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Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Six.
Brought Home

“Gentlemen,” said Colonel Lascelles, “I am going to ask you to excuse me. You know my old fashion – bed betimes. Rockley will take the chair, and I hope you will enjoy yourselves. Good-night.”

The grey-headed old Colonel quitted the mess-room, and the wine was left for the card-tables, after the customary badinage and light conversation that marked these meetings.

It had been a special night, and a few extra toasts had been proposed, notably the healths of Sir Matthew Bray and his lady, it having leaked out that the young baronet had at last led the fair Lady Drelincourt to the altar, with all her charms.

Sir Matthew, prompted a great deal by Sir Harry Payne – who had but lately rejoined the regiment, looking pale and ill – had made his response, and he was a good deal congratulated, the last to speak to him about his noble spouse being Sir Harry.

“Why, Matt,” he exclaimed, “you look as if you were going to be hung. Aren’t you happy, man?”

“Happy!” said Sir Matthew, in deep, melodramatic tones. “You speak as if you had not seen my wife.”

Sir Harry stared him full in the face for a few moments, and then burst into a hearty laugh, but winced directly, and drew in his breath sharply, for the knife Louis Gravani had used struck pretty deep.

Card-playing went on for a time, the stakes being light, and then succeeded a bout of drinking, when, with a contemptuous look at Mellersh, Rockley, who had been drinking hard, and was strange and excitable, called upon the party to honour a toast he was about to propose.

“Claire Denville,” he cried in a curious, reckless tone which made Sir Harry stare.

Mellersh involuntarily glanced round, as if fearing that Richard Linnell was present.

“Well, Colonel,” said Rockley mockingly, “you don’t drink. Surely you are not trying to steal away my mistress.”

“I? No,” said Mellersh. “I did not know you had one.”

“Hang it, sir!” cried Rockley, “I have just given her name as a toast. Do you refuse to drink it?”

“Yes,” said Mellersh coldly. “It seems to me bad taste to propose the health of a lady whose father is under sentence of death, and whose brother is dying not many yards away.”

“Curse you, sir! who are you, to pretend to judge me?” cried Rockley furiously. “Gentlemen, I protest against this sort of thing. What was Lascelles thinking about to invite him, after what has taken place between us?”

“Here, Rockley, be quiet,” said Sir Matthew.

“I shall not,” cried Rockley. “It is an insult to me. The Colonel shall answer for it, and this Mellersh too.”

“Nonsense!” cried Sir Harry. “Nonsense, man; you can’t quarrel with a guest. Never mind the toast. Sit down, and let’s have a rubber. Rockley’s a bit excited, Mellersh. Don’t take any notice of a few hot words.”

“Silence!” cried Rockley, whose voice was thick with the brandy he had been imbibing day by day. “I want my toast drunk as it should be – Claire Denville.”

“Sit down, man,” cried several of his brother-officers. “Here, let’s have a rubber. Sit down, Rockley, and cut. Come, Mellersh.”

The latter shrugged his shoulders, and allowed himself to be drawn into a game, cutting, and finding himself Rockley’s adversary.

He was singularly fortunate, and in addition he played with the skill of a master, the consequence being that he and Sir Harry Payne won.

Rockley rose from the table furious with suppressed anger, and, catching up a pack of cards, he would have thrown them in Mellersh’s face had not Sir Harry struck at his arm, so that the cards flew all over the room.

Mellersh turned pale, but a couple of the most sober officers drew him aside, Sir Matthew joining them directly.

“Don’t take any notice, Mellersh,” he said. “We’re all sorry. Rockley’s as drunk as an owl. They’re going to get him off to bed.”

“It was a deliberate insult, gentlemen,” said Mellersh quietly.

“Yes, but he doesn’t know what he’s about,” said Sir Matthew. “We all apologise.”

Meanwhile the rest had summoned several of the regimental servants to help in getting Rockley from the room; but he resisted till, seeing that his case was hopeless, he suddenly exclaimed:

“Well, then, I’ll go, if you’ll let me propose one more toast.”

“No, no!” was chorused.

“Then I shan’t go,” cried Rockley; “I’ll stop and see it out.”

“Let him give a toast,” said Sir Harry, “and then he’ll go. On your honour, Rockley?”

“On my honour,” he said: and he seemed to have grown suddenly sober. “Fill, gentlemen. The toast is a lady – not Miss Denville, since it offends Colonel Mellersh. I will give you the health of a lady who has long been one of my favourites. Her health even that arch sharper will not refuse to drink – my mistress, Cora Dean.”

In rapid succession, and in the midst of a deep silence, the claret in Colonel Mellersh’s glass, and the glass itself, were dashed in Major Rockley’s face.

Rockley uttered a howl of rage that did not seem to be human; and he would have sprung at Mellersh’s throat had he not been restrained, while the latter remained perfectly calm.

“There is no need for us to tear ourselves like brute beasts, gentlemen,” he said. “Major Rockley shall have the pleasure of shooting the arch sharper – myself – where you will arrange – to-morrow morning; but before I leave I beg to say that Miss Dean is a lady whom I hold in great honour, and any insult to her is an insult to me.”

“Loose me, Bray. Let me get at the cowardly trickster and cheat,” yelled Rockley. “He shall not leave here without my mark upon him. Do you hear? Loose me. He shall not go.”

He struggled so furiously that he freed himself and was rushing at Mellersh, when the door was thrown open and the grey-headed old Colonel of the regiment entered.

“What is this?” said the Colonel sternly. “Major Rockley, are you mad? I have business, sir, at once, with you.”

Rockley stared from one to the other, and seemed to be sobered on the instant.

“Business with me?” he said quickly. “Well, what is it? Payne, I leave myself in your hands. Now, Colonel, what is it?”

The old Colonel drew aside and pointed to the door.

“Go to my quarters, sir,” he said sternly. “But you should have some one with you beside me. Sir Harry Payne, you are Major Rockley’s greatest intimate. Go with him.”

Sir Harry was, after Mellersh, the most sober of the party, his wound having necessitated his being abstemious, and he turned to the Colonel.

“He was very drunk,” he said. “We’ll get him to bed. I’ll talk to Mellersh when he is gone, and nothing shall come of it.”

“You have misunderstood my meaning, Payne,” said the Colonel sternly. “I am not interfering about a card quarrel, sir, or a contemptible brawl about some profligate woman. This is an affair dealing with the honour of our regiment, as well as Major Rockley’s liberty.”

A spasm seemed to have seized Rockley, but he was calm the next moment, and walked steadily to the Colonel’s quarters, not a word being spoken till the old officer threw open the door of his study, and they were in the presence of Lord Carboro’, Barclay, Morton Denville, and the Chief Constable.

The Colonel was the only one who took a chair, the others bowing in answer to the invitation to be seated, and remaining standing.

“Now, Mr Denville,” said the Colonel, “Major Rockley is here: will you have the goodness to repeat the words that you said to me? I must warn you, though, once more, that this is a terrible charge against your brother-officer, and against our regiment. I should advise you to be careful, and unless you have undoubted proof of what you say, to hesitate before you repeat the charge.”

“Sir,” said Morton, standing forward, “I am fighting the battle of my poor father, who has been condemned to death for a crime of which he is innocent.”

“He has been tried by the laws of his country, Mr Denville, and convicted.”

“Because everything seemed so black against him, sir, through the devilish machinations of that man.”

“Be careful, sir,” said the Colonel sternly. “Once more, be careful.”

“I must speak out, sir,” cried Morton firmly. “I repeat it – the devilish machinations of this man – who has been the enemy and persecutor of my family ever since he has been here.”

“To the point, sir,” said the Colonel, as Rockley stood up with a contemptuous look in his dark eyes, and his tall, well-built figure drawn to his full height.

“I will to the point, sir,” said Morton. “I charge this man, the insulter and defamer of my sister, with being the murderer of Lady Teigne!”

“Hah!”

It was Major Rockley who uttered that ejaculation: and, springing forward, he had in an instant seized Morton Denville by the throat and borne him against the wall.

It was a momentary burst of fierce rage that was over directly; and, dropping his hands and stepping back, the Major stood listening as Morton went on.

“Taking advantage of the similarity of figure between himself and my unfortunate brother, he took Frederick Denville’s uniform one night for a disguise, and to cast the suspicion upon an innocent man, should he be seen, and then went to the house and killed that miserable old woman as she slept.”

“You hear this charge, Rockley?” said the Colonel.

“Yes, I hear,” was the scornful reply.

“Go on, Mr Denville: I am bound to hear you,” said the Colonel. “What reason do you give for this impossible act?”

“Poverty, sir. Losses at the gaming tables. To gain possession of Lady Teigne’s jewels.”

“Pish!” ejaculated Rockley, with his dark eyes flashing.

“Those jewels proved to be false,” continued Morton, “and at the first opportunity Major Rockley took them, in the dead of the night, and threw them from the end of the pier into the sea.”

“How do you know that?” said the Colonel.

“I was on the platform beneath, fishing, sir; and the fisherman I was with dredged them up afterwards, and sold them to Mr Barclay.”

“Yes,” said that individual. “I have them still.”

“Bah! Absurd!” cried Rockley, throwing back his head. “Colonel Lascelles, are you going to believe this folly?”

“I am powerless, Major Rockley,” said the Colonel in a quick, sharp manner. “This charge is made in due form.”

“And it is enough for me, sir,” said the constable, stepping forward. “Major Rockley, I arrest you on the charge of murder.”

Rockley made a quick movement towards the door, but stopped short.

“Pish! I was surprised,” he exclaimed, as the constable sprang in his way. “What do you want to do?”

“Take you, sir.”

“What? Disgraced like this?” cried Rockley furiously.

“Colonel, you will not allow the insult to the regiment. Give your word that I will appear.”

“I am helpless, sir,” cried the old Colonel.

“Place me under arrest then, and let me appear in due time.”

“I claim Major Rockley as my prisoner, sir,” cried the constable stoutly. “I have a warrant in proper form, and my men waiting. This is not an ordinary case.”

“Oh, very well,” cried Rockley contemptuously; “I am ready. The charge is as ridiculous as it is disgraceful. I presume that I may return to my quarters, and tell my servant to pack up a few necessaries?”

“Of course; of course, Rockley,” said the Colonel. “There can be no objection to this.”

He looked at the constable as he spoke, but that individual made no reply. He placed himself by Rockley’s side, and Sir Harry Payne went out with them.

“I don’t believe it, Rockley,” cried the latter. “Here, I’ll stand by you to the end.”

Rockley gave him a grim nod, glanced sharply round, and then strode out to his own quarters only a few yards away.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Colonel, looking from one to the other; “this is a most painful business for me. Mr Denville, as your father’s son, I cannot blame you very much, but if you had been ten years older you would have acted differently.”

“Colonel Lascelles,” said Lord Carboro’ coldly, “I do not see how Mr Morton Denville could have acted differently.”

“I will not argue the point with you, my lord,” said the Colonel. “May I ask you to – My God! What’s that?”

It was a dull report, followed by the hurrying of feet, and the excitement that would ensue in a barrack at the discharge of fire-arms.

Before the Colonel could reach the door, it was thrown open, and Sir Harry Payne staggered in, white as ashes, and sank into a chair.

“Water!” he exclaimed. “I’m weak yet.”

“What is it? Are you hurt?” cried the Colonel.

“No. Good heavens! how horrible,” faltered the young man with a sob. “Rockley!”

“Rockley?” cried Morton excitedly.

“He has blown out his brains!”

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Long Adieu

Major Rockley’s tacit acknowledgment of the truth of the charge against him, and the piecing together of the links, showed how, on the night of Lady Teigne’s death, he had been absent from the mess for two hours, during which Fred Denville lay drunk in the officers’ quarters – made drunk by the Major’s contrivance, so that his uniform could be used. How too, so as further to avert suspicion, the Major had the fiendish audacity to take the party to perform the serenade where the poor old votary of fashion lay dead.

The truth, so long in coming to the surface, prevailed at last, and Stuart Denville, broken and prostrated, found himself the idol of the crowd from Saltinville, who collected to see him freed from the county gaol.

“To the barracks, Claire,” he whispered. “Let us get away from here.”

They were at the principal hotel, and Claire was standing before him, pale and trembling with emotion.

“Your blessing and forgiveness first,” she murmured. “Oh, father, that I could be so blind!”

“So blind?” he said tenderly, as he took her in his arms. “No: say so noble and so true. Did you not stand by me when you could not help believing me guilty, and I could not speak? But we are wasting time. I have sent word to poor Fred. My child, I have his forgiveness to ask for all the past.”

They met the regimental surgeon as they drove up.

“You have come quickly,” he said. “Did you get my message?”

“Your message?” cried Claire, turning pale. “Is – is he worse?”

The surgeon bowed his head.

“I had hopes when you were here last,” he said gently; “but there has been an unfavourable turn. The poor fellow has been asking for you, Miss Denville; you had better come at once.”

He led the way to the infirmary, where the finely-built, strong man lay on the simple pallet, his face telling its own tale more eloquently than words could have spoken it.

“Ah, little sister,” he said feebly, as his face lit up with a happy smile. “I wanted you. You will not mind staying with me and talking. Tell me,” he continued, as Claire knelt down by his bed’s head, “is it all true, or have they been saying I am innocent to make it easier – now I am going away?”

“No, no, Fred,” said Claire; “it is true that you are quite innocent.”

“Is this the truth?” he said feebly.

“The truth,” whispered Claire; “and you must live – my brother – to help and protect me.”

“No,” he said sadly; “it is too late. I’m glad though that I did not kill the old woman. It seemed all a muddle. I was drunk that night. Poor old dad! Can’t they set him free?”

“My boy! – Fred! – can you forgive me?” cried Denville, bending over the face that gazed up vacantly in his.

“Who’s that?” said the dying man sharply. “I can’t see. Only you, Clairy – who’s that? Father?”

“My son! – my boy! Fred, speak to me – forgive – ”

There was a terrible silence in the room as the old man’s piteous cry died out, and he sank upon his knees on the other side of the narrow bed, and laid his wrinkled forehead upon his son’s breast.

“Forgive? – you, father?” said Fred at last, in tones that told how rapidly the little life remaining was ebbing away. “It’s all right, sir – all a mistake – my life – one long blunder. Take care of Clairy here – and poor little May.”

“My boy – the mistake has been mine,” groaned Denville, “and I am punished for it now.”

“No, no – old father – take care – Clairy here.”

He seemed to doze for a few minutes, and Denville rose to go and ask the surgeon if anything could be done.

“Nothing but make his end as peaceful as you can. Ah, my lad, you here?”

“Yes,” said Morton. “How is he?”

“Alive,” said the surgeon bluntly; and he turned away.

Fred Denville seemed to revive as soon as he was left alone with his sister; and, looking at her fixedly, he seemed to be struggling to make out whose was the face that bent over him.

“Claire – little sister,” he said at last, with a smile of rest and content. “Clairy – Richard Linnell? Tell me.”

“Oh, Fred, Fred, hush!” she whispered.

“No, no! Tell me. I can see you clearly now. It would make me happier. I’m going, dear. A fine, true-hearted fellow; and he loves you. Don’t let yours be a wrecked life too.”

“Fred! dear Fred!”

“Let it all be cleared up now – you two. You do love him, sis?”

“Fred! dear Fred!” she sobbed; “with all my heart.”

“Ah!” he said softly, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Ask him to come here. No; bring the old man back – and Morton. Don’t cry, my little one; it’s – it’s nothing now, only the long watch ended, and the time for rest.”

In another hour he had fallen asleep as calmly as a weary child – sister, father, and brother at his side; and it seemed but a few hours later to Morton Denville that he was marching behind the bearers with the funeral march ringing in his ears, and the muffled drums awaking echoes in his heart – a heart that throbbed painfully as the farewell volley was fired across the grave.

For Fred Denville’s sin against his officers was forgiven, and Colonel Lascelles was one of the first to follow him to the grave.

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Eight.
The Eve of the Finish

“A letter, Claire, so painful that I shrank from reading it to you, only that I have no secrets from my promised wife.”

“Does it give you pain?” said Claire, as she looked up in Richard Linnell’s face, where they sat in the half-light of evening, with the sea spread before them – placid and serene as their life had been during the past few weeks.

“Bitter pain,” he said sadly, as he gazed at the saddened face, set off by the simple black in which she was clothed.

“Then why not let me share it? Is pain so new a thing to me?”

“So old that I would spare you more; and yet you ought to know my family cares, as I have known yours.”

“May I read?” said Claire softly, as she laid her thin white hand upon the letter.

He resigned it to her without a word; but as she opened the folds:

“Yes; read it,” he said. “It concerns you as much as it does me, and you shall be the judge as to whether the secret shall be kept.”

Claire looked up at him wonderingly, and then read the letter aloud.

It was a passionate appeal, and at the same time a confession and a farewell; and, as Claire read on, she grew the more confused and wondering.

For the letter was addressed to Richard Linnell, asking his forgiveness for the many ways in which the writer, in her tender love and earnest desire for his happiness, had stood between him and Claire, ready to spread reports against her fame, and contrive that Linnell should hear them, since the writer had never thoroughly known Claire Denville’s heart, but had judged her from the standpoint of her sister. It had been agony to the writer to see Linnell’s devotion to a woman whom she believed to be unworthy of his love; and as his father’s life had been wrecked by a woman’s deceit, the writer had sworn to leave no stone unturned to save the son.

At times the letter grew sadly incoherent, and the tears with which it had been blotted showed its truthfulness, as the writer prayed Richard’s forgiveness for fighting against his love and giving him such cruel pain.

“Colonel Mellersh will explain all to you,” the letter went on, “for he has known everything. It was he who saved me from further degradation, and found the money to buy this business, where I thought to live out my remaining span of life unknown, and only soothed by seeing you at times – you whom I loved so dearly and so well.”

Claire looked up from the letter wonderingly, but Linnell bade her read on.

“Colonel Mellersh fought hard against my wishes at first, but he yielded at last out of pity. I promised him that I would never make myself known – never approach your father’s home – and I have kept my word. Mellersh has absolved me now that I am leaving here for ever, and I go asking your forgiveness as your wretched mother, and begging you to ask for that of Claire Denville, the sweet, true, faithful woman whom you will soon, I hope, make your wife.

“Lastly, I pray and charge you not to break the simple, calm happiness of your father’s life by letting him know that his unhappy wife has for years been living so near at hand.”

“But, Richard,” cried Claire, “I always thought that – that she was dead.”

“He told me so,” replied Linnell sadly. “She was dead to him. There, you have read all. It was right that you should know. Colonel Mellersh has told me the rest.”

Linnell crumpled up the letter, and then smoothed it out, and folded and placed it in his breast.

“It is right,” he said again, “that you should know the truth. Mellersh is my father’s oldest friend. They were youths together. When the terrible shock came upon my father that he was alone, and that his wife had fled with a man whom he had made his companion after Mellersh had gone upon foreign service, his whole life was changed, and he became the quiet, subdued recluse you see.”

Linnell paused for a few minutes, and then went on:

“Mellersh had idolised my mother when she was a bright fashion-loving girl; but he accepted his fate when she gave the preference to my father. When he came home from India and found what had happened, and that this wretch had cast her off, he shot the betrayer of my father’s name, and then sought out and rescued my mother, placing her as you have read, at her desire, here.”

“But, Richard dear, I am so dull and foolish – I can only think of one person that this could possibly have been; and it could not be – ”

“Miss Clode? Yes, that was the name she took. My mother, Claire. What do you say to me now?”

Claire rose from her seat gently, and laid her hand upon her arm.

“We must keep her secret, Richard,” she said; “but let us go to her together now.”

“Then you forgive her the injury she did you?”

“It was out of love for you; and she did not know me then. Let us go.”

“Impossible,” he said, taking her in his arms. “She has left here for ever. Some day we may see her, but the proposal is to come from her.”

They did not hear the door open as they stood clasped in each other’s arms, nor hear it softly closed, nor the whispers on the landing, as one of the visitors half sobbed:

“Ain’t it lovely, Jo-si-ah? Did you see ’em? If it wasn’t rude and wrong, I could stand and watch ’em for hours. It do put one in mind of the days when – ”

“Hold your tongue, you stupid old woman,” was the gruff reply. “It’s quite disgusting. A woman at your time of life wanting to watch a pair of young people there, and no candles lit.”

“Hush! Don’t talk so loud, or they’ll hear us; and now, Jo-si-ah, as it’s in my mind, I may as well say it to you at once.”

“Now, look here,” said Barclay in a low voice, in obedience to his wife’s request, but speaking quickly, “I’ve been bitten pretty heavily by the fellows in the regiment that has just gone, so if it’s any new plan of yours that means money, you may stop it, for not a shilling do you get from me. There!”

“And at your time of life, too! To tell such fibs, Jo-si-ah! Just as if I didn’t know that you’ve made a profit of Sir Harry Payne alone, enough to cover all your losses. Now, look here: I don’t like little Mrs Burnett, or Gravani, or whatever her name is, but seeing how she’s left alone in the world, and nobody’s wife after all, and poor Mr Denville is poor Mr Denville, and it’s a tax upon him, and you’re out so much, I’ve been thinking, I say – ”

“Wouldn’t do, old lady. She’s not the woman who would make our home comfortable; and besides – ”

“But she’s so different, Jo-si-ah, since she has been getting nearly well.”

“Glad of it, old lady. Hope she’ll keep so. But you forget that Claire will soon be leaving home, and – ”

“What a stupid old woman I am, Jo-si-ah! Why, of course! Her place is there along with her father; and it’s wonderful how he pets that little child. There now, I’m sure they’ve had long enough. Let’s go in and tell them the news.”

This time Mrs Barclay tapped at the door softly, before opening it half an inch and saying:

“May we come in?”

Her answer was the door flung wide, and Claire’s arms round her neck.

“We’ve come to tell you that we’ve just seen Lord Carboro’, my dear, and he told us that he’d heard about your brother from the Colonel of his new regiment, out in Gibraltar, and that he’s getting on as well as can be.”