Part 15 (2/2)

He told me the story. Many years ago in his grandfather's time, a young and favourite gamekeeper had been found dead in a field skirting the road down there. There was no sign of violence upon the body; it was never explained what had killed him. But he had had in his charge a watch--a very valuable one--which his master for some reason or other had handed to him to take home to the house, not wis.h.i.+ng to keep it on him. And when the body was found late that night, the watch was not on it. Since then, so the story goes, on a moonlight night the spirit of the poor fellow haunts the spot. It is supposed that he wants to tell what had become of his master's watch, which was never found. But no one has ever had courage to address him.

”He never comes farther than the dip in the road,” said my uncle. ”If you had spoken to him, Charlotte, I wonder if he would have told you his secret?”

He spoke half laughingly, but I have never quite forgiven myself for my cowardice. It was the look in those eyes!

”---- WILL NOT TAKE PLACE.”

”'Lingard,' 'Trevannion,'” murmured Captain Murray, as he ran his eye down the column of the morning paper specially devoted to so-called fas.h.i.+onable intelligence, ”Lingard, Arthur Lingard; yes, I've met him; a very good fellow. And Trevannion; don't you know a Miss Trevannion, Bessie?”

Mrs. Murray glanced up from her teacups.

”What do you say, Walter? Trevannion; yes, I have met a girl of the name at my aunt's. A pretty girl, and I think I heard she was going to be married. Is that what you are talking about?”

”No,” her husband replied. ”It's the other way--broken off, I wonder why.”

”What an old gossip you are,” said Mrs. Murray. ”No good reason at all, I daresay. People are so capricious now-a-days.”

”Still, they don't often announce a marriage till it's pretty certain to come off. This sort of thing,” tapping the paper as he spoke, ”isn't exactly pleasant.”

”Very much the reverse,” agreed Mrs. Murray, and then they thought no more about it.

”I wonder why,” said a good many people that morning, when they caught sight of the announcement. For the two princ.i.p.als it concerned--Arthur Lingard, especially--had a large circle of friends and acquaintances, and their engagement had been the subject of much and hearty congratulation.

It seemed so natural and fitting that these two should marry. Both young, amiable, good-looking, and sufficiently well off. Even the most cynical could discern no cloud in the bright sky of their future, no crook in the lot before them.

And now--

No marvel that Captain Murray's soliloquy was repeated by many.

But who would have guessed that in one heart it was ever ringing with maddening anguish?

”I wonder why, oh, I wonder why he has done it. Oh, if he would but tell me, it could not surely seem quite so unendurable.”

And Daisy Trevannion pressed her aching head, and her poor swollen eyes on to her mother's loving bosom in a sort of wild despair.

”Mamma, mamma,” she cried, ”help me. I cannot be angry with him. I wish I could. He was so gentle, so sweet--and he is so heartbroken, I can see by his letter. Oh, mamma, what can it be?”

But to this, even the devoted mother, who would gladly have given her own life to save her child this misery, could find no answer.

This was what had happened.

They had been engaged about three months, the wedding day was approximately fixed, when one morning the blow fell.

A letter to Daisy's father, enclosing one to herself--a letter which made Mr. Trevannion draw his brows together in instinctive indignation, and then as the first impulse cooled a little, caused him to turn to his daughter with a movement of irritation, underneath which, hope had, nevertheless, found time to rea.s.sert itself.

”Daisy,” he exclaimed sharply, ”what is the meaning of all this nonsense? Have you been quarrelling with Lingard? You're a bit of a spoilt child I know, my dear, but I don't like playing with edged tools--a man like Arthur won't stand being trifled with. Do you hear, Daisy--eh, what?”

For the girl had scarcely caught the sense of his words, so absorbed was she in those of the short, all too short, but terrible letter she had just read--the letter addressed to herself, which began ”Daisy, my Daisy, for the last time,” and ended abruptly with the simple signature, ”Arthur Lingard”.

<script>