Chapter XXXIII
'O daughter of Babylon, wasted with misery.'
A habit of Knight's, when not immediately occupied with Elfride--
to walk by himself for half an hour or so between dinner and
bedtime--had become familiar to his friends at Endelstow, Elfride
herself among them. When he had helped her over the stile, she
said gently, 'If you wish to take your usual turn on the hill,
Harry, I can run down to the house alone.'
'Thank you, Elfie; then I think I will.'
Her form diminished to blackness in the moonlight, and Knight,
after remaining upon the churchyard stile a few minutes longer,
turned back again towards the building. His usual course was now
to light a cigar or pipe, and indulge in a quiet meditation. But
to-night his mind was too tense to bethink itself of such a
solace. He merely walked round to the site of the fallen tower,
and sat himself down upon some of the large stones which had
composed it until this day, when the chain of circumstance
originated by Stephen Smith, while in the employ of Mr. Hewby, the
London man of art, had brought about its overthrow.
Pondering on the possible episodes of Elfride's past life, and on
how he had supposed her to have had no past justifying the name,
he sat and regarded the white tomb of young Jethway, now close in
front of him. The sea, though comparatively placid, could as
usual be heard from this point along the whole distance between
promontories to the right and left, floundering and entangling
itself among the insulated stacks of rock which dotted the water's
edge--the miserable skeletons of tortured old cliffs that would
not even yet succumb to the wear and tear of the tides.
As a change from thoughts not of a very cheerful kind, Knight
attempted exertion. He stood up, and prepared to ascend to the
summit of the ruinous heap of stones, from which a more extended
outlook was obtainable than from the ground. He stretched out his
arm to seize the projecting arris of a larger block than ordinary,
and so help himself up, when his hand lighted plump upon a
substance differing in the greatest possible degree from what he
had expected to seize--hard stone. It was stringy and entangled,
and trailed upon the stone. The deep shadow from the aisle wall
prevented his seeing anything here distinctly, and he began
guessing as a necessity. 'It is a tressy species of moss or
lichen,' he said to himself.
But it lay loosely over the stone.
'It is a tuft of grass,' he said.
But it lacked the roughness and humidity of the finest grass.
'It is a mason's whitewash-brush.'
Such brushes, he remembered, were more bristly; and however much
used in repairing a structure, would not be required in pulling
one down.
He said, 'It must be a thready silk fringe.'
He felt further in. It was somewhat warm. Knight instantly felt
somewhat cold.
To find the coldness of inanimate matter where you expect warmth
is startling enough; but a colder temperature than that of the
body being rather the rule than the exception in common
substances, it hardly conveys such a shock to the system as
finding warmth where utter frigidity is anticipated.
'God only knows what it is,' he said.
He felt further, and in the course of a minute put his hand upon a
human head. The head was warm, but motionless. The thready mass
was the hair of the head--long and straggling, showing that the
head was a woman's.
Knight in his perplexity stood still for a moment, and collected
his thoughts. The vicar's account of the fall of the tower was
that the workmen had been undermining it all the day, and had left
in the evening intending to give the finishing stroke the next
morning. Half an hour after they had gone the undermined angle
came down. The woman who was half buried, as it seemed, must have
been beneath it at the moment of the fall.
Knight leapt up and began endeavouring to remove the rubbish with
his hands. The heap overlying the body was for the most part fine
and dusty, but in immense quantity. It would be a saving of time
to run for assistance. He crossed to the churchyard wall, and
hastened down the hill.
A little way down an intersecting road passed over a small ridge,
which now showed up darkly against the moon, and this road here
formed a kind of notch in the sky-line. At the moment that Knight
arrived at the crossing he beheld a man on this eminence, coming
towards him. Knight turned aside and met the stranger.
'There has been an accident at the church,' said Knight, without
preface. 'The tower has fallen on somebody, who has been lying
there ever since. Will you come and help?'
'That I will,' said the man.
'It is a woman,' said Knight, as they hurried back, 'and I think
we two are enough to extricate her. Do you know of a shovel?'
'The grave-digging shovels are about somewhere. They used to stay
in the tower.'
'And there must be some belonging to the workmen.'
They searched about, and in an angle of the porch found three
carefully stowed away. Going round to the west end Knight
signified the spot of the tragedy.
'We ought to have brought a lantern,' he exclaimed. 'But we may
be able to do without.' He set to work removing the superincumbent
mass.
The other man, who looked on somewhat helplessly at first, now
followed the example of Knight's activity, and removed the larger
stones which were mingled with the rubbish. But with all their
efforts it was quite ten minutes before the body of the
unfortunate creature could be extricated. They lifted her as
carefully as they could, breathlessly carried her to Felix
Jethway's tomb, which was only a few steps westward, and laid her
thereon.
'Is she dead indeed?' said the stranger.
'She appears to be,' said Knight. 'Which is the nearest house?
The vicarage, I suppose.'
'Yes; but since we shall have to call a surgeon from Castle
Boterel, I think it would be better to carry her in that
direction, instead of away from the town.'
'And is it not much further to the first house we come to going
that way, than to the vicarage or to The Crags?'
'Not much,' the stranger replied.
'Suppose we take her there, then. And I think the best way to do
it would be thus, if you don't mind joining hands with me.'
'Not in the least; I am glad to assist.'
Making a kind of cradle, by clasping their hands crosswise under
the inanimate woman, they lifted her, and walked on side by side
down a path indicated by the stranger, who appeared to know the
locality well.
'I had been sitting in the church for nearly an hour,' Knight
resumed, when they were out of the churchyard. 'Afterwards I
walked round to the site of the fallen tower, and so found her.
It is painful to think I unconsciously wasted so much time in the
very presence of a perishing, flying soul.'
'The tower fell at dusk, did it not? quite two hours ago, I
think?'
'Yes. She must have been there alone. What could have been her
object in visiting the churchyard then?
'It is difficult to say.' The stranger looked inquiringly into the
reclining face of the motionless form they bore. 'Would you turn
her round for a moment, so that the light shines on her face?' he
said.
They turned her face to the moon, and the man looked closer into
her features. 'Why, I know her!' he exclaimed.
'Who is she?'
'Mrs. Jethway. And the cottage we are taking her to is her own.
She is a widow; and I was speaking to her only this afternoon. I
was at Castle Boterel post-office, and she came there to post a
letter. Poor soul! Let us hurry on.'
'Hold my wrist a little tighter. Was not that tomb we laid her on
the tomb of her only son?'
'Yes, it was. Yes, I see it now. She was there to visit the
tomb. Since the death of that son she has been a desolate,
desponding woman, always bewailing him. She was a farmer's wife,
very well educated--a governess originally, I believe.'
Knight's heart was moved to sympathy. His own fortunes seemed in
some strange way to be interwoven with those of this Jethway
family, through the influence of Elfride over himself and the
unfortunate son of that house. He made no reply, and they still
walked on.
'She begins to feel heavy,' said the stranger, breaking the
silence.
'Yes, she does,' said Knight; and after another pause added, 'I
think I have met you before, though where I cannot recollect. May
I ask who you are?'
'Oh yes. I am Lord Luxellian. Who are you?'
'I am a visitor at The Crags--Mr. Knight.'
'I have heard of you, Mr. Knight.'
'And I of you, Lord Luxellian. I am glad to meet you.'
'I may say the same. I am familiar with your name in print.'
'And I with yours. Is this the house?'
'Yes.'
The door was locked. Knight, reflecting a moment, searched the
pocket of the lifeless woman, and found therein a large key which,
on being applied to the door, opened it easily. The fire was out,
but the moonlight entered the quarried window, and made patterns
upon the floor. The rays enabled them to see that the room into
which they had entered was pretty well furnished, it being the
same room that Elfride had visited alone two or three evenings
earlier. They deposited their still burden on an old-fashioned
couch which stood against the wall, and Knight searched about for
a lamp or candle. He found a candle on a shelf, lighted it, and
placed it on the table.
Both Knight and Lord Luxellian examined the pale countenance
attentively, and both were nearly convinced that there was no
hope. No marks of violence were visible in the casual examination
they made.
'I think that as I know where Doctor Granson lives,' said Lord
Luxellian, 'I had better run for him whilst you stay here.'
Knight agreed to this. Lord Luxellian then went off, and his
hurrying footsteps died away. Knight continued bending over the
body, and a few minutes longer of careful scrutiny perfectly
satisfied him that the woman was far beyond the reach of the
lancet and the drug. Her extremities were already beginning to
get stiff and cold. Knight covered her face, and sat down.
The minutes went by. The essayist remained musing on all the
occurrences of the night. His eyes were directed upon the table,
and he had seen for some time that writing-materials were spread
upon it. He now noticed these more particularly: there were an
inkstand, pen, blotting-book, and note-paper. Several sheets of
paper were thrust aside from the rest, upon which letters had been
begun and relinquished, as if their form had not been satisfactory
to the writer. A stick of black sealing-wax and seal were there
too, as if the ordinary fastening had not been considered
sufficiently secure. The abandoned sheets of paper lying as they
did open upon the table, made it possible, as he sat, to read the
few words written on each. One ran thus:
'SIR,--As a woman who was once blest with a dear son of her own, I
implore you to accept a warning----'
Another:
'SIR,--If you will deign to receive warning from a stranger before
it is too late to alter your course, listen to----'
The third:
'SIR,--With this letter I enclose to you another which, unaided by
any explanation from me, tells a startling tale. I wish, however,
to add a few words to make your delusion yet more clear to you----
'
It was plain that, after these renounced beginnings, a fourth
letter had been written and despatched, which had been deemed a
proper one. Upon the table were two drops of sealing-wax, the
stick from which they were taken having been laid down overhanging
the edge of the table; the end of it drooped, showing that the wax
was placed there whilst warm. There was the chair in which the
writer had sat, the impression of the letter's address upon the
blotting-paper, and the poor widow who had caused these results
lying dead hard by. Knight had seen enough to lead him to the
conclusion that Mrs. Jethway, having matter of great importance to
communicate to some friend or acquaintance, had written him a very
careful letter, and gone herself to post it; that she had not
returned to the house from that time of leaving it till Lord
Luxellian and himself had brought her back dead.
The unutterable melancholy of the whole scene, as he waited on,
silent and alone, did not altogether clash with the mood of
Knight, even though he was the affianced of a fair and winning
girl, and though so lately he had been in her company. Whilst
sitting on the remains of the demolished tower he had defined a
new sensation; that the lengthened course of inaction he had
lately been indulging in on Elfride's account might probably not
be good for him as a man who had work to do. It could quickly be
put an end to by hastening on his marriage with her.
Knight, in his own opinion, was one who had missed his mark by
excessive aiming. Having now, to a great extent, given up ideal
ambitions, he wished earnestly to direct his powers into a more
practical channel, and thus correct the introspective tendencies
which had never brought himself much happiness, or done his
fellow-creatures any great good. To make a start in this new
direction by marriage, which, since knowing Elfride, had been so
entrancing an idea, was less exquisite to-night. That the
curtailment of his illusion regarding her had something to do with
the reaction, and with the return of his old sentiments on wasting
time, is more than probable. Though Knight's heart had so greatly
mastered him, the mastery was not so complete as to be easily
maintained in the face of a moderate intellectual revival.
His reverie was broken by the sound of wheels, and a horse's
tramp. The door opened to admit the surgeon, Lord Luxellian, and
a Mr. Coole, coroner for the division (who had been attending at
Castle Boterel that very day, and was having an after-dinner chat
with the doctor when Lord Luxellian arrived); next came two female
nurses and some idlers.
Mr. Granson, after a cursory examination, pronounced the woman
dead from suffocation, induced by intense pressure on the
respiratory organs; and arrangements were made that the inquiry
should take place on the following morning, before the return of
the coroner to St. Launce's.
Shortly afterwards the house of the widow was deserted by all its
living occupants, and she abode in death, as she had in her life
during the past two years, entirely alone.
