The great sun still bathed the village in a flood of light, the fleecy clouds sailed slowly in the azure, the yellow mist hung over the distant hills, and the leaves now and again rustled to the ground. But the chamber that should have resounded with laughter and joy was darkened. One more human leaf had fallen from the earthly tree of life. Once more those that were left behind were worse off than those that were taken. In the words of the dear old ballad—
My summer’s day, in lusty May,
Is darked afore the noon.
VI
Great horror fell upon the whole neighbourhood of World’s End. Not the oldest man or woman could remember such a deed in their midst. Hitherto the spectre of Murder had avoided those grand old hills. There was no memory of such a thing. The nearest approach to it, which the gossips at the Shepherd’s Bush could recall to mind, had happened long before the days of the oldest of them all.
There was one, and one only, who declared that in his youth his father left him in charge of the hayfield one beautiful summer’s day, to go and see a man hung on the gallows. It was the custom then to erect the gallows at, or very near, the spot where the crime was supposed to have been committed; often at the cross roads.
His father told him—and having heard the tale so often it was still fresh in his memory—that the gallows in this case was built in a narrow lane, close to a gateway, through which the murderer had fired the fatal shot at his victim. The spot was known to that day as Deadman’s Gate.
There was an immense crowd collected to witness the execution, and the sun shone brilliantly on the ghastly machine. The murderer, as seems to have been the fashion in those times, at the foot of the gallows declared his innocence; and there were not wanting people who, in despite of the evidence, believed him.
Just after the horrible ceremony was finished, and the lifeless body swung to and fro, there burst a thunderstorm upon the crowd, which scattered in all directions.
Two men took refuge under a tall tree. One said, “This is dangerous,” and went out into the field; before the other could follow he was struck dead by the lightning, so that there were now two corpses.
This man chanced to be one of the principal witnesses against the murderer, and superstition firmly believed that the thunderstorm marked the Divine wrath at the execution of an innocent man.
“The moment before,” said the narrator, “the sky was perfectly clear; the storm came without the slightest warning.” The fact being that the crowd were so intent upon the spectacle before them that they had not noticed the gathering clouds.
“Ay,” concluded the narrator, who evidently shared in the superstition, “it be an awful thing to bear witness about blood. There be them about here as I wouldn’t stand in their shoes!”
A dead silence followed. Men understood what he meant. Already public suspicion had fallen upon the gardener.
And Violet? Violet was calm and tearless, but heartbroken. She would not see Aymer till the third day—it was the morning of the inquest, though she did not know it. She saw him in her own room, still darkened. A thrush was singing loud and clear in the tree below the window. The sun still shone as it had done upon the bridal day, but the room was dark.
Miss Merton, despite her horror, had remained by her friend. She left the apartment as Aymer entered, Violet could not speak to him. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and convulsive sobs shook her form.
It is better to leave them together. The soiled wedding-dress, the beautiful pearl necklace tinged with the horrible hue of blood, had been carefully put out of sight. People were searching for the wedding-ring in the chancel at the church, but could not find it.
The inquest was held at the Shepherd’s Bush. As had been the case at another inquest a century before, held at a place then almost as retired—at Wolf’s Glow—so here the jury was formed of the farmers of the district.
Bury Wick village was so small it had no inn, which was accounted for by the fact that no through road ran by it. The village inn was half a mile from the houses, alone by itself, on the edge of the highway. The Shepherd’s Bush was small, merely a cottage made into a tavern, and the largest room barely held the jury.
It is not material to us to go into every detail; the main features of that painful inquiry will be sufficient.
The jury having been sworn, proceeded in solemn procession to The Place. They entered noiselessly, not to disturb “Miss Vi’let,” for whom the sympathy was heartfelt. They viewed the body of the good old man, cut down at the very hour when the crowning desire of his heart was in the act of realisation.
Such juries usually hurry through their task, shrinking from the view of the dead which the law compels upon them—a miserable duty, and often quite useless. But in this case they lingered in the room.
Saying little or nothing, they collected in groups of two or three around the coffin, wistfully gazing upon the features of the dead. For the features were placid, notwithstanding the terrible wound upon the top of the head. The peace of his life clung to him even in a violent death.
There was not one man there who could remember a single word or deed by which the dead had injured any human being. Quiet, retired, benevolent, largely subscribing in an unostentatious manner to the village charities, ready always with a helping hand to the poor—surely he ought to have been secure? What motive could there be?
They returned to the Shepherd’s Bush. The Coroner asked for the evidence of the person who had last seen the
