“Because his mother was Danish, and he has inherited some of her peculiarities, that is all.”
“Still,” said the steward, “every one supposed that the unhappy Oswald perished at sea with his son. Never shall I forget the grief of the old thane Offa, when inquiring for the son, he learned that he had gone with the father to his death. He would have adopted him.”
“And do we not,” added a Benedictine, “say a mass daily at St. Wilfred’s altar for the souls of Oswald and his son Ragnar?”
“Oswald may be dead; Ragnar yet lives in Redwald. The name alone is changed.”
“But where are the proofs? We cannot wholly trust an imaginary resemblance.”
“It is not imaginary; and these are the proofs in question. The night after the murder” (all looked at each other as if a sudden inspiration struck them), “as I was going to the chapel from the lady Edith’s apartments, I passed through a passage little used, but leading past the chamber allotted to Redwald, and only separated by a thin wainscoting. I was startled as I passed it by the sound of a pacing to and fro; an incessant pacing; and I heard the inmate of the room soliloquising with himself as in a state of frenzied feeling. I caught only broken words but again and again I heard ‘Avenged;’ and once ‘Father you are avenged;’ and once ‘Little do they know who is their guest;’ once ‘It is a good beginning,’ and such like ejaculations. I remained a long time, because, as you will all see, the murderer stood revealed.”
“Then why did you not tell us before?” exclaimed all, almost in a breath.
“Because it would have been of no avail. Had there been the least chance of calling him to account, I should, you may be sure, have proclaimed his guilt. But early in the morning fresh forces began to arrive to his aid. My only endeavour was to get the lady Edith and her remaining children safe from the castle; and it was only by dissembling my feelings, by talking face to face with the man of blood, by pretending to trust him, that I could succeed. Had he not thought us all perfectly satisfied, he would never have left the hall to go foraging in person; and now all would be well, but for this sad, sad chance, which has placed the poor lad Elfric in his power.”
“But,” said Alfred, “this makes the case worse than ever. Poor Elfric! they will kill him. Oh, can this be Ragnar?”
The Benedictines expressed themselves convinced, because the supposition explained the present circumstances so clearly, and accounted for that hitherto unaccountable circumstance—the murder. The steward and chamberlain both fancied they recognised the family likeness; and so the solution at which Father Cuthbert had arrived was accepted by all.