Yet the old gentleman, having bid me enter, went on reading for a while as though wholly unaware of me: which I found somewhat nettling, so began—
“I speak, I believe, to Master Hannibal Tingcomb, steward to Sir Deakin Killigrew.”
He went on, as if ending his sentence aloud: “… And my darling from the power of the dog.” Here he paused with finger on the place and looked up. “Yes, young sir, that is my name—steward to the late Sir Deakin Killigrew.”
“The late?” cried I: “Then you know—”
“Surely I know that Sir Deakin is dead: else should I be but an unworthy steward.” He open’d his grave eyes as if in wonder.
“And his son, also?”
“Also his son Anthony, a headstrong boy, I fear me, a consorter with vile characters. Alas? that I should say it.”
“And his daughter, Mistress Delia?”
“Alas!” and he fetched a deep sigh.
“Do you mean, sir, that she too is dead!”
“Why, to be sure—but let us talk on less painful matters.”
“In one moment, sir: but first tell me—where did she die, and when?”
For my heart stood still, and I was fain to clutch the table between us to keep me from falling. I think this did not escape him, for he gave me a sharp look, and then spoke very quiet and hush’d,
“She was cruelly kill’d by highwaymen, at the Three Cups inn, some miles out of Hungerford. The date given me is the 3rd of December last.”
With this a great rush of joy came over me, and I blurted out, delighted—
“There, sir, you are wrong! Her father was kill’d on the night of which you speak—cruelly enough, as you say: but Mistress Delia Killigrew escaped, and after the most incredible adventures—”
I was expecting him to start up with joy at my announcement; but instead of this, he gaz’d at me very sorrowfully and shook his head; which brought me to a stand.
“Sir,” I said, changing my tone, “I speak but what I know: for ’twas I had the happy fortune to help her to escape, and, under God’s hand, to bring her safe to Cornwall.”
“Then, where is she now?”
Now this was just what I could not tell. So, standing before him, I gave him my name and a history of all my adventures in my dear comrade’s company, from the hour when I saw her first in the inn at Hungerford. Still keeping his finger on the page, he heard me to the end attentively, but with a curling of the lips toward the close, such as I did not like. And when I had done, to my amaze he spoke out sharply, and as if to a whipp’d schoolboy.
“ ’Tis a cock-and-bull story, sir, of which I could hope to make you ashamed. Six weeks in your company? and in boy’s habit? Surely ’twas enough the pure unhappy maid should be dead—without such vile slander on her fame, and from you, that were known, sir, to have been at that inn, and on that night, with her murderers. Boy, I have evidence that, taken with your confession, would weave you a halter; and am a Justice of the Peace. Be thankful, then, that I am a merciful man; yet be abash’d.”
Abash’d, indeed, I was; or at least taken aback, to see his holy indignation and the flush on his waxen cheek. Like a fool I stood staggered, and wondered dimly where I had heard that thin voice before. In the confusion of my senses I heard it say solemnly—
“The sins of her fathers have overtaken her, as the Book of Exodus proclaim’d: therefore is her inheritance wasted, and given to the satyr and the wild ass.”
“And which of the twain be you, sir?”
I cannot tell what forced this violent rudeness from me, for he seem’d an honest, good man; but my heart was boiling that any should put so ill a construction on my Delia. As for him, he had risen, and was moving with dignity to the door—to show me out, as I guess. When suddenly I, that had been staring stupidly, leap’d upon him and hurled him back into his chair.
For I had marked his left foot trailing, and, by the token, knew him for the white hair’d man of the bowling-green.
“Master Hannibal Tingcomb,” I spoke in his ear, “—dog and murderer! What did you in Oxford last November? And how of Captain Lucius Higgs, otherwise Captain Luke Settle, otherwise Mr. X.? Speak, before I serve you as the dog was served that night!”
I dream yet, in my sick nights, of the change that came over the vile, hypocritical knave at these words of mine. To see his pale venerable face turn green and livid, his eyeball start, his hands clutch at air—it frighten’d me.
“Brandy!” he gasped. “Brandy! there—quick—for God’s sake!”
And the next moment he had slipp’d from my grasp, and was wallowing in a fit on the floor. I ran to the cupboard at which he had pointed, and finding there a bottle of strong waters, forced some drops between his teeth; and hard work it was, he gnashing at me all the time and foaming at the mouth.
Presently he ceased to writhe and bite: and lifting, I set him in his chair, where he lay, a mere limp bundle, staring and blinking. So I sat down facing him, and waited his recovery.
“Dear young sir,” he began at length feebly, his fingers searching the Bible before him, from force of habit. “Kind young sir—I am an old, dying man, and my sins have found me out. Only yesterday, the physician at Bodmin told me that my days are numbered. This is the second attack, and the third will kill me.”
“Well?” said I.
“If—if Mistress Delia be alive (as indeed I did not think), I will make restitution—I will confess—only tell me what to do, that I may die in peace.”
Indeed, he look’d pitiable, sitting there and stammering: but I harden’d my heart to say—
“I must have a confession, then, written before I
