Merton left the house in a rage, and resolved to spare nothing to convict the miserable gardener. Now this quarrel produced certain events--it set on foot another chain of circ.u.mstances. Violet was now alone at The Place. Miss Merton could not stay longer. Before she went she asked if she should send back the dog Dando, which Merton had taken to Barnham. Violet, still bitter, in an unreasoning way, against the dog, said no.

"Then," said Miss Merton, "may I take him with me to Torquay?"

She had taken a fancy to the dog. Violet was quite willing--anything so that he did not return to vex her with memories of the dead. Miss Merton took him home, sorry for her friend, and yet glad to quit that dismal house and neighbourhood.

Next day there came a note from Mr Merton, in which the writer, in a formal way, expressed regret if he had uttered anything which had annoyed her, and asked her to accompany Miss Merton to Torquay for change of scene. Violet thanked him, but refused.

Aymer saw her every day. She did not give way to tears and fits of excited sorrow, but a dull weakness seemed to have taken possession of her. All the old spirit and joy had left her. She wandered about listlessly, stunned, in fact. All the interest she took was in poor Jenkins' fate. Aymer, at her wish, went to Barnham, and engaged a lawyer to defend him. This soon reached Merton's ears, and annoyed him exceedingly; though, to do him justice, he was at that very hour striving to put Violet's affairs into order.

Those affairs were--unknown to her--in a most critical state. The deceased, as he had told Aymer, had three thousand pounds out at interest, as he believed, upon good security, but which he thought of calling in. This money had been advanced to a Mr Joseph Herring, a large farmer at Belthrop, some ten miles from World's End.

Mr Herring was a successful man and a good man; at all events he had no worse failing than an inordinate love of foxhunting. He had a large family, six sons and eight daughters, but there always seemed to be plenty for them. They lived and dressed well, rode out to the Meet, and one by one, as the sons grew older, they were placed in farms.

Foxhunting men, with the reputation of some means, can always find favour in the eyes of landlords. If any one had been asked to point out a fortunate family in that county, he would at once have placed his finger upon the name of Herring.

The original home farm, where dwelt old Herring and his wife, four of the daughters, and one son, who really managed it, was of good size, fertile, and easily rented. The eldest son, Albert Herring, who was married and had children, occupied a fine farm at no great distance; and the two other sons had a smaller farm between them, and with them lived the other four sisters. Of course it was understood that these farms had been stocked partly with borrowed money; but that was a common thing, and there was every indication that all the family were prospering.

It was to this Joseph Herring that Mr Waldron had advanced three thousand pounds, taking ample security, as was believed, upon stock, and upon a small estate which belonged to Herring's wife. Merton recommended this Herring as a client of his, and conducted the operation. Waldron had given Merton notice that he wished to withdraw the money; but Merton, not thinking there was any hurry, had not mentioned it to Joseph, when there came this awful catastrophe at World's End and drove the matter entirely out of his head. But his attention was drawn back to it in an equally sudden manner. Old Joseph Herring, the foxhunter, while out with the hounds, put his horse at a double mound where there appeared to be a gap. This gap had been caused by cutting down an elm tree, and he imagined that the trunk had been removed.

The morning had been cold, and although the ground was not hard there had been what is called a "duck's frost" in places. The horse's hoofs slipped upon the level b.u.t.t of the tree, which had been sawn off; the animal fell heavily, and upon his side.

In all probability, even then he would not have been much injured--for falls in the hunting-field are as common as blackberries--had it not been for the trunk of the elm tree. His back, in some way, came against and across the trunk with the weight of the horse upon him, and the spine was broken. He was carried home upon a hurdle, still living, and quite conscious.

A more terrible spectacle could not be conceived than this strong burly man lying upon his bed, conscious, and speaking at times faintly, without a visible wound, and yet with the certainty of death.

His sons and daughters gathered round him; all were at hand except the eldest, Albert, and he was sent for. Joseph, who had seen too many accidents not to know he was doomed, even if it had not been visible upon the faces of his wife and children, betrayed the greatest uneasiness. He kept asking for "Albert" and for "Merton." Messenger after messenger was despatched after both, and still they did not come.

Merton, when the messenger reached him, was in the Petty Sessional Court at Barnham, watching the preliminary proceedings against poor Jenkins, which happened to take place that day. He was much excited.

The lawyer whom Aymer had engaged to defend Jenkins was a professional rival--a keen and clever man, and he had so worked up the case, and suggested so many doubts and probabilities that the Bench of magistrates hesitated to commit him.

It was in the thick of the fight that the messenger from the death-bed arrived. Will it be believed, so great was the professional rivalry between these men, and so determined was Merton to succeed in committing poor Jenkins, that he paused, he hesitated, finally he waited till the case was finished.

"After all," he said to himself, "very likely the accident to Joseph is much exaggerated--people always lose their heads at such times. At all events his neck's not broken, and he's alive; the messenger doesn't know exactly where he's hurt. There's no particular hurry."

But it so happened that there _was_ a particular cause for hurry. While Merton persuaded himself that he was looking after the cause of his murdered friend and revenging him, that friend's dearest one--his Violet--was fast losing her patrimony. Even when the second messenger came with more exact intelligence, Merton thought--"Sometimes men lie for days with broken backs, and what does he want me for? His will is made; I've got it in my office, and a very just will it is. All his affairs are arranged, I believe. It's all fuss and fidget."

However, he ordered his carriage to wait at the door of the Court, and half an hour afterwards the Bench reappeared.

The Chairman said that although there was very little evidence against the prisoner Jenkins, although his character had been proved excellent, and although his solicitor had most ably conducted the defence, yet the Bench felt that the crime was one too serious for them to think of dismissing a suspected person. The prisoner would be committed for trial at the a.s.sizes, which fortunately for him came on that day fortnight.

A smile of triumph lit up Merton's face as he gathered up his papers.

The rival solicitor smiled too, and a.s.sured Aymer who was present to tell Violet what happened, that the grand jury would be certain to throw out the bill. There was not a t.i.ttle of evidence against the prisoner.

With this a.s.surance Aymer mounted and rode back to Violet. At the same time Merton, telling his coachman not to distress the horses, drove leisurely towards the death-bed, where he had been so anxiously expected for hours.

The scene at that death-bed was extremely dreadful. The poor dying man gradually became more and more restless and excited; nor could all the efforts of Dr Parker, the persuasions of the clergyman, nor the tears of his wife and children, keep him calm.

The thought of death--the idea of preparing for the hereafter never seemed to occur to him. His one wish was to see "Albert" and "Merton;"

till feverish and his eye glittering with excitement, all that he could e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e was those two names.

He remained for four hours quite conscious, and able to converse; then suddenly there was a change, and he lost the power of answering questions, though still faintly repeating those names. The scene was very shocking.

"Why doesn't Albert come?" said poor Mrs Herring. "He might have been here two hours ago. If Merton would not, Albert, my son, might have come."

What do you suppose Albert was doing at that moment? It is incredible, but it is true. He was in the field superintending the placing of two new steam ploughing engines and their tackle, watching the trial of the new engines, as they tore up the soil with the deep plough. They had arrived that morning, just purchased; and had it not been for their coming, he would have been in the hunting-field with his father when the accident happened.

He could not, or would not, leave his engines. He busied about with them--now riding himself upon the plough, now watching the drivers of the engines, now causing experiments to be made with the scarifier. He paid little attention to the first messenger. "Tell them I'll be there," he said. Another and another messenger, still Albert remained with his plough.

"He asks for me, does he?" he said. "I'll be there directly." Still he made no haste. After quitting the engines he went out of his path to visit a flock of fat sheep, and putting up a covey of partridges in the stubble, stayed to mark them down.

At the house he calmly refreshed himself with cheese and ale. As he mounted his horse another messenger came, this time with a note from Dr Parker. Albert mounted with much bustle, and made off at a gallop. Two miles on the way he pulled up to a walk, met his shepherd, and had a talk with him about the ewes; then the farrier on his nag, and described to him the lameness of a carthorse. All this time his father lay dying.

Strange and unaccountable indifference!

Merton reached Belthrop Farm first, and was too late. Joseph Herring was dead. He had died without even so much as listening to the words of the clergyman--yet he had to all appearance been a good, and even pious man while in health. Why was he so strangely warped upon his death-bed?

"Oh! Albert--Albert, my son, my son! Why did you linger?" cried poor Mrs Herring as he entered.

"Father?" said Albert, questioningly.

She shook her head.

"Ah!" said the son; and it sounded like a sigh of relief.

Let the grief for the dead be never so great, there quickly follows the commonplace realities of money and affairs to be settled.

The dead man's will was read by Merton. It was a fair and just will.

Next came the investigation into his effects, and then came the revelation. Joseph Herring left no effects. This discovery fell upon his wife, three of the sons, and all the daughters, like a thunderbolt.

They had always believed they should be left tolerably provided for.

But when all the debts were paid there would not be a ten-pound note.

They began to murmur, and to question, as well they might. What had become of the three thousand pounds Herring had had of Waldron? They did not know that their father had borrowed so much as that; they knew there was a loan from Waldron, but never suspected the amount.

Merton, hard as it was, felt that he must draw that money in; and who was to pay it? Why, there were no effects whatever. To pay the other debts would take all the money that could be got, and part of the stock must be sold even then.

But this three thousand pounds. To make that good all the stock, the corn, the implements--everything would have to be sold; including Mrs Herring's little estate, and the small sums that had been advanced to the two sons who lived on one farm must be withdrawn. It was complete ruin--ruin without reserve.

They were literally stunned, and knew not which way to turn. They could not understand, neither could Merton, what had become of the three thousand pounds; there was not a sc.r.a.p of paper to show. Joseph had never been a good accountant--few farmers are; but one would have thought that he would have preserved some record of such a sum. But no--not a sc.r.a.p.

Then, as said before, these children began to murmur, as well they might. Then they began to understand, or guess dimly at the extraordinary excitement of the dying man. It was this that weighed upon his mind, and caused him to continually call for his eldest son and for Merton, in order that he might make some provision.

There grew up a certain feeling against Albert. Why had he not come at once--if he had done so, perhaps this might have been averted. A vague distrust and suspicion of him arose. It was intensified by the knowledge that he alone was safe. He had had a longer start and a better farm; he had the reputation of having even saved a little money.

No injury could befall him. Yet they had not got the slightest evidence against him in any way; but a coolness--a decided coolness arose between the brothers and sisters, and Albert, which Albert, on his part, made no effort to remove. Ill-natured people said he was only too glad to quarrel with them, so as to have a pretext for refusing them a.s.sistance.

It happened, however, that one day a strange gentleman called upon Robert and John, the two brothers, who worked one farm together. He was an agent of an agricultural implement manufactory in a distant county, and his object was to induce them to purchase implements of him-- especially steam traction engines. The poor brothers smiled in a melancholy way at the very idea. They buy engines--they should soon scarcely be able to buy bread! The agent expressed his surprise.

"But your brother seems a wealthy man," he said. "He paid for his engines in cash."

"In cash!" they cried. "He told us that he paid one-fifth only, and the rest remained in bills."