"Such will not be the case much longer, Edith," replied Sir Robert Croyland. "I am making my confession, my dear child; and you shall hear all. I must recur, too, to the story of young Leyton. You know well that I liked and esteemed him; and although I was offended, as I justly might be, at his conduct towards yourself, and thought fit to show that I disapproved, yet at first, and from the first, I determined, if I saw the attachment continue and prove real and sincere, to sacrifice all feelings of pride, and all considerations of fortune, and when you were of a fit age, to confirm the idle ceremony which had passed between you, by a real and lawful marriage."
"Oh, that was kind and generous of you, my dear father. What could make you change so suddenly and fatally? You must have seen that the attachment was true and lasting; you must have known that Henry was in every way calculated to make your daughter happy."
"You shall hear, Edith--you shall hear," replied her father. "Very shortly after the event of which I have spoken, another occurred, of a dark and terrible character, only known to myself and one other. I was somewhat irritable at that time. My views and prospects with regard to yourself were crossed; and although I had taken the resolution I have mentioned, vexation and disappointment had their effect upon my mind. Always passionate, I gave way more to my passion than I had ever done before; and the result was a fatal and terrible one. You may remember poor Clare, the gamekeeper. He had offended me on the Monday morning; and I had used violent and angry language towards him before his companions, threatening to punish him in a way he did not expect. On the following day, we went out again to shoot--he and I alone together--and, on our way back, we passed through a little wood, which lies----"
"Oh, stop--stop!" cried Edith, covering her eyes with her hands. "Do not tell me any more!"
Her father was not displeased to see her emotion, for it answered his purpose. Yet, it must not be supposed that the peculiar tone and manner which he assumed, so different from anything that had been seen in his demeanour for years, was affected as a means to an end. Such was not the case. Sir Robert Croyland was now true, in manner and in words, though it was the first time that he had been entirely so for many years. There had been a terrible struggle before he could make up his mind to speak; but yet, when he did begin, it was a relief to him, to unburthen the overloaded breast, even to his own child. It softened him; it made his heart expand; it took the chain off long-imprisoned feelings, and gave a better spirit room to make its presence felt. He did not forget his object, indeed. To save himself from a death of horror, from accusation, from disgrace, was still his end; but the means by which he proposed to seek it were gentler. He even wavered in his resolution: he fancied that he could summon fortitude to leave the decision to Edith herself, and that if that decision were against him, would dare and bear the worst. But still he was pleased to see her moved; for he thought that she could never hear the whole tale, and learn his situation fully, without rushing forward to extricate him; and he went on--"Nay, Edith, now the statement has been begun, it must be concluded," he said. "You would hear, and you must hear all. You know the wood I speak of, I dare say--a little to the left of Chequer Tree?"
"Oh, yes!" murmured Edith, "where poor Clare was found."
The baronet nodded his head: "It was there, indeed," he said. "We went down to see if there were any snipes, or wild fowl, in the bottom. It is a deep and gloomy-looking dell, with a pond of water and some rushes in the hollow, and a little brook running through it, having tall trees all around, and no road but one narrow path crossing it. As we came down, I thought I saw the form of a man move amongst the trees; and I fancied that some one was poaching there. I told Clare to go round the pond and see, while I watched the road. He did not seem inclined to go, saying, that he had not remarked anybody, but that the people round about said the place was haunted. I had been angry with him the whole morning, and a good deal out of humour with many things; so I told him to go round instantly, and not make me any answer. The man did so, in a somewhat slow and sullen humour, I thought, and returned sooner than I fancied he ought to do, saying that he could see no trace of any one. I was now very angry, for I fancied he neglected his duty. I told him that he was a liar, that I had perceived some one, whom he might have perceived as well, and that my firm belief was, he was in alliance with the poachers, and deserved to be immediately discharged. 'Well, Sir Robert,' he said, 'in regard to discharging me, that is soon settled. I will not stay another day in your service, after I have a legal right to go. As to being a liar, I am none; and as to being in league with the poachers, if you say so, you yourself lie!' Such were his words, or words to that effect. I got furious at his insolence, though perhaps, Edith--perhaps I provoked it myself--at least, I have thought so since. However, madly giving way to rage, I took my gun by the barrel to knock him down. A struggle ensued; for he caught hold of the weapon in my hand; and how I know not, but the gun went off, and Clare fell back upon the turf. What would I not have done then, to recal every hasty word I had spoken! But it was in vain. I stooped over him; I spoke to him; I told him how sorry I was for what had happened. But he made no answer, and pressed his hand upon his right side, where the charge had entered. I was mad with despair and remorse. I knew not where to go, or what to do. The man was evidently dying; for his face had grown pale and sharp; and after trying to make him speak, and beseeching him to answer one word, I set off running as fast as I could towards the nearest village for assistance. As I was going, I saw a man on horseback, riding sharply down towards the very place. He was at some distance from me; but I easily recognised Mr. Radford, and knew that he must pass by the spot where the wounded man lay. I comforted myself with thinking that Clare would get aid without my committing myself; and I crept in amongst the trees at the edge of the wood, to make sure that Mr. Radford saw him, and to watch their proceedings. Quietly and stealthily finding my way through the bushes, I came near; and then I saw that Radford was kneeling by Clare's side with an inkhorn in his hand, which, with his old tradesmanlike-habits, he used always at that time to carry about him. He was writing busily, and I could hear Clare speak, but could not distinguish what he said. The state of my mind, at that moment, I cannot describe. It was more like madness than any thing else. Vain and foolish is it, for any man or any body of men, to argue what would be their conduct in trying situations which they have never been placed in. It is worse than folly for them to say, what would naturally be another man's conduct in any circumstances; for no man can tell another's character, or understand fully all the fine shades of feeling or emotion that may influence him. The tale I am telling you now, Edith, is true--too true, in all respects. I was very wrong, certainly; but I was not guilty of the man's murder. I never intended to fire: I never tried to fire; and yet, perhaps, I acted, afterwards, as if I had been guilty, or at all events in a way that was well calculated to make people believe I was so. But I was mad at the time--mad with agitation and grief--and every man, I believe, in moments of deep emotion is mad, more or less. However, I crept out of the wood again, and hastened on, determined to leave the man to the care of Mr. Radford, but with all my thoughts wild and confused, and no definite line of conduct laid out for myself. Before I had gone a mile, I began to think what a folly I had committed, that I should have joined Radford at once; that I should have been present to hear what the man said, and to give every assistance in my power, although it might be ineffectual, in order to stanch the blood and save his life. As soon as these reflections arose, I determined, though late, to do what I should have done at first; and, turning my steps, I walked back at a quick pace. Ere I got half way to the top of the hill which looks down upon the wood, I saw Radford coming out again on horseback; but I went on, and met him. As soon as he beheld me he checked his horse, which was going at a rapid rate, and when I came near, dismounted to speak with me. We were then little more than common acquaintances, and I had sometimes dealt hardly with him in his different transactions; but he spoke in a friendly tone, saying, 'This is a sad business, Sir Robert; but if you will take my advice you will go home as quickly as you can, and say nothing to any one till you see me. I will be with you in an hour or so. At present I must ride up to Middle Quarter, and get down men to carry home the body.' With a feeling I cannot express, I asked, if he were dead, then. He nodded his head significantly, and when I was going to put further questions, he grasped my hand, saying, 'Go home, Sir Robert--go home. I shall say nothing about the matter to any one, till I see you, except that I found him dying in the wood. His gun was discharged,' he continued, 'so there is no proof that he did not do it himself!' Little did I know what a fiend he was, into whose power I was putting myself."
"Oh, Heaven!" cried Edith, who had been listening with her head bent down till her whole face was nearly concealed, "I see it all, now! I see it all!"
"No, dear child," replied Sir Robert Croyland, in a voice sad and solemn, but wonderfully calm, "you cannot see it all; no, nor one thousandth part of what I have suffered. Even the next dreadful three hours--for he was fully that time ere he came to Harbourne--were full of horror, inconceivable to any one but to him who endured them. At length, he made his appearance; calm, grave, self-possessed, with nought of his somewhat rude and blustering manner, and announced, with an affectation of feeling to the family, that poor Clare, my keeper, had been found dying with a wound in his side."
"I recollect the day, well!" said Edith, shuddering.