'Whatever can't be?' asked one of the men. 'Sho might be a coil (coal) barge sunk i' t' canal. Sho's sae heavy.'
'Stay,' said the night-watch. 'T' water for sewer ain't deep here, nobbut up to t' armpits. Whativer it be, 'tis this at ha' caught and held t' cake. Ah fancy t' top o' t' concarn is just belaw t' surface. If some o' you chaps'll help, I'll get in, and together we'll hug it out.'
Two or three volunteered, and after much wading and splashing a cumbrous article was heaved out of the water, but not by three or four men, for several more, taunted by the mill-lasses, went in to the assistance of the first volunteers.
'Why,' rose in general exclamation, 'sho's a pi-ano!'
This discovery provoked a laugh, in which all shared.
'How iver could a piano ha' got there?' was asked.
'That beats a',' shouted another, 'that t' loaf and can'l shud tell where a piano lay drounded.'
'T' instrument 'ud sarve to produce a necessary accompaniment to some o' thy songs, Joe.'
The moon had risen by this time sufficiently to transform the whole sheet of water into one of light.
The bell of Mergatroyd Church-tower began to toll for evensong. Suddenly the laughter, the jokes, the exclamations of wonder died away – for something was seen that had risen from the depths, disturbed by the commotion of the water and mud when the piano was extracted. And see! the loaf with its extinguished candle was swimming towards the object. It reached it; it capered about it; it ran round it; and then attached itself to it.
'What was it?'
The glassy, silvery surface of the water was broken by it in several places.
Then there rushed by along the line a train, with the engine shrieking and shrieking continuously to give warning to workers on the embankment that it was coming. And that shriek so wrought on the nerves of some of the girls present that they screamed also in sudden terror, for, though no one answered the question what that blot on the canal surface was, everyone knew.
All stood motionless again, and waiting till the scream of the train was lost, and then, in silence, two men waded into the water, reached the object, drew it after them to the bank, and with the assistance of others raised it and laid it on the towpath.
Then the group drew towards it, after a momentary hesitation and recoil, and the policeman passed the ray of his bull's-eye lantern up and down it.
The question could no longer be asked, 'What was it?'
It must now be put, 'Who is it?'
Yes – who? For the body just recovered was defaced almost past recognition.
'Whoever he may be,' said the policeman, 'we must find out by his cloas, for his face and head be that mashed and mutilated – 'tis a pictur'. For cartain the piano must ha' fallen on him, that is, on his head, and left not a feature to recognise.'
'And the clothing is queer,' observed the night-watch.
It was so. The body recovered was partially naked, with bare legs and feet, and wore nothing more than a nightshirt and a great-coat.
'Stand back,' ordered the policeman. 'Let Miss Cusworth come for'ard.'
And he stooped and spread his hankerchief over the face. There was no need for her to see that.
Salome stepped forward. She was shuddering, but spoke with composure, and not till she had thoroughly studied the corpse at her feet.
'This cannot be Mr. Pennycomequick,' she said; 'he was dressed in a black suit. He had been out to dinner.'
'I beg your pardon,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, who had pushed forward; 'he was not dressed. I went into the bedroom as soon as I knew he was lost, and found that his dress-clothes were there and the bed disturbed.'
The policeman, kneeling, examined the pockets. From that in the breast of the overcoat he drew forth a card-case, and held it close to the lantern.
Salome said immediately:
'That is Mr. Pennycomequick's card-case.'
'And his cards are in it,' added the policeman.
Salome looked again attentively at the body.
'That is Mr. Pennycomequick's overcoat. I know it – but that cannot be Mr. Pennycomequick wearing it.'
Then, overcome with the horror of the scene, Salome shrank back.
The policeman had now extracted a letter from the pocket; the address was blotted, but after a little examination could be made out, 'J. Pennycomequick, Esq., manufacturer, Mergatroyd.'
'It is strange that he should be without his boots,' said the policeman.
'Not at all,' said Mrs. Sidebottom. 'Anyone but a fool, as soon as he is in the water, kicks them off, as they fill and drag him down. I can swear to the identity – that is my brother. Remove the body to the house.'
CHAPTER XI.
EXPECTATION
As Philip Pennycomequick came next day to the house of mourning – mourning, because three dress-makers were engaged in making it – he saw that all the blinds were down. In the hall he met Salome, who was there, evidently awaiting him. She looked ill and anxious, and her eyes were bright with a feverish lustre. She had not slept for two nights.
The extraordinary delicacy of her complexion gave her a look as of the finest porcelain, a transparency through which her doubting, disturbed and eager spirit was visible. Her pallor contrasted startlingly at this time with the gorgeous tone of her luxuriant hair. Her eyes were large, the irises distended as though touched with belladonna, and Philip felt his mistrust fall away from off him, as in some fairy tale the armour of a knight loosens itself, drops, and leaves him unharnessed before an enchantress. But the enchantment which dissolved his panoply of suspicion was an innocent one, it was the manifestation of real suffering. He could see that the girl was rendered almost ill by the mental distress caused by the loss of her friend and guardian. That she had loved him, and loved him with an innocent, unselfish affection, seemed to him undoubted.
'I beg your pardon for waylaying you, Mr. Pennycomequick,' she said, in a timid voice; one white hand lifted, with an uncertain shake in it, touching her lips. 'But I very much desire to have a word with you in private before you go upstairs to Mrs. Sidebottom.'
'I'm at your service.'
She led the way into the breakfast-room, recently cleared of the meal. She went to the window, and stood between the glass and the curtain, with her left hand entangled among the cords of the Venetian blind. In her nervousness it was necessary for her to take hold of something. Her delicate fingers ran up the green strings and played with them, as though they were the strings of a harp on which she was practising, and, strangely enough, Philip felt within him every touch; when she twanged a cord, some fibre in him quivered responsive, and was only lulled when she clasped the string and stopped its vibration.
A faint tinge rose in her white face to the cheek-bones and temples, touching them with more than colour, an apparent inner light, like the Alpine glow after sundown on the white head of the Jungfrau. As she spoke she did not look at Philip, but with eyes modestly lowered on the ground, or out of the window looking sideways down the street.
'What I wished to say to you, Mr. Pennycomequick, will soon be said. I shall not detain you long. I am sorry to differ from Mrs. Sidebottom, but I cannot share her conviction that the body found last night is that of your uncle.'
'You do not dispute that he is dead?'
'No,' she sighed; 'I think there can be no question about that.'
'Or that he was last seen on the canal bank at no great distance from where the discovery was made?'
'No,' she said, and her fingers unconsciously played on the blind cords the time of the melody in Chopin's 'Marche Funèbre.'
'Why do you say no?'
'Mr. Pennycomequick was full dressed when he went out – that is to say, he had on his great-coat and his boots and – in fact it was not possible that he could be discovered in the condition in which the body recovered from the canal was found.'
'It is, of course, difficult to account for it, but not impossible. My aunt declares that she went up to the bedroom of my uncle the same night, found the bed disturbed, and the dress clothes, or some of them, on the chair. She concludes that he pulled on his overcoat and went out half-dressed, that he got caught by the water somewhere in some place of temporary refuge, and saw that his only chance of escape was to strip and swim. That he drew on his great coat again as a protection against the cold, till the proper moment came for him to make the plunge – but she concludes that he never did start to swim, either his courage failed him, or the flood rose too rapidly and carried him away before he had removed the overcoat. This may be an over-ingenious explanation, nevertheless it is an explanation that accounts for all.'
'Not for all – the body is not that of Mr. Pennycomequick.' Salome spoke decidedly, and as she spoke her hand gripped the strings hard.
Philip stood by the table, resting his hand on it. The morning light fell strong on her face, and illumined her auburn hair. Philip took occasion to examine her countenance more closely than had been possible before. She was like her sister in build, in feature and in tone of colour, indeed strikingly like her, but in that only – certainly, Philip thought, in that only.
All at once she looked up and met Philip's eyes.
'No – a thousand times no,' she said. 'That is not uncle. He was brought here because Mrs. Sidebottom desired it, and is convinced of the identity. No objection that I can raise disturbs her. I thought that possibly, last night, I might have judged on insufficient evidence, and so I went this morning into the room to look at the corpse. Mrs. Sidebottom had sent last night for women who attended to it and it was laid out in the spare room.' She began to tremble now as she spoke, and her fingers played a rapid movement on the blind cords. 'I had made up my mind to look at him, and I did.'
She paused, to recover the control that was fast deserting her, as the delicate glow of colour in her face had now left it. 'It is not my uncle. I looked at his hands. The head is – is not to be seen, nothing is distinguishable there – but the hands are not those of Mr. Pennycomequick.'
'In what does the difference consist?'
'I cannot describe it. I knew his hands well. He often let me take them in mine when I sat on the stool at his feet by the fire, and I have kissed them.' The clear tears rose in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. 'I am quite sure – if those had been his dear hands that I saw on the bed this morning, I would have kissed them again, but I could not.' She shook her head, and shook away the drops from her cheeks. 'No – I could not.'
'Miss Cusworth,' said Philip, 'you are perhaps unaware of the great alteration that is produced by immersion for many hours.'
'They are not his hands. That is not uncle.'
She was so conspicuously sincere, so sincerely distressed, that Philip relaxed his cold manner towards her, and said in a gentle tone:
'Did my uncle wear a ring? There was none on the hands of the man found yesterday.'
'No; he wore no ring.'
'With what did he seal his letters?'
'Oh! he had a brass seal with his initials on it, with a handle, that was in his pen-tray. He used to joke about it, and say he was a J.P. without the Queen's commission.'
'For my own part,' said Philip, 'I am beyond forming an opinion, as I have seen my uncle but once since I was a boy, and then under circumstances precluding exact observation.'
Salome said nothing to this, but heaved a long breath. Presently Philip said:
'Your mother – has she been taken upstairs?'
'Oh no!' exclaimed Salome, excited as by a fresh terror. 'You do not know my mother. She has heart complaint, and we have to be most careful not unduly to excite and alarm her. She has suffered much on account of what has taken place; and the shock of seeing – ' She shivered. 'It cannot be.'
'And your sister?'
'She turned faint when brought to the door, and I could not persuade her to enter. She has been much tried by the German invasion of France, and her hurried journey.'
'Is there anything further you have to say?'
'No; Mrs. Sidebottom is wrong, that is all.'
Philip withdrew.
The girl had gained in his estimation. There was strength in her such as lacked in her sister. She must have had courage and determination to go by herself into the room where lay the mutilated corpse, and she had formed her own opinion, independently, and held to it with a firmness there was no breaking down.
Philip ascended the stairs thoughtfully. It had seemed to him at the time that his aunt had rushed at identification with undue precipitation; still, she was the sister of Uncle Jeremiah, and therefore better capable than anyone else. Now he was himself uncertain.
When he entered the study where Mrs. Sidebottom was, she saluted him with:
'Well, so you have had your interview with Salome. She has been hanging about the hall all the morning for the purpose of catching you.'
Philip made no reply. Her light tone jarred on his feelings, coming as he did from the presence of a girl full of sadness.
'Has she gained you over to her side?'
'Upon my word, I do not know what to think.'
'Fiddlesticks!' said Mrs. Sidebottom; 'she has made eyes at you. Girls with good eyes know how to use them; they are better advocates than their tongues.'
'The difficulty to identification seems to me insuperable.'
'Pshaw! I have no doubt at all. He had been to bed; he went out without his coat and waistcoat. He was last seen on the canal bank, not so very far from the place where the corpse was found. The body is discovered wearing the great-coat. I have told you how I explain that. I suppose Salome has made a point to you that the nightshirt was not that of Uncle Jeremiah? Her mother looked after his linen.'
'No; she said nothing of that.'
'But I identify the shirt.'
'You, aunt?'
'Yes; it is one I gave him.'
'You – gave him? An extraordinary present.'
'Not at all. I was his sister; and I know that an old bachelor's wardrobe would be in a sad state of neglect. I intended to replenish him with linen altogether.'
Philip was greatly surprised. He looked fixedly at his aunt, to make out whether she were speaking seriously. She dashed off, however, at once on another topic.
'That girl,' she said, 'naturally resisted the conclusions at which I have arrived.'
'Why naturally?'
'Oh, you greenhorn! Because if it be established that Jeremiah is dead, out goes the whole Cusworth brood. They have lived here and preyed on him so long that they cannot endure the notion of having to leave, and will fight tooth and nail against the establishment of his decease.'
'Not at all. You misjudge them. They allow that he is dead, but disbelieve in the identity of the corpse found with my uncle who is lost, which is another matter.'
'Out they shall go,' said Mrs. Sidebottom.
'It is painful for them to leave a house where they have been happy, and in which the young ladies have grown up from childhood.'
'Other people have to undergo painful experiences,' said his aunt; and again, 'Out they go.'
'Not at once.'
'As soon as the funeral is over.'
'But why act with such precipitation?'
'Because I cannot endure them. Do you remember the story of the Republican judge, when a gentleman contended before him for his paternal acres against a
sans-culotte
, who had appropriated them? "These acres," said the plaintiff, "have belonged to my family for four hundred years." "High time," said the judge, "that they should be transferred to others;" and he gave sentence for the defendant. These Cusworths have been in possession quite long enough. High time that they should budge, and make room for me.'
'But you must consider the feelings of the old lady. You have no excuse for acting peremptorily.'
'I shall inquire what wage she has received, pay her a month, and send her off. That is to say,' added Mrs. Sidebottom on further consideration, 'I will pay her as soon as I have got some of Jeremiah's money out of the bank.'
'And that cannot be touched till his will has been proved.'
'There is no will.'
'How do you know that?'
'I have searched every drawer, closet, and chest. I have looked everywhere. There is no will.'
'It will be at the lawyers'.'
'Jeremiah never had a lawyer. That was one of his fads.'
'Then at the bank.'
'I wrote to the bank the moment I heard of his death. I have received an answer. There is no will at the bank.'
'There is time enough to discuss this later.'
'No, there is not,' said Mrs. Sidebottom peremptorily. 'The factory must not be allowed to come to a stand, and the business to drift away. You have no claim.'
'That remains to be seen. If there be no will, I shall have a claim, and a pretty substantial one.'
'Your father withdrew his share from the concern. I did not. I have my interest in the business, and will see that it be kept up. Where is Lamb?'
'The captain will be here directly. Hush! I hear him in the hall.'
In another minute, Lambert Pennycomequick entered the room, very fresh, well dressed, and pleasant.
'Lamb!' exclaimed his mother, 'there is no will.'
'Then, I suppose,' said the captain, 'we shall have to take out an administration. I don't understand these things myself, but Cousin Philip is here on the spot to manage for us.'
'If there be no will,' explained Philip, 'you, Aunt Louisa, as sole surviving sister of Uncle Jeremiah, will have to act. You will have to take oath that he is dead, and that he died intestate. Then you will be granted administration as next of kin. If I had any doubt about his death, I would enter a
caveat
and prevent the grant; and then the death would have to be proved in solemn form in court. But I have no doubt that my uncle is dead, though I may think it an open matter whether the body in the other room be his.'
'And, if I am granted administration as nearest of kin, all the property comes to me?' said Mrs. Sidebottom.
'Not so – most certainly.'
'Why not? I am nearest. I alone have a stake in the mill. Yours was withdrawn long ago. I am his sister, you only a half-nephew.'
'For all that, you do not take everything. I have my share.'
'Well, if it must be, we will divide into three. I take a third in addition to what I have by my marriage settlement; Lamb has a third, and you the remainder.'
'Wrong again, aunt. Lambert is out of the running. The estate will be divided between you and me in equal portions.'
'This is monstrous. My Lambert is a nephew every whit as much as you.'
'Yes, but you intervene. Such is the law.'
Mrs. Sidebottom was silent for a moment. Then she said irritably: 'I wish now, heartily, that there had been a will. I know what Jeremiah's intentions were, and I would grieve to my heart's core to have them disregarded. In conscience, I could not act differently from his wishes. If he omitted to make a will, it was because he knew nothing of law, and supposed that everything would devolve to me, his sister. Philip, knowing the rectitude of your principles, I am sure you will decline to touch a penny of your uncle's inheritance. You know very well that he never forgave your father, and that he always regarded his leaving the business as an acquittal of all further obligations towards him.'
'I must put you out of doubt at once,' said Philip. 'I shall most certainly take my share.'
'I do not believe that my brother died without a will. I never will believe it. It will turn up somehow. These old fogies have their odd ways. Perhaps it is at the mill in his office desk. What a world of contrarieties we do live in! Those persons to whom we pin our faith as men of principle are just those who fail us. However, to turn to another matter. I presume that I am in authority here. You have no
caveat
to offer against that?'
'None at all.'
'Then out go the Cusworths, and at once.'
'Not at once. That is indecent. If you will have it so, after the funeral give them notice. You must act with humanity.'
'The girl is insolent. She has the temerity to dispute my assertion that the dead man is Jeremiah.'
'She is justified in forming her own opinion and expressing it.'
'Of course, you take her part. She has been ogling you with good effect. Lamb, will you go down and call her up? I must have a word with her at once, and ascertain the amount of wages her mother has received, and how much is due.'
'Remember,' said Philip, 'that Mrs. Baynes has come here from Normandy, and that Mrs. Cusworth is ill, and that houses are scarce at present in Mergatroyd.'
'Then let them go elsewhere. To Jericho, for all I care.'
Philip was very angry. He was offended at his aunt's insinuations about himself, and indignant at her want of feeling towards those who had been companions and friends to his uncle.
Lambert had left the room as desired.
'Aunt Louisa,' said Philip, 'I insist upon your acting with courtesy and consideration towards the Cusworths. I do not mean to threaten you; but I shall not tolerate conduct that appears to me as ill-judged as unjust. As you said yourself, we must remember and act upon the wishes of the deceased; and it would be contrary to them that the old lady and her daughters should be treated with disrespect and unkindness.'
'You leave me to deal with them,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, somewhat cowed by his manner.
'You know my opinion. You will find it not to your advantage to disregard it,' said Philip haughtily.
Mrs. Sidebottom shuffled her feet, and arranged her skirts, frowned, and examined her pocket-handkerchief, where she discovered an iron-mould.
Then Lambert reappeared with Salome, and as they entered the door, Philip turned towards it and took up his position near the girl, facing his aunt, as if to protect Salome from insolence and injustice. Mrs. Sidebottom understood the signification of the movement, bit her lips, and said with constraint, looking on the ground: 'May I ask you, Miss Cusworth, to favour us by taking a chair? There is no occasion for you to stand in my presence. I have taken the liberty to send for you, because my poor dear brother is dead, and as no reasonable doubt remains in any unprejudiced mind that his body has been found – '
Salome's lips closed. She looked at Philip, but said nothing. She had made her protest. One on this occasion would be superfluous.
'We desire in every way to act according to the wishes of my darling brother, whom it has pleased a beneficent Providence' – she wiped her eyes – 'to remove from this vale of tears. As his sister, knowing his inmost thoughts, the disposition of his most sacred wishes, his only confidant in the close of life, I may say I know what his intentions were as well as if he had left a will.'
'There is a will,' said Salome quietly.
'A will! – Where?'
'In my workbox.'
A silence ensued. Mrs. Sidebottom looked very blank.
'On the very night he died he gave it me to keep, and I put it away in my workbox, as I had nothing else that locked up. My workbox is in my room upstairs. Shall I fetch the will?'
'No,' said Philip, 'let it stay where it is t