Beneath Their* Feet.

Lake County Press, Issue 2300, 25 November 1909, Page 2

Beneath Their* Feet.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By Iza Duffus Hardy.

\uthe# of "The Lesser Evil," "MacGilleroy's Millions," "Man, Woman and Fate," "Oranges and Pomegranates," "The Butterfly," etc., etc.

COPYRIGHT

OHAPTEK XVl—Coutiuued. "It seems they don't know. But —" The words failed her; it was in her white face that Cara read her thought, and as Alice, her senses quickened by emotion, which either siuns or sharpens the faculties, saw that thought of hers reflected in Cara's eyes, she saw, too, that Cara, shocked, stricken with grief and horror, was yet not racked by sudden personal passion of overwhelming dread, and she had not, as Alice had done, leapt instantly to the thought of Douglas St. Quentin! "Oh, Alice,'' she said under her breath, clasping her hands. "Oh, surely, surely it can't be." "He was coming by the express," said Alice, the strain of terrible suppression in her voice. "How can we find out if it is?" "Shall we send someone to the village and the station to inquire ?" said Cara, instinctively appealing to Alice, forgetful that she was the mistress of the house.

Alice's eyes were dry. Cara was shaken by a storm of mingled emotions, amongst which ever and anon lose a superstitious dread that this tragedy betokened other catastrophes, that "unmerciful disaster would follow ever fast and faster" now. Far on in the small hours of the morning, exhausted with tears and agitation, she fell at last into a troubled sleep, but Nature's sweet restorer never visited Alice's dry and burning eyes that dreadful night.

"Yes, send Richards ; he is intelligent; send him at once —tell him to find out all he can."

The messenger sent on this errand, the two women waited his return with news—waited, scarcely speaking, but they waited and watched together now. It was to Alice that the fear, the conviction, of the identity of the unknown victim, had struck home swiftest. But now a back-wave of disbelief is this horror swept over her. With youth's fierce resentment of suffering, she strove to thrust it away from her. Because it was too dreadful, therefore it must be impossible. But to Cara nothing now was too bad to be true. "Sorrows come not in single spies, but in battalions!*' and if, indeed, this terrible fate had befallen the kindest and most loyal of friends, there was nothing incredible in the tragedy.She recoiled in horror from a thought that stirred in her mind like an uncoiling- snake —that if she had lost a friend, she had escaped a peril! If it were indeed Douglas St. Quentin who had gone down to his grave, one at least of the dangers that threatened her had gone with him. Then she shuddered at her own thought, and branded herself as the vilest of ingrates that even for an instant it could quicken to life in her mind. It seemed to be all night long that they waited, sitting up in the boudoir, though in reality it was but little past midnight when the messenger returned with the news. And the news was bad. Richards had met Mr. Harcourt on the scene of the disaster making inquiries. He was afraid it was Mrs. Harcourt's cousin, Mr. St. Quentin, who had gone down into the dreadful chasm. It appeared that this unfortunate gentleman was the only passenger who had arrived by the express. The man Tim Larkins, the only witness of his fall, who was passing within a few yards, had seen him suddenly stagger, "seem to slip as if the ground gave way under him," and go down, described him as a tall gentleman in a light overcoat. The man at the station who officiated as porter and ticket-collector, when asked whether it was Mr." St. Quentin, replied yes, he thought it was; but, of course, it was quite dark at the time, and the gentleman did not speak, only gave up his ticket and passed out. Everyone accepted it as a fact that the man was Douglas St. Quentin. According to all evidence it seemed that it could have been no one else, and Mr. Harcourt was reported to be in a terrible state about it.

In the darkest hour before the dawn she looked round the familiar room, and all the acucstomed things of every day looked strange! The silence ol the night seemed awful, it held unknown meanings; the shadows seemed to move with ghostly life, and she fancied she saw in the empty air old Lady Brantynham's open grave. She knew now that her premonition had been true —that it was indeed across the gulf of death she had looked at Douglas St. Quentin —and her earthly senses had not recognised what her finer spiritual sense had known — that that look was the last! The misunderstanding between them would never be cleared up now. .In the morning "She rose and in an altered world had part!" it seemed a world of shadows —black, dreadful shadows —in which she moved. CHAPTER XVII. Early in the day they sent over to the Harcourts "to inquire," and, later, Mr. Harcourt himself called at Brantynham Hall, to bring them, as St Quentin's friends, all the news, that could be gleaned which, alas ! was of the gloomiest. There seemed no ray of hope of any mistake. The porter was sure that it 'was Mr. St. Quentin. They had telegraphed to the hotel at Rathminster and found he had left there the previous day. They had telegraphed to his chambers in London where the answer was that nothing was known of his movements since he went to Rathminster. He was not a man to chop and change his plans; there was no doubt that he had taken the appointed train, and finding no fly at the station, had started on that fatal walk across the fields by Gipsy Lane And now the latest reports from the scene of the disaster barred all hope. The dropping of stones revealed a depth of water far below. More than one man had bravely volunteered to descend into the ghastly pit, but repeated attempts at descent had each time resulted in failure, owing to the mephitic air which rendered it impossible for any living creature to draw the breath of life there.

The account now reaching the two anxious women waiting at Brantynham Hall left them no doubt, no escape from the thing that faced them as a ghastly truth. They looked at each other in silence —a silence that Alice, her heart turned to stone, her brain dazed, could not break, and the only words Cara could find as she looked in the girl's white quivering face were, "Oh, Alice, Alice !"

Lastly, the latest report, received just as Mr. Harcourt left his home, was that a further slide and fall of the earth had taken place, which must have buried, beyond all hope of even recovering the body, whosoever had fallen into to that living: grave. Mrs. Harcourt, her husband said, was almost distracted; "poor Douglas" had been her favourite cousin, and it was so terribly unfortunate that they had to start for Rio in two days, yet perhaps after all not so unfortunate; the change and the voyage would be better for her thau remaining on the spot to brood over this awful affair. She had been talking of giving up the voyage, but her husband urged that there was nothing to be done, no hope cf help. It was not only important, but absolutely necessary that he should go and take up his post in Rio, and it would be far better for her to accompany him than to stay alone and haunt the scene of the tragedy, which would be eojough to drive her cut of her mind. So argued poor Mr. Harcourt, who looked worried out of his mind himself.

It was in the giving, not in the seeking of sympathy that she impulsively threw her arms round Alice, and Alice in that hour did not repel the embrace. Cara, clasping the girl to her heart, broke down into tears, but

Later still in the day, the appearance of the ladies of Brantynham Hall aroused a lively interest in the fearstricken yet fascinated little crowd whe were gathered round the fatal spot, where barriers had been hastily put up to keep curious investigators back at a safe distance. Unable to rest, recoiling, yet irresistibly drawn, Alice and Cara had sought the scene in Gipsy

Lane. But there was little or nothing to be seen. The rough impromptu railing across the path barred approach from either side. They could only see the broken edges of the rough ground, and a blank beyond! Cara shrank back with a low shuddering sob, and hid her face in her hands. Alice stood like a statue, speechless, scarcely breathing, her blue eyes dilated till tbey looked black as -death, fixed on '.he horrid hole. The villagers, gazing and whispering, noted that Lady Brantynham was crying, but Miss Brantynham seemed calm. Only the maid Kate who accompanied them, observed that " Miss Brantynham took it quiet, but she took it hard I" The next morning brought George Brantynham back to the Hall, almost overwhelmed with horror and distress at the terrible fate which had befallen his old friend. Full of deep regret for him, there was yet room in his heart for serious anxiety about the mental and physical condition in which he found Cara. Alice looked pale and thin; in that one day the soft-rounded lines of her cheek seemed to have fallen into m hollows, but she seemed less changed* and stricken than his wife. " Alice, I'm awfully anxious about Cara," George confided to his sister. '' What is the matter with her?" " She has been upset."

"Of course, naturally—we are all that! But she's not a bit like herself. Whenever she's been worried or ailing before she—she has always turned to me! But now, it seems really almost as if she couldn't bear me to come into the room, and, after all, she hadn't known him as long as we have. She must be ill. I'll send for Dr. Dalton." The d«ctor, summoned, came promptly, and pronounced that Lady Brantynham was "below par," weak and feverish, and in a very nervous state. Her constitution was delicate, and she had evidently suffered severely from shock to the nerves, probably the effect of the news of the terrible accident which had horrified the neighbourhood. She must be kept quiet and free from excitement, and take the tonic and sedative for which he wrote prescriptions, and he hoped they would soon see her all right again, for he could^assure Sir George there was nothing" in her ladyship's case to cause alarm.

" Have you heard they are going to read the funeral service—there ?" asked George, who instinctively avoided any detailed dwelling on the gruesome subject. Harcourt tells me his wife wishes it done before they leave."

"Yes, I have heard," said Alice in a low voice.

"Cara must not go," he continued with a troubled look. "It would be too much for her.'

"No, I am sure the doctor would not sanction her going," agreed Alice. " Except, indeed," she added reflectively, "that he seems anxious she should not be crossed or opposed." Cara, however, gave them no trouble in the matter; she urged no desire of being present on the gloomy occasion, seeming quite willing to stay at home, but Alice insisted on accompany her brother and the Harcourts, while other friends came down from London to join in the rendering of this singular last tribute to the memory of Douglas St. Quentin. Never within the memory of man had there been so strange and impressive a scene as the reading in the presence of a silent and awe-stricken crowd of the ritual over the ghastly cavern that was an unconsecrated grave —the open tomb that had swallowed up a living man. It was a glorious day, of summer blue sky and summer gold of sunshine. Swaying lightly on a branch ■ f the nearest tree a thrush was singing .

"Tender and gay He cooed and whistled and trilled, And the wasteful wealth of Life and Love From his happy heart was spilled."

There was something in the note of contrast that rather intensified than relieved the strain of the eerie horror in the air. Men's faces were white, and women trembled and wept as the solemn words of the burial service rolled out below the shrill warble of the bird. To Alice, clinging to her brother's side, it seemed that she heard the service with a curious duality of perception. With her bodily ears she heard the good old vicar's voice, shaken with emotion —for never before had so strange a task been his ! In her mind she heard the same words as they had been given out by her old aunt's grave, and in her mind's eye she saw Douglas St. Quentin as she had seen him then.

There he had stood opposite her then, living-. And now —now —in that ghastly pit at her feet —which had swallowed him up alive —where his bones might lie unseen till the Day of Judgment! There —there —oh ! she could not bear it! She felt at last that it was too much! The scene, the faces, swarm round her, the vicar's words buzzed in her ears. With a desperate effort of pride she managed to keep up till the last words; then at the first stir and sway and movement in the crowd, Alice Brantynham sank on her brother's arm, fainting for the first time in her life.

The second time she looked at him it occurred to her there was something familiar in his features. Surely somewhere she must have seen him before. And the deferential voice which invited her choice between filleted sole and turbot —surely she had heard that somewhere, too? She did not turn and lift her head to look at him then; but when he was attending - on Sir George and Alice, her gaze followed him, seeking, puzzled, with memory slowly and confusedly awakening. Then as he came round the table and she caught his eyes, in an instant the recollection flashed into full life. She turned even paler than she was; all the pretty delicate color had faded from her cheek of late, and her hand trembled as she hastily raised the glass to her lips, and absently set it down again untouched. Altered almost beyond recognition by flight of time, the shaving of the beard, the close cropping of the hair, she saw a ghost of other days—hated days she shuddered lo recall. "Has he set a spy on me?" was her first thought of fear. The second was a leap of hope at the possibility that mere chance had brought this man here, that he did not know her. For she had not remembered him at first, and she knew herself as changed as he was.

Then again she found his eyes upon her as he attended decorously to his duties, and she wondered whether it was doubt or recognition, even a gleam of curiosity and amusement, that she read in his eyes. Or was it her fancy? Evidently George and Alice noticed nothing in his look. Perhaps it was only her imagination, a fancied resemblance. Or if it were indeed the man she feared it was, could it be that he had turned over a new leaf, was leading a reformed life? Or did his appearance here in her home mean that Dusenbury had a hand in it? Was she to be dogged and persecuted even here? Was there no escape for here ? "Well, how do you like the new man?" inquired George after dinner.

"I don't much like the look of him," she answered hesitatingly and reluctantly. "Why, 1 don't see much amiss with his looks," rejoined her husband, not best pleased at this criticism of his domestic choice. "What do you think, Alice?" "I thought he had rather a good appearance," she admitted. "Oh, I daresay he is all right. I really didn't take much notice of him," said Cara, wearily, with an air of closing the subject. CHAPTER XVIII. When alone that night she endeavoured to persuade herself that she might be mistaken; she was in a shaken, weak and overwrought state, and it was possible her recognition was only a morbid fancy born of the weakness of unstrung nerves. If it was something more—if this man's appearance here betokened any plot or plan of Dusenbury's—small doubt that she would be made aware of it soon enough ! Sir George returned to town only a day or two after the new footman's arrival. There was much to be done in the disentanglement of the late Dowager's affairs; she had of late years been somewhat injudicious in her advisers and investments; her executors found the winding-up proceedings a slow business; and there was little to tempt George to neglect his share in those duties by lingering now in the altered atmosphere of Brantynham Hall. Cara, pale, lan- I

The trivial domestic crisis of a change of footmen was small indeed beside the great troubles that clouded the atmosphere of Brantynham Hall; but trivial as it was, Lady Brantynham was not allowed to be troubled about it, or about anything else that her household could keep from her, for the decree was faithfully followed that she "was not to be worried about anything." Sir Georg'*, taking counsel with his sister, attended to the domestic business of engaging a man to fill the place left

vacant by the departure of a footman with sundry inconvenient failings, and any difficulty in the matter was minimised by the speedy appearance of an apparently most eligible applicant for the situation, who was all that could be desired in looks and figure, and brought excellent references, especially a most satisfactory character from Lady Kinsella, who was at this time abroad, but expressed herself as willing on her return to give any further information and the highest personal references with regard to James Potter, who, finding favor in Sir George's eyes, was on the strength of his recommendations duly installed at Branytnhara Hall. It was a mere trifle of a domestic incident, but incidents as small have sometimes turned out to have a bearing on the destinies of those who little dreamt of any such connection. Certainly the last idea to occur to Lady Brantynham would have been the thought of any interest in the change of footmen beyond a -faint gratification, almost too faint and lanquid to be a recognised expression, that George appeared to have arranged the matter to his own satisfaction. Between her and George, her beloved, and never more beloved than now when he thought her so strange and changed and cold, there had fallen a chilling shadow of restraint and reserve, which he could not in the least understand, and against which he chafed, secretly resentful and perplexed. She did not see the new footman until dinner time on the evening of his arrival. She generally came down to dinner, though sometimes she did not leave her boudoir all day until that time. Her first glance fell indifferqntly on the man with the cleanshaven face and conventional figure and voice, the acme of correct commonplace, who was handing the soup. She was almost too indifferent to form an opinion of George's choice. George had chosen to engage this man; that was enough; no doubt lig~ would do very well.

guid, nervous, cold and constraint and strangely changed, was no longer the bright, loving little wife who had been the light of the humble frontier cottage as of the stately English home, and Alice, though bravely keeping up, could not rally the spirit once so buoyant that had won for her the old pet name of "Sunshine." The mere thought of his old friend's cruel fate haunted him, and altogether the clouds of trouble lowered darkly over the atmosphere of Bantynham Hall. He was not sorry to turn his back on it and its anxieties and associations. Since this second disaster, there was quite a panic in the neighbourhood; many of those who could leave wcrt leaving it. "What is the use of running away? ' said Cara when it was suggested to her. "You can't run faster than Fate! Your destiny will find you out wherever you go I" George thought his wife more plucky than he would have expected in her weak state of health, but her seeming courage was only the apathy and fatalism of despair. She hardly knew whether his departure was more of a relief or a pain to her. It was re lief to be freed from the daily and hourly martyrdom of meeting the frank look of his honest blue eyes and dreading lest he should suspect even the shadow of the secret hidden in hers —of feeling rather than seeing his half resentful, half distressed, and wholly puzzled solicitude, while folding her cloak close, close over the wolf that was eating her heart away. (To be Continued.)