The Mating of Lydia Part 62

Tatham considered a moment. Then he rang, and when Hurst appeared, all white and disorganized under the stress of the news just communicated to him by Undershaw's chauffeur, he ordered his horse for eight o'clock in the morning. Victoria looked at him puzzled; then it seemed she understood.

But every other thought was soon swallowed up in the remembrance of the widow and daughter.

"Not to-night--not to-night," pleaded Undershaw who had seen Netta Melrose professionally, only that morning. "I dread the mere shock for Mrs. Melrose. Let them have their sleep! I will be over early to-morrow."

XXI

By the first dawn of the new day Tatham was in the saddle. Just as he was starting from the house, there arrived a messenger, and a letter was put into his hand. It was from Undershaw, who, on leaving Duddon the night before, had motored back to the Tower, and taken Faversham in charge. The act bore testimony to the little doctor's buffeted but still surviving regard for this man, whom he had pulled from the jaws of death.

He reported in his morning letter that he had pa.s.sed some of the night in conversation with Faversham, and wished immediately to pa.s.s on certain facts learnt from it, first of all to Tatham, and then to any friend of Faversham's they might concern.

He told, accordingly, the full story of the gems, leading up to the quarrel between the two men, as Faversham had told it to him.

"Faversham," he wrote, "left the old man, convinced that all was at an end as to the will and the inheritance. And now he is as much the heir as ever! I find him bewildered; for his _mind_, in that tragic half-hour, had absolutely renounced. What he will do, no one can say. As to the murderer, we have discussed all possible clues--with little light. But the morning will doubtless bring some new facts. That Faversham has not the smallest fraction of responsibility for the murder is clear to any sane man who talks with him. But that there will be a buzz of slanderous tongues as soon as ever the story is public property, I am convinced. So I send you these fresh particulars as quickly as possible--for your guidance."

Tatham thrust the letter into his pocket, and rode away through the December dawn. His mother would soon be in the thick of her own task with the two unconscious ones at Duddon. _His_ duty lay--with Lydia! The "friend" was all alive in him, reaching out to her in a manly and generous emotion.

The winter sunrise was a thing of beauty. It chimed with the intensity of feeling in the young man's breast. The sky was a light saffron over the eastern fells, and the mountains rose into it indistinguishably blue, the light mists wrapped about their feet. Among the mists, plane behind plane, the hedgerow trees, still faintly afire with their last leaf, stood patterned on the azure of the fells. And as he rode on, the first rays of the light mounting a gap in the Helvellyn range struck upon the valleys below. The shadows ran blue along the frosty gra.s.s; here and there the withered leaf began to blaze; the streams rejoiced. Under their sycamores and yews, the white-walled farms sent up their morning smoke; the c.o.c.ks were crowing; and as he mounted the upland on which the cottage stood, from a height in front of him, a tiny church--one of the smallest and loneliest in the fells--sent forth a summoning bell. The sound, with all its weight of a.s.sociation, sank and echoed through the morning stillness; the fells repeated it, a voice of worship toward G.o.d, of appeal toward man.

In Tatham, fashioned to the appeal by all the accidents of blood and nurture, the sound made for a deepened spirit and a steadied mood. He pressed on toward the little house and garden that now began to show through the trees.

Lydia had not long come downstairs when she heard the horse at the gate.

The cottage breakfast was nominally at half-past eight. But Mrs. Penfold never appeared, and Susy was always professionally late, it being understood that inspiration--when it alights--is a midnight visitant, and must be wooed at suitable hours.

Lydia was generally down to the minute, and read prayers to their two maids. Mrs. Penfold made a great point of family prayers, but rarely or never attended them. Susy did not like to be read to by anybody. Lydia therefore had the little function to herself. She chose her favourite psalms, and prayers from the most various sources. The maids liked it because they loved Lydia; and Lydia, having once begun, would not willingly have given it up.

But the ceremony was over; and she had just opened the cas.e.m.e.nt to see who their visitor might be, when Tatham rode up to the porch.

"May I speak to you for ten minutes?"

His aspect warned her of things unusual. He tied up his horse, and she took him into their little sitting-room, and closed the door.

"You haven't seen a newspaper?"

She a.s.sured him their post would not arrive from Keswick for another hour, and stood expectant.

"I wanted to tell you before any one else, because there are things to explain. We're friends--Lydia?"

He approached her eagerly. His colour had leapt; but his eyes rea.s.sured.

"Always," she said simply, and she put her hand in his.

Then he told her. He saw her waver, and sink, ghost-like, on a chair. It was clear enough that the news had for her no ordinary significance. His heart knew pain--the reflex of a past anguish; only to be lost at once in the desire to soothe and shield her.

"Mr. Faversham was there?" she asked him, trembling.

"He did not see the shot fired. The murderer rushing from the gallery brushed past him as he was coming out of his room, and escaped."

"There had been a quarrel?"

He gave her in outline the contents of Undershaw's letter.

"He still inherits?" Her eyes, shone as he came to the climax of the story--Faversham's refusal of the gems--Melrose's threat. The trembling of her delicate mouth urged him for more--and yet more--light.

"Everything--land, money, collections--under the will made in August. You see"--he added, sorely against his will, yet compelled, by the need of protecting her from shock--"the opportuneness of the murder. Their relations had been very bad for some time."

"Opportuneness?" She just breathed it. He put out his hand again, and took hers.

"You know--Faversham has enemies?"

She nodded.

"I've been one myself," he said frankly. "I believe you knew it. But this thing's brought me up sharp. One may think as one likes of Faversham's conduct--but you knew--and I know--that he's not the man to pay another man to commit murder!"

"And that's what they'll say?" The colour had rushed back into her cheeks.

"That's what some fool _might_ say, because of the grudge against him.

Well, now, we've got to find the murderer!" He rose, speaking in his most cheerful and practical voice, "I'm going on to see what the police have been doing. The inquest will probably begin to-morrow. But I wanted to prevent your being startled by this horrible news. Trust me to let you know--and to help--all I can."

Then for a moment, he seemed to lose his self-possession. He stood before her awkwardly conscious--a moral trespa.s.ser--who might have been pa.s.sing bounds. But it was her turn to be frank. She came and put both her hands on his arm--looking up--drawing her breath with difficulty.

"Harry, I'm going to tell you. I ought to have told you more that night--but how could I? It was only just then I knew--that I cared.

A little later Mr. Faversham asked me to marry him, and I refused, because--because of this money. I couldn't take it--I begged him not to. Never mind!" She threw her head back, gulping down tears. "He thought me unreasonable. But--"

"He refused--and left you!" cried Tatham, drinking in the sweetness of her pale beauty, as Orpheus might have watched the vanishing Eurydice.

"He had such great ambitions--as to what he'd do--with this money," she said, lightly brushing her wet eyes, and trying to smile. "It wasn't the mere fortune! Oh, I knew that!"

Tatham was silent. But he gently touched her hand with his own.

"You'll stand by him?--if he needs it?" she asked piteously.

He a.s.sured her. Then, suddenly, raising herself on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek. The blood flew into his face, and bending forward--timidly--he laid his lips on her soft brow. There was a pledge in it--and a farewell. She drew herself away.

"The first--and the last," she said, smiling, and sighing. "Now we're comrades. I await your news. Tell me if I can help--throw light? I know the people--the neighbourhood, well. And when you see Mr. Faversham, greet him from me. Tell him his friends here feel with him--and for him.

And as to what you say--ah, no!--I'm not going to believe--I can't believe--that any one can have such--such vile thoughts! The truth will soon come out!"

She held herself steadily.

"We must find the-murderer," Tatham repeated, and took up his cap.

Lydia was left alone in the little breakfast-room. Susy could be heard moving about overhead; she would be down directly. Meanwhile the winter sunshine came broadly in; the singing of the tea-kettle, the crackle of the fire made domestic music. But Lydia's soul was far away. It stood beside Faversham, exulting.

"Free!"--she said to herself, pa.s.sionately--"free!" and then with the hyperbole of love--"I talked and moralized--he _did it_!"