Witness to the Deed Part 31

"I say there is, father, and you are deceiving me."

"Well, yes, a little, my darling," he said hastily. "A little. Not for your ears, dear. Another time when you are cool and calm, you know.

Edie, my dear, come to her; talk to her. Myra, my child, leave it to me."

Myra's hand went to her throat as if she were stifling, but once more she forced back her emotion.

"Something about--the prison--my husband?"

"Yes, yes, my dear. Nothing so very particular. Now do--do leave it to me, and try to be calm. You frighten me. There, there, my pet," he continued, trying to take her hand; "go to your room for a bit with Edie, and--yes, yes, lie down."

"Give me the paper," she said hoa.r.s.ely.

"No, no, I cannot, indeed, my dear."

"Ah!" cried the agitated girl wildly. "I know--they have set him free?"

Sir Mark glanced at his niece, and then pa.s.sed his hand over his beaded forehead.

"Yes, yes, my dear," he faltered; "he is free."

"Ah! and he will come here and claim me, and then--"

She reeled as if to fall, but her force of will was too great, and she mastered her emotion again, stepped forward, and seized the paper, her senses swimming as she turned it again and again, till the large type of the telegram caught her attention.

Then she closed her eyes for a few moments, drew a long breath, and they saw her compress her lips and read without a tremor:

Daring attempted Escape.

Serious Affray.

Our correspondent at Grey Cliff telegraphs of a desperate attempt made by three of the convicts at The Foreland last night about eight o'clock. By some means they managed to elude the vigilance of the warders after the cells had been visited and lights were out, reached the yard, and scaled the lofty wall. Then, favoured by the darkness of the night, they threaded their way among the sentries, and reached the cliffs of the dangerous rocky coast, where, their evasion having been discovered, they were brought to bay by a party of the armed warders. In the affray which ensued two of the warders were dangerously wounded with stones, and the convicts were making their way down the cliffs to the sea when orders were given to fire. One of the men was shot down, while, in the desperate attempts to escape recapture, the others went headlong down the almost perpendicular precipice which guards the eastern side of The Foreland.

Upon the warders descending with ropes, two of the men were brought up, one with a shot through the leg, the other suffering from a badly fractured skull, while, in spite of vigorous search by the boats of H.M.S. _Merlin_, the body of the third man, which had been heard to plunge into the sea, was not recovered. We regret to add that the man injured by his fall expired in the ambulance on the way back to the prison. He was the notorious convict Barron, or Dale, sentenced to seven years' penal servitude, about a twelvemonth ago, for the daring fraud upon the Russian government by the issue of forged rouble notes.

The paper fell from Myra's hands as she stood there motionless, and apparently unmoved by the tidings she had read. Then turning slowly, she held out her hand to Edie, who obeyed the imploring look in her eyes, and led her from the dining room to her own chamber without a word.

"Myra," she whispered then, and she pressed closely toward her cousin, whose lips now parted, and she heard almost like a sigh:

"Free--free!"

"Talk to me, dear, talk to me," whispered Edie. "It frightens me when you look like that."

Myra turned to her, caught her cousin to her breast, and kissed her rapidly twice. Then, thrusting her away, she whispered faintly:

"Go now--go, dear. I can bear no more;" and when, a few moments later, Edie looked back from the door she was about to close, Myra was in the act of sinking upon her knees by the bedside, where she buried her face in her hands.

But hardly had the door closed when she sprang to her feet, and hurried across to shoot the bolt, and then stand with her hands to her head, and starting eyes, picturing in imagination the scene of the past night.

The darkness and James Barron--her husband--the man who had haunted her night and day in connection with the hour when he would come back and claim her, not at the end of seven years, but earlier, released before his time--that man--while she sat below in her room at the piano--yes, she recalled vividly every minute of the previous night--she sat playing the melodies of old ballads, favourites of her father, with Percy Guest talking to Edie, and at that time this man was fighting to escape--this man, her horror. And had he succeeded he would have come there.

She shuddered as, from the brief description of the struggle, she saw him trying to descend the rocky face of the cliff, stumble when shots were fired, and fall headlong upon the cruel stones.

It was horrible--too horrible to bear; and yet she felt obliged to dwell upon it all, and go over it again and again, shuddering at the pictures her active brain evoked till the agony was maddening.

Then, to make her horror culminate, doubt stepped in to ask her, as if in an insidious whisper, whether she could believe it to be all true, and not some reporter's error.

She felt as if she were withering beneath some cold mental blast, and in spite of the horror, her hopes and dreams, which would have place, shrank back again. For it might be a mistake. Some other wretched man had striven to escape, and in the hurry and darkness had been mistaken for her husband.

But hope came again directly, and while shuddering at the thoughts, she recalled how explicit it had all been. There could be no mistake. She was wife no longer--tied no more by those hated bonds to a wretched adventurer--a forger--whose sole aim had been to get her father's money--she was free, and Malcolm Stratton had told her--

She shuddered again at the horror of dwelling upon such thoughts at a moment when her ears were stunned by the news of death; but the thoughts were imperious. She had never loved this man, and the ceremony had only been performed under misapprehension. Once more she was free--free to follow the bent of her affections--free to give herself to the man she knew she loved.

What had Malcolm Stratton said--what had he said?

A mist had been gathering about her mental vision, and she staggered toward her bedside, once more to sink down and bury her burning face in her hands, for her emotion was greater than she could bear.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"SILENCE GIVES CONSENT."

"Oh, it's you two again, is it?" said Miss Jerrold, in a tone of voice which might have been borrowed from her brother, as Stratton and Guest were shown up into her pretty little drawing room, where she sat ready to preside over her china tea tray with its quaint Sevres cups and saucers and parcel gilt apostle spoons, while a tall stand was on her left with its bronze kettle humming and whispering, and uttering a pleasant coo now and then, as it felt the warm kisses of the spirit lamp.

Stratton's brows contracted and a look of resentment darted from his eyes as he stopped short, but Guest laughed and said airily:

"Yes; it is your humble servant once again."

"Well, and what do you want?"

"Hear that, Stratton?" said Guest. "A lady sends you her cards, 'At home, Thursday, four to six;' we go to the expense of new lavender kids--no, come what may, I will be truthful, mine are only freshly cleaned--and new hats--no, truth shall prevail! a gloss over from the hatter's iron--drag ourselves all this way west to pay our devoirs--to drink tea out of thimbles, and eat slices of b.u.t.ter thinly sprinkled with bread crumbs, and the lady says, 'What do you want?'"

"Of course I do. There, sit down, both of you, and, Malcolm Stratton, don't put on that wicked, melodramatic frown; it does not become you.

You're a pair of impostors. Think I'm blind? You don't come here to call upon a poor old woman like--Quick, Percy, my dear boy! Blow it out; we shall have the room in a blaze."

"No, no, be cool," said Guest, and he made for the spirit kettle, whose lamp had become overheated, and was sending up quite a volume of flame.

But Stratton was nearer, and taking out his handkerchief, he turned it into a pad, dabbed it on the lamp, and the light was smothered.

"Oh, dear me!" sighed Miss Jerrold in tones full of relief, "now, that was very clever. I do like presence of mind. Sugar, Mr Stratton?"

He bowed stiffly.

"Haven't burned yourself, have you, my dear?"

"Oh, no; my glove protected my hand," said Stratton, looking at the stiff, formal, handsome old body; half amused, half pleased, by the maternal "my dear."

"Ah, now you're smiling at me," she said quickly. "Sugar, Percy?"

"A good deal, please, to take the taste of your harsh words out of my mouth."