A Son of Perdition: An Occult Romance

CHAPTER XIX

THE MORNING AFTER

After breakfast disastrous news came from two quarters, and concerned both Don Pablo and Julian Hardwick. While the Squire, his daughter and his guest were ending their meal, the housekeeper rushed into the room with an agitated face to announce evil. Like all her class she was delighted to be the bearer of bad tidings, and counted upon making a sensation, which she assuredly did. Enistor had scarcely raised his eyebrows at her unceremonious entry when she burst into voluble speech.

"Oh! sir: oh! miss, here's dreadful goings on. That poor young gentleman who painted pictures is dead and gone."

"I thought he would die," said Alice, with a sob. "He had no strength when I left him last night. Oh! poor Julian: poor Julian."

"But that ain't the worst, miss. Señor Narvaez is murdered!"

Enistor started to his feet and overturned his chair. He could not believe his ears. "Murdered! Don Pablo! Be careful what you say."

"I am careful, sir," cried the housekeeper resentfully. "He's as dead as a doornail, lying outside his cottage with a broken neck. Mrs. Boyce as looked after him came on the corpse this morning, and is now in the kitchen crying dreadful and exhausted, as she well may be, having rushed across the moor at her age to tell of the wicked crime."

"But is it a crime?" asked Alice, deadly pale and anxious.

"For sure, miss. Men don't break their own necks."

"Who killed him?" demanded Montrose sharply.

"No one knows, miss – I mean, sir. Mrs. Boyce said as Señor Narvaez had some one to see him last night, but who he was she don't rightly know."

Enistor's eyes rested on Montrose, who started and flushed. "When did Mrs. Boyce discover the body?"

"When she got up early to make the old gentleman's breakfast," said the voluble housekeeper. "He wasn't in his room, as usual, but she thought he might have gone out for a stroll, as he sometimes did. Then later, as he did not return, Mrs. Boyce went out to look and found him dead just outside the gate, looking as quiet as pussy. And please, sir, she wants to know what she's to do, having come as quick as ever she could to tell, so that it mayn't be thought to be her fault, which it ain't, she being one as wouldn't kill a fly."

"Tell Mrs. Boyce that I shall go over to the cottage and see what is to be done," said Enistor quickly, "and send one of the men down to the village for the policeman. We must communicate with the Perchton Inspector."

"And what about Mr. Hardwick as is dead and – "

"You needn't trouble about that. Do what I say."

The housekeeper vanished reluctantly, as she dearly wished to remain and discuss the deaths. The moment the door was closed Enistor turned to Montrose with a frown. "What do you know of this?" he asked imperiously.

Alice started and spoke before her lover could open his mouth. "Douglas cannot possibly know anything," she cried indignantly. "What do you mean, father?"

"I mean that Montrose was the last person who saw Don Pablo alive."

"You can't be sure of that," said the young man, very pale but very quiet. "I certainly called on Don Pablo shortly after eight o'clock, to question him concerning the lie he told about me. But I left him some time before nine perfectly well. His death is as great a surprise to me as to you, Mr. Enistor."

"I hope the police will take that view," sneered the Squire. "You returned here after nine and went straight to bed, when you might have guessed that I was in the library waiting for your report."

"I was too upset to give any report," said Montrose shortly.

"Oh, I quite believe that."

"Douglas! father," cried Alice imploringly, as she could not yet understand the precise situation. "What does it all mean?"

"It means so far as I can judge that Montrose forced the lie down Narvaez' throat, as he said he would, and very thoroughly."

"Do you accuse me of killing the man?" said Montrose hoarsely.

"Yes!" said the Squire, looking at him with grim directness.

"Then I deny absolutely what you say," declared the other vehemently; "as I said before, I left Narvaez in his room shortly before nine o'clock, after he had confessed to me that what he mentioned to you was untrue."

"What did he mention to father?" questioned the girl, terrified at the furious looks of the two men. "I was with Julian until eleven, and when I returned home you had gone to bed, Douglas. I came to tell you about Julian, father, but you did not say that anything had happened."

"Nothing had happened then so far as I know," said Enistor quickly. "My dear, I saw Don Pablo yesterday and he told me that Montrose was already married."

"Married! Married!" Alice started back the picture of dismay.

"It is a lie!" cried Douglas fiercely, and passed round the table to take her in his arms. "I swear it is a lie, dear. When your father told me after dinner I went at once to Narvaez. He confessed calmly that he had spoken falsely so as to prejudice my chances of making you my wife. Had he been a younger man I should have thrashed the life out of him. As it was I told him my opinion and then left him quite unharmed. I swear that I never laid a finger on him, but returned here shortly after nine o'clock to go to bed. I was too indignant at what had been said to seek out your father and explain."

Enistor laughed coldly. "That is a very neat story. Do you believe it, Alice?"

The girl clung to her lover. "Believe it: of course I believe it. Douglas would not tell a lie."

"Not even to save his own neck?"

"My neck isn't in danger," said Montrose haughtily.

"I don't know so much about that. The other day you threatened to kill Narvaez for the insult he offered to Alice, and many people heard that threat, as you know. To demand explanation of a lie – I daresay it was a lie – you left this house breathing fire and fury against Narvaez. When you returned it was to retire to bed without a word of explanation. Now we hear that the man, whom you regarded as your enemy, is dead – murdered. The evidence in favour of your having killed Narvaez is very strong."

"Purely circumstantial evidence," said Montrose, but turned paler than ever when he realised his position.

"Innocent men have been hanged on circumstantial evidence before now," said Enistor coolly. "Although on the face of it I do not admit your innocence."

"Father, how can you think Douglas would murder any one!"

"Ah, I have not the belief in him that you have, Alice."

"Indeed that is true," said Montrose bitterly. "You have always been hostile to me, although for a time you masked your feelings. Now it seems that without a shadow of proof you believe me to be a murderer."

"A shadow of proof!" echoed the Squire tauntingly. "Upon my word, I think there is much more than a shadow of proof. You threatened Narvaez and – "

"And so did Job Trevel," interrupted Alice defiantly. "It is probable that Job murdered Don Pablo."

"Probable, but scarcely possible," said her father coldly. "However, I shall send for the Perchton police and strict justice shall be done. Until the truth comes to light, Montrose must lie under suspicion. Leave him, Alice."

"Never! Never! Never!" cried the girl, with her arms round Montrose's neck. "He is innocent: wholly innocent."

Enistor stepped forward and wrenched his daughter from the young man. "Obey me, Alice, I command you," he cried imperiously. "So far you have had your own way, but now the time has come for me to have mine. Go to your room and stay there until I look into the matter. As to you," he faced Montrose, who was quiet and pale and as still as a statue, "I should order you out of my house but that justice must be done."

"You mean to have me arrested on a charge of murder?"

"I mean to explain the whole circumstance to the Perchton Inspector and let him deal with the matter," retorted Enistor haughtily. "Meantime, if you try to escape you will be taken in charge at my instance by the Polwellin policeman. You understand."

"I understand that you are bent upon my destruction, Mr. Enistor. But you need have no fear. Being perfectly innocent, I shall not attempt to escape."

"Oh, Douglas! Douglas!"

"You will disobey me." Enistor dragged back his daughter and forced her to the door. "Go to your room, I tell you."

Montrose clenched his hands on seeing the girl he loved so roughly handled, but he could do nothing against the authority of her father. With one last sorrowful look, Alice disappeared and Enistor followed, leaving the unfortunate young man alone with his misery. The wicked atmosphere of the house seemed to bear down upon him with such force that he could almost feel the physical pressure. But this probably was imagination, as he was not sufficiently clairvoyant either to see or hear or feel the unseen. But in this agonising moment when it seemed that he was being swept away by a flood of evil, his thoughts turned swiftly to Eberstein. In that man he hoped to find aid, but even as he dwelt on the doctor's assistance a line from one of the Psalms flashed insistently into his mind. "Vain is the help of man" was the phrase, and he became vividly aware by some sixth sense that salvation could only come from the Great Power of Love as manifested in the Lord of Compassion. So intolerable a sense of his peril seized him that, almost unconsciously, the cry for help issued from his lips.

"Oh, Christ!" he breathed audibly. "Lord help me, lest I perish."

It might have been that the intense agony of the moment opened his interior senses, for he became conscious that some glorious light, not of the world, was enfolding him in its radiance. It welled – so he believed – from the golden heart on his breast, as if the stored-up sacramental power was issuing forth to do battle with the dark influence. But be this as it may, Montrose became aware that the gloom was receding, that the evil was being baffled, and that he was growing stronger by virtue of some higher force to resist the terrors pressing in upon him. The radiance which clothed him as with a garment gradually died away, and he found himself standing in the common light of day; but the peaceful, holy, uplifting feeling remained. He knew his innocence, and he knew also with profound thankfulness that God would make that innocence apparent to others. The trouble prophesied by Eberstein had indeed arrived, and very terrible it was; but behind the clouds which environed him shone the sun of righteousness, and its glory would sooner or later dispel the gloom. Having arrived at this knowledge in some way which he was wholly unable to explain, Montrose left Tremore and descended to Polwellin.

Here he walked straight to the post-office and sent a wire to Eberstein asking him to come over at once. He would have gone to Perchton instead, but that he did not wish Enistor to put his threat into execution and have him arrested by the village policeman. As it was, he became an object of suspicion to the fishermen and their wives. The news of Narvaez' violent death had travelled swiftly from ear to ear, and Montrose was apparently looked upon as the criminal. The evidence of those who had heard his threats against the man was too clear to admit of doubt, and already accusations had been spread broadcast, judging from the horrified looks which met Montrose's gaze on all sides. He had been tried and condemned without loss of time, and in spite of the sustaining power he felt his heart sink with purely human fear. It was with a feeling of relief that he met the vicar face to face. From a more educated man he at least hoped to have justice.

"Mr. Montrose," said the vicar, who looked more solemn than ever and was certainly more stiff, "are you wise to walk through the village just now?"

"Why should I not?" asked the young man defiantly.

"Well, there are rumours: rumours," said Mr. Sparrow, removing his clerical hat to brush his bald head with a nervous hand. "Señor Narvaez is dead, as you know, and it is said that you are responsible."

"Why should I be?"

"He insulted Miss Enistor the other day in your presence and you threatened to kill him, I understand. Of course I am not a believer in your guilt," added the parson quickly, "as from what I have seen of you I do not think for a moment that you would shed the blood of a human being."

"Thank you," said Montrose simply, and extended his hand.

Sparrow took it with a flush on his parchment face. "It's all rubbish as I have said," he burst out with very human wrath. "And as you are staying at Tremore, undoubtedly you will be able to show that you did not see Señor Narvaez last night."

It was on the tip of Montrose's tongue to confess his visit, but something – perhaps common sense – prevented him from incriminating himself. Instead, a question sprang to his lips to which he was extremely anxious to get an answer. "What about Job Trevel?"

"There you are," said the vicar quickly. "A rough hot-tempered man like Job is much more likely to have done the deed, though God forbid I should accuse him or any one unjustly. Yet Job certainly hated Señor Narvaez on account of Rose Penwin, and uttered many threats against him. But when the news came of this murder, Mr. Montrose, I at once went to see Dame Trevel, remembering Job's enmity. She tells me that Job went out fishing last night early and has not returned. Therefore he cannot be guilty."

"Then who can have murdered Narvaez?"

"It is hard to say. Of course he lived in a lonely situation and had much wealth, if rumour is to be believed. We shall see when the police come from Perchton. They should be here soon. I believe that Mr. Enistor and our village constable have gone to the cottage to see the body. Meanwhile, Mr. Montrose, I advise you to return to Tremore and wait until we learn more. Señor Narvaez was no favourite, yet it is dangerous for you to walk about amongst my rough parishioners, as they seem to think that you are guilty."

Montrose was no coward, yet he did not see the necessity of courting danger when no benefit could be derived from such foolhardiness. He bowed his head and accepted the warning, thankful to think that Mr. Sparrow did not believe him to have committed the crime. "And Hardwick is dead," he said sadly.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! It is a world of trouble, Mr. Montrose. I have just seen the body, and the poor fellow looks asleep rather than dead. Strange that he should die on the very morning when this tragic event takes place. Polwellin is such a quiet place: nothing of moment ever happens here. Yet now we have two deaths: one from natural causes and one by violence. It never rains but it pours. I have much to do: much to do. Now go back to Tremore, my dear young friend, and rest assured that God will prove your innocence in His own good time. You have my sympathy and my wife's sympathy."