CHAPTER XIV
Mr. Johnson, that same evening, was smoking the cigar of discontent, drinking the coffee of bitterness, and sipping the brandy of fire. Around him was all the stillness and the sweetness of the summer twilight which he loved so much; stars burning in a violet sky, the breath of roses in the air, the peaceful village sounds in his ears, more lulling and soothing than absolute silence. Yet he was filled with disquietude. He rose and, with his hands in his pockets, paced the long strip of velvety lawn. What he had done, what he had worked for, seemed to him to be a simple act of justice, yet with its accomplishment he was acutely conscious of an intense isolation. No one was in sympathy with him. Every one loved the wicked Ballastons. Even Katherine Besant had left him, her eyes streaming with tears. Madame had sent imploring but vain messages. In the village he felt that it was barely safe to show himself. Then, when he was wondering where to look for consolation, the postern gate opened quickly. Two women entered—Katherine Besant and Claire. He moved forward to welcome them.
“Miss Endacott,” Katherine explained, “wants to see you immediately and talk to you. Take her away somewhere. I will wait.”
“I am pleased to talk to Miss Endacott anywhere she wishes,” Mr. Johnson acquiesced.
“In the study, quickly,” Claire begged.
She swung round upon him as soon as they had entered the room—superb, beautiful but furious.
“Mr. Johnson,” she began, “I have come to beseech you, to insist that you move no further in this horrible affair. Nothing can bring my uncle back to life; nothing can ever still the remorse of whoever killed him. Beyond that, let it rest. I implore you, Mr. Johnson, to do nothing more.”
“My dear young lady,” he replied gravely, “think of what you are proposing. You can scarcely be content to let your uncle’s murderer go scot free.”
“That is just what I do want,” she persisted. “He gained nothing by it, and—I am quite sure that, whoever it was, he was not altogether sane. Even on the steamer—Mr. Johnson, I beg you to believe me—Gregory Ballaston was under the influence of that horrible Image. All the time he behaved quite strangely. As soon as he had parted from it, he was as different as possible. If whoever killed my uncle came from the house where that Image is—it’s a terrible thing to say, but I honestly believe it—they couldn’t help it, they weren’t responsible.”
The tenant of the Great House shook his head.