Verner's Pride. Henry Wood
did it happen?" asked Dr. West.
Before any answer could be given, a man came tearing up at the top of his speed; several men, indeed, it may be said. The first was Roy, the bailiff. Upon Roy's leaving Verner's Pride, after the rebuke bestowed upon him by its heir, he had gone straight down to the George and Dragon, a roadside inn, situated on the outskirts of the village, on the road from Verner's Pride. Here he had remained, consorting with droppers-in from Deerham, and soothing his mortification with a pipe and sundry cans of ale. When the news was brought in that Rachel Frost was drowned in the Willow-pond, Roy, the landlord, and the company collectively, started off to see.
"Why, it is her!" uttered Roy, taking a hasty view of poor Rachel. "I said it wasn't possible. I saw her and talked to her up at the house but two or three hours ago. How did she get in?"
The same question always; from all alike: how did she get in? Dr. West rose.
"You can move her," he said.
"Is she dead, sir?"
"Yes."
Frederick Massingbird—who had been the one to hold the matches—caught the doctor's arm.
"Not dead!" he uttered. "Not dead beyond hope of restoration?"
"She will never be restored in this world," was the reply of Dr. West. "She is quite dead."
"Measures should be tried, at any rate," said Frederick Massingbird warmly.
"By all means," acquiesced Dr. West. "It will afford satisfaction, though it should do nothing else."
They raised her once more, her clothes dripping, and turned with quiet, measured steps towards Verner's Pride. Of course the whole assemblage attended. They were eagerly curious, boiling over with excitement; but, to give them their due, they were earnestly anxious to afford any aid in their power, and contended who should take turn at bearing that wet burden. Not one but felt sorely grieved for Rachel. Even Nancy was subdued to meekness, as she sped on to be one of the busiest in preparing remedies; and old Roy, though somewhat inclined to regard it in the light of a judgment upon proud Rachel for slighting his son, felt some twinges of pitying regret.
"I have knowed cases where people, dead from drownding, have been restored to life," said Roy, as they walked along.
"That you never have," replied Dr. West. "The apparently dead have been restored; the dead, never."
Panting, breathless, there came up one as they reached Verner's Pride. He parted the crowd, and threw himself almost upon Rachel with a wild cry. He caught up her cold, wet face, and passing his hands over it, bent down his warm cheek upon it.
"Who has done it?" he sobbed. "What has done it? She couldn't have fell in alone."
It was Robin Frost. Frederick Massingbird drew him away by the arm. "Don't hinder, Robin. Every minute may be worth a life."
And Robin, struck with the argument, obeyed docilely like a little child.
Mr. Verner, leaning on his stick, trembling with weakness and emotion, stood just without the door of the laundry, which had been hastily prepared, as the bearers tramped in.
"It is an awful tragedy!" he murmured. "Is it true"—addressing Dr. West—"that you think there is no hope?"
"I am sure there is none," was the answer. "But every means shall be tried."
The laundry was cleared of the crowd, and their work began. One of the next to come up was old Matthew Frost. Mr. Verner took his hand.
"Come in to my own room, Matthew," he said. "I feel for you deeply."
"Nay, sir; I must look upon her."
Mr. Verner pointed with his stick in the direction of the laundry.
"They are shut in there—the doctor and those whom he requires round him," he said. "Let them be undisturbed; it is the only chance."
All things likely to be wanted had been conveyed to the laundry; and they were shut in there, as Mr. Verner expressed it, with their fires and their heat. On dragged the time. Anxious watchers were in the house, in the yard, gathered round the back gate. The news had spread, and gentlepeople, friends of the Verners, came hasting from their homes, and pressed into Verner's Pride, and asked question upon question of Mr. and Mrs. Verner, of everybody likely to afford an answer. Old Matthew Frost stood outwardly calm and collected, full of inward trust, as a good man should be. He had learned where to look for support in the darkest trial. Mr. Verner in that night of sorrow seemed to treat him as a brother.
One hour! Two hours! and still they plied their remedies, under the able direction of Dr. West. All was of no avail, as the experienced physician had told them. Life was extinct. Poor Rachel Frost was really dead!
CHAPTER V.
THE TALL GENTLEMAN IN THE LANE
Apart from the horror of the affair, it was altogether attended with so much mystery that that of itself would have kept the excitement alive. What could have taken Rachel Frost near the pond at all? Allowing that she had chosen that lonely road for her way home—which appeared unlikely in the extreme—she must still have gone out of it to approach the pond, must have walked partly across a field to gain it. Had her path led close by it, it would have been a different matter: it might have been supposed (unlikely still, though) that she had missed her footing and fallen in. But unpleasant rumours were beginning to circulate in the crowd. It was whispered that sounds of a contest, the voices being those of a man and a woman, had been heard in that direction at the time of the accident, or about the time; and these rumours reached the ear of Mr. Verner.
For the family to think of bed, in the present state of affairs, or the crowd to think of dispersing, would have been in the highest degree improbable. Mr. Verner set himself to get some sort of solution first. One told one tale; one, another: one asserted something else; another, the exact opposite. Mr. Verner—and in saying Mr. Verner, we must include all—was fairly puzzled. A notion had sprung up that Dinah Roy, the bailiffs wife, could tell something about it if she would. Certain it was, that she had stood amid the crowd, cowering and trembling, shrinking from observation as much as possible, and recoiling visibly if addressed.
A word of this suspicion at last reached her husband. It angered him. He was accustomed to keep his wife in due submission. She was a little body, with a pinched face and a sharp red nose, given to weeping upon every possible occasion, and as indulgently fond of her son Luke as she was afraid of her husband. Since Luke's departure she had passed the better part of her time in tears.
"Now," said Roy, going up to her with authority, and drawing her apart, "what's this as is up with you?"
She looked round her, and shuddered.
"Oh, law!" cried she, with a moan. "Don't you begin to ask, Giles, or I shall be fit to die."
"Do you know anything about this matter, or don't you?" cried he savagely. "Did you see anything?"
"What should I be likely to see of it?" quaked Mrs. Roy.
"Did you see Rachel fall into the pond? Or see her a-nigh the pond?"
"No, I didn't," moaned Mrs. Roy. "I never set eyes on Rachel this blessed night at all. I'd take a text o' scripture to it."
"Then what is the matter with you?" he demanded, giving her a slight shake.
"Hush, Giles!" responded she, in a tone of unmistakable terror. "I saw a ghost!"
"Saw a—what?" thundered Giles Roy.
"A ghost!" she repeated. "And it have made me shiver ever since."
Giles Roy knew that his wife was rather prone to flights of fancy. He was in the habit of administering one sovereign remedy, which he believed to be an infallible panacea for wives' ailments whenever it was applied—a hearty good shaking. He gave her a slight instalment as he turned away.
"Wait till I get ye home," said he significantly. "I'll drive the ghosts out of ye!"
Mr. Verner had seated himself in his study, with a view of investigating systematically the circumstances attending the affair, so far as they were known. At present all seemed