Chapter XXIV: I Accept the Burden of Proof

Henceforth the chase runs on, swift and relentless; and I give myself, with a fierce joy, to lead it over rocks and wounding briars, since it will drive me where by justice I should follow. Hounded and harassed of all the world, save in the instance of its two dear loyalest hearts, I turn at bay at length, and fight the bitter quarrel to an end. Then, though I lose, my persecutors shall bear for ever the marks of that affray, while I--while I am healing of my wounds in Avalon. When all is done, mine, I think, shall be the sweeter solace.

All that morning following the interview, I waited, in a conflict of emotions, for the hour of my appointment with Lord Skene. I would not doubt its upshot--and yet I doubted. It seemed incredible that I could have come so far to win so little. Was he so obsessed, so infatuated a spouse, that all other interests were subordinated in his mind to the one passion of uxoriousness? I believe indeed that that was the case. So he only might recover his beautiful partner, all less importunate pleas for restitution were as the silence of the dead to him. He would subscribe to any conditions, would do, or leave undone, whatever appeared to speed him to that amorous conclusion.

And what about the dead? Alas! a yearning for their reincarnation is always, I fear, the most artificial of sentiments. A re-embodied spirit would be the last to find a welcome in his old place. His effect upon the laws of property would be so destructive, would it not? his claims on our maturer sympathies, such an anachronism and a bore? Jerusalem, I think, must have been deeply relieved when its wandering dead lay down again.

Now, I was in the very act of starting for the house, when I saw the figure of his lordship himself coming briskly over the snow towards me--and from the direction of the road. I paused, in some astonishment, to await him. Already, I think, a premonition of the truth was foreclosing on me. There was an indescribable air of elation in his face, pink with exercise, and in his sprightly step and the almost imperceptible cock of his hat. Could this be the collapsed and stricken soul from whom I had parted not so many hours ago? A sort of desperate effrontery seized me.

“You have come from Market Grazing, sir?” I said as he reached me. “Well, that was against my advice.”

The roses in his cheeks deepened, I could have thought, to damask. But he was full of good humour, and would not be put out of it.

“Pooh!” he said, with a little embarrassed laugh; and, taking my arm, walked me slowly up the path through the woods. “You have established a claim to some licence, Gaskett; but you must remember that advice is not prescription.”

“I am glad, at least, you admit the claim, sir. It would appear a more gracious admission, perhaps, if you were to address me less formally.”

He turned to look at me with an odd expression of challenge, or, it might be, propitiation.

“Well, as to that,” he said, “I have something to say. In the meantime, I am to congratulate you, and myself, on the correctness of your surmise.”

“She was there--at Pugsley’s?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sir?”

“I have full hopes the matter may be accommodated--hushed up. It comes to be merely a question of the figure.”

“Good God, sir!”

We stopped simultaneously, falling apart. For a moment a silence fell between us. The colour had left his face a little; but his mouth was set in a line of resolution--defiance, even.

“Do you mean to tell me, sir,” I said in a low voice, “that what you are implying is a money compromise with Mr Dalston?”

“Yes, that is exactly it,” he answered shortly.

I drew and expelled a deep breath. It was to be battle, then--my rights against a sentiment.

“Lord Skene,” I said clearly, “do you understand what this decision means to me? Have you drawn any real inference from the facts I have put before you?”

“Hush, my boy, hush!” he said pacifically. “I have reached a point, certainly, as you have, beyond which all is speculation and surmise.”

“As yet--yes.”

“Why test it further? It is an incredible enough tale as it stands. I have listened to many less improbable in my time, and found them one and all to crumble under the weight of evidence. What chief witness remains to this? Why one who has never spoken the truth in her life, but whose reputation, on the other hand, would involve in its exposure the very soul of truth. I must ask you to bear in mind, Richard, that this wretched woman is still my wife’s mother.”

“I bear it in mind, sir, as I do also bear in mind, and most firmly believe, that she helped Mr Dalston, who had made me fatherless, to make me motherless also.”

He remained silent a little, seeming to struggle for expression.

“Well,” he said at last, “it may be conceded as a plausible theory, at least. But what if, after all, so dark and fantastic a tale failed of itself before the test of daylight? You would hardly have bettered your position in that case, Richard. But let it stand at the point where it has arrived, and I, for my part, am willing to accept it on its merits.”

“In which case, sir?”

“In which case I should admit the moral of your more intimate claim on my regard, both sentimental and practical.”

“You would not, do you not mean, acknowledge me as a grandson, but you would undertake that I received the provision of one?”

“Yes--distinctly--that is what I mean.”

“You are no niggard, sir, I see, in your bids for silence. Had not I and Mr Dalston better make a common purse of it, and set up trade together as murderers and blackmailers?”

He drew back instantly.

“You have your choice of refusing,” he said coldly.

“And I refuse,” I answered, with a most bitter scorn. “I am no Esau, sir, though Fate has made me a hunter. Throw dust in your own eyes if you will. For me, I do not stop nor rest until I have probed this matter to an end. Have no fear for Lady Skene. Believing what I believe, the humiliation of your family is the thing farthest from my thoughts. It will not suffer, I think, from the vindication of the truth.”

He listened to my outburst with an expression which lightened from gloom to a certain wonder.

“Well,” he said, “well--if you are prepared to take the consequences of failure.”

“From you?” I cried.

I moved a step nearer to him.

“Lord Skene,” I said, “will you please to look at me? Is there a likeness or is there not? Have not you yourself been strangely conscious of it more than once? Did not Sir Maurice Carnac call me by his name?”

He bit his lip.

“O! I daresay Charlie was no Joseph,” he said.

“O!” I answered, much enlightened; “I beg your pardon. Very blind of me, to be sure. I may be a bastard none the less, you mean? Well, it is in the reckoning; but, for all your assumption, sir, you seem to dread the test more than I do.”

“Well, frankly, I think I do,” he said. “Truth, you see, is often a confoundedly unwelcome sort of visitor--like a poor relation--very upsetting to the conveniences. I notice, by the way, her name’s pretty familiar on your tongue. Do you hold it compatible with your very strict worship of her to suborn a young lady under the nose of her guardian?”

If I had startled him, he had retorted effectually. He sniggered a little, though with an aggravated sound, witnessing my astonishment. But I at least was in no mood for compromises.

“Miss Christmas has engaged herself to me,” I said shortly.

He gave a soft whistle, raising his eyebrows.

“Indeed?” he said drily. Then he looked at me searchingly. “She is not of age. It is in my power, of course you know, to refuse my consent.”

There was a significance in his tone that I could not misunderstand.

“Not even for that bribe, sir,” I said. “If needs must be, I’ll win to both name and wife without your help.”

His cheek went like fire. He turned without a word, and strode off a few paces; but suddenly wheeled and came back.

“That was infernally insulting,” he exclaimed. “What did you mean to imply by it?”

“I am very untutored, sir,” I answered in a tone of mock humility; “and I beg your pardon. I thought you were offering me a wife to keep me quiet. But, of course, the prospect of honouring her through a successful vindication of the truth is my chief stimulus to action. You could have no objection to the match in the event of my triumphing, I am sure.”

He turned again resolutely.

“Go your damned way,” he said. “Only favour me by being quick about it. You’ll understand, of course, that so long as you are pursuing it, pig-headed, my hands are tied.”

From that weak and evil compromise, he meant.

“Trust me, sir,” I said, “not to linger out the agony; and trust me once again to hold the honour of your family sacred through everything.”

“A cock-and-bull story,” he muttered fuming, and, without another look at me, took the path to the house.

I stood a little, watching his retreat. What form of possession was this which could so cloud, yes and pollute, the very spring of justice? Had his jurisdiction always been at the mercy of his senses? It was not the least of the anomaly, perhaps, that he should have been of that order of judge which visits a certain sort of offence with the full weight of the law, betraying, possibly, in its sentences on others, the measure of its own self-condemnation. “There,” he might, perhaps, have said, in dooming Geoletti, “but for the mercy of God, goes Charles Skene!” But, maybe, I myself was judging him hardly. He had a wider experience than I of the criminal genius’s infinite capacity for deception. No doubt the Italian’s story had really left him incredulous.

But, whatever the premises, the conclusion was manifest. I must be satisfied henceforth to play my part independent of him. He would not interfere, I gathered, but he would not help. So be it. The burden of the proof should be appropriated to my sole shoulders from that moment.

The end found me curiously exalted. I felt as if I were breathing a fuller, more intoxicating air. It was to be Ira and I at last, each for the other, against all the world. That seemed to simplify the issues; to make my task a less complicated one. Ira and I, foot to foot, side to side, to run the race together, and win if we might, or, if we lost, to sink no less breathless to our reward in the grass by the roadside. I pictured it thus. I could believe in my dear love still, thank God!

The mood had not left me when I came down over the snow to the old hawthorn in Hags Lane, and found her there awaiting me. I took her worshipfully into my arms, as befitted a fragile figure of such price.

“Ira,” I said, “would you like to have me tell you everything at last?”

“O, Richard! will you?”

“Wait a minute. Let me feel your bones--these ribs are like a rabbit’s. I doubt if they could stand such a hammering.”

“Try them, Richard. Have you never read ‘Maud’? Don’t you remember the shell that a finger-nail could break, but that the cataract shock of the seas could not? Only an unloving word from you could break me, Richard.”

“You ineffable dear. I like to hear you quote like that; I like to see you capable of thinking of anything again but ghosts and shadows. Let us get the last of them out of the way--shall we? and prepare for the time when there shall never be a secret left between us.”

“O yes, yes!--if you please, my lord.”

“My lord, you Pythoness? Do you know what a prophetic word you have used?”

“How can I know anything when you have told me nothing?”

“It is so difficult to begin, Ira; and there are things, such essential things, which I am wondering how I can put without offence to my innocent love. I don’t know how I shall do it, unless--unless you can imagine yourself to be my wife in actual earnest. Do you think you can?”

“Perhaps, Richard--if I shut my eyes very tight.”

“Yes; shut them--that is the way--and a seal on each. Now they can’t open till I break the seal. You are quite blind, Ira? and you must trust yourself to me. I am going to lead you through gloom and wicked places--dreadful, ghastly places; but you mustn’t mind--nothing shall hurt you. Now, are you holding me tight?”

“Yes, Richard. Can’t you feel me?”

* * * * * * * * *

“What do you think, Ira?”

“May I open my eyes?”

“Yes--but wait a minute. There!”

“Shall I be the Honourable Mrs Skene, Richard?”

“So you have jumped to that conclusion? I did not know if you would see it. What wits women have. Don’t cry so, my pretty bird.”

“How can I help it? Such a horrible, horrible story--and the poor body lying there still--hardly your own age, Richard. ... This man!--it makes me ill to think I have spoken to him--touched him in passing, perhaps. What are you going to do?”

“What does that matter to you, cry-baby?”

“I thought we were married, Richard. Make me shut my eyes again.”

“No, keep them open. You put me in such an ecstasy. What ought I to do?”

“I don’t think you ought to do anything. It is Uncle Charlie’s business.”

“Well, he just wants to pay the man to go away and hold his tongue, and, because I don’t see it in that light, has rather quarrelled with me.”

“It is infamous. Why should you be expected to incur any risk or danger? Richard, don’t dare this dreadful man on your own account--O, don’t, Richard!”

“I will be very careful. Shall I tell you what I had thought of doing?”

“What?”

“Going straight to Johnny Dando, and getting him to help me.”

“Mr Dando, Richard! How could that funny little creature help you?”

“Funny? Don’t you know that he is enormously rich?”

“What difference does that make? His gilding only seems to show up his roundness, like one of grandpapa’s pills.”

“Don’t talk of pills, miss, to a scion of the Skene family.”

“I am very sorry.”

“You have the curative principle in you, you little duck of a quack. Perhaps you have inherited it. I was very bad till I took you. Would you like a testimonial, dear? But seriously, there is no calculating what this business may cost me; and my savings don’t amount to much.”

“Richard!”

“Now, I know what you’re going to say. I will steal your heart, Ira; I will rob your lips, like a greedy boy in an orchard; I will thieve every bit of you else, but your money I won’t take. Think, if I touched it, in what a light it would seem to show me! No; Johnny put his wealth at my disposal once, and then I refused; but things have altered since. What was a speculation then, seems now a fairly promising investment. There’s only one objection.”

“What is it, dear?”

“Why, it would mean his helping me to you.”

“Why is that an objection?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No, indeed I can’t.”

“He loves you too, Ira.”

“Nonsense, Richard.”

“He does, really and truly.”

“Then, if he does, he’ll want to make me happy.”

O, the poignant, lovely inhumanity of women!

“Will he?” I said. “Well, to do him justice, I believe he would. But, supposing it were the other way about, and I was the rich one, and you and he were engaged and he wanted my help?”

“Then it would be very unwise of him to ask it, for I should fall in love with you, of course.”

“And now, I suppose, if he helps me, you’ll fall in love with him?”

“O, Richard! how absurd you are! Can’t you see, dear? And they call women illogical.”

“Never mind about that, Ira. You’re a very much abused sex, by all who don’t know you. Well, you think I’m justified in going to Johnny?”

“Yes, indeed. I think now, perhaps, it might be the very best thing you could do. I’m sure he’d take care of you for my sake. Only----”

“Only what, Ira?”

She put her young arms about my neck, tearfully, entreatingly:

“Must you take this man with you, Richard?”

“Geoletti, do you mean?”

“How is he so much better than the other? To know of that dreadful thing, and keep it secret just for his own profit!”

“He was educated to another code of morals than ours, Ira. It’s no good thinking of the gulf between us; but you must see that his company is indispensable to me.”

“I suppose I must. Will you be gone for long?”

“I can’t say. But I will write to you every day, and twice a day, if you like.”

“Will you? Will you really? I shall be miserable until you are safe home again. Richard”--she held me closer--“there is one thing yet which I haven’t dared to speak about--Mrs Dalston.”

With a woman’s sensitive intuition, she had found, and touched in sympathy, the real most poignant nerve of this complex tragedy. The point had not even occurred to Lord Skene.

“I understand what you mean, dearest,” I said softly. “If all surmise is justified, I am hounding to his doom the husband of my mother.”

“And she would wish it so, you believe?”

“I am bound to believe it.”

“O, Richard! is it not the most tragic thing of all that you should have wasted all your poor heart of love in pleading to a mother that was no mother to you, and, when the real one came, that you should have turned from her like a stranger?”

“It is the most tragic thing, Ira--and the worst that I cannot bring myself even now to look upon her as anything but Mrs Dalston.”

She sighed. “It is all a dreadful tangle. I wish it were unravelled and done with.”

“I am going to unravel it, for better or worse. And, if for worse, Ira?”

She kissed me, of her own sweet will, in a passion of tears.

“I don’t care about a name, Richard. I don’t want to be Lady Skene. You could never be more to me than you are. If you will only come back to me, the same as you are now, my heart will have room for not one other joy.”