The Whispering Lane/Chapter 20

Aileen’s anxious summons, Dick travelled back to Tarhaven as soon as circumstances permitted. And these released him sooner than might have been expected. More and his servant were taken to London, Jimmy remaining behind in Wessbury; while Tyson was again in prison, and Jenny in an hospital, with small hopes of recovery. Until the culprits were brought up before a magistrate, it was useless to probe further into the case. The drugging and tattooing and transfer of Slanton from one village to the other, had been explained, together with the reason for such nefarious doings. But, as yet, it was impossible to say, positively, who had strangled the man.

Camp declared that Rackham was the guilty person, on the grounds of his openly expressed hatred for the dead, and the admission that he had lingered behind the wood-enclosing wall, in the hope that Miss Danby would kill her accomplice. Climbing over to make sure, and finding that the villain still lived, he had then done what he always intended should be done. The others were inclined to agree with him, although more doubtful as to the actuality of this theory. They received no assistance from the accused. He reserved his defence, and defied them to convict him. “Prove it!” sneered Rackham, and relapsed into his impenetrable silence.

So it thus came about that shortly after the damnatory explanations of the crazy man and his assistant, Dick was pacing the waiting-room of the Tarhaven Infirmary, awaiting the entrance of Aileen. She was with the patient, as a kindly nurse had explained, the authorities having accorded her free association with her dying friend, who could not be expected to out-live the day. The urgent message of Hustings brought her from the bed-side, and she entered hurriedly to excuse herself from an interview. “I can’t wait, Dick,” she protested, when he clasped her in his arms with heartening kisses. “Edith may pass away at any moment, and her only comfort now is to hold my hand.”

“You must give me ten minutes and hear what I have to say, darling.”

“Impossible! Impossible!” Aileen extricated herself from his embrace. “Edith will not die in peace if I am absent.”

“She will not die in peace until she hears what I can tell her.”

“Oh, Dick, have you learned the truth at last?” asked the girl, breathlessly.

“I think so, or what looks like the truth. . There is a doubt, but that doubt Miss Danby may do away with.”

“Tell me—tell me quickly. Then we can go to Edith and set her poor mind at rest.”

“Darling,” Dick looked anxiously at the pale, worn face and weeping eyes of the girl, “are you strong enough to bear further trouble?”

Aileen sank tremblingly into a chair. “What is it?” she inquired, faintly, “I can bear anything so long as it will prove my poor Edith’s innocence.”

“Even if that innocence is proved at the expense of your father’s safety?”

“Dick!” she put out a shaking hand, as if to ward off a blow.

“My poor girl,” he knelt beside the chair and put his arms round her, “I would spare your feelings if I could, and especially at this moment, when you are being tried to the uttermost. But you asked me in your letter to learn the truth, so that Miss Danby could die in peace. And the truth”

“Dick! Dick! My father didn’t—didn’t?”

“No! No!” the young man soothed her gently, “his hands are free from blood. He spared Slanton, although he intended to kill him. Rackham, it would seem, took the law into his own hands, and”

“But what have Rackham and my father to do with the matter?” she interrupted, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

Dick soon made her understand, unwilling as he was to be explanatory at so strained a moment. Holding her tightly in his arms, so as to afford her what strength he could from the comfort of his embrace, he swiftly but carefully reported the doings in Wung’s cellar, the tragedy of the roof-chase, and the confessions made in the Wessbury bungalow. It was impossible to soften the hard facts, much as he wished to spare her, since nothing but the naked truth availed, if the crooked matters of the case were to be straightened out. So Dick told her everything with uncompromising frankness, believing that the girl was staunch enough to face the terrible realities bravely. His belief was wholly justified. Aileen, not interrupting, and ceasing to tremble, heard him to the bitter end in still silence. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“More than enough. But—but you are not—not keeping anything—back?”

“No! I rate your courage too highly for that, darling.”

“My poor father—my poor Jenny. Oh it’s horrible! horrible!” and she covered her face with two trembling hands, shaken again for the moment.

“Dear!” he drew down the hands, “you have heard the worst and faced the worst like the splendidly plucky girl you are. Don’t give way now. What is past is terrible—still it is past.”

“But the present comes from that past. Is it less terrible?”

“I think so. We cannot undo what has been done. But it is possible to settle things for a brighter and calmer future.”

“Edith will die.”

“Yes, and peacefully, when she hears that her name is cleared. Would you wish her to live, when living means hourly agony from her disease?”

“No! And yet”

“Dearest, believe me it is better so. Apart from her present suffering, the tragedy of that poor creature’s life is so dreadful that she will be glad to rest peacefully in the loving arms of the Great Father. Jenny too, will die, and that also is a mercy, disguised though it may be. At the best she could only survive as a helpless cripple, a burden to herself and others.”

“But my father!” said Aileen in low tones, and with her eyes on his face.

“Ah, that is the greatest tragedy of all,” mourned the young man, “there is nothing so terrible as to witness the weakening of a strong will: the wrecking of a powerful brain. Yet I am glad that, in this case, it should be so.”

“Glad!” the girl’s face flamed, and with a movement of indignation, she would have released herself, but for her lover’s restraining arms.

“Think, my dearest!” he urged, tenderly, “your father lost all interest in life when his son died, until Rackham’s story awakened the evil impulse of revenge. Now that the revenge has been accomplished, there is nothing left for your father to live for. And, in a way, he is not to blame, since he cannot be held responsible for his actions. The loss of Roderick—the sordid captivity in Germany—the horrors of the Russian wanderings and the knowledge of his return, that his beloved son had been murdered. Can you wonder that his brain gave way under sufferings, which would have shaken the reason of a stronger man? He was mad when he plotted Slanton’s death—Miss Danby’s complicity; but until these things were brought about as he wished, he did not betray his madness. Now it is apparent. He is a babbling child, forgetful of all.”

“Poor father—poor father.” Aileen burst into tears.

“Yes, poor father, but also happy father, since he now remembers nothing of the past. All horrible memories are wiped out. He believes that Roderick is alive—that Roderick is coming to see him. Aileen, it might be worse.”

“Yes!” she buried her tearful face in his shoulder, “but, oh, the pity of it.”

“The pity of it is most deep, my darling. Let us leave him in God’s hands, for He knows the frailty of His children, and therefore is merciful.”

There was silence for a few minutes, while the tormented girl cried quietly, as Dick smoothed her hair, patted her gently on the back, and pressed her lovingly to his sheltering breast. Finally, Aileen raised her head, drying her tears to kiss him gratefully for his comfortable words, and rose to face those things, which, in this work-a-day world, have to be faced. “We must see Edith, and ease her mind,” she said, with a pathetic attempt to appear business-like. “I’ll get permission for you to come to her bed-side!” and she was gone from the room in the twinkling of an eye.

Dick felt very weary, very ancient, both physically and mentally. The soothing of Aileen, the minute attention he had given throughout many woeful hours to the conduct of the case, and the long perplexing pursuit of the criminal—these doings had depleted his vitality. Yet, from old habit of the mind, so deeply rutted had it become, his tired brain began to grapple with the problem of Rackham’s culpability. Was the ex-soldier innocent, or guilty? Going by the circumstantial evidence, it would seem that he might be the first. But he might possibly be the last, since nothing definite could be proven. The exhausted man sat down to muse but nodded and drowsed, until he almost slipped away into the restorative realms of sleep. Only Aileen’s gentle touch on his shoulder brought him back to realities. “Come!” she said, beckoning.

Her lover rose with a yawn, rubbing his eyes to brush away the cobwebs of slumber, and followed gladly. He wished to get what would surely prove to be a painful interview, over and done with. But the meeting with Miss Danby was less trying than might have been expected. She lay straightly on her back, under an excessively smooth coverlet, which was drawn up directly beneath her chin. Only her pinched waxen face was visible, looking small and unhuman amidst the darkly grey tangle of her loose hair. Dreading to move hand or foot, lest the burning pain of her disease should seize her, she could only open her sunken eyes in wan greeting. Dick’s generous heart went out to the anguished creature, urgent, but help less to relieve her sufferings. “I am grieved to see your sad condition, Miss Danby,” he said, sympathetically, “and—and—but words are useless, intrusive, unnecessary. I only wish that I could help.”

“You have helped,” whispered the helpless invalid, weakly, “you are helping. I ask nothing more from you than what you are doing. Oh, you—you understand.”

Aileen murmured in her lover’s ear, “She means our marriage.”

“Yes! Yes!” Edith catching the words spoke with more energy, “that’s it; your marriage. Promise me that you will never fail my dear, dear girl.”

“I promise, although there is little need for me to do so,” Dick assured her, earnestly. “Aileen will be my wife as soon as circumstances permit.”

The sick woman sighed happily. “Oh, thank God! Thank God that my loving friend will have an honest man to protect her from the terrors of this cruel world. It has killed me. I don’t know why. I have made many mistakes—we all do—but I did my best.”

“We know that, Edith; we know that,” protested Aileen, bending over her tenderly, “both Dick and I think of you, and will always think of you, as one of our best and dearest friends,”

“And not as a—a murderess?” she inquired anxiously.

“Darling, I never thought of you as that. Never, never, never.”

“But the world thinks of me as a—a” Edith could not bring herself to repeat the sinister word.

“Only for a moment,” said Dick with quiet firmness, “shortly the world will learn that you are innocent.”

“Innocent!” she made an effort to rise, but fell back exhausted. “Innocent!”

“Wholly innocent,” reiterated Dick, voicing Camp’s view of the tragedy, although not entirely persuaded in his own mind that it was a correct one, “a man called Rackham”

“Roderick’s servant?”

“None other! He killed Slanton, because he believed that Slanton had murdered his young master by poisoning the bandages, and”

“Stop!” interrupted Miss Danby, struggling up into a sitting position and with her voice ringing out clearly in manifest terror. “What does Rackham—what do you know about that?”

“Everything! Rackham overheard a conversation between you and Slanton in a French café at the”

“And Slanton accused me of what I never did,” she broke in passionately. “Oh, I remember only too well that wicked conversation. It is written in letters of fire on the tablets of my brain. It opened the gates of Hell to me—that Hell in which I have been tormented for centuries. It was his lie—his trap—his devilment, to get me under his thumb, for the money’s sake. And he did—he did, God help me! Aileen, Aileen, don’t hate me. I never—never”

“Darling!” the girl’s arms were around the agonized woman in a moment, “the whole thing is a lie. There is no need for your denial. It was that man, not you, who brought about Roddy’s death. Hate you? No! No! I love you a thousand times more, if that is possible, now that I know how dreadfully, how unjustly you have suffered for the sin of another. There! There! Lie down again and listen quietly to what Dick has to tell you. My dear, my dear, be calm. It is all right—all right!” and with tender caresses, she pressed back Edith gently on to her pillows.

“But—but Roderick’s death—Slanton’s death. You, you surely don’t—don’t believe that I—that I—oh, my God!” and the poor soul collapsed, pitifully.

“Call Sister Tait, Dick. Quick! Quick! Quick!” cried the girl, slipping a comforting arm under the unconscious woman’s head.

In answer to the young man’s hasty summons, the nurse came flying to the bed-side, to exhibit a wrathful countenance at the sight of her patient’s condition. Promptly turning out the disturbing visitors, she administered restoratives immediately. For close upon an hour Aileen and her lover lingered outside the sick-room door, fearing to hear every moment that Edith had passed away. Troubled in their minds that she might do so, before learning that her reputation was safe, they looked anxiously at one another, speaking little, thinking much. At length, after many dragging minutes, Sister Tait appeared, looking tremendously serious. “She insists upon seeing you both to hear what you have to tell her,” said the nurse, in vexed tones, “I don’t think it is wise, as she may die at any moment.”

“All the more reason that she should hear my story,” insisted Dick, imperatively. “You know of what she is accused, Sister. That accusation is wholly false, and we wish our poor friend to learn this before she goes west.”

“I am glad!” Sister Tait’s face grew radiant. “I never could bring myself to believe that such a sweet woman could act so wickedly. Go in, go in, and God bless you for bringing her peace of mind.”

So with Aileen clinging to him, Dick re-entered the room. Again Miss Danby lay straightly and immovably under an excessively smoothed-out coverlet, and again she greeted them by opening her eyes. There was no need for her to speak. Dick knew what she wanted to hear, and kneeling beside the bed, with his mouth close to her ear, he quietly repeated to her the story that he had related to Aileen. There was no change of expression on the waxen face. It seemed as if she was so far divorced from earthly things, that the clearance of her character failed to excite any profound interest. But when the young man ended his careful recital, and rose from his knees, life came back to the moribund woman in a momentary swirl of vitality.

“Your poor father!” she breathed faintly to Aileen, thinking more of others than of herself.

“Dear!” the girl laid her fresh young cheek against the chilling cheek of her dying friend, “his memory is gone, but he believed that he had misjudged you before it went. Forgive him!”

“I do! I do, and wish him all happiness. Oh, what am I saying. Happiness is not for one who has lost his reason.”

“In this case it is,” said Dick in low tones, “and I say this for your comfort. More’s happiness is bound up with his madness. He believes that Roderick is still alive—he believes that Roderick is coming to see him. It is God’s mercy that the poor creature forgets the true past to live only in a false present.”

“God is always merciful. I can see that now in the greater light that is coming,” murmured Edith in far away tones. “He supported me through the agony of years. He is taking me to Himself with the knowledge that you and my dear Aileen know me to be an innocent woman.”

“We always knew that; always, always,” breathed the girl, passionately.

“Darling!” the sick woman’s hand came painfully from the coverlet to stroke the pale face of her beloved friend, “but how can I explain what should be explained, in the short time remaining to me. Slanton prepared the bandages, which he had poisoned—which I applied unknowingly. But for that fatal will leaving me the money, I don’t think he would have acted so—so wickedly. But his greed carried him away. He swore that if I did not marry him and let him handle the money, he would accuse me of the murder. It was my task to prepare the bandages; he therefore would have denied doing so. Oh, what chance had I of proving my innocence. But I held out—I held out,”—she checked herself, breathing hard and fast.

“Say no more, Edith!” implored Aileen, seeing how fast the strength of her dying friend was ebbing away, “we know it was the doing of that Beast”

“No! No! Don’t call him that. I did so myself, when I knew no better. But now I forgive him. As God is showing me mercy, shall I not show mercy to him. I am in God’s hands; so is he, who wronged me. Aileen! Aileen?”

“Yes, Edith, yes?”

“Don’t be hard on Rackham. He must suffer for his wrong-doing, if, indeed, he has acted as you tell me. But it was ignorance, my dear; nothing but ignorance. He did the evil, believing that it was good, out of sheer devotion to Roderick. I always liked Rackham. I really think in a different way, that he loved Roderick more than I did. Yes! Even more; although I would have given my life to save my darling. He will suffer—he must suffer—but from such suffering he will learn the true good. And if he—if he—Aileen?”

“I am here, dear.”

“It is growing dark. I can’t see you. Put your dear arms round me. Yes! I feel happier now. Never doubt, my darling girl, never fear; never despair. You and your good husband have happy years before you. I know it—I feel it. Do good with my Roderick’s money—think of others—share your happiness with those who have less. Aileen! Oh!” she uttered a musical, astonished cry.

The cry brought in the nurse, soft-footed, anxious, “Better leave her now.”

“No! No!” cried the dying woman, the flame of life brightening to its last splendid moment, “to the end, Aileen: stay with me to the end. But it is not the end—it’s the beginning of something more glorious, more wonderful. Oh the darkness is going—is gone—and the light—the Light!” an expression of intense joy, somewhat awed, brought back her youth—the years of anguish dropped down into nothingness, as she rose out of Time to Eternity. “Roderick!”—she stretched out her arms, radiantly happy. “Roder” then the arms fell, the head drooped, and, for a single moment, the peace that passeth all understanding pervaded the room.

“God give her peace,” said the nurse solemnly, and drew the coverlet over the still face.

“He has given her peace and happiness also,” cried Aileen, triumphantly, “she has met Roderick again. No, I won’t cry, Dick. She has met Roderick.”