Chapter XLII. Dearer than Money.

Otago Witness, Issue 1484, 24 April 1880, Page 25

Chapter XLII. Dearer than Money.

The inquest was held next day at the' King's Arms; and the coroner and 12 jurymen — mo3t of whom had known Mark's wife years ago, when she was the smartest and briskest of barmaids, and when sharp retorts and impertinent sallies fell from her cherry lips as readily as the pearls and diamonds shed by the fortunate damsel in the fairy tale— went in solemn conclave to look upon the dead face in the darkened cottage-chamber.

Mark told his story briefly ; how the deceased woman was his wife, and he had kept his marriage concealed on account of his brother ; how she had been away for some time, and had returned without notice, and had sent him a note, which brought him to the cottage, where he had found her dead.

At the coroner's request Mark showed his wife's last letter, which told nothing more than he had, said,

" You had quarrelled, I conolude from this," said the coroner, when he had react the letter aloud to the jury. " Yes, we had quarrelled." " Seriously ? " " Yes." " And you contemplated parting? " " Yes." Mr Didoott stated that the deceased had been dead for some hours when Mark summoned him to her. He would say that she had been dead ten hours. The cause of death was no doubt an overdose of an infusion of foxglove, the dregs of which had been found in a mug close by the bed. He had made a microscopic examination of these dregs, and had discovered seeds, and traces of leaves ia the liquid. He had been shown a pipkin, which had been found on the kitchen hearth, containing the pulpy remains of leaves and flowers from which the infusion had evidently been made. This infusion might have been taken ignorantly as a sleeping draught by a person unacquainted with its power. This opinion had an effect upon the jury, who, taking into consideration that the Penruths were one of the best families in North Cornwall, and that a verdict of felo de se would be an uncomfortable blot upon the family history, were unanimously of opinion Mary Penruth had died accidentally from the effects of an overdose of sleeping stuff j taking her departure out of this life as innocently as a babe which is launched into eternity by an injudicious dose of comforting syrup. Mark breathed more freely when it was all over, and his old friends were standing round him in the inn-parlour, murmuring consolatory speeches, and shaking hands with him in a friendly and protecting way. " And now I must go and make a clean breast of it to my brother," ho said, cutting short all friendly manifeatations, " before he gets well enough to read about to-day's business in the news* paper." He lingered only to arrange with Didcott about the funeral. The family surgeon was to see to everything. It was to be a quiet respectable funeral, in the little churchyard yonder among the fields. Would Mark follow ? Yes ; it would be best, perhaps, to silence scandal. He and Didoott would go together in a mourningcoach ; that was all. Mark rode slowly homeward, pondering on the difficulties that still had to be faced. Yet though those difficulties weighed heavily upon him, there was a sense of relief which in his mind seemed to lighten all his troubles. For ten year 3 his wife had been his one abiding vexation. She had embittered every hour, and during the last forty-eight hours, her existence had been a horror to him. She was gone. He looked back at his life with her shudderingly, as a man might who had lived unawares oheek-by-jowl with a oobra. Mark had spent the previous night at Oamelot, but Didoott had been to Place early in the morning, and had brought back a good account of Vyvyan's progress. He was going on Blowly towards reoovery, but he was wonderfully silent and lowspirited. " You can't conceive how this business has shaken him," said Didcott ; "he looks ten years older since it began. It was touch and go that night, I oan tell you." Mark put up his horse, and then went straight to^hia brother's room. Vyvyan was sitting' in the big armchair by the fire, watching the burning logs with dull hopeless eyes. He had always been gaunt and bony, but he looked now a mere shadow of the once vigorous Squire. Barbara sat on the opposite side of the hearth, with a dainty little table before her, and some delicate fancy-work in her hands. She too was pale and sad, and it seemed as if all the brightness of her youth had departed for ever. Vyvyan acknowledged his brother's entrance with a nod, but did not even look up. "Well, old fellow," said Mark, with an attempt at cheerfulness, "ever so much better, I hear. Worlds better, ian't he, Barbara ?" " Yes, he ia much better, Mr Didcott says. He will soon be well, and able to go for a drive on the moor. Am I to drive you in the pony carriage, Vyvyan, or will you go in the landau ?'' asked Barbara, looking up from her work with deprecating eyes, as of one who sued for pardon, yet hardly knew how she had offended. "It doesn't matter which," answered Vyvyan. "I shall be in the way in either vehicle, I dare say." The gentle eyes looked up at him again, and seemed to ask, "How have I deserved this ?" But Barbara's lips made no answer. "Where have you been, and what has become of you ?" asked Vyvyan, looking at his brother, who had oome to the front of the hearth, and was standing there with the light full on his face. " You look as if there were something wrong." "There haa been something very wrong. I have been in great trouble. I should like to tell you all about it, Vyvyan, even though it may make you angry — set you against me for ever, perhaps." Barbara had risen instinctively, and was gathering up her work. " I had better leave you together," she said. " Yes, dear ; I shall be glad if you will leave us alone for a little while," answered Mark. ' ' Is there anything Vy vyau ought to take for the next balf-hour-— wiue^ medicine ?"

" No, there is nothing. I shall be in the dressing-room. Call me when you have done talking. And so she left them, looking back anxiously at Vyvyan's moody face as she crossed the threshold, fearful lest there Bhould be some angry discussion between the two brothers; for although not a Christian of Miss Penruth's lofty type, she was by nature a peacemaker. Mark seated himself in Barbara's chair. Vyvyan had relapsed into moody silence, and seemed hardly conscious of his brother's presence. " ) ou feel better, don't you, Vyvyan V asked Mark presently. " Yes, I suppose lam better. There has been no return of those horrible senBations." " are you not glad to know that the idea of heart-disease was a false alarm ?" Vyvyan looked up suddenly, the dull eyes the stern lips quivering ■with pain and anger. ". Glad to know that I have been poiaoned in my own house ! Glad to know that secret murder has been sitting at my hearth — smiling in my face ? Glad to know that I have been meshed in a web of treachery and fair-faced wickedness 1 Glad— Great God ! Do not talk to me, Mark. Leave me to fight my battle alone —to work out my life in my own way." " Vyvyan, you have some horrible suspioion ! You are wrong, utterly wrong ! Vyvyan, brother, forgive me, if you can ! It was I that brought your enemy into your house, knowing her wickedness. I know who it was that tried to poison you. I know all about it. Didcott too. He can bear me out. It my was wife.' "Your wife ! What wife ?"

Mark told him the whole story— the story of his weak yielding to temptation 14 years ago, and all the evil that had come out of that folly and his concealment of it. Vyvyan listened with fastbeating heart, with the glow of new-born gladness kindling on his hollow cheek. What was it to him that his life had been attempted, that a secret foe had been in .his household, if that secret enemy were not the wife of his bosom, the idol of his later life ? His soul thrilled within him as he heard Mark's confession. Forgive his brother's folly, forgive the weakness of mind and purpose which had so nearly brought him to the grave ! Yes, he could forgive anything now that he knew- she was innocent, pure, and perfect, as he had always thought her till that vile letter was put into his hand. He covered his face and wept aloud— tears of mingled remorse and joy. " I thought it was my wife who wanted to shorten my days," he said. "That thought made the coming back to life more bitter than death itself. God forgive me ! Yes, I thought it was Barbara's work !"

"0 Vyvyan, how could you? God gave you an angel for a wife, and yet you could not trust her !"

The brothers clasped hands. "I have been an arrant fool," said Mark. "Can you forgive me — a fool, and not always an honest one 1 You may »s well know all the truth. I had been robbing you for the last three years when Maulford came to make out that balancesheet. I had been unlucky on the turf, and had speculated in mining shares, in the hope of getting back what I had lost, and had muddled away thousands of your money. If Maulford hadn't doctored the accounts, you must have known all about it. I've been an honeat man ever since then, upon my soul, I have ? I pulled up short, aud haven't wronged you of a sixpence — " "Curse your sixpences !" cried Vyvyan, rising feebly out of the big chair. ' ' There is something in this life dearer than money." He went to the dressing-room door and called " Barbara !"

He opened his arms as she came towards him, and took her to his breast. "My dearest love, I have wronged you," he murmured, with unspeakable tenderness. "I know all now."

She answered not a word ; and looking down at her blanching face, her husband caw that ehe had fainted in his arms. Half-an-hour afterwards he knew a secret that promised the fulfilment of his fondest wish, a hope that had almost left,, him. He was noc to die childless ; he was not to be the last of the good old line. Be fore the earliest leaflets of spring were unfolded he might be a father.

To lie continued— Commenced in No. 1452.