“She’s only got his memory now, poor lamb; an’ that won’t keep her warm of a winter night. ’Twas ordained you should have her, no doubt. But you mustn’t ax her till the tears be dried. She’ll weep a lot. Turn and twist as you may, death will grab you some day. The appointed time comes round as sure as the sun rises. Pig or man, each has his span. There’s verses rising up in me, Titus, so I won’t keep you. What was the name of the poor hero’s ship? D’you call it to mind?”
“The Peabody,” answered Sim; then he departed with strange thoughts for company.
In truth Titus had much ado to marshal his ideas. He stood exactly where he believed that he had stood from the time of Daniel’s disappearance; but the fact that Sweetland was only now removed from his path by death startled him not a little. He hardly realised his fortune. In his mind was a dark cloud, for that Minnie should so carefully have kept her secret from him meant mischief. She had not trusted him with the truth. There was a reason for that, and the reason promised to be the reverse of pleasant. Sim had been deceived by Minnie’s attitude. Without attempt to blind his eyes, her demeanour had led him to suppose that she at least was content in his society, that she trusted him, that she bore to him the regard due to her husband’s first and favourite companion. But she had deliberately chosen to keep him in ignorance, not only of Daniel’s safety, but also concerning his actual existence; and this reserve caused Sim a great deal of painful surprise. Surely it indicated that Daniel’s widow did not trust him; and for that distrust a reason must exist.
Titus perceived that much depended upon his future attitude. To win her absolute confidence would now be necessary before any further talk of love. He ransacked his sleepless mind that night, and ere morning saw the way clear. His good faith must be made apparent; it must shine above any shadow of suspicion. Minnie should learn that her husband’s honour and fair name were as much to Titus Sim as to herself. How to effect this result was his problem, and the footman believed that he could solve it. For Sim was perfectly familiar with the truth concerning Adam Thorpe’s end; and no man knew better than did he that Daniel had no part in the crime. The secret murderer was not hidden from Titus, nor was the hand that placed Sweetland’s gun where he had found it.
Everything conspired to his purpose. He calculated that in a month’s time he would be able to clear Sweetland’s name before the world. Then his own reward seemed clear. Minnie, once convinced that her vague fears and suspicions did him wrong, could hardly deny him what he begged. Into his fixed and immovable resolution to make her his own he poured all the strength of a tremendous will. He had not come so far upon the journey to be repulsed. He had not moved by dark ways and committed worse than crimes for nothing. From a mental condition of anger and uneasiness, his devious soul plotted itself back into content and calm. The end was assured and the means to play his final strokes now lay clear before the man’s intelligence. To establish absolute confidence in himself as Sweetland’s friend—true even beyond death—was now his purpose; and the thing he planned to do, if brought to a successful issue, could hardly fail to show him in a noble light and convince the sceptic, if any such existed beside Minnie, that his aims were pure and his faith above all suspicion.
A week later, when she had told her secret, and her little world mourned in its wonder, and yet also triumphed at the ingenuity of the native who would never return again, Titus Sim visited Minnie with offers to assist her in any step she might now be contemplating. But she did not avail herself of the suggestion.
“I’m going back to my aunt come presently,” she said. “I can’t bide here no more now. After Michaelmas I give it up an’ return to Moreton.”
Her face was very pale against her black dress, and darkness and sorrow haunted her beautiful eyes; but no living soul had seen her deepest grief. That was hidden from all. Her voice never shook when she spoke of Daniel to Titus Sim, for instinct told her the man, despite his protestations, did not share her bereavement. Only with Daniel’s mother, or in the company of Jane Beer, did she reveal a glimpse of her breaking heart.
“Command me, if I can serve you in any possible manner,” he said. “And don’t think I’m forgetting this great sorrow because ’tis not always upon my tongue. Far from it; Daniel is never out of my thoughts. He’s beyond the reach of aught but prayers; but his honour and good name are the legacies he left behind, and ’tis for us to treasure them and make ’em shine out like the sun from behind this cloud that darkens them. I know only too well you don’t believe me. It’s been the greatest grief in a sad life—the greatest but Daniel’s death—that you kept his secret from me and did not let me know that he was still alive. I’ve had nought but sleepless nights thinking of it. And why for you don’t trust me I can’t guess, and why you hid the welfare of my greatest friend from me I shall never know; but this I know: you had no just reason and not by word or deed, or thought or dream have I ever done him wrong. Be that as it may. I’ll say nothing about it and I’ll ask you for no explanation, for ’tisn’t a time to wrangle which of us—man or woman—friend or wife—loved him best. I’ll not prate; I’ll do. I believe even now that ’twill be my blessed lot to clear his memory afore the world. You gaze at me as if you thought that ’twould be no joy to me to do it—see how I read what’s in your eyes! But I swear afore the Throne of Heaven that I’d sooner clear his name and sweeten his memory than be a prince in the land, or the ruler of cities.”
“If you could do it, why have you waited until now?” she asked coldly.