in contrast to the intense disturbance of the other two. The old man of the world shook like a leaf, the young girl stood firm as a rock. Yet, in all probability, her interest in Ernest was more intense than his.
When she had finished, Mr. Cardus spoke again.
“You see,” he said, “I was right. He is a murderer and an outcast. And I loved the boy, I loved him. Well, let him go.”
“O, Ernest, Ernest!” sobbed Dorothy.
Florence glanced from one to the other with contempt.
“What are you talking about?” she said at last. “What is there to make all this fuss about? ‘Murderer,’ indeed! Then our grandfathers were often murderers. What would you have had him do? Would you have had him give up the woman’s letter to save himself? Would you have had him put up with this other man’s insults about his mother? If he had, I would never have spoken to him again. Stop that groaning, Dorothy. You should be proud of him; he behaved as a gentleman should. If I had the right I should be proud of him;” and her breast heaved and the proud lips curled as she said it.
Mr. Cardus listened attentively, and it was evident that her enthusiasm moved him.
“There is something in what Florence says,” he broke in. “I should not have liked the boy to show the white feather. But it is an awful business to kill one’s own first cousin, especially when one is next in the entail. Old Kershaw will be furious at losing his only son, and Ernest will never be able to come back to this country while he lives, or he will set the law on him.”
“It is dreadful!” said Dorothy; “just as he was beginning life, and going into a profession, and now to have to go and wander in that far-off country under a false name!”
“O, yes, it is sad enough,” said Mr. Cardus; “but what is done cannot be undone. He is young, and will live it down, and if the worst comes to the worst, must make himself a home out there. But it is hard upon me, hard upon me;” and he went to his office, muttering, “hard upon me.”
When Florence started upon her homeward way, the afternoon had set in wet and chilly, and the sea was hidden in wreaths of grey mist. Altogether the scene was depressing. On arrival at the Cottage she found Eva standing, the picture of melancholy, by the window, and staring out at the misty sea.
“O, Florence, I am glad that you have come home; I really began to feel inclined to commit suicide.”
“Indeed! and may I ask why?”
“I don’t know; the rain is so depressing, I suppose.”
“It does not depress me.”
“No, nothing ever does; you live in the land of perpetual calm.”
“I take exercise, and keep my liver in good order. Have you been out this afternoon?”
“No.”
“Ah, I thought not. No wonder you feel depressed, staying indoors all day. Why don’t you go for a walk?”
“There is nowhere to go.”
“Really, Eva, I don’t know what has come to you lately. Why don’t you go along the cliff, or stop — have you been to the post-office? I called for the Dum’s Ness letters, and Mr. Brown said that there was one for you.”
Eva jumped up with remarkable animation, and passed out of the room with her peculiarly light tread. The mention of that word “letter” had sufficed to change the aspect of things considerably.
Florence watched her go with a dark little smile.
“Ah,” she said aloud, as the door closed, “your feet will soon fall heavily enough.”
Presently Eva went out, and Florence, having thrown off her cloak, took her sister’s place at the window and waited. It was seven minute’s walk to the post-office. She would be back in about a quarter of an hour. Watch in hand, Florence waited patiently. Seventeen minutes had elapsed when the garden-gate was opened, and Eva re-entered, her face quite grey with pain, and furtively applying a handkerchief to her eyes. Florence smiled again.
“I thought so,” she said.
From all of which it will be seen that Florence was a very remarkable woman. She had scarcely exaggerated when she said that her heart was as deep as the sea. The love that she bore Ernest was the strongest thing in all her strong and vigorous life; when every other characteristic and influence crumbled away and was forgotten, it would still remain over-mastering as ever. And when she discovered that her high love, the greatest and best part of her, had been made a plaything of by a thoughtless boy, who kissed girls on the same principle that a duck takes to water, because it came natural to him, the love in its mortal agonies gave birth to a hate destined to grow as great as itself. But, with all a woman’s injustice, it was not directed towards the same object. On Ernest, indeed, she would wreak vengeance if she could, but she still loved him as dearly as at first. The revenge would be a mere episode in the history of her passion. But to her sister, the innocent woman who, she chose to consider had robbed her, she gave all that bountiful hate. Herself the more powerful character of the two, she determined upon the utter destruction of the weaker. Strong as Fate, and unrelenting as Time, she dedicated her life to that end. Everything, she said, comes to those who can wait. She forgot that the Providence above us can wait the longest of us all. In the end it is Providence that wins.
Eva came in, and Florence heard her make her way up the stairs to her room. Again she spoke to herself:
“The poor fool will weep over him and renounce him. If she had the courage she would follow him and comfort him in his trouble, and so tie him to her for ever. Oh, that I had her chance! But the chances always come to fools.”
Then she went upstairs and listened outside Eva’s door. She was sobbing audibly. Turning the handle, she walked casually in.
“Well, Eva, did you —— Why, my dear girl, what is the matter with you?”
Eva, who was lying sobbing on her bed, turned her head to the wall and went on sobbing.
“What is the matter, Eva? If you only knew how absurd you look!”
“No-no-nothing!”
“Nonsense! People do not make such a scene as this for nothing.”
No answer.
“Come, my dear, as your affectionate sister, I really must ask what has happened to you.”
