if family pride, or what was it, that gleamed so fiercely from her eyes as she said this? I was frightened — I was wounded — I burst into tears.
“What is my darling crying for? I did not mean to be cross. Was I cross?” said this momentary phantom of a grim Lady Knollys, in an instant translated again into kind, pleasant Cousin Monica, with her arms about my neck.
“No, no, indeed — only I thought I had vexed you; and, I believe, thinking of Uncle Silas makes me nervous, and I can’t help thinking of him nearly always.”
“Nor can I, although we might both easily find something better to think of. Suppose we try?” said Lady Knollys.
“But, first, I must know a little more about that Mr. Clarke, and what circumstances enabled Uncle Silas’s enemies to found on his death that wicked slander, which has done no one any good, and caused some persons so much misery. There is Uncle Silas, I may say, ruined by it; and we all know how it darkened the life of my dear father.”
“People will talk, my dear. Your uncle Silas had injured himself before that in the opinion of the people of his county. He was a black sheep, in fact. Very bad stories were told and believed of him. His marriage certainly was a disadvantage, you know, and the miserable scenes that went on in his disreputable house — all that predisposed people to believe ill of him.”
“How long is it since it happened?”
“Oh, a long time; I think before you were born,” answered she.
“And the injustice still lives — they have not forgotten it yet?” said I, for such a period appeared to me long enough to have consigned anything in its nature perishable to oblivion.
Lady Knollys smiled.
“Tell me, like a darling cousin, the whole story as well as you can recollect it. Who was Mr. Clarke?”
“Mr. Clarke, my dear, was a gentleman on the turf — that is the phrase, I think — one of those London men, without birth or breeding, who merely in right of their vices and their money are admitted to associate with young dandies who like hounds and horses, and all that sort of thing. That set knew him very well, but of course no one else. He was at the Matlock races, and your uncle asked him to Bartram–Haugh; and the creature, Jew or Gentile, or whatever he was, fancied there was more honour than, perhaps, there really was in a visit to Bartram–Haugh.”
“For the kind of person you describe, it was, I think, a rather unusual honour to be invited to stay in the house of a man of Uncle Ruthyn’s birth.”
“Well, so it was perhaps; for though they knew him very well on the course, and would ask him to their tavern dinners, they would not, of course, admit him to the houses where ladies were. But Silas’s wife was not much regarded at Bartram–Haugh. Indeed, she was very little seen, for she was every evening tipsy in her bedroom, poor woman!”
“How miserable!” I exclaimed.
“I don’t think it troubled Silas very much, for she drank gin, they said, poor thing, and the expense was not much; and, on the whole, I really think he was glad she drank, for it kept her out of his way, and was likely to kill her. At this time your poor father, who was thoroughly disgusted at his marriage, had stopped the supplies, you know, and Silas was very poor, and as hungry as a hawk, and they said he pounced upon this rich London gamester, intending to win his money. I am telling you know all that was said afterwards. The races lasted I forget how many days, and Mr. Clarke stayed at Bartram–Haugh all this time and for some days after. It was thought that poor Austin would pay all Silas’s gambling debts, and so this wretched Mr. Clarke made heavy wagers with him on the races, and they played very deep, besides, at Bartram. He and Silas used to sit out afterwards, for there was an inquest, you know, and then Silas published what he called his “statement,” and there was a great deal of most distressing correspondence in the newspapers.”
“And why did Mr. Clarke kill himself?” I asked.
“Well, I will tell you first what all are agreed about. The second night after the races, your uncle and Mr. Clarke sat up till between two and three o’clock in the morning, quite by themselves, in the parlour, Mr. Clarke’s servant was at the Stag’s Head Inn at Feltram, and therefore could throw no light upon what occurred at night at Bartram–Haugh; but he was there at six o’clock in the morning, and very early at his master’s door by his direction. He had locked it, as was his habit, upon the inside, and the key was in the lock, which turned out afterwards a very important point. On knocking he found that he could not awaken his master, because, as it appeared when the door was forced open, his master was lying dead at his bedside, not in a pool, but a perfect pond of blood, as they described it, with his throat cut.”
“How horrible!” cried I.
“So it was. Your uncle Silas was called up, and greatly shocked of course, and he did what I believe was best. He had everything left as nearly as possible in the exact state in which it had been found, and he sent his own servant forthwith for the coroner, and, being himself a justice of the peace, he took the depositions of Mr. Clarke’s servant while all the incidents were still fresh in his memory.”
“Could anything be more straightforward, more right and wise?” I said.
“Oh, nothing of course,” answered Lady Knollys, I thought a little drily.
Chapter 27.
More About Tom Clarke’s Suicide
SO THE INQUEST was held, and Mr. Manwaring, of Wail Forest, was the only juryman who seemed to entertain the idea during the inquiry that Mr. Clarke had died by any hand but his own.
“And how could he fancy such a thing?” I exclaimed indignantly.
“Well, you will see the result was quite enough to justify them in saying as they did, that he died by his own hand. The window was found fastened with a screw on the inside, as it had been when the chambermaid had arranged it at nine o’clock; no one could have entered through it. Besides, it was on the third story, and the rooms are lofty, so it stood at a great height from the ground, and there was no ladder long enough to reach it. The house is built in the form of a hollow square, and Mr. Clarke’s room looked into the narrow courtyard within. There is but one door leading into this, and it did not show any sign of having been open for years. The door was locked upon the inside, and the key in the lock, so that nobody could have made an entrance that way either, for it was impossible, you see, to unlock the door from the outside.”
“And how could they affect to question anything so clear?” I asked.
“There did come, nevertheless, a kind of mist over the subject, which gave those who chose to talk unpleasantly an opportunity of insinuating suspicions, though they could not themselves find the clue of the mystery. In the first place, it appeared that he had gone to bed very tipsy, and that he was heard singing and noisy in his room while getting to bed — not the mood in which men make away with themselves. Then, although his own razor was found in that dreadful blood (it is shocking to have to hear all this) near his right hand, the fingers of his left were cut to the bone. Then the memorandum book in which his bets were noted was nowhere to be found. That, you know, was very odd. His keys were there attached to a chain. He wore a great deal of gold and trinkets. I saw him, wretched man, on the course. They had got off their
