"I have left him lying," said I, "beside the candles.""Candles?" he cried. And with that he ran to the window, opened it, and looked abroad. "It might be spied from the road.""Where none goes by at such an hour," I objected.
"It makes no matter," he said. "One might. Hark!" cries he.
"What is that?"
It was the sound of men very guardedly rowing in the bay; and Itold him so.
"The freetraders," said my lord. "Run at once, Mackellar; put these candles out. I will dress in the meanwhile; and when you return we can debate on what is wisest."I groped my way downstairs, and out at the door. From quite a far way off a sheen was visible, making points of brightness in the shrubbery; in so black a night it might have been remarked for miles; and I blamed myself bitterly for my incaution. How much more sharply when I reached the place! One of the candlesticks was overthrown, and that taper quenched. The other burned steadily by itself, and made a broad space of light upon the frosted ground.
All within that circle seemed, by the force of contrast and the overhanging blackness, brighter than by day. And there was the bloodstain in the midst; and a little farther off Mr. Henry's sword, the pommel of which was of silver; but of the body, not a trace. My heart thumped upon my ribs, the hair stirred upon my scalp, as I stood there staring - so strange was the sight, so dire the fears it wakened. I looked right and left; the ground was so hard, it told no story. I stood and listened till my ears ached, but the night was hollow about me like an empty church; not even a ripple stirred upon the shore; it seemed you might have heard a pin drop in the county.
I put the candle out, and the blackness fell about me groping dark;it was like a crowd surrounding me; and I went back to the house of Durrisdeer, with my chin upon my shoulder, startling, as I went, with craven suppositions. In the door a figure moved to meet me, and I had near screamed with terror ere I recognised Mrs. Henry.
"Have you told him?" says she.
"It was he who sent me," said I. "It is gone. But why are you here?""It is gone!" she repeated. "What is gone?"
"The body," said I. "Why are you not with your husband?""Gone!" said she. "You cannot have looked. Come back.""There is no light now," said I. "I dare not.""I can see in the dark. I have been standing here so long - so long," said she. "Come, give me your hand."We returned to the shrubbery hand in hand, and to the fatal place.
"Take care of the blood," said I.
"Blood?" she cried, and started violently back.
"I suppose it will be," said I. "I am like a blind man.""No!" said she, "nothing! Have you not dreamed?""Ah, would to God we had!" cried I.
She spied the sword, picked it up, and seeing the blood, let it fall again with her hands thrown wide. "Ah!" she cried. And then, with an instant courage, handled it the second time, and thrust it to the hilt into the frozen ground. "I will take it back and clean it properly," says she, and again looked about her on all sides.
"It cannot be that he was dead?" she added.
"There was no flutter of his heart," said I, and then remembering:
"Why are you not with your husband?"
"It is no use," said she; "he will not speak to me.""Not speak to you?" I repeated. "Oh! you have not tried.""You have a right to doubt me," she replied, with a gentle dignity.
At this, for the first time, I was seized with sorrow for her.
"God knows, madam," I cried, "God knows I am not so hard as Iappear; on this dreadful night who can veneer his words? But I am a friend to all who are not Henry Durie's enemies.""It is hard, then, you should hesitate about his wife," said she.
I saw all at once, like the rending of a veil, how nobly she had borne this unnatural calamity, and how generously my reproaches.
"We must go back and tell this to my lord," said I.
"Him I cannot face," she cried.
"You will find him the least moved of all of us," said I.
"And yet I cannot face him," said she.
"Well," said I, "you can return to Mr. Henry; I will see my lord."As we walked back, I bearing the candlesticks, she the sword - a strange burthen for that woman - she had another thought. "Should we tell Henry?" she asked.
"Let my lord decide," said I.
My lord was nearly dressed when I came to his chamber. He heard me with a frown. "The freetraders," said he. "But whether dead or alive?""I thought him - " said I, and paused, ashamed of the word.
"I know; but you may very well have been in error. Why should they remove him if not living?" he asked. "Oh! here is a great door of hope. It must be given out that he departed - as he came - without any note of preparation. We must save all scandal."I saw he had fallen, like the rest of us, to think mainly of the house. Now that all the living members of the family were plunged in irremediable sorrow, it was strange how we turned to that conjoint abstraction of the family itself, and sought to bolster up the airy nothing of its reputation: not the Duries only, but the hired steward himself.
"Are we to tell Mr. Henry?" I asked him.
"I will see," said he. "I am going first to visit him; then I go forth with you to view the shrubbery and consider."We went downstairs into the hall. Mr. Henry sat by the table with his head upon his hand, like a man of stone. His wife stood a little back from him, her hand at her mouth; it was plain she could not move him. My old lord walked very steadily to where his son was sitting; he had a steady countenance, too, but methought a little cold. When he was come quite up, he held out both his hands and said, "My son!"With a broken, strangled cry, Mr. Henry leaped up and fell on his father's neck, crying and weeping, the most pitiful sight that ever a man witnessed. "Oh! father," he cried, "you know I loved him;you know I loved him in the beginning; I could have died for him -you know that! I would have given my life for him and you. Oh!
say you know that. Oh! say you can forgive me. O father, father, what have I done - what have I done? And we used to be bairns together!" and wept and sobbed, and fondled the old man, and clutched him about the neck, with the passion of a child in terror.
