CHAPTER XXIII. GREGORY'S ATTRITION
Joseph's journey to London was occasioned by his very natural anxiety toassure himself that Crispin was caught in the toils of the net he had socunningly baited for him, and that at Castle Marleigh he would troublethem no more. To this end he quitted Sheringham on the day afterCrispin's departure.
Not a little perplexed was Cynthia at the topsy-turvydom in which thatmorning she had found her father's house. Kenneth was gone; he had leftin the dead of night, and seemingly in haste and suddenness, since onthe previous evening there had been no talk of his departing. Her fatherwas abed with a wound that made him feverish. Their grooms were allsick, and wandered in a dazed and witless fashion about the castle,their faces deadly pale and their eyes lustreless. In the hall she hadfound a chaotic disorder upon descending, and one of the panels of thewainscot she saw was freshly cracked.
Slowly the idea forced itself upon her mind that there had been brawlingthe night before, yet was she far from surmising the motives that couldhave led to it. The conclusion she came to in the end was that the menhad drunk deep, that in their cups they had waxed quarrelsome, and thatswords had been drawn.
Of Joseph then she sought enlightenment, and Joseph lied righthandsomely, like the ready-witted knave he was. A wondrously plausiblestory had he for her ear; a story that played cunningly upon herknowledge of the compact that existed between Kenneth and Sir Crispin.
"You may not know," said he--full well aware that she did know--"thatwhen Galliard saved Kenneth's life at Worcester he exacted from thelad the promise that in return Kenneth should aid him in some vengefulbusiness he had on hand."
Cynthia nodded that she understood or that she knew, and glibly Josephpursued:
"Last night, when on the point of departing, Crispin, who had drunkover-freely, as is his custom, reminded Kenneth of his plighted word,and demanded of the boy that he should upon the instant go forth withhim. Kenneth replied that the hour was overlate to be setting out upona journey, and he requested Galliard to wait until to-day, when hewould be ready to fulfil what he had promised. But Crispin retorted thatKenneth was bound by his oath to go with him when he should require it,and again he bade the boy make ready at once. Words ensued between them,the boy insisting upon waiting until to-day, and Crispin insisting uponhis getting his boots and cloak and coming with him there and then. Moreheated grew the argument, till in the end Galliard, being put out oftemper, snatched at his sword, and would assuredly have spitted theboy had not your father interposed, thereby getting himself wounded.Thereafter, in his drunken lust Sir Crispin went the length of wantonlycracking that panel with his sword by way of showing Kenneth what hehad to expect unless he obeyed him. At that I intervened, and using myinfluence, I prevailed upon Kenneth to go with Galliard as he demanded.To this, for all his reluctance, Kenneth ended by consenting, and sothey are gone."
By that most glib and specious explanation Cynthia was convinced. True,she added a question touching the amazing condition of the grooms, inreply to which Joseph afforded her a part of the truth.
"Sir Crispin sent them some wine, and they drank to his departure soheartily that they are not rightly sober yet."
Satisfied with this explanation Cynthia repaired to her father.
Now Gregory had not agreed with Joseph what narrative they were to offerCynthia, for it had never crossed his dull mind that the disorder ofthe hall and the absence of Kenneth might cause her astonishment. And sowhen she touched upon the matter of his wound, like the blundering foolhe was, he must needs let his tongue wag upon a tale which, if no lessimaginative than Joseph's, was vastly its inferior in plausibility andhad yet the quality of differing from it totally in substance.
"Plague on that dog, your lover, Cynthia," he growled from the mountainof pillows that propped him. "If he should come to wed my daughter afterpinning me to the wainscot of my own hall may I be for ever damned."
"How?" quoth she. "Do you say that Kenneth did it?"
"Aye, did he. He ran at me ere I could draw, like the coward he is, sinkhim, and had me through the shoulder in the twinkling of an eye."
Here was something beyond her understanding. What were they concealingfrom her? She set her wits to the discovery and plied her father withanother question.
"How came you to quarrel?"
"How? 'Twas--'twas concerning you, child," replied Gregory at random,and unable to think of a likelier motive.
"How, concerning me?"
"Leave me, Cynthia," he groaned in despair. "Go, child. I am grievouslywounded. I have the fever, girl. Go; let me sleep."
"But tell me, father, what passed."
"Unnatural child," whined Gregory feebly, "will you plague a sick manwith questions? Would you keep him from the sleep that may mean recoveryto him?"
"Father, dear," she murmured softly, "if I thought it was as you say,I would leave you. But you know that you are but attempting to concealsomething from me something that I should know, that I must know.Bethink you that it is of my lover that you have spoken."
By a stupendous effort Gregory shaped a story that to him seemed likely.
"Well, then, since know you must," he answered, "this is what befell:we had all drunk over-deep to our shame do I confess it--and growingtenderhearted for you, and bethinking me of your professed distaste toKenneth's suit, I told him that for all the results that were likelyto attend his sojourn at Castle Marleigh, he might as well bear Crispincompany in his departure. He flared up at that, and demanded of me thatI should read him my riddle. Faith, I did by telling him that we werelike to have snow on midsummer's day ere he 'became your husband. Thatspeech of mine so angered him, being as he was all addled with wine andripe for any madness, that he sprang up and drew on me there and then.The others sought to get between us, but he was over-quick, and before Icould do more than rise from the table his sword was through my shoulderand into the wainscot at my back. After that it was clear he couldnot remain here, and I demanded that he should leave upon the instant.Himself he was nothing loath, for he realized his folly, and he mislikedthe gleam of Joseph's eye--which can be wondrous wicked upon occasion.Indeed, but for my intercession Joseph had laid him stark."
That both her uncle and her father had lied to her--the one cunningly,the other stupidly--she had never a doubt, and vaguely uneasy wasCynthia to learn the truth. Later that day the castle was busy with thebustle of Joseph's departure, and this again was a matter that puzzledher.
"Whither do you journey, uncle?" she asked of him as he was in the actof stepping out to enter the waiting carriage.
"To London, sweet cousin," was his brisk reply. "I am, it seems,becoming a very vagrant in my old age. Have you commands for me?"
"What is it you look to do in London?"
"There, child, let that be for the present. I will tell you perhaps whenI return. The door, Stephen."
She watched his departure with uneasy eyes and uneasy heart. A fearpervaded her that in all that had befallen, in all that was befallingstill--what ever it might be--some evil was at work, and an evil thathad Crispin for its scope. She had neither reason nor evidence fromwhich to draw this inference. It was no more than the instinct whosevoice cries out to us at times a presage of ill, and oftentimes compelsour attention in a degree far higher than any evidence could command.
The fear that was in her urged her to seek what information she couldon every hand, but without success. From none could she cull the merestscrap of evidence to assist her.
But on the morrow she had information as prodigal as it wasunlooked-for, and from the unlikeliest of sources--her father himself.Chafing at his inaction and lured into indiscretions by the subsiding ofthe pain of his wound, Gregory quitted his bed and came below thatnight to sup with his daughter. As his wont had been for years, he drankfreely. That done, alive to the voice of his conscience, and seeking todrown its loud-tongued cry, he drank more freely still, so that in theend his henchman, Stephen, was forced to carry him to bed.
This Step
hen had grown grey in the service of the Ashburns, and amongstmuch valuable knowledge that he had amassed, was a skill in dealing withwounds and a wide understanding of the ways to go about healingthem. This knowledge made him realize how unwise at such a season wasGregory's debauch, and sorrowfully did he wag his head over his master'scondition of stupor.
Stephen had grave fears concerning him, and these fears were realizedwhen upon the morrow Gregory awoke on fire with the fever. They summoneda leech from Sheringham, and this cunning knave, with a view to addingimportance to the cure he was come to effect, and which in realitypresented no alarming difficulty, shook his head with ominous gravity,and whilst promising to do "all that his skill permitted," he spoke of aclergyman to help Gregory make his peace with God. For the leech had nocause to suspect that the whole of the Sacred College might have foundthe task beyond its powers.
A wild fear took Gregory in its grip. How could he die with such a loadas that which he now carried upon his soul? And the leech, seeing howthe matter preyed upon his patient's mind, made shift--but too late--totranquillize him with assurances that he was not really like to die, andthat he had but mentioned a parson so that Gregory in any case should beprepared.
The storm once raised, however, was not so easily to be allayed, and theconviction remained with Gregory that his sands were well-nigh run, andthat the end could be but a matter of days in coming.
Realizing as he did how richly he had earned damnation, a frantic terrorwas upon him, and all that day he tossed and turned, now blaspheming,now praying, now weeping. His life had been indeed one protracted courseof wrong-doing, and many had suffered by Gregory's evil ways--many a manand many a woman. But as the stars pale and fade when the sun mounts thesky, so too were the lesser wrongs that marked his earthly pilgrimage ofsin rendered pale or blotted into insignificance by the greater wronghe had done Ronald Marleigh--a wrong which was not ended yet, but whosecompletion Joseph was even then working to effect. If only he could saveCrispin even now in the eleventh hour; if by some means he could warnhim not to repair to the sign of the Anchor in Thames Street. Hisdisordered mind took no account of the fact that in the time that wassped since Galliard's departure, the knight should already have reachedLondon.
And so it came about that, consumed at once by the desire to makeconfession to whomsoever it might be, and the wish to attempt yet toavert the crowning evil of whose planning he was partly guilty inasmuchas he had tacitly consented to Joseph's schemes, Gregory called for hisdaughter. She came readily enough, hoping for exactly that which wasabout to take place, yet fearing sorely that her hopes would sufferfrustration, and that she would learn nothing from her father.
"Cynthia," he cried, in mingled dread and sorrow, "Cynthia, my child, Iam about to die."
She knew both from Stephen and from the leech that this was far frombeing his condition. Nevertheless her filial piety was at that moment atouching sight. She smoothed his pillows with a gentle grace that wasin itself a soothing caress, even as her soft sympathetic voice wasa caress. She took his hand, and spoke to him endearingly, seeking torelieve the sombre mood whose prey he was become, assuring him that theleech had told her his danger was none so imminent, and that with quietand a little care he would be up and about again ere many days weresped. But Gregory rejected hopelessly all efforts at consolation.
"I am on my death-bed, Cynthia," he insisted, "and when I am gone I knownot whom there may be to cheer and comfort your lot in life. Your loveris away on an errand of Joseph's, and it may well betide that he willnever again cross the threshold of Castle Marleigh. Unnatural though Imay seem, sweetheart, my dying wish is that this may be so."
She looked up in some surprise.
"Father, if that be all that grieves you, I can reassure you. I do notlove Kenneth."
"You apprehend me amiss," said he tartly. "Do you recall the story ofSir Crispin Galliard's life that you had from Kenneth on the night ofJoseph's return?" His voice shook as he put the question.
"Why, yes. I am not like to forget it, and nightly do I pray," she wenton, her tongue outrunning discretion and betraying her feelingsfor Galliard, "that God may punish those murderers who wrecked hisexistence."
"Hush, girl," he whispered in a quavering voice. "You know not what yousay."
"Indeed I do; and as there is a just God my prayer shall be answered."
"Cynthia," he wailed. His eyes were wild, and the hand that rested inhers trembled violently. "Do you know that it is against your father andyour father's brother that you invoke God's vengeance?"
She had been kneeling at his bedside; but now, when he pronounced thosewords, she rose slowly and stood silent for a spell, her eyes seekinghis with an awful look that he dared not meet. At last:
"Oh, you rave," she protested, "it is the fever."
"Nay, child, my mind is clear, and what I have said is true."
"True?" she echoed, no louder than a whisper, and her eyes grew roundwith horror. "True that you and my uncle are the butchers who slew theircousin, this man's wife, and sought to murder him as well--leaving himfor dead? True that you are the thieves who claiming kinship by virtueof that very marriage have usurped his estates and this his castleduring all these years, whilst he himself went an outcast, homeless anddestitute? Is that what you ask me to believe?"
"Even so," he assented, with a feeble sob.
Her face was pale--white to the very lips, and her blue eyes smoulderedbehind the shelter of her drooping lids. She put her hand to her breast,then to her brow, pushing back the brown hair by a mechanical gesturethat was pathetic in the tale of pain it told. For support she wasleaning now against the wall by the head of his couch. In silence shestood so while you might count to twenty; then with a sudden vehemencerevealing the passion of anger and grief that swayed her:
"Why," she cried, "why in God's name do you tell me this?"
"Why?" His utterance was thick, and his eyes, that were grown dull as asnake's, stared straight before him, daring not to meet his daughter'sglance. "I tell it you," he said, "because I am a dying man." And hehoped that the consideration of that momentous fact might melt her, andmight by pity win her back to him--that she was lost to him he realized.
"I tell you because I am a dying man," he repeated. "I tell it youbecause in such an hour I fain would make confession and repent, thatGod may have mercy upon my soul. I tell it you, too, because the tragedybegun eighteen years ago is not yet played out, and it may yet be mineto avert the end we had prepared--Joseph and I. Thus perhaps a mercifulGod will place it in my power to make some reparation. Listen, child.It was against us, as you will have guessed, that Galliard enlistedKenneth's services, and here on the night of Joseph's return he calledupon the boy to fulfil him what he had sworn. The lad had no choice butto obey; indeed, I forced him to it by attacking him and compelling himto draw, which is how I came by this wound.
"Crispin had of a certainty killed Joseph but that your uncle bethoughthim of telling him that his son lived."
"He saved his life by a lie! That was worthy of him," said Cynthiascornfully.
"Nay, child, he spoke the truth, and when Joseph offered to restore theboy to him, he had every intention of so doing. But in the moment ofwriting the superscription to the letter Crispin was to bear to thosethat had reared the child, Joseph bethought him of a foul scheme forGalliard's final destruction. And so he has sent him to London instead,to a house in Thames Street, where dwells one Colonel Pride, whobears Sir Crispin a heavy grudge, and into whose hands he will be thusdelivered. Can aught be done, Cynthia, to arrest this--to save SirCrispin from Joseph's snare?"
"As well might you seek to restore the breath to a dead man," sheanswered, and her voice was so oddly calm, so cold and bare ofexpression, that Gregory shuddered to hear it.
"Do not delude yourself," she added. "Sir Crispin will have reachedLondon long ere this, and by now Joseph will be well on his way to seethat there is no mistake made, and that the life you ruined hopelesslyyears ago is plucked at last fro
m this unfortunate man. Merciful God! amI truly your daughter?" she cried. "Is my name indeed Ashburn, and haveI been reared upon the estates that by crime you gained possession of?Estates that by crime you hold--for they are his; every stone, everystick that goes to make the place belongs to him, and now he has gone tohis death by your contriving."
A moan escaped her, and she covered her face with her hands. A momentshe stood rocking there--a fair, lissom plant swept by a gale ofineffable emotion. Then the breath seemed to go all out of her in onegreat sigh, and Gregory, who dared not look her way, heard the swish ofher gown, followed by a thud as she collapsed and lay swooning on theground.
So disturbed at that was Gregory's spirit that, forgetting his wound,his fever, and the death which he had believed impending, he leapt fromhis couch, and throwing wide the door, bellowed lustily for Stephen. Infrightened haste came his henchman to answer the petulant summons, andin obedience to Gregory's commands he went off again as quickly in questof Catherine--Cynthia's woman.
Between them they bore the unconscious girl to her chamber, leavingGregory to curse himself for having been lured into a confession thatit now seemed to him had been unnecessary, since in his newly foundvitality he realized that death was none so near a thing as thatscoundrelly fool of a leech had led him to believe.