“Yes; and I repeat it,” cried Tom Candlish, who was furious with disappointment. He found that humility was useless, and that now they had begun to quarrel, his only chance of getting money was by bullying and threats; so without heeding the gathering anger in his brother’s eyes as he went on playing rapidly in turn and out of turn, he kept up his attack. “What the governor could have been thinking of, I say – ”
“Leave the governor alone, Tom,” growled the squire. “He knew that if he left the money to me with the title, the estate would be kept out of the lawyers’ hands, and the money would not be found in pretty women’s laps.”
“But down your throat, you sot!” The squire looked up at him again, and he was going to make some furious retort, when the old butler’s steps were heard ascending the flight of stairs, and he entered the room.
“Can I bring anything else, Sir Luke, before I go to bed?”
“No, Smith,” said the squire; “what time is it?”
“Half-past ten, sir.”
“All locked up? Servants gone to bed?”
“Yes, Sir Luke.”
“That’ll do, then, without Mr Tom wants some more hot water.”
“No; I’m in hot water enough,” growled Tom, lighting a cigar, and the butler withdrew.
For some few minutes there was no sound but the click of the billiard balls, as the squire, forgetful entirely of the game, kept on knocking the red here, the white there, while Tom Candlish paced up and down, cue in hand, emitting regular puffs of smoke, as if he were some angry machine moved by an internal fire.
Doors were heard to shut here and there, and then all was silent in the old place save the regular pacing about of Tom, the squire’s hasty tread, and the clicking of the billiard balls.
“Now, then!” cried Tom, at last; “are you going to let me have that money?”
“No,” said the squire, coolly enough. “I wouldn’t let you have it now for your bullying. I’m a hound and a cur, am I, my lad?”
“Yes, you are a despicable hound and a miserable cur, and if the old man had known – ”
“Let the old man rest,” said the squire, with a lurid look.
“I say, if the old man had known how you were going to spend his money, sotting from morning to night – ”
“He’d have left it to you to spend on the loose, eh?”
“Loose? Why, you are ten times as loose as I am; but you are so proud of your good name that you sneak about in the dark to do your dissipation. I am manly and straightforward in mine.”
“Yes, you’re a beauty,” said the squire mockingly. “Which of those girls are you going to marry – Leo Salis or Dally Watlock?”
“You mind your own affairs, and leave me to manage mine!” said Tom Candlish fiercely.
“But I should like to know,” said the squire, “because then I could arrange about the paper and furniture for the rooms.”
“Do you want to quarrel, Luke?”
“Quarrel?” chuckled the squire; “not I. Trying to be brotherly and to make things pleasant. If it is to be Leo, of course we must have greys and sage greens and terra cottas. If it is to be Dally Watlock, we must go in for red and yellow and purple. How delightful to have the sexton’s granddaughter for a sister! I say, Tom, how happy we shall be!”
Tom Candlish turned upon his brother furiously, as if about to strike; and the squire, though apparently laughing over his banter, and about to play, kept upon his guard.
But no blow was struck. Tom uttered a low sound, like the muttering growl of an angry dog, and smoked quickly, giving the butt of his cue a thump down upon the floor from time to time as he walked.
“I shan’t mind your marrying, Tom; and there’s plenty of room for you to bring a wife to. I shan’t marry, so your boy will get the title – and the coin.”
“Coin?” cried Tom savagely; “there’ll be none left. Do you think I don’t know how you are spending it?”
“Never mind how I spend it, my lad. I only spend what is my own; and if I had spent all, I shouldn’t come begging to you.”
“Lucky for you,” cried Tom Candlish tauntingly. “Look here, Luke, how many years does it take a man to drink himself to death?”
“Don’t know,” said the squire, wincing.
“Well, you’re hard at work, and I shall watch the experiment with some curiosity. I’ve a good chance.”
“Healthier man than you, Tom; and it’ll take me longer to kill myself than it will take you. I shall be a hale man long after you’ve broken your neck hunting.”
“Look here!” cried Tom savagely, “once more: do you want to quarrel?”
“Not I,” said the squire; “and I don’t want to fight. Cain might kill Abel over again with an unlucky blow.”
“’Pon my soul, Luke, if I could feel sure that Cain would be hung for it, I shouldn’t mind playing Abel.”
“Look at that!” cried the squire, as, after a random shot, the red ball went into one pocket, the white into another. “There’s a shot!”
“Yes – a fluke,” sneered Tom. “Your life has been a series of flukes. It was one that you were born first, and another that you ever lived; while in earnest, as in play, it’s always flake, fluke, fluke!”
“Anchor flukes take fast hold of the ground, Tom,” said the squire, with a sneering laugh.
“Yes, and of the money, too,” cried Tom. “Come, I’ll give you another chance. Will you let me have that cash?”
“No.”
“Not to save me from a writ?”
“Who holds the bills?”
“That scoundrel Thompson. North’s cousin.”
“Then he’ll worry you well for it,” said the squire. “Let him. It’ll be a lesson for you, and bring you to your senses. You’ll be more careful.”
“Nonsense! Let me have the money.”
“I might have let you have it, and precious unwillingly, too,” said the squire. “I might, I say, have let you have the money to save you for the last time, but your bullying tone, and the way in which you have spoken to me to-night, have quite settled it. You may have writs and he arrested, and turn bankrupt if you like: it doesn’t make any difference to me. Yes, it would; for perhaps I should get rid of you for a time.”
“You cursed, mean, unbrotherly hound!” cried Tom furiously; and, throwing down the cue upon the table just as his brother was about to play, he swung out of the room, descended the stairs, and went up to his bedroom.
“Hang him!” muttered the squire, going to a side table and pouring himself out half a tumbler of strong brandy, which he diluted a little, and then drank off half at a draught.
“I wish to goodness he’d go altogether. I won’t pay his debts any more. That’s not a bad stroke. How a drop of brandy does steady a man’s hand! Let him swear and growl. Five hundred’s enough for him for a year, and the old man was quite right.”
He went on playing for another half-hour, practising strokes with very little success, till, glancing at his watch, he found it was close upon midnight, and placing his cue in the rack, he poured himself out some more brandy, drank it, turned down the lamp, and was moving towards the baize swing-door, when it opened, and Tom Candlish stood in the opening.
“Hallo!” said the squire; “thought you’d gone to bed.”
“What’s the good of my going to bed with that money trouble to think about.”
“Have some brandy? Make you forget it. I’ve left some on the table.”
“No fooling, Luke. I was out of temper. I’ve been worried, and I said things I didn’t mean.”
“Always do. Here, let me come by. I want to go to bed.”
“All right, you shall directly, old fellow; but you’ll let me have that money?”
“Not a sou.”
“I want it horribly; and it will save me no end of worry. You’ll let me have it?”
“Not a sou, I tell you.”
“Come, Luke, old chap, don’t be hard upon me. I’ve been waiting patiently till I got cool, and you had finished playing, before I came and spoke to you again. Now, then, it’s only a hundred.”
“And it’ll be a hundred next week, and a hundred next month. I won’t lend you a penny.”
“Then, give it me. I’ve a right to some of the old man’s coin.”
“Not a sou, I tell you, and get out of my way. I want to go to bed.”
“You’ll help me, Luke?”
“No! Stand aside!”
“Come, don’t be hard. I’m your brother.”
“Worse luck!” said the squire, whose face was flushed by the brandy he had taken.
“Never mind that. Let me have the hundred.”
“I tell you again, not a sou. Curse you! Will you let me come by?” cried the squire savagely; for the spirit had taken an awkward turn, and his face grew purple.
“Once more; will you let me have the money?”
“No!” roared the squire. “Get out of the way – dog!”
“Dog, yourself! Curse you for a mean hound!” cried Tom Candlish, with a savage look. “You don’t go by here till you’ve given me a cheque.”
The squire’s temper was fully roused now. He had restrained it before; though, several times when he had uttered a low laugh and kept on handling his cue, his anger had been seething, and ready to brim over.
Now, at his brother’s threat, that he should not pass until he had signed a cheque, he seized Tom by the shoulder as he blocked the way, and flung him aside.
Luke Candlish cleared the passage for his descent; but roused the evil in his brother, so that Tom closed with him in a fierce grip.
The struggle was almost momentary. There was a wrestling here and there, and then Luke Candlish put forth his whole strength as he practised a common Cornish trick, and Tom was thrown heavily upon the landing.
“There!” cried the squire; “lie there, you idiot! You’ll get no cheque from me.”
The squire had to pass over his brother’s body to reach the stairs, and he was in the act of rapidly crossing him, when, with a desperate effort, Tom made a savage snatch at his leg.
The result was what might have been expected: the sudden check caused the squire to lose his balance, and he literally pitched head foremost down the stairs, to fall with a heavy crash at the bottom.
Tom Candlish rose to his hands and knees, and gazed at where his brother lay, just beneath the lamp in the lobby, head downwards, and in a curiously-awkward position for a living man.
Chapter Twenty Four.
A Terrible Silence
“Serve him right,” muttered Tom. Then rising and pushing the door, which had swung to, he entered the dark billiard-room, where he felt his way to the spirit stand, and took a hearty draught. “Curse him! he’s as strong as a horse. I wish he had broken his neck.”
The brandy gave him nerve, and he returned through the baize door into the light.
“Must lend him a hand, I suppose,” he muttered, as he descended the stairs to where the squire lay in a heap, his head upon the mat, one leg doubled beneath him, and the other through the balustrade, which held it fast.
Tom Candlish stood peering down at him for a few moments, and then, as his brother did not move, he stooped towards him.
“Here,” he said roughly, as he took hold of his wrist; “don’t lie like that; you’ll have a blood-vessel burst.”
There was no reply; and, as the wrist was loosed, the arm fell in an absolutely nerveless way.
“Here, Luke!” he cried; “get up. Don’t fool. Get up, man!”
Still no reply, and, beginning to be startled, Tom Candlish went down upon one knee and tried to move his brother’s head into a more comfortable position.
As he did so, the light fell athwart so ghastly and strange a countenance, from whose lips the blood was slowly trickling, that he let the head glide from his hands, for it to sink suddenly with a dull thud upon the stairs.
“Good God!” ejaculated the young man, in a low, excited voice. “Here, Luke! Luke, old man: hold up!”
There was no movement – not even a sigh; and Tom Candlish ran to alarm the house; but, as he reached the swing-door at the end of the passage, and stood gazing into the hall, he stopped and ran back to lay his hand upon his brother’s heart; then caught his wrist, and afterwards thrust a hand right into his breast, but only to withdraw it quite aghast.
“Here! a doctor!” he gasped, his voice being like a hoarse whisper. “Smith! Somebody! Here!”
He rose and hurried to the door leading into the entrance hall once more, but stopped again as he reached it, and stood gazing back at the distorted figure at the foot of the stairs.
Then he turned and looked up the dimly-lit staircase, but all was perfectly still. No one appeared to have heard the altercation or the fall. All seemed to be sleeping; and, panting heavily, as wild thoughts full of wonder and dread flooded his brain, Tom Candlish closed the door softly, ran back along the passage, ascended the stairs, and gained the billiard-room, where he groped his way once more to the spirit stand, removed the stopper, and drank heavily from the brandy decanter.
“Hah!” he ejaculated, as he took a long breath, and turned to see that the oval pane in the baize door seemed to have assumed the aspect of a huge, dull eye glaring at him.
“Am I going mad?” he muttered, as he staggered to the door. “I must call help; perhaps – perhaps – he is seriously hurt.”
He stole softly down the stairs, and paused by the prostrate figure, still lying perfectly motionless, and in its hideously-distorted position.
“I must call help – call help!” whispered the young man, whose face was now ghastly; but though there were bells that might have been rung and people were within call, he only crept along the passage, without attempting to touch the fallen man, pushed the spring-door gently, so that it should make no noise, closed it again, stood listening, and then, in the midst of the dead silence, stole on tip-toe up the grand staircase to his bedroom, where he once more stopped to listen, and then crept softly in and closed the door.
The silence in the old Hall was as that of death for a few moments, before it was broken by a faint click, as of the bolt of a lock just shot.
Once more silence, and then on the dim staircase there was a musical purring noise, followed by the pleasant chimes of a clock, which rang out the half-hour after midnight.
Then once again the stillness as of death.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Smith Finds Something Wrong
“You heard nothing?” said the doctor.
“Nothing at all. I went to bed at the usual time, sir,” said the butler – “half-past ten – yes, sir, I’ve the chaise waiting; won’t you come in that, and I can tell you as we drive over?”
“Yes; all right,” said the doctor, and five minutes later they were rattling along the road towards the Hall.
“Now, go on,” said North. “Yes, sir; I went to bed as usual, and slept very soundly till about an hour ago, and then I suddenly woke. I don’t know what made me wake; but I did, and somehow began thinking, as I’ve often thought before, about the plate in the pantry, and whether it was safe.”
“Don’t you sleep in the pantry?”
“No, sir; it’s so damp. So I lay telling myself it was all nonsense and fancy; but the more I thought so, the more uncomfortable I grew, till I could stand it no longer, and I got up, slipped on my trousers and great-coat, and went to the top of the stairs, where I felt quite a chill, as I knew something was not as it should be, for the lamp was not turned out on the hall table.”
“What lamp?”
“The hall lamp that Sir Luke always puts out himself when he goes up to bed.”
“Where do you say you left him last night?”
“In the billiard-room, sir, playing with Mr Tom, sir.”
“Yes; go on.”
“So I went down, sir; and there saw through the baize door that the lamp was burning at the end of the passage at the foot of the billiard-room stairs.”
“Yes.”
“And as soon as I got through the baize door, there, under the lamp, lay my poor master, all like of a heap.”
“What did you do?”
“Ran to him, and tried to put him in a more comfortable position, sir; but – ”
“Yes; I understand.”
“Then I rushed up and called Mr Tom, sir; and we went to the squire together, and rang the bells and alarmed the house. Then, as soon as the boy had put the horse in the chaise, sir, I drove over to fetch you.”
“But did you do nothing to try and revive him?”
“Oh! yes, sir; but – ”
“I understand,” said the doctor. “And Mr Tom?”
“He couldn’t believe it, sir. He said he played billiards with the squire for some time, and then grew tired and went to bed, leaving him knocking the balls about, and it’s all very plain, sir. I tell you of course, though I wouldn’t say so to another soul, poor Sir Luke used to take a great deal too much. I filled the spirit stand only this morning, and the brandy decanter was quite empty. He had a deal too, at dinner, before.”
“And you think he pitched downstairs, Smith?”
“Yes, sir; that is my belief,” said the butler; “and Mr Tom seemed to think so too.”
They reached the Hall to find every one in a state of the most intense excitement, but an ominous silence reigning through the place.
“Thank goodness you’ve come at last,” cried a familiar voice, and Tom hurried to meet North. “Pray be quick; he is insensible still.”
The doctor looked at the young man curiously.
“Where is he?”
“We carried him into the dining-room, and laid him on a sofa; but he has not stirred since. I’m afraid something is broken.”
As he spoke he led North into the dining-room, where the candles were burning, the shutters were closed, and curtains drawn; and there, upon a couch in the middle of the room, lay Sir Luke Candlish, as his brother had said, without having moved since he had been borne carefully in.
The doctor’s examination was short, and Tom Candlish stood looking on, apparently too much overcome to speak.
“Well,” he said at last, “is he very bad? Is anything broken?”
The doctor raised his eyebrows, and could have replied “his neck,” but he said simply: “Bad, sir? Can you not see that he is dead?”
“Dead?” ejaculated Tom; and his jaw dropped, while his face assumed a look of intense horror.
“Yes, sir. The butler’s theory seems to be quite correct. Sir Luke must have pitched headlong from the top of the stairs to the bottom.”
“And there is no hope?”
The doctor shook his head, and laid his hand upon the young man’s arm, signing to him to quit the room.
Tom followed mechanically.
“So horrible!” he said, as soon as they were in the drawing-room. “We were playing billiards together till late last night, while now – Yes, what is it?”
“I beg pardon. Sir Thomas,” said the old butler softly, “the housekeeper said would you and Dr North like a cup of tea?”
“Sir Thomas!” The title made Tom Candlish thrill as he stood gazing at the speaker. So soon! Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!
He was Sir Thomas Candlish. The estate was his and the rent-roll of at least five thousand a year. Last night he was enraged at the possibility of trouble arising from Thompson. Now he was a free man: he was rich.
And his brother?
It was his secret. And why should he trouble about the sudden death? It was an accident, and his own counsel could easily be kept. There was none to reveal the truth. The dead could never speak.
As he mused like this, and the butler brought in the tea, Dr North was lost in a fit of musing, for, like a flash, the scientific fancy upon which he had so long pondered came to him, so that for the moment he stood breathless and gazing wildly at the door which seemed to open before him.
The idea was bewildering. Leo had bidden her suitor distinguish himself as the price at which her love was to be won; and the more he thought, the more the idea shone out, dazzling him by its intense light – shining into the dark places of his soul.
What was his theory? That if a hale, hearty man were suddenly cut off by some accident, and apparently dead, could he arrest decay, Nature herself would repair the injury done, even as a fractured bone rapidly knits together and becomes stronger than before.
Here, then, was a hale, hearty man suddenly cut down; he was the medical man in attendance, and the opportunity served for restoring this man to life. Why should he not make his first essay now?
The idea grew more terrible in its intensity hour by hour. It was his chance if he would grasp it. Impious? No, not more so than performing an operation or trying to save a sufferer from death. But he was dead.
“What we call dead,” muttered North; “but why not suspended animation? For her sake, for my own fame, to achieve a success such as the world has not heard of before, I must – I will make the essay.”
“But how?”
“And suppose I make him live once more – what then?”
The idea blinded him, and he covered his eyes to think.
Chapter Twenty Six.
“Ah!”
“How horrible!” the curate said, when he heard the news from North, who came in at breakfast time.
As he spoke these words, Leo entered the room, and stopped short, gazing from one to the other.
She had come down looking happy and contented, with a satisfied smile upon her curved lips, heightened by a rather mocking light which danced in her eyes, as they encountered those of the doctor. There was a feeling of triumph, the satisfaction of a vain, weak woman at the sight of the slave ready to cast himself at her feet, and her manner was coquettish as she held out her hand.
But her brother’s ejaculation, the stern look on the doctor’s face, chilled her, and she stopped short, looking from one to the other, her lips parting as if for the utterance of words which would not come.
“What is it?” she said at last, wildly. “What is horrible?”
“Hush, Leo!” said the curate, taking her hand; “don’t be alarmed.”
“But you said – ”
“Yes; North has brought in terrible news from the Hall.”
Leo’s face turned ghastly, and she clung to her brother, while North hurriedly placed a chair, into which she sank, but only to sit up rigidly, as she stared with widely opened eyes at the doctor.
“Be calm,” he said tenderly. “You are still weak.”
“What is it?” she said, in a voice that did not sound like her own.
“It would be better that you should not know,” said North. “There has been a sad accident at the Hall.”
“I must know now,” panted Leo, as she opened and closed her hands in her excitement.
“It would be better to speak,” said the curate. “My sisters have been schooled to trouble, North. There has been a terribly sudden calamity at the Hall, Leo, dear. North was called up in the night, and – ”
“Is he dead?” she whispered hoarsely; and then reading her answer in the eyes of both, she uttered a long, low, “Ah!” and sat with her hand tightening upon her brother’s, while she closed her eyes, and an agonising spasm seemed to contract her beautiful face.
“A fit of giddiness seems to have seized Sir Luke, and he fell headlong from the top of the stairs to the bottom.”
“Ah!”
Once more that strange expiration of the breath, which sounded to the listeners precisely the same, for their senses were not attuned with sufficient keenness to detect the difference.
“I am sorry to have given you this terrible shock, Leo,” said North tenderly; “but I felt bound to come and let Salis know.”
She did not reply directly, but sat there spasmodically clinging to her brother’s hand with fingers that were damp and cold.
“I am better now,” she said at last, in a low whisper. “It is very terrible. Does Mary know?”
“Not yet,” said Salis. “I am going to fetch her down. Has the faintness passed away?”
“Yes – yes!” she said hastily. “It was the suddenness of the news. Try not to startle Mary, Hartley; but she is not such a coward as I am.”
“You have been so ill,” said North tenderly. “Your nerves are unstrung. Besides, it is a great shock to hear of so awfully sudden a death.”
“Go and tell Mary,” said Leo, rising. “I am quite well now. Speak gently.”
“Yes,” said the curate; and he left the room.
“Tell me,” said Leo, as soon as the door closed. “How was it? Was there any quarrel? It was an accident?”
She spoke in a hurriedly excited manner, and there was a wildly anxious look in her eyes.
“You are excited,” said North, taking her hand, half professionally, half with the anxious touch of a lover; but she snatched it away with an angry flash from her eyes.
She saw his pained look, and held out her hand the next moment.
“If the pulse beats quickly,” she said, smiling, “it is no wonder.”
“No, no, of course not,” he cried, taking her hand, and holding it in his.
“Now, tell me.”
“Oh, it was an accident,” he said, “undoubtedly. I’m afraid there was a reason for it.”
