Dr. Rumsey's Patient Part 36

Even now the memory of it came up again to torment him. He had murdered his man with that stick; the whole thing was the purest accident, but that did not greatly matter, for the man had died; the ferrule of Awdrey's stick had entered his brain, causing instant death.

"Afterward I hid it away in the underwood," thought Awdrey. "I wonder where it is now--doubtless still there--but some day that part of the underwood may be cut down and the stick may be found. It might tell tales, I must find it."

He jogged his horse, and rode slowly home under the arching trees of the long avenue. He had a good view of the long, low, rambling house there--how sweet it looked, how homelike! But for this secret what a happy man he would be to-night. Ah, who was that standing at his office door? He started and hastened his horse's steps. Hetty Vincent was already there waiting for him.

"I must speak to her at once," he said to himself. "I hope no one will see her; it would never do for the people to think she was coming after me. This will be a disagreeable interview and must be got over quickly."

The Squire rode round the part of the avenue which led directly past the front of the long house. His wife, sisters, and Mrs. Everett were all seated near the large window. They were drinking tea and talking.

Margaret's elbow rested upon the window-ledge. She wore a silk dress of the softest gray. Her lovely face showed in full profile. Suddenly she heard the sound of his horse's steps and turned round to greet him.

"There you are; we are waiting for you," she called out.

"Come in, Robert, and have a cup," called out Dorothy, putting her head out of the window.

Dorothy was his favorite sister. Under other circ.u.mstances he would have sprung from his horse, given it to the charge of a groom who stood near, and joined his wife and friends. Now he called back in a clear, incisive voice:

"I have to attend to some business at my office, and will be in presently. Here, Davies, take my horse."

The man hurried forward and Awdrey strode round to the side entrance where his office was.

Hetty, looking flushed and pretty in her rustic hat with a bunch of cowslips pinned into the front of her jacket, stood waiting for him.

Awdrey took a key out of his pocket. The office had no direct communication with the house, but was always entered from outside. He unlocked the door and motioned Hetty to precede him into the room. She did so, he entered after her, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket. The next thing he did was to look at the windows. There were three large windows to the office, and they all faced on to a gra.s.s lawn outside. Any one pa.s.sing by could have distinctly seen the occupants of the room.

Awdrey went and deliberately pulled down one of the blinds.

"Come over here," he said to Hetty. "Take this chair." He took another himself at a little distance from her. So seated his face was in shadow, but the full light of the westering sun fell across hers. It lit up her bright eyes until they shone like jewels, and gave a bronze hue to her dark hair. The flush on her cheeks was of the damask of the rose; her brow and the rest of her face was milky white.

Long ago, as a young man, Awdrey had admired Hetty's real beauty, but no thought other than that of simple admiration had entered his brain. His was not the nature to be really attracted by a woman below himself in station. Now, however, his pulse beat a little faster than its wont as he glanced at her. He remembered with a swift, poignant sense of regret all that she had done for him and suffered for him. He could see traces of the trouble through which she had lived in her face; that trouble and her present anxiety gave a piquancy to her beauty which differentiated it widely from the ordinary beauty of the rustic village girl. As he watched her he forgot for a moment what she had come to speak to him about. Then he remembered it, and he drew himself together, but a pang shot through his heart. He thought of the small deceit which he was guilty of in drawing down the blind and placing himself and his auditor where no one from the outside could observe them.

"You want to speak to me," he said abruptly. "What about?"

"You must know, Mr. Robert," began Hetty. Her coral lips trembled, she looked like some one who would break down into hysterical weeping at any moment.

"This must be put a stop to," Awdrey bestowed another swift glance upon her, and took her measure. "I cannot pretend ignorance," he said, "but please try not to lose your self-control."

Hetty gulped down a great sob; the tears in her eyes were not allowed to fall.

"Then you remember?" she said.

Awdrey nodded.

"You remember everything, Mr. Robert?"

Awdrey nodded again.

"But you forgot at the time, sir."

Awdrey stood up; he put his hands behind him.

"I forgot absolutely," he said. "I suffered from the doom of my house. A cloud fell on me, and I knew no more than a babe unborn."

"I guessed that, sir; I was certain of it. That was why I took your part."

Awdrey waited until she was silent. Then he continued in a monotonous, strained tone.

"I have found my memory again. Four or five months ago at the beginning of this winter I came here. I visited the spot where the murder was committed, and owing to a chain of remarkable circ.u.mstances, which I need not repeat to you, the memory of my deed came back to me."

"You killed him, sir, because he provoked you," said Hetty.

"You were present and you saw everything?"

"I was, sir, I saw everything. You killed him because he provoked you."

"I killed him through an accident. I did so in self-defence."

"Yes, sir."

Hetty also stood up. She sighed deeply.

"The knowledge of it has nearly killed me," she said at last, sinking back again into her seat.

"I am not surprised at that," said the Squire. "You did what you did out of consideration for me, and I suppose I ought to be deeply indebted to you"--he paused and looked fixedly at her--"all the same," he continued, "I fully believe it would have been much better had you not sworn falsely in court--had you not given wrong evidence."

"Did you think I'd let you swing for it?" said the girl with flas.h.i.+ng eyes.

"I should probably not have swung for it, as you express it. You could have proved that the a.s.sault was unprovoked, and that I did what I did in self-defence. I wish you had not concealed the truth at the time."

"Sir, is that all the thanks you give me? You do not know what this has been to me. Aunt f.a.n.n.y and I----"

"Does your aunt, Mrs. Armitage, know the truth?"

"I had to tell Aunt f.a.n.n.y or I'd have gone mad, sir. She and me, we swore on the Bible that we would never tell mortal man or woman what I saw done. You're as safe with Aunt f.a.n.n.y and me, Mr. Robert, as if no one in all the world knew. You were one of the Family--that was enough for aunt--and you was to me----" she paused, colored, and looked down.

Then she continued abruptly, "Mr. Everett was nothing, nothing to me, nothing to aunt. He was a stranger, not one of our own people. Aunt f.a.n.n.y kept me up to it, and I didn't make one single mistake in court, and not a soul in all the world guesses."

"One person suspects," said Awdrey.

"You mean Mrs. Everett, sir. Yes, Mrs. Everett is a dreadful woman. She frightens me. She seems to read right through my heart."

The Squire did not reply. He began to pace up and down in the part of the room which was lying in shadow. Hetty watched him with eyes which seemed to devour him--his upright figure was slightly bent, his bowed head had lost its look of youth and alertness. He found that conscience could be troublesome to the point of agony. If it spoke like this often and for long could he endure the frightful strain? There was a way in which he could silence it. There was a path of thorns which his feet might tread. Could they take it? That path would lead to the complete martyrdom, the absolute ruin of his own life. But life, after all, was short, and there was a beyond. Margaret--what would Margaret feel? How would she bear the awful shock? He knew then, a flash of thought convinced him, that he must never tell Margaret the truth if he wished to keep this ghastly thing to himself, for Margaret would rather go through the martyrdom which it all meant, and set his conscience and her own free.

Awdrey looked again at Hetty. She was ghastly pale, her eyes were almost wild with fear--she seemed to be reading some of his thoughts. All of a sudden her outward calm gave way, she left her seat and fell on her knees--her voice rose in sobs.

"I know what you're thinking of," she cried. "You think you'll tell--you think you'll save him and save her, but for G.o.d's sake----"

"Do not say that," interrupted Awdrey.

"Then for the devil's sake--for any sake, for my sake, for your own, for Mrs. Awdrey's, don't do it, Squire, don't do it."