CHAPTER X.

A BURIED SECRET.

Sir Norman stood on the brink of the cliff, and listened. There was not much to hear--no more remarkable sound than might be caused by the fall of a loose boulder, and the murmur of the surf partly disguised even that. The tide was rising; in another half hour it would be dashing against the base of the precipice.

The Baronet took his mare by the head-stall, and began to lead her back down the steep road which he had so lately climbed in company with Colonel Banyon. His mood of mind was much more composed and lucid now than it had been then. While the deed which he was to commit was as yet in the future he had been full of agitation and doubt. Sir Norman had a single plain fact to deal with, not an indefinite number of vague and dangerous possibilities. He saw his proper course in the circumstances as clearly as if he had planned it all out beforehand; and he lost no time in following it.

Having arrived at the lowest dip of the road, he secured his horse to the branch of a dead tree, clambered down to the shore, and began to make his way as rapidly as he could towards that spot where he knew the body of Colonel Banyon must be lying. With an active step and a heedful eye he hurried over the broken _débris_ of the beach, and presently came to that part which lies immediately beneath the loftiest altitude of the cliff.

It was not easy to distinguish the horse and man where they lay in the darkness, and anybody who had not been on the lookout for them might easily have passed them by in the belief that they were nothing more than a heap of sea drift. But Sir Norman was under no such delusion. When he caught sight of them--it was the whiteness of the Colonel's upturned face that first arrested his glance--he approached cautiously, with ears alert to detect whatever whispered groan there might still remain to hear. But there was nothing; the agony had not been prolonged, and it was over. Colonel Banyon and his horse were both quite dead. Sir Norman had certainly anticipated nothing else, and yet the visibility of the fact gave him a start. Colonel Banyon had been so very much alive a few minutes before, and now he was so very lifeless! The handsome, gallant, dashing officer, who had been so overflowing with hopes and projects, and love and laughter, was now suddenly become inert and devoid alike of thought and passion, good or evil. It was so impressive that it affected Sir Norman almost like something theatrical. The Colonel appeared to him for a moment to be acting a part. When the curtain came down, he would get up, like Mr. Betterton in 'Hamlet,' and come out and make his bow before the audience. But unfortunately there is no curtain in these cases, and the poor actor, having died with what realism he can command, is obliged to remain dead indefinitely.

The surf, now breaking near at hand, reminded Sir Norman that he also had a part to enact. Not that he had been altogether idle since leaving Kildhurm Towers; but he had accomplished only the preliminary portion of the work which he had resolved to perform. In looking forward to this night's occupations, he might have been led to suppose that the murder would be more difficult to an unpractised hand than the robbery; but experience proved that the truth was just the other way. To hurl his victim over the cliff had been an excitement--fierce, and, in a certain sense, pleasurable. But this despoiling the corpse in cold blood afterwards was neither pleasant nor exciting; and yet it had to be done, else all the benefit of the murder would be thrown away. To kill, moreover, was aristocratic; Sir Norman's ancestors had won renown by doing no more than he had just done; but to pick a pocket was plebeian, and none of his ancestors, so far as he was aware, had ever been guilty of that. But again, there was no escape from it--or only one escape! Sir Norman might, if he chose, return to his horse, mount him, ride him up the cliff, and leap him over the verge to a resting-place here beside the Colonel. By this means, and by this only, could he avoid the logical necessity of pocket-picking, and at the same time conceal, and perhaps in some measure expiate, the crime already committed. Sir Norman thought of all this, and weighed the question for a moment in his mind. Should he go on, or should he turn back? He decided to go on: and, stooping over the body of his late guest, he drew the purse of embroidered leather from its hiding-place, thrust it into his own pocket, and turned away. He had got a fortune, according to the promise of destiny; but if it had been larger than it was, he already felt that he had paid a fair equivalent for it. As he stumbled back along the dark shore, he was glad of the darkness, and inclined to wish that daylight might altogether cease from the earth. It was a wish characteristic of a fresh-born criminal. By-and-by he would learn how to make his own face answer all the purposes of darkness, so far as the concealment of what was within was concerned. In one way or another, however, darkness must be his category from this time forth. He was a creature of the night, and would for ever remain such.

'I do not intend to excuse my act,' said Sir Norman to himself, when he had once more attained the road and resumed his saddle. 'But if I admit the sin of it, I have a right also to take account of its uses. I have deliberately and treacherously murdered the man who was my guest; I have murdered him from no feeling of hatred or anger, but solely for my pecuniary advantage. That is the worst there is to be said, and I admit that it is damnable. But now for the other side. I have restored the fortunes of my family. I have given comfort to my wife, prosperity to my son, and power to myself. I shall have caused my sister Chepstow to shed a few tears, perhaps, when she learns (if she ever does learn it) that her dream about her dead lover has come true; but in a week or a month her eyes will be dried by some other suitor, and meanwhile she will receive, as compensation for the loss of her jewels, all the fortune in ready money which her cousin bequeathed to her in his will. That, certainly, cannot be considered an injury. As to Colonel Banyon himself, I could not have killed him had not his hour been fully come; and therefore he can have no more quarrel with me than with any other instrument which fate might have chosen to employ. Nor have I harmed society or the state; for the murder which is not known to be a murder becomes a simple death, which can neither outrage the law nor corrupt the morals of the people. I conclude, then, that no person or thing has been wronged or injured by my act, except myself: and I have even benefited others at the sacrifice of my own moral welfare and repose. And finally, since I have been my own accuser, let me also be my own judge!'

At this point of Sir Norman's soliloquy, the storm which had been all night brewing suddenly came into noisy and violent existence. Buffeted by the wind and pelted by the rain, the Baronet was distracted from his casuistical and metaphysical vein, and his meditations took a more outward and material turn.

'No one can have seen these gems besides ourselves,' he thought; 'but yet there is danger to be feared from those which are uncut. Perhaps I may find it safest to dispose of them abroad. Meanwhile, I can put them where they will be as secure as death itself, and might remain so for a hundred years if necessary. It will be best, at all events, to take no further step in the business until the Colonel's death has been discovered, and his property administered. The gems, no doubt, are mentioned in the will; inquiry will be made for them; and it will be known that the Colonel was last seen alive under our roof. And what after that? Why, then, I rode forth with him, to set him on his way: and it was known to me that he carried the gems upon his person. Yes, and I had spoken warningly to him of the peril which menaced a lonely traveller, so richly laden, in these parts: the women will bear witness to that. But then it will be asked: "How far did you ride with him? and which way was he heading when you saw him last?" What shall be my answer? Shall I say, "I left him at the rise of the convent cliff, and know no more of him?" Why not rather tell the truth up even to the last moment? Why not tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and only not the whole truth?--which, indeed, finite man can never tell. Why not say, "I rode with him to the top of the cliff, my hand on his bridle; but there, in the darkness, his horse took fright, and reared, and fell backwards: and I, unless I would have been dragged over also, was fain to loose my hold of the bridle, and let them go. Then I went down to the shore to search, but ... well, but the tide had risen, and the storm had come on, and it was impossible to reach the bodies." That would be better than downright vulgar perjury: more decent, and perhaps more prudent likewise. Stay, though! if I take this stand, it must be taken at once! I must burst into the room, heated, dishevelled, distraught, and gasp out my story with horror in my voice! Am I actor enough for that? I fear not! And who knows but another sort of horror might find its way into my tones or eyes, and betray me! No, I cannot venture it. As yet, I have looked on no living human face since I saw his vanish over the cliff, lit up for an instant by the flash of his pistol. Perhaps--who knows?--I shall blanch and turn pale under the glance of the first questioning eyes I meet. I know the man I have been heretofore, but I do not yet know the man I am now. Perhaps I am a coward, or an idiot, or a madman. What wonder if I were, after such a night's work! Was ever a night so black, or a storm so boisterous! All the witches in hell might be abroad, and I among the rest! Am I a witch, then? Who knows? The country folks have long believed no better of me; and perhaps to-night's work will bring about an encounter between his Satanic majesty and me, and a signing of the Book! Where shall the meeting be held? Where but beneath Kildhurm's Oak, where all the mischief was hatched from the beginning! Forward, mare! Why do we lag here in the rain, when company is awaiting us at home? Forward!'

Goaded by whip and spur, the mare put herself to her best speed, and before many minutes Sir Norman knew, less by any visible sign than by the direction and inclination of the road, that the Tower was near. He drew rein, and paused for a moment. Should he take his mare to the stable now, or--afterwards? He resolved on the latter course. Keeping as much as possible on the turf, and feeling rather than seeing his way, he pressed cautiously forward until he found himself almost beneath the branches of the Oak. There he dismounted.

The din of the tempest was bewildering. The waves came thundering against the shore with such headlong power that a tremor of the earth was perceptible every time they struck. There was a fury of white foam beneath the rocky, overhanging parapet, on which the Oak stood, and this whiteness extended far out, until the blackness of the night prevailed over it. Occasionally sounds like moaning and sighing seemed to come from the mid-tumult of the sea, as if some huge creature were complaining there: and the driving spray and the rain assumed strange drifting forms, like disembodied spirits hurtling through the air. But terrible as was the sea, the Oak was more terrible still. It fought the wild wind with its great arms like a mad creature. Its cumbrous foliage flapped and hissed through the wet gale like the matted locks of a wrestling giant. Its whole vast frame rocked to and fro, as if it were about to tear itself up from its rooted place, and go forth to meet and struggle with the storm. And from the grinding together of the mighty boughs were generated shrieks and human-like outcries and noises like weeping and like mocking laughter, as though a knot of evil spirits were tearing each other to pieces in the central darkness of the tree; or were they combining to torture and torment some newly-captured human soul? Dimly, meanwhile, through the murky obscurity, glowed three red squares of light from the Tower, where Lady Kildhurm and her sister waited for Sir Norman's return. The Baronet saw the light, and a vision of the two innocent and loving women rose before his mind; and of the infant boy, lulled asleep in his crib by the muffled voices of the gale. All that was as a foreign country to him now; all the more alien because it had been so intimately his own. He turned his back upon it, and fixed his regard upon the haunted Oak. He stepped beneath the wide spread of the labouring branches; then, with a leap from the ground, he caught the lowest of these between his arms, and in another moment had swung himself up into the heart of the tree, and out of sight of earth and sky.

* * * * *

'He has been gone more than two hours,' said Lady Kildhurm, breaking silence at last.

'I do heartily pray nothing has happened to him--it is dreadful to think how wet he will get in this rain, poor fellow; and he must be in Chester to-morrow, he said. I wish he had spent the night here.'

'And so do I; but it was of my husband that I spoke.'

'Oh, Sir Norman knows his way about! wasn't he born and bred here? No fear but he will find his way home safe enough.'

'But he should have been away half an hour at the most: and now--see! it is close upon midnight. I fear something has gone wrong.'

'It is the rain that keeps him. He has taken shelter somewhere, and will bide his time till the worst of it is over. But my poor cousin--what will become of him! Heigho! I felt, when I said good-bye to him, as if 'twas for ever.'

Lady Kildhurm laid down the sewing with which she had been occupying herself and clasping her hands on her knee, sat gazing out on the black and rain-smitten window-pane. Suddenly she said:

'This is his evil day. I had forgotten it. Oh, my heart!'

'His evil day, sister? What do you mean?'

'Yes; he showed me it once in his horoscope. The evil and the good came side by side, but the evil was the stronger. He should not have gone out; to-night of all nights I should have kept him! Oh, Norman--my husband, come back to me!'

'La, sister, how you talk! you make me shudder. As for horoscopes, I'm sure no Christian ought to believe in them.'

'I feel as if he were near me!' exclaimed Lady Kildhurm, rising from her chair and moving about the room uneasily. 'He is near me, somewhere, and yet I am not happy: I cannot breathe freely, and there is pain in my heart.'

'La! sister, indeed you frighten me. Pray sit down again, and do not stare about so! do you think to see him through a stone wall?'

'He is near me--and it is not well with him. He is looking towards me--now--can you not see his face at the window?'

'His face at the window! Pray remember, my dear, that the window is fifty feet from the ground, and----'

'No, there is no face there. It was a flake of foam, maybe. But I cannot bear to lose him; I could not bear it!'

'You are working yourself into such a state of mind, my dear, that very soon I shall be more anxious about you than I am about him. As for not being able to bear things, you never know what you can bear till you try. I have borne the loss of my husband, and a great many worse things. One can bear almost anything, I believe. Because, if the thing to be borne comes, what else can you do?'

'I could not bear it!' repeated Lady Kildhurm feverishly. She moved again to the window, and peered out for a few moments into the darkness.

'Depend upon it,' said Mrs. Chepstow, with a confidence of tone that was not altogether warranted by her interior sentiments, 'depend upon it, my dear, your husband has stepped into one of the peasants' huts out of the rain, and is at this very instant swallowing a draught of hot ale, with a pipe of tobacco in his other hand. How he will laugh when I tell him how you have----'

'Hark!'

'Merciful heavens! what is it?'

Quick as thought, Lady Kildhurm had unfastened the catch of the lattice, and the wind, violently driving it open, burst headlong into the room, put out the candles, and went roaring through the house, slamming doors, flapping curtains, and shaking soot down the chimneys. None of this disturbance, however, had been noticed by the two women. Their ears had been filled and their hearts stopped by the sound of three frantic screams, following rapidly one upon another, and rising high above the confusion of the tempest. They were the screams of a man in mortal agony and horror. Both the women had known at once whose voice it was, though they had never heard it pitched in that key before. But what could have happened to him? The screams were not repeated. The women exchanged a ghastly look.