Robert sat with his face shaded by his hands, thinking what was to become of him now that the secret of his friend’s fate had been told, and the dark story of George Talboys and his wicked wife had been finished in the Belgian madhouse. What was to become of him?
He had no claim upon Clara Talboys; for he had resolved to keep the horrible secret that had been told to him. How then could he dare to meet her with that secret held back fom her? How could he ever look into her earnest eyes, and yet withhold the truth? He felt that all power of reservation would fail before the searching glance of those calm brown eyes. If he was indeed to keep this secret he must never see her again. To reveal it would be to embitter her life. Could he, for any selfish motive of his own, tell her this terrible story?—or could he think that if he told her she would suffer her murdered brother to lie unavenged and forgotten in his unhallowed grave?
Hemmed in on every side by difficulties which seemed utterly insumountable; with the easy temperament which was natural to him embittered by the gloomy burden he had borne so long, Robert Audley looked hopelessly forward to the life which lay before him, and thought that it would have been better for him had he perished among the burning ruins of the Castle Inn.
“Who would have been sorry for me? No one but my poor little Alicia,” he thought, “and hers would have only been an April sorrow. Would Clara Talboys have been sorry? No! She would have only regretted me as a lost link in the mystery of her brother’s death. She would only—”
XXXIX
That Which the Dying Man Had to Tell
Heaven knows whither Mr. Audley’s thoughts might have wandered had he not been startled by a sudden movement of the sick man, who raised himself up in his bed, and called to his mother.
The old woman woke up with a jerk, and turned sleepily enough to look at her son.
“What is it, Luke, deary?” she asked soothingly. “It ain’t time for the doctor’s stuff yet. Mr. Dawson said as you weren’t to have it till two hours after he went away, and he ain’t been gone an hour yet.”
“Who said it was the doctor’s stuff I wanted?” cried Mr. Marks, impatiently. “I want to ask you something, mother. Do you remember the ?”
Robert started, and looked eagerly at the sick man. Why did he harp upon this forbidden subject? Why did he insist upon recalling the date of George’s murder? The old woman shook her head in feeble confusion of mind.
“Lord, Luke,” she said, “how can’ee ask me such questions? My memory’s been a failin’ me this eight or nine year; and I never was one to remember the days of the month, or aught o’ that sort. How should a poor workin’ woman remember such things.”
Luke Marks shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“You’re a good un to do what’s asked you, mother,” he said, peevishly. “Didn’t I tell you to rememer that day? Didn’t I tell you as the time might come when you’d be called upon to bear witness about it, and put upon your Bible oath about it? Didn’t I tell you that, mother?”
The old woman shook her head hopelessly.
“If you say so, I make no doubt you did, Luke,” she said, with a conciliatory smile; “but I can’t call it to mind, lovey. My memory’s been failin’ me this nine yaer, sir,” she added, turning to Robert Audley, “and I’m but a poor crittur.”
Mr. Audley laid his hand upon the sick man’s arm.
“Marks,” he said, “I tell you again, you have no cause to worry yourself about this matter. I ask you no questions, I have no wish to hear anything.”
“But, suppose I want to tell something,” cried Luke, with feverish energy, “suppose I feel I can’t die with a secret on my mind, and have asked to see you on purpose that I might tell you; suppose that, and you’ll suppose nothing but the truth. I’d have been burnt alive before I’d have told her.” He spoke these words between his set teeth, and scowled savagely as he uttered them. “I’d have been burnt alive first. I made her pay for her pretty insolent ways; I made her pay for her airs and graces; I’d never have told her—never, never! I had my power over her, and I kept it; I had my secret and was paid for it; and there wasn’t a petty slight as she ever put upon me or mine that I didn’t pay her out for twenty times over!”
“Marks, Marks, for Heaven’s sake be calm,” said Robert, earnestly. “What are you talking of? What is it that you could have told?”
“I’m a-goin to tell you,” answered Luke, wiping his lips. “Give us a drink, mother.”
The old woman poured out some cooling drink into a mug, and carried it to her son.
He drank it in an eager hurry, as if he felt that the brief remainder of his life must be a race with the pitiless pedestrian, Time.
“Stop where you are,” he said to his mother, pointing to a chair at the foot of the bed.
The old woman obeyed, and seated herself meekly opposite to Mr. Audley.
“I’ll ask you another question,
