Chapter 111
questioned Herbert, in considerable wonderment.
"Because I do," was the answer. "We police see and note down what others pa.s.s over. There was odds and ends of things at the time that made us infer it; and I can't get it out of my mind."
"It is an impossibility that it could have been a resident of the house," dissented Herbert. "Every one in it is above suspicion."
"Who do _you_ fancy it might have been?" asked the sergeant, abruptly, almost as if he wished to surprise Herbert out of an incautious answer.
But Herbert had nothing to tell him; no suspicion was on his mind to be surprised out of. "If I could fancy it was, or might be, any particular individual, I should come to you and say so, without asking," he replied. "I am as much at fault as you can be. Anthony may have made slight enemies in the town, what with his debts and his temper, and one thing or another; but no enemies of that terrible nature--capable of killing him. I wish I could see cause for a reasonable suspicion," he added with emotion. "I would give my right arm"--stretching it out--"to solve the mystery. As well for my sake as for my dead brother's."
"Well, all I can say is, that I am down on my beam ends," concluded the sergeant.
Meanwhile Henry Ashley was getting little better. He had fallen into a state of utter prostration. Mental anguish had told upon him physically, and his bodily weakness was no doubt great: but he made no effort to rouse himself. He would lie for hours, his eyes half-closed, noticing no one. The medical men said they had seen nothing like it, and Mr. and Mrs. Ashley grew alarmed. The only one to remonstrate with him--he alone held the key to its cause--was William Halliburton.
William's influence over him was very great: he yielded to no one, not even to his father, as he would yield to William. Henry gave the reins to his tongue, and said all sorts of irritating things to William, as he did to every one else. It only masked the deep affection, the lasting friends.h.i.+p, which had taken possession of his heart for William.
"Let me be; let me be," he said to William one day, in answer to a remonstrance that he should rouse himself. "I told you that my life had pa.s.sed out with _her_."
"But your life has not pa.s.sed out with her," argued William; "your life is in you, just as much as it ever was. And it is your duty to make some use of your life; not to let it run to waste--as you are doing."
"It does not affect you," was the tart reply.
"It does very much affect me. I am grieved to see you hug your pain, instead of shaking it off; vexed to think that a man should so bury his days. It is an unfortunate thing that no one is cognizant of this matter but myself."
"Is it though!" retorted Henry. "You are a fine Job's comforter!"
"Yes,
Henry flashed an angry glance at him from his soft dark eyes. "Take care, my good fellow! I can stand some things; but I don't stand all."
"An imprudent, silly girl, who does not care a rush for you,"
emphatically repeated William: "whose wild and ill-judged affection is given to another. Was ever infatuation like unto yours!"
"Have a care, I tell you!" burst forth Henry. "By what right do you say these things to me?"
"I say them for your good--and I intend that you should feel them. When a surgeon's knife probes a wound, the patient groans and winces; but it is done to cure him."
"You are a man of eloquence!" sarcastically rejoined Henry. "Pity but you could flourish at the Bar, and take the antic.i.p.ated s.h.i.+ne out of Frank!"
"Answer me one plain question, Henry. Do you still indulge a hope towards Anna Lynn?--to her becoming your wife?"
With a shriek of anger, Henry caught up his slipper, and sent it flying through the air at William's head.
"What's that for?" equably demanded William, dodging his head out of the way.
"How dare you hint at such a thing? I told you there were some things I wouldn't stand. Is it fitting that one who has figured in such an escapade should be made the wife of an Ashley? If we were left by our two selves upon the earth, all else gone dead and out of it, I wouldn't marry her."
"Precisely so. I have judged you rightly. Then, under this state of things, what in the name of fortune is the use of your lying here and thinking about her?"
"I don't think about her," fractiously returned Henry. "You are always fancying things."
"You do think about her. I can see that you do. I should be above it,"
quaintly continued William.
"Go and pick up my slipper."
"Will you come down to tea this evening?"
"No, I won't. You come here and preach up this morality, or divinity, or whatever you may please to term it, to me; but, wait and see how you'd act, if you should ever get struck on the keen edge as I have been."
"Come! let me help you up."
"Don't bother. I am not going to get up. I----"
At that moment, Mr. Ashley opened the door. His errand likewise was to induce Henry to leave his sofa and his room, and join them below. Henry could not be brought to comply.
"No. I have just told William. I cannot think why he did not go back and say so. He only stops here to worry me. There! get along, William; and come back when you have swallowed enough tea."
Mr. Ashley laid his hand on William's arm, as they walked together along the corridor, and brought him to a halt. "What _is_ this illness of Henry's? There is some secret connected with it, I am sure, and you are cognizant of it. I must know what it is."
Mr. Ashley's tone was a decided one; his manner firm. William made no reply.
"Tell me what it is, William."
"I cannot," said William. "Certainly not without Henry's permission; and I do not think he will give it. If it were my secret, sir, instead of his, I would tell it at your bidding."
"Is it of the mind or the body?"
"The mind. I think the worst is over. Do not speak to him about it, I pray you, sir."
"William, is it anything that can be remedied? By money?--by any means at command?"
"It can never be remedied," replied William earnestly, "Were the whole world brought to bear upon it, it could do nothing. Time and his own good sense must effect the cure."
"Then I may as well not ask about it if I cannot aid. You are fully in his confidence."
"Yes. And all that another can do, I am doing. We have a daily battle. I want to rouse him out of his apathy."
"Oh, that you could!" aspirated Mr. Ashley.
CHAPTER XV.
A LOSS FOR POMERANIAN KNOLL.
Pomeranian Knoll had scarcely recovered its equanimity after the shock of the departure of Herbert Dare for foreign parts, when it found itself about to be shorn of another inmate. The word "shock" is used to express the suddenness of the affair, rather than in its enlarged and more ordinary sense. Herbert, what with one thing and another, had brought a good deal of vexation upon the paternal home; Helstonleigh also had not been holding him in extensive favour since the trial; and that home was not sorry that he should absent himself from it for a time. But it certainly did not bargain for his announcing his departure one night, and being off the next morning. Yet such was the course he pursued: and in that light his departure may be said to have been a shock to the town. Mr. Dare had known of it longer; but he had not proclaimed it any more than Herbert had: it may be that Herbert feared being stopped, if the intended journey got wind.