CHAPTER XIX.
THE FIRE AT CARNE'S HOLD.
Things went on quietly with Mr. Armstrong and his daughter after thelatter had despatched her letter, saying that Ruth Powlett was ready toconfess the truth respecting George Forester. The excitement offollowing up the clue was over, and there was nothing to do until theyheard from Ronald as to how he wished them to proceed. So one morningMr. Armstrong came down and told Mary to pack up at once and start withhim at twelve o'clock for London. "We are getting like two owls, andmust wake ourselves up a bit." Mary ran down to the mill to say good-byeto Ruth, and tell her that she and her father had to go to London for ashort time. They were ready by the time named, for there was littlepacking to do, and at twelve o'clock the trap from the "Carne's Arms"came up to the door, and took them to the station. A month was spent inLondon, sight-seeing. By the end of that time both had had enough oftheatres and exhibitions, and returned to Carnesford.
"Well, what is the news, neighbours?" Mr. Armstrong asked, as he enteredthe snuggery on the evening of his return.
"There is not much news here," Jacob Carey said; "there never is muchnews to speak of in Carnesford; but they say things are not going onwell up at The Hold."
"In what way, Mr. Carey?"
"Well, for some time there has been a talk that the Squire was gettingstrange in his ways. He was never bright and cheerful like MissMargaret, but always seemed to be a-thinking, and as often as not whenhe rode through here, would take no more notice of you when he passedthan if you hadn't been there. He was always wonderful fond of booksthey say, and when a man takes to books, I don't think he is much goodfor anything else; but ever since Miss Margaret's death, he has beenqueerer than before, and they said he had a way of walking about thehouse all hours of the night. So it went on until just lately. Now itseems he is worse than ever. They can hear him talking to himself, andlaughing in a way as would make you creep. Folks say as the curse of theCarnes has fallen on him bad, and that he is as mad as his grandfatherwas. The women have all left except the old cook, who has got a girl tostay with her. They lock the door at night, and they have got the menfrom the stable to sleep in the house unknown to the master. One daylast week, when Mr. Carne was out for the day, old Hester came down andsaw the parson, and he sent for Dr. Arrowsmith, and they had a quiettalk over it. You see it is a mighty awkward thing to meddle with. Mr.Carne has got no relations so far as is known, except Mrs. Mervyn'sdaughters, who are away living, I hear, at Hastings, and Captain Mervyn,who is God knows where. Of course, he is the heir, if the Squire doesn'tmarry and have children, and if he were here it would be his business tointerfere and have the Squire looked after or shut up if needs be; butthere don't seem any one to take the matter up now. The doctor toldHester that he could do nothing without being called in and seeing forhimself that Mr. Carne was out of his mind. The parson said the onlything she could do was to go to Mr. Volkes, the magistrate, and tell himshe thought there was danger of murder if something wasn't done. Hesterhas got plenty of courage, and said she didn't think there was anydanger to her, 'cause the Squire had known her from the time he hadknown anything."
"I don't know," Mr. Armstrong said. "Mad people are often more dangerousto those they care for than to strangers. Really, this is very serious,for from what you have told me, the madness of the Carnes is always of adangerous kind. One thing is quite evident--Captain Mervyn ought to comeback at once. There have been tragedies enough at Carne's Hold withoutanother."
"Ay, and there will be," put in Reuben Claphurst, "as long as Carne'sHold stands; the curse of the Spanish woman rests upon it."
"What you say is right enough, Mr. Armstrong," Hiram Powlett agreed. "Nodoubt the Miss Mervyns know where their brother is, and could let himknow; but would he come back again? I have always said as how we shouldnever see Captain Mervyn back again in these parts until the matter ofMiss Carne's death was cleared up."
Mr. Armstrong sat looking at the fire. "He must be got back," he said."If what you say is true, and Mr. Carne's going off his head, he must begot back."
Hiram Powlett shook his head.
"He must come back," Mr. Armstrong repeated; "it's his duty, pleasant orunpleasant. It may be that he is on his way home now; but if not, itwould hasten him. You look surprised, and no wonder; but I may now tellyou, what I haven't thought it necessary to mention to you before--mind,you must promise to keep it to yourselves--I met Captain Mervyn out atthe Cape, and made his acquaintance there. He was passing under anothername, but we got to be friends, and he told me his story. I have writtento him once or twice since, and I will write to him now and tell himthat if he hasn't already started for home, it's his duty to do so. Isuppose it was partly his talking to me about this place that made mecome here to see it at first, and then I took to it."
The surprise of the others at finding that Mr. Armstrong knew Ronaldwas very great. "I wonder you didn't mention it before," Jacob Careysaid, giving voice to the common feeling. "We have talked about him sooften, and you never said a word to let us know you had met him."
"No, and never should have said a word but for this. You will understandthat Captain Mervyn wouldn't want where he was living made a matter oftalk; and though when he told me the story he did not know I was comingto Carnesford, and so didn't ask me not to mention it, I consider I wasbound to him to say nothing about it. But now that I know he is urgentlyrequired here, I don't see there's occasion any longer to make a secretof the fact that he is out in South Africa."
"Yes, I understand, Mr. Armstrong," Hiram Powlett agreed. "Naturally,when he told you about himself, he did not ask it to be kept a secret,because he did not know you would meet any one that knowed him. But whenyou did meet such, you thought that it was right to say nothing aboutit, and I agree with you; but of course this matter of the Squire goingqueer in his mind makes all the difference, and I think, as you says,Captain Mervyn ought to be fetched home. When he has seen the Squire isproperly taken care of, he can go away where he likes."
"That is so," Jacob Carey agreed. "Mervyn ought to know what is doinghere, and if you can write and tell him that he is wanted you will bedoing a good turn for the Squire as well as for him. And how was thecaptain looking, Mr. Armstrong?"
"He was looking very well when I first knew him," Mr. Armstrong replied;"but when I saw him last he had got hurt in a brush with the natives butit was nothing serious, and he was getting over it."
"The same set as attacked your farm, Mr. Armstrong, as you was tellingus about?"
"I don't suppose it was the same party, because there were thousands ofthem scattered all over the colony, burning and plundering. CaptainMervyn had a narrow escape from them, and was lucky in getting out of itas well as he did."
"They said he was a good fighter," Jacob Carey put in. "The papers saidas he had done some hard fighting with them Afghans, and got praised byhis general."
"Yes, he's a fine fellow," Mr. Armstrong said, "and, I should say, asbrave as a lion."
"No signs of the curse working in him?" Hiram Powlett asked, touchinghis forehead. "They made a lot of it at the trial about his beingrelated to the Carnes, and about his being low in spirits sometimes; butI have seen him scores of times ride through the village when he was ayoung chap, and he always looked merry and good-tempered."
"No," Mr. Armstrong said, emphatically, "Ronald Mervyn's brain is ashealthy and clear as that of any man in England. I am quite sure thereis not the slightest touch of the family malady in him."
"Maybe not, maybe not," Reuben Claphurst said; "the curse is on TheHold, and he has nothing to do with The Hold yet. If anything happens tothe Squire, and he comes to be its master, you will see it begin towork, if not in him, in his children."
"God forbid!" Mr. Armstrong said, so earnestly that his hearers werealmost startled. "I don't much believe in curses, Mr. Claphurst, though,of course, I believe in insanity being in some instances hereditary;but, at the same time, if I were Ronald Mervyn and I inherited Carne'sHold, I would pull the place dow
n stone by stone, and not leave avestige of it standing. Why, to live in a house like that, in which somany tragedies have taken place, is enough in itself to turn a sane maninto madness."
"That's just how I should feel," Hiram Powlett said. "Now a stranger wholooked at The Hold would say what a pleasant, open-looking house it was;but when you took him inside, and told him what had happened there, itwould be enough to give him the creeps. I believe it was being up therethat was the beginning of my daughter's changing so. I never made aworse job of a thing than I did when I got her up there as Miss Carne'smaid, and yet it was all for her good. And now, neighbours, it's my timeto be off. It's a quarter to nine and that is five minutes later thanusual."
Mr. Armstrong and Mary sat talking until nearly eleven about what he hadheard about Mr. Carne. She had not been gone upstairs a minute when sheran down again from her bedroom, which was at the back of the house.
"Father, there is a light in the sky up at the top of the hill, justwhere Carne's Hold lies. I went to the window to draw down the blindsand it caught my eye at once."
Mr. Armstrong ran out into the road.
As Mary had said, there was a glare of light over the trees on the hill,rising and falling. "Sure enough it's a fire at The Hold," he said, ashe ran in and caught up his hat. Then he hurried down the village,knocking at each door and shouting, "There is a fire at The Hold!"
Just as he reached the other end a man on horseback dashed down thehill, shouting "Fire!" It was one of the grooms at The Hold.
"Is it at the house?" Mr. Armstrong asked, as he drew up for a moment atthe inn.
"Yes, it's bursting out from the lower windows; it has got a big hold. Iam going to the station, to telegraph to Plymouth and Exeter forengines."
"How about those in the house?" Mr. Armstrong asked.
"Some of them got out by the back way, and we got some of them out byladders. The others are seeing to that. They sent me off at once."
A minute or two later, men came clattering down the quiet street at arun, and some of them overtook Mr. Armstrong as he hurried up the hill.
"Is that you, Mr. Armstrong?" a voice asked behind him.
"Yes, it's me, Carey."
"I thought it was," the smith said. "I caught sight of your figureagainst the light up there in front. I couldn't help thinking, when youshouted at my door that there was a fire at The Hold, what we weretalking about this evening, and your saying that if the place was yoursyou would pull it down stone by stone. But perhaps we may save it yet.We shall have a couple of score of men there in a few minutes."
"I fancy there is not much chance of that, Carey. I spoke to the groomas he rode through, and he tells me that the fire when he came away wasbursting from several of the lower windows; so it has got a good hold,and they are not likely to have much water handy."
"No, that's true enough. There's a big well a hundred feet deep in thestable-yard, and a force pump, which takes two men to work. It suppliedthe house as well as the stables. That's the only water there will be,and that won't be much good," he added, as, on emerging from the wood,they suddenly caught sight of the house.
From the whole of the lower windows in front the flames were burstingout.
"It's travelled fast," the smith said. "The dining-room and drawing-roomand library are all on fire."
"Yes, that's curious, too," Mr. Armstrong remarked. "One would havethought it would have mounted up to the next floor long before ittravelled so far along on a level. Ah, it's going up to the floor abovenow."
As he spoke a spout of light flame suddenly appeared through the windowover the front door.
"That's the staircase window, I suppose."
Two or three minutes' running took them up on to the lawn.
"I will go and lend a hand at those pumps," Jacob Carey said.
"It's not the slightest use," Mr. Armstrong replied. "You might as welltry to blow out that fire with your breath as to put it out by throwinga few pails of water on it. Let us see that every one is out first;that's the main matter."
They joined a group of men and women, who were standing looking at theflames: they were the two women, the groom and gardener, and four orfive men who had already come up from the village.
The gardener was speaking.
"It's no use to work at the pumps; there are only four or five pails. Ifit was only at one end we might prevent its spreading, but it's got holdall over."
"I can't make it out," the groom said. "One of the horses was sick, andI was down there giving him hot fomentations with my mate. I had beenthere perhaps an hour when I saw a light coming out of the drawing-roomwindow, and I ran up shouting; and then I saw there was a light in thedining-room and library too. Then I ran round to the back of the house,and the housekeeper's room there was alight, too. I run in at thekitchen door and upstairs, and woke the gardeners and got them out. Theplace was so full of smoke, it was as much as we could do to getdownstairs. Then we got a long ladder, and put it against Mrs. Wilson'swindow, and got her and the girl down. Then we came round this side, andI got up and broke a pane in Mr. Carne's window and shouted. I could notmake him hear, so I broke another pane and unfastened the window andlifted it, and went in. I thought he must have been stifled in bed, forthe smoke was as thick as possible, and I had to crawl to the bed. Well,master wasn't there. I felt about to see if he was on the floor, but Icould find nothing of him; the door was open, and I expect he must havebeen woke up by the smoke, and went out to see what was the matter, andperhaps got choked by it. I know I was nearly choked myself by the timeI got my head out of the window again."
"He may have got to the upper storey," Jacob Carey said. "We had bestkeep a look-out round the house, so as to be ready to put the ladder upat once if we see him. There is nothing else to do, is there, Mr.Armstrong? You are accustomed to all sorts of troubles, and may knowbest what we ought to do."
"I can't think of anything," Mr. Armstrong replied. "No, if he's not inhis own room it seems hopeless to search for him. You see the flameshave broken out from several windows of the first floor. My own idea is,from what you say as to the fire having spread into all the rooms on theground floor when you discovered it, that the poor gentleman must haveset fire to the house himself in half-a-dozen places, and as likely asnot may have been suffocated almost at once."
"I shouldn't wonder if that was it," the smith said. "It's not naturalthat the fire should have spread all over the lower part of the house insuch a short time. You know what we were saying this evening. It's justthe sort of trick for a madman to play."
The smith was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from those standinground, followed by a shout of "There he is!" A dormer window on the roofof the oldest part of the house opened, and a figure stepped out on to alow parapet that ran round the house.
"All right, sir, all right," Jacob Carey shouted out at the top of hisvoice; "we will have a ladder for you in no time," and he and a score ofmen ran to fetch the long ladder that was leaning against the side ofthe house.
It was soon lowered, brought round, and placed against the parapet closeto where Reginald Carne was standing.
"Now then, sir," Jacob Carey shouted again, "it's all right. You cancome down safe enough."
But Mr. Carne paid no attention to the shout; he was pacing up and downalong the parapet and was tossing his arms about in a strange manner.Suddenly he turned, seized the ladder, and pushed it violently sidewaysalong the parapet. Those below vainly tried to keep it steady.
"Look out!" the smith shouted, "leave go and clear out, or he will haveit down on you."
The men holding the ladder dashed away from the foot, and the ladderfell with a crash upon the ground, while a peal of wild laughter brokeout from above.
"The Squire has gone clean mad," Jacob Carey said to Mr. Armstrong, ashe joined him; "either the fire has driven him mad, or, what is morelikely, he went mad first and then lit the fire. However, we must savehim if we can."
"Look there, Carey, if we lifted the ladder and
put it up between thatchimney and the window next to it, he can't slide it either one way oranother, as he did before; and he certainly could not throw itbackwards, if we plant the foot well away from the house."
"That's right enough," the smith agreed, "but if he won't come down, hewon't."
"We must go up and make him, Carey. If you and I and a couple of strongmen go up together, we ought to be able to master him. Of course, wemust take up rope with us, and bind him and then lower him down theladder."
"We might do that," the smith said; "but supposing the ladder catchesfire?"
"The fire won't touch it at that point, Carey. You see, it will go upjust between the rows of windows."
"So it will; anyhow, we might take up a long rope, if they have got one,so as to lower ourselves down if the ladder does catch fire."
He spoke to one of the grooms. "Have you got plenty of rope?"
"Plenty," the man said. "I will fetch you a couple of long coils fromthe stables. Here, one of you, come along with me."
"Now we will get the ladder up," Mr. Armstrong said.
With the aid of a dozen men--for the whole village was now upon thespot--the ladder was again lifted, and dropped so that the upper endfell between a chimney and a dormer window. Reginald Carne againattempted to cast it down, but a number of men hung on to the lower partof the ladder, and he was unable to lift it far enough to get it out ofthe niche into which it had fallen. Then he turned round and shook hisfist at the crowd. Something flashed in the light of the flames, andhalf-a-dozen voices exclaimed: "He has got a knife." At this moment theclergyman and doctor arrived together on the scene.
"What is to be done, doctor?" Jacob Carey asked. "I don't mind going up,with some others to back me, to have a tussle with him on the roof; buthe would knife us one by one as we got up to the parapet, and, though Idon't think as I am a coward, I don't care about chucking away my life,which is of use to my wife and children, to save that of a madman whoselife ain't of no use to hisself or any one else."
"No, I don't see why you should, Carey," the doctor said; "the best planwill be to keep away from the ladder for the present. Perhaps, when hethinks you are not going to make the attempt, he will move away, andthen we can get up there before he sees us. I will go first because heknows me, and my influence may quiet him, but we had better armourselves with sticks so as to knock that knife out of his hand."
Reginald Carne stood guarding the ladder for a few minutes. By this timethe whole of the first floor was in a blaze, the flames rushing out withfury from every window. Seeing that he did not move, the doctor said atlast:
"Well, we must risk it. Give me a stick, Carey, and we will make a try,anyhow."
"You can't go now," Mr. Armstrong said, suddenly; "look, the ladder isalight."
This was indeed the case. The flames had not absolutely touched it, butthe heat was so great that it had been slowly charring, and a lightflame had now suddenly appeared, and in a moment ten or twelve feet ofthe ladder were on fire.
"It is of no use," the doctor said, dropping the stick that Jacob Careyhad just cut for him in the shrubbery; "we can do nothing for him now."
There was scarcely a word spoken among the little crowd of spectators onthe lawn. Every moment was adding to their number as Mr. Volkes, themagistrate, and several other gentlemen rode up on horseback, and mencame up from all the farmhouses and cottages within a circle of a coupleof miles. All sorts of suggestions were made, but only to be rejected.
"It is one thing to save a man who wants to be saved," the doctor said,"but quite another thing to save one who is determined not to be saved."This was in answer to a proposal to fasten a stone on to a light lineand throw it up on to the roof. "The man is evidently as mad as a Marchhare."
There could be no doubt of that. Reginald Carne, seeing that hisassailants, as he considered them, could not get at him, was makinggestures of triumph and derision at them. Now from the second floorwindows, the flames began to spurt out, the glass clattering down on tothe gravel below.
"Oh, father, what a pitiful sight!"
Mr. Armstrong turned. "What on earth brings you here, Mary? Run away,child. This is a dreadful business, and it will be haunting you."
"I have seen more shocking things, father," she said, quietly. "Why didyou not bring me up with you at first? I ran upstairs to get my hat andshawl, and when I came back you were gone. Of course, I came up at once,just as every one else in the village has done, only I would not comeand bother you when I thought you were going to do something. Butthere's nothing to be done now but wait. This must surely be the end ofthe curse of Carne's Hold, father?"
"It ought to be, my dear. Yes, let us earnestly hope that it allterminates here, for your sake and every one else's. Mervyn will bemaster of Carne's Hold now."
"Not of Carne's Hold, thank God!" the girl said with a shudder. "Therewill be nothing left of Carne's Hold to-morrow but a heap of ruins. Theplace will be destroyed before he becomes its master. It all endstogether, The Hold and the direct line of the Carnes."
"Let us turn and walk away, Mary. This is too dreadful."
"I can't," and Mary shook her head. "I wish I could, father, but it hasa sort of horrible fascination. Look at all these upturned faces; it isthe same with them all. You can see that there is not one who would notgo if he could."
The doctor again went forward towards the house.
"Carne, my dear fellow," he shouted, "jump off at the end of the houseinto the shrubs on the beds there, it's your only chance."
Again the mocking laugh was heard above the roar of the fire. The flameswere breaking out through the roof now in several places.
"It will not be long before the roof falls through," Mr. Armstrong said."Come away, Mary. I will not let you stay here any longer." Putting hisarms round his daughter, he led her away. She had not gone ten stepswhen there was a tremendous crash. She looked back; the roof was goneand a volcano of flame and sparks was rising from the shell of thehouse. Against these the figure of the madman stood out black and clear.Then a sudden puff of wind whirled the flames round him. He staggered,made a half step backwards, and fell, while a cry went up from thecrowd.
"It's all over, dear," Mr. Armstrong said, releasing his hold of hisdaughter; and then with Jacob Carey and three or four other men, he ranforward to the house, lifted the body of Reginald Carne and carried itbeyond danger of a falling wall.
Dr. Arrowsmith, the clergyman, and several of the neighbours at oncehurried to the spot.
"He is not dead," Jacob Carey said, as they came up, "he groaned when welifted him; he fell on to one of the little flower beds between thewindows."
"No, his heart is beating," the doctor said, as he knelt beside him andfelt his pulse, "but I fear he must have sustained fatal injuries." Hetook out a flask that he had, thinking that a cordial might be required,slipped into his pocket just before starting for the scene of the fire,and poured a few drops of spirit between Reginald Carne's lips.
There was a faint groan, and a minute later he opened his eyes. Helooked round in a bewildered way, but when his eyes fell on the burninghouse, a look of satisfaction passed over his face.
"I have done it," he said. "I have broken the curse of Carne's Hold."
The doctor stood up for a moment and said to one of the grooms standingclose by: "Get a stable door off its hinges and bring it here; we willcarry him into the gardener's cottage."
As soon as Reginald Carne was taken away, Mr. Armstrong and his daughterreturned to the village. A few of the villagers followed their example;but for most of them the fascination of watching the flames that wereleaping far above the shell of the house was too great to be resisted,and it was not until the day dawned and the flames smouldered to a deep,quiet glow, that the crowd began to disperse.
"It has been a terrible scene," Mary said, as she walked with her fatherdown the hill.
"A terrible scene, child, and it would have been just as well if you hadstayed at home and slept comfortably. If I had th
ought that you weregoing to be so foolish, I would not have gone myself."
"You know very well, father, you could not have helped yourself. Youcould not have sat quietly in our cottage with the flames dancing upabove the tree tops there, if you had tried ever so much. Well, somehowI am glad that The Hold is destroyed; but of course I am sorry for Mr.Carne's death, for I suppose he will die."
"I don't think you need be sorry, Mary. Far better to die even like thatthan to live till old age within the walls of a madhouse."
"Yes; but it was not the death, it was the horror of it."
"There was no horror in his case, my dear. He felt nothing but a wildjoy in the mischief he had done. I do not suppose that he had a shadowof fear of death. He exulted both in the destruction of his house and inour inability to get at him. I really do not think he is to be pitied,although it was a terrible sight to see him. No doubt he was carryingout a long-cherished idea. A thing of this sort does not develop all atonce. He may for years have been brooding over this unhappy taint ofinsanity in his blood, and have persuaded himself that with thedestruction of the house, what the people here foolishly call the curseof the Carnes would be at an end."
"But surely you don't believe anything about the curse, father?"
"Not much, Mary; the curse was not upon the house, but in the insanitythat the Spanish ancestors of the Carnes introduced into the family.Still I don't know, although you may think me weak-minded, that I canassert conscientiously that I do not believe there is anything in thecurse itself. One has heard of such things, and certainly the history ofthe Carnes would almost seem to justify the belief. Ronald and his twosisters are, it seems, the last of those who have the Carnes' blood intheir veins, and his misfortunes and their unhappiness do not seem tohave anything whatever to do with the question of insanity. At any rate,dear, I, like you, am glad that The Hold is destroyed. I must own Ishould not have liked the thought of your ever becoming its mistress,and indeed I have more than once thought that before I handed you overto Ronald, whenever that event might take place, I should insist on hismaking me a promise that should he survive his cousin and come into theCarnes' estates, he would never take you to live there. Well, this willbe a new incident for you to write to him about. You ought to feelthankful for that; for you would otherwise have found it very difficultto fill your letters till you hear from him what course he is going toadopt regarding this business of Ruth Powlett and Forester."
Mary smiled quietly to herself under cover of the darkness, for indeedshe found by no means the difficulty her father supposed in filling herletters. "It is nearly four o'clock," she said, as she entered the houseand struck a light. "It is hardly worth while going to bed, father."
"All right, my dear, you can please yourself. Now it is all over Iacknowledge I feel both cold and sleepy, and you will see nothing moreof me until between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning."
"Oh, if you go to bed of course I shall not stop up by myself," Marysaid; "but I am convinced that I shall not close an eye."
"And I am equally convinced, Mary, that in a little over half an houryou will be sound asleep;" and in the morning Mary acknowledged that hisanticipation had been verified.
CHAPTER XX.
CLEARED AT LAST.
Reginald Carne was laid down on the table in the gardener's cottage. Thedoctor could now examine him, and whispered to the clergyman that bothhis legs were broken, and that he had no doubt whatever he had receivedterrible internal injuries. "I don't think he will live till morning."
Presently there was a knock at the door. "Can I come in?" Mr. Volkesasked, when the doctor opened it. "I have known the poor fellow from thetime he was a child. Is he sensible?"
"He is sensible in a way," the doctor said. "That is, I believe he knowsperfectly well what we are saying, but he has several times laughed thatstrange, cunning laugh that is almost peculiar to the insane."
"Well, at any rate, I will speak to him," said Mr. Volkes.
"Do you know me, Reginald?" he went on in a clear voice as he came up tothe side of the table.
Reginald Carne nodded, and again a low mocking laugh came from his lips."You thought you were very clever, Volkes, mighty clever; but I trickedyou."
"You tricked me, did you?" the magistrate said, cheerfully. "How did youtrick me?"
"You thought, and they all thought, the dull-headed fools, that RonaldMervyn killed Margaret. Ho! ho! I cheated you all nicely."
A glance of surprise passed between his listeners. Mr. Volkes signed tothe others not to speak, and then went on:
"So he did, Reginald, so he did--though we couldn't prove it; you didnot trick us there."
"I did," Reginald Carne said, angrily. "I killed her myself."
"'_I did,' Reginald Carne said, angrily--'I killed hermyself._'"]
An exclamation of horror broke from the three listeners. Mr. Volkes wasthe first to recover himself.
"Nonsense, Reginald, you are dreaming."
"I am not," he said, vehemently. "I had thought it all out over and overagain. I was always thinking of it. I wanted to put an end to thiscurse. It's been going on too long, and it troubled me. I had made up mymind to kill her long before; but I might not have done it when I did ifI had not heard Ronald threatening her, and another man heard it too.This was a grand opportunity, you see. It was as much as I could do tosit quietly at dinner with that naval fellow, and to know that it wasall right. It was glorious, for it would be killing two birds with onestone. I wanted to get rid of Ronald as much as I did of her, so thatthe curse might come to an end, and now it was all so easy. I had onlyto drop the glove he had left behind him on the grass close below herwindow, and after that quarrel he would be suspected and hung. Nothingcould have worked better for me; and then, too, I thought it wouldpuzzle them to give them another scent to work on. There was another manhad a grudge against Margaret; that was Forester, the poacher. I hadpicked up his knife in the wood just where he had killed my keeper, andafterwards I heard him telling his sweetheart, who was Margaret's maid,that he would kill Margaret for persuading her to give him up; so Idropped the knife by the side of the bed, and I thought that one orother of them would be sure to be hung; but somehow that didn't comeright. I believe the girl hid the knife, only I didn't dare question herabout it. But that didn't matter; the fellow would be hung one way orthe other for killing my keeper. But the other was a glorious thing, andI chuckled over it. It was hard to look calm and grave when I was givingevidence against Ronald, and when all the fools were thinking that hedid it, when it was me all the time. Didn't I do it cleverly, Volkes? Ihid her things where the gardener was sure to find them the first timehe dug up the bed. They let Ronald off, but he will not come back again,and I don't suppose he will ever marry; so there is an end of the curseas far as he's concerned. Then I waited a bit, but the devil was alwaysat my elbow, telling me to finish the good work, and last night I didit. I put the candle to the curtains in all the rooms downstairs, andstood and watched them blaze up until it got too hot to stay any longer.It was a grand sight, and I could hear the Spanish woman laughing andshouting. She has had her way with us for a long time, but now it's allover; the curse of the Carnes is played out. There, didn't I cheat younicely, Volkes, you and all the others? You never suspected me, not oneof you. I used to keep grave all day, but at night when I was in myroom alone I laughed for hours to think of all the dogs on the wrongscent."
His three listeners looked at each other silently.
"It was a grand thing to put an end to the curse," Reginald Carnerambled on. "It was no pain to her; and if she had lived, the troublewould have come upon her children."
"You know that you are hurt beyond chance of recovery, Carne," themagistrate said, gravely. "It is a terrible story that you have told us.I think that you ought to put it down on paper, so that other people mayknow how it was done; because, you see, at present, an innocent man issuspected."
"What do I care? That is nothing to me one way or the other. I am glad Ihave succ
eeded in frightening Ronald Mervyn away, and I hope he willnever come back again. You don't suppose I am going to help to bring himhome!"
Mr. Volkes saw that he had made a mistake. "Yes, I quite understand youdon't want him back," he said, soothingly. "I thought, perhaps, that youwould like people to know how you had sacrificed yourself to put an endto the curse, and how cleverly you had managed to deceive every one.People would never believe us if we were to tell them. They would sayeither that you did not know what you were talking about, or that it wasempty boasting on your part."
"They may think what they like," he said, sullenly; "it is nothing to mewhat they think."
There was a change in the tone of his voice that caused the doctor toput his hand on his wrist again.
"Let me give you a few drops more of brandy, Carne."
"No, I will not," the dying man said. "I suppose you want to keep mealive to get some more out of me, but you won't. I won't speak again."
The others held a whispered conversation in the corner.
"He is going fast," the doctor said. "It is a marvel that his voice isas strong as it is. He certainly won't live till morning. It is likelyhe may die within an hour."
"I will ask him another question or two," Mr. Volkes said. "If we couldbut get something to corroborate his story, it would be invaluable."
But Reginald Carne spoke no more.
He heard what was said to him, for he laughed the same malicious laughthat had thrilled the crowd as he stood on the parapet, but it was lowand feeble now. In hopes that he might yet change his mind, Mr. Volkesand the clergyman remained with Dr. Arrowsmith for another hour. At theend of that time Reginald Carne startled them by speaking again, clearlyand distinctly:
"I tell you it's all over, you witch; you have done us harm enough, butI have beaten you. It was you against me, and I have won. There isnothing more for you to do here, and you can go to your place. Carne'sHold is down, and the curse is broken."
As he ceased speaking the doctor moved quietly up to the side of thestretcher, put his finger on his wrist, and stood there for a minute,then he bent down and listened.
"He is gone," he said, "the poor fellow is dead." The three gentlemenwent outside the cottage; some of the people were standing near waitingfor news of Reginald Carne's state. "Mr. Carne has just died," thedoctor said, as he went up to them. "Will one of you find Mrs. Wilsonand tell her to bring another woman with her and see to him? In themorning I will make arrangements to have him taken down to the village."
"What do you think we had better do about this, Dr. Arrowsmith?" Mr.Volkes asked as he rejoined them. "Do you believe this story?"
"Unquestionably I do," the doctor replied. "I believe every word of it."
"But the man was mad, doctor."
"Yes, he was mad and has been so for a long time in my opinion, but thatmakes no difference whatever in my confidence that he was speakingtruly. Confessions of this kind from a madman are generally true; theircunning is prodigious, and as long as they wish to conceal a fact it isnext to impossible to get it from them; but when, as in the presentcase, they are proud of their cleverness and of the success with whichthey have fooled other people, they will tell everything. You see theirideas of right and wrong are entirely upset; the real lunatic isunconscious of having committed a crime, and is inclined even to gloryin it."
"I wish we could have got him to sign," the magistrate said.
"I am sure he could not have held the pen," Dr. Arrowsmith replied. "Iwill certify to that effect, and as we three all heard the confession, Ithink that if you draw it out and we sign it as witnesses, it will havejust as good an effect as if he had written it himself."
"There was one part, doctor, that surprised me even more than therest--that was the part relating to the man Forester. I don't believe asoul suspected him of being in any way connected with the crime. Atleast we heard nothing of a knife being found, nor, of course, of thequarrel between Forester and the girl; Ruth Powlett, was it not?"
"No; that is all new to us," the doctor said.
"I think the best way would be to see her in the morning. She may notlike to confess that she concealed the knife, if she did so. Of course,if she does, it will be an invaluable confirmation of his story, andwill show conclusively that his confession was not a mere delusion of amadman's brain."
"Yes, indeed," the doctor agreed, "that would clench the matteraltogether, and I am almost certain you will find that what he has saidis true. The girl was in my hands a short time before Miss Carne'sdeath. They said she had had a fall, but to my mind it seemed more likea severe mental shock. Then after Miss Carne's death she was very illagain, and there was something about her that puzzled me a good deal.For instance, she insisted upon remaining in court until the verdict wasgiven, and that at a time when she was so ill she could scarcely stand.She was so obstinate over the matter that it completely puzzled me; butif what Carne said was true, and she had the knowledge of something thatwould have gone very far to prove Ronald Mervyn's innocence, the matteris explained. The only difficulty before us is to get her to speak,because, of course, she cannot do so without laying herself open to acharge--I don't mean a criminal charge, but a moral one--of havingsuppressed evidence in a manner that concerned a man's life. I think thebest plan will be for us to meet at your house, Mr. Volkes, at eleveno'clock to-morrow. I will go into the village before that, and willbring Ruth Powlett up in my gig, and if you will allow me I will do thetalking to her. I have had her a good deal in my hands for the lastyear, and I think she has confidence in me, and will perhaps answer memore freely than she would you as a magistrate."
"Very likely she would, doctor. Let the arrangement stand as youpropose."
The next morning, at half-past ten, Dr. Arrowsmith drove up in his gigto the mill. Ruth came to the door.
"Ruth," he said, "I want you to put on your bonnet and shawl and let medrive you a short distance. I have something particular that I want totalk to you about, and want to have you to myself for a bit."
A good deal surprised, Ruth went into the house and reappeared in two orthree minutes warmly wrapped up.
"That's right," the doctor said; "jump in."
Ruth Powlett was the first to speak.
"I suppose it is true, sir, that poor Mr. Carne is dead?"
"Yes, he died at two o'clock. Ruth, I have a curious thing to tell youabout him; but I will wait until we get through the village; I have nodoubt that it will surprise you as much as it surprised me."
Ruth said nothing until they had crossed the bridge over the Dare.
"What is it?" she asked at last.
"Well, Ruth, at present it is only known to Mr. Vickery, Mr. Volkes, andmyself, and, whatever happens, I want you to say nothing about it untilI give you leave. Now, Ruth, I have some sort of idea that what I amgoing to tell you will relieve your mind of a burden."
Ruth turned pale.
"Relieve my mind, sir!" she repeated.
"Yes, Ruth; I may be wrong, and if I am I can only say beforehand that Iam sorry; but I have an idea that you suspect, and have for a long timesuspected, that George Forester murdered Miss Carne."
Ruth did not speak, but looking down, the doctor saw by the pallor ofher cheeks and the expression of her face that his supposition wascorrect.
"I think, Ruth, that has been your idea. If so, I can relieve your mind.Mr. Carne before his death confessed that he murdered his sister." Ruthgave a start and a cry. She reeled in her seat, and would have fallenhad not the doctor thrown his arm round her. "Steady, my child, steady,"he said; "this is a surprise to you, I have no doubt, and, whatever itis to others, probably a joyful one."
Ruth broke into a violent fit of sobbing. The doctor did not attempt tocheck her, but when she gradually recovered he said, "That is strangenews, is it not, Ruth?"
"But did he mean it, sir?" she asked. "Did he know what he was sayingwhen he said so?"
"He knew perfectly well, Ruth; he told us a long story, but I will nottell you what it
is now. We shall be at Mr. Volkes's in a minute, and weshall find Mr. Vickery there, and I want you to tell us what you knowabout it before you hear what Mr. Carne's story was. I do hope that youwill tell us everything you know. Only in that way can we clear CaptainMervyn."
"I will tell you everything I know, sir," Ruth said, quietly; "I toldMiss Armstrong five weeks ago, and was only waiting till she heard fromsome one she has written to before telling it to every one."
The gig now drew up at the door of the magistrate's house, and Dr.Arrowsmith led Ruth into the sitting-room, where Mr. Volkes and theclergyman were awaiting her.
"Sit down here, Ruth," the doctor said, handing her a chair. "Now,gentlemen, I may tell you first that I have told Miss Powlett that Mr.Carne has confessed that he killed his sister. I have not told her asingle word more. It was, of course, of the highest importance that sheshould not know the nature of his story before telling you her own. Shehas expressed her willingness to tell you all she knows. Now, MissPowlett, will you please begin in your own way."
Quietly and steadily Ruth Powlett told her story, beginning with theconversation that she had had with Margaret Carne relative to herbreaking off the engagement; she described her interview with GeorgeForester, his threats against Miss Carne and his attack on herself; andthen told how she had found his knife by the bedside on the morning ofthe murder. She said she knew now that she had done very wrong toconceal it, but that she had done it for the sake of George Forester'sfather. Lastly, she told how she had gone to the trial taking the knifewith her, firmly resolved that in case a verdict of guilty should bereturned against Captain Mervyn, she would come forward, produce theknife, and tell all that she knew.
Her three hearers exchanged many looks of satisfaction as she went on.
When she had finished, Mr. Volkes said: "We are very much obliged to youfor your story, Miss Powlett. Happily it agrees precisely with that toldus by Mr. Carne. It seems that he was in the wood and overheard yourquarrel with Forester, and the threats against Miss Carne suggested tohim the idea of throwing the blame upon Forester, and to do this heplaced the knife that he had found on the scene of the poaching affray ashort time before, in his sister's room. After this confirmation givenby your story, there can be no doubt at all that Mr. Carne's confessionwas genuine, and that it will completely clear Captain Mervyn of thesuspicion of having caused his cousin's death. We shall be obliged, I amafraid, to make your story public also, in order to confirm hisstatement. This will naturally cause you much pain and someunpleasantness, and I hope you will accept that as the inevitableconsequence of the course--which you yourself see has been a verymistaken one--you pursued in this affair."
"I am prepared for that, sir," Ruth said, quietly; "I had already toldMiss Armstrong about it, and was ready to come here to tell you thestory even when I thought that by so doing I should have to denounceGeorge Forester as a murderer. I am so rejoiced that he is now proved tobe innocent, I can very well bear what may be said about me."
"But why not have come and told me at once when you made up your mind todo so?" Mr. Volkes asked. "Why delay it?"
"I was waiting, sir; I was waiting--but----" and she paused, "thatsecret is not my own; but I think, sir, that if you will go to Mr.Armstrong, he will be able to tell you something you will be glad toknow."
"Who is Mr. Armstrong?" Mr. Volkes asked, in some surprise.
"He is a gentleman who has been living in the village for the last fouror five months, sir. I do not think there can be any harm in my tellingyou that he knows where Captain Mervyn is to be found."
"That is the very information we want at present. We must get RonaldMervyn back among us as soon as we can; he has indeed been very hardlytreated in the matter. I think, Miss Powlett, we will get you to putyour story into the form of a sworn information. We may as well draw itup at once, and that will save you the trouble of coming up here again."
This was accordingly done, and Ruth Powlett walked back to the village,leaving Mr. Volkes and the two other gentlemen to draw up a formalreport of the confession made by Reginald Carne.
Ruth Powlett went straight to the cottage occupied by the Armstrongs.
"What is your news, Ruth?" Mary said, as she entered. "I can see by yourface that you have something important to tell us."
"I have, indeed," Ruth replied. "I have just been up to Mr. Volkes, themagistrate, and have told him all I knew."
"What induced you to do that, Ruth?" Mary asked, in surprise. "I thoughtyou had quite settled to say nothing about it until we heard fromCaptain Mervyn."
"They knew all about it before I told them, and only sent for me toconfirm the story. Mr. Carne, before he died last night, made a fullconfession before Mr. Volkes, Dr. Arrowsmith, and Mr. Vickery. It was hewho in his madness killed his sister, and who placed George Forester'sknife by the bedside, and Captain Mervyn's glove on the grass, to throwsuspicion on them. Captain Mervyn and George Forester are bothinnocent."
The news was so sudden and unexpected that it was some time before MaryArmstrong could sufficiently recover herself to ask questions. The newsthat Ronald was proved to be innocent was not so startling as it wouldhave been had she not previously believed that they were already in aposition to clear him; but the knowledge that his innocence would now bepublicly proclaimed in a day or two, filled her with happiness. She wasglad, too, for Ruth's sake that George Forester had not committed thisterrible crime; and yet there was a slight feeling of disappointmentthat she herself had had no hand in clearing her lover, and that thishad come about in an entirely different way to what she had expected.
Mr. Volkes and the clergyman called that afternoon, and had a long talkwith Mr. Armstrong, and the following day a thrill of excitement wascaused throughout the country by the publication in the papers of theconfession of Reginald Carne. Dr. Arrowsmith certified that, althoughReginald Carne was unquestionably insane, and probably had been so forsome years, he had no hesitation in saying that he was perfectlyconscious at the time he made the confession, and that the statementmight be believed as implicitly as if made by a wholly sane man. Inaddition to this certificate and the confession, the three gentlemensigned a joint declaration to the effect that the narrative wasabsolutely confirmed by other facts, especially by the statement made byMiss Powlett, without her being in any way aware of the confession ofReginald Carne. This, they pointed out, fully confirmed his story on allpoints, and could leave no shadow of doubt in the minds of any one thatReginald Carne had, under the influence of madness, taken his sister'slife, and had then, with the cunning so commonly present in insanity,thrown suspicion upon two wholly innocent persons.
The newspapers, commenting on the story, remarked strongly upon thecruel injustice that had been inflicted upon Captain Mervyn, andexpressed the hope that he would soon return to take his place again inthe county, uniting in his person the estate of the Mervyns and theCarnes. There were some expressions of strong reprobation at theconcealment by Ruth Powlett of the knife she had found in Miss Carne'sroom. One of the papers, however, admitted that "Perhaps altogether itis fortunate now that the girl concealed them. Had the facts nowpublished in her statement been given, they would at once have convincedevery one that Captain Mervyn did not commit the crime with which he wascharged, but at the same time they might have brought another innocentman to the scaffold. Upon the whole, then, although her conduct inconcealing this important news is most reprehensible, it must beadmitted that, in the interests of justice, it is fortunate she keptsilent."
The sensation caused in Carnesford by the publication of this news wastremendous. Fortunately, Ruth Powlett was not there to become the centreof talk, for she had that morning been carried off by Mr. Armstrong andMary to stay with them for a while in London. The cottage was shut up,and upon the following day a cart arrived from Plymouth to carry off thefurniture, which had been only hired by the month. The evening beforeleaving, Mr. Armstrong had intercepted Hiram Powlett on his way to thesnuggery, and taking him up to the cottage, where Ruth
was spending theevening with Mary, informed him on the way of the strange discovery thathad been made, and Ruth's share in it.
"I trust, Mr. Powlett," he said, "that you will not be angry with yourdaughter. She was placed in a terrible position, having the option ofeither denouncing as a murderer a man she had loved, or permittinganother to lie under the imputation of guilt. And you must remember thatshe was prepared to come forward at the trial and tell the truth aboutthe matter had Captain Mervyn been found guilty. No doubt she actedwrongly; but she has suffered terribly, and I think that as my daughterhas forgiven her for allowing Captain Mervyn to suffer for her silence,you may also do so."
Hiram Powlett had uttered many expressions of surprise and concern as helistened to the story. It seemed to him very terrible that his girlshould have all the time been keeping a secret of such vital importance.He now said in a tone of surprise:
"I don't understand you, Mr. Armstrong, about your daughter. What hasMiss Mary to do with forgiving? How has she been injured?"
"I don't know that upon the whole she has been injured," Mr. Armstrongsaid. "At least, I am sure she does not consider so. Still, I think shehas something to forgive, for the fact is she is engaged to be marriedto Captain Mervyn, and would have been his wife a year ago had he notbeen resolved never to marry so long as this cloud remained over him."
Hiram Powlett was so greatly surprised at this news that his thoughtswere for a moment diverted from Ruth's misdemeanours. Captain Mervyn,the owner of the Hall, and now of the Carne estate also, was a verygreat man in the eyes of the people of Carnesford, and the news that hewas engaged to be married to the girl who was a friend of hisdaughter's, and who had several times taken tea at the mill, was almostbewildering to him.
"I dare say you are surprised," Mr. Armstrong said, quietly, "but yousee we are not exactly what we appear. We came here somewhat under falsecolours, to try and find out about this murder, and in the hope we mightdiscover some proofs of Captain Mervyn's innocence. Now we have beensuccessful we shall go up to London and there await Captain Mervyn'sreturn. I have been talking it over with my daughter, and if you andMrs. Powlett offer no opposition, we propose to take Ruth away to staywith us for two or three months. It will be pleasant for all parties.Your girl and mine are fond of each other, and Ruth will be a nicecompanion for Mary. The change will do your daughter good. She has for along time been suffering greatly, and fresh scenes and objects ofinterest will take her mind off the past, and lastly, by the time shereturns here, the gossip and talk that will arise when all this isknown, will have died away."
"It is very good of you to think of it, Mr. Armstrong," Hiram Powlettsaid, "and it will be a fine thing for Ruth. Of course, she has beenwrong, very wrong; but she must have suffered very much all thesemonths. I told you I thought she had something on her mind, but I neverthought it was like this. Well, well, I shan't say anything to her. Inever was good at scolding her when she was a child, and I think she hasbeen severely punished for this already."
"I think so too," Mr. Armstrong agreed; "and now let us go in. I toldher that I should speak to you this evening, and she must be waitinganxiously for you."
When they entered, Ruth rose timidly.
"Oh! father"--she began.
"There, don't say any more about it, Ruth," Hiram interrupted, takingher tenderly in his arms. "My poor girl, you have had a hard time of it.Why didn't you tell me all at first?"
"I could not, father," she sobbed. "You know--you know--how you were setagainst him."
"Well, that is so, Ruth, and I should have been still more set againsthim if I had known the rights of that fall of yours upon the hill; butthere, we won't say anything more about it. You have been punished foryour fault, child, and I hope that when you come back again to us fromthe jaunt that Mr. Armstrong is going to be good enough to take you,you will be just as you were before all this trouble came upon you."
And so the next morning Mr. Armstrong, his daughter, and Ruth went up toLondon.
Two months later, Mary received Ronald's letter, telling of GeorgeForester's death, and of his own disappointment at finding his hopes ofclearing himself dashed to the ground. Mary broke the news of Forester'sdeath to Ruth; she received it quietly.
"I am sorry," she said, "but he has been nothing to me for a long timenow, and he could never have been anything to me again. I am sorry," sherepeated, wiping her eyes, "that the boy I played with is gone, but forthe man, I think it is, perhaps, better so. He died fighting bravely,and as a soldier should. I fear he would never have made a good man hadhe lived."
A month later, Ronald himself returned. The war was virtually over whenhe received the letters from Mary Armstrong and Mr. Volkes, telling himthat he was cleared at last, and he had no trouble in obtaining hisdischarge at once. He received the heartiest congratulations from hisformer officers, and a perfect ovation from the men, as he said good-byeto them. At Plymouth he received letters telling him where Mary and herfather were staying in London, and on landing he at once proceeded totown by train, after telegraphing to his sisters to meet him there.
A fortnight later a quiet wedding took place, Ronald's sisters and RuthPowlett acting as bridesmaids, an honour that, when Ruth returned homeimmediately after the ceremony, effectually silenced the tongues of thevillage gossips. Ronald Mervyn and his wife went for a month's tour onthe Continent, Mr. Armstrong joining them in Paris a few days after themarriage; while the Miss Mervyns went down to Devonshire to prepare theHall for the reception of its owner. Colonel Somerset had not forgottenhis promise, and two or three days after Ronald's return, the letterstating how Captain Mervyn had distinguished himself during the KaffirWar under the name of Sergeant Blunt went the round of the papers.
The skeleton walls of Carne's Hold were at once pulled down, the gardenwas rooted up, and the whole site planted with trees, and this was byRonald's orders carried out so expeditiously that when he returned withhis bride all trace of The Hold had vanished.
Never in the memory of South Devonshire had there been such rejoicingsas those that greeted Ronald Mervyn and his wife on their return home.The tenantry of his two estates, now joined, all assembled at thestation, and scarce a man from Carnesford was absent. Triumphal archeshad been erected, and the gentry for many miles round drove in toreceive them, as an expression at once of their satisfaction that RonaldMervyn had been cleared from the cloud that hung over him, and, to someextent, of their regret that they should ever for a moment have believedhim guilty.
Reuben Claphurst's prediction was verified. With the destruction ofCarne's Hold the curse of the Spanish lady ceased to work, and no traceof the family scourge has ever shown itself in the blood of the somewhatnumerous family of Ronald Mervyn. The tragic story is now almostforgotten, and it is only among the inhabitants of the village at thefoot of the hill that the story of the curse of Carne's Hold issometimes related.
THE END.
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