“Dead, do you say?” he asked. “Be quite sure. Do you really mean that Sir Philip Cranstoun, with his own hand, shot one of the poachers dead?”
“With his own gun, sir, most certainly. The man’s been buried for weeks now. It all came out at the inquest, when Sir Philip and his gamekeeper attended to explain the accident. Didn’t you read of it in the papers?”
“No; or if I did, I did not attach much importance to it then. It is different now, and horrible, most horrible! What was the dead man’s name?”
“Hiram Carewe, sir, a man of forty-one, a gypsy fellow, against whom more than one could bear witness he was a confirmed poacher, as was his precious son, James Carewe, who is now starting his five years. But you never heard anything like the savage way in which he turned upon Sir Philip when he saw him in the witness-box. ‘You murdered my father,’ he shouted out. ‘You, Philip Cranstoun, liar, and coward! Your men are liars and perjurers, too. You know right well what father and I came to the Chase for, and that we never struck a blow but in self-defence. We hadn’t a weapon about us but our clasp-knives, and after you’d murdered my father you were three to one against me, and I had to fight for my life. You’re a perjurer and a villain, but I swear I’ll be even with you yet.’ He was hushed down, of course, and when the doctors had proved how bad the gamekeeper’s wounds were, he being dreadfully hacked about the neck and shoulders by James Carewe’s knife, the jury found him guilty of unlawfully wounding with intent to kill, and gave him five years, as served him right. But, lor’, sir, that wasn’t the end of it, for poor Sir Philip, who in his evidence said all he could to screen the man, I’m sure, as soon as he was leaving the building to get on his horse, as his groom was holding for him, up comes a ragged, wicked-looking, old gray-haired gypsy woman, all yellow and wrinkled, with a pair of eyes like burning coals, so William’s wife told me. ‘Where’s my son’s murderer?’ she yelled. ‘Where’s the man who’s killing my Hiram’s child?’ Up she come close to Sir Philip, before any one could stop her, and flings in his face a handful of mud she picked up in the roadway. Sir Philip he swears, and the witch she shrieks with laughter. Then suddenly she stops, lifts her finger, and rolls out the most awful curse a body ever heard. William’s wife said it made her cold to her bones to listen. The woman cursed his whole life and all that he did. He should lose wife and child, she said, his name should become a scoff and a byword throughout the land; he should be wretched at home and hated abroad; no one should ever love him again; and she would live, if it was for fifty years, to laugh at him, as he lay dying in a miserable hovel, deserted and alone.
“She took such a tone of command, and looked so terrible, that the people about seemed afraid to stop her; and even Sir Philip himself, as he stood wiping the mud from his face, seemed sort of dazed like for the minute. As soon as she’d finished, he was for calling for the police, but not as if he was in much of a hurry for them, and no one meddled with the old woman, who went off muttering and cursing. But there was a sharp stone in the mud she threw, and William’s wife saw the blood running down the side of Sir Philip’s face as he wiped it with his handkerchief. But, poor man! what a day for him, to be insulted like that, and out of court, all on account of a pack of filthy gypsies. And they do say, though, of course, I’m not so silly as to believe it, that those gypsies have the evil eye, and that it’s most awful unlucky to be cursed by one of them. William’s wife said she felt she’d rather have died at once than have such things said to her. The old woman’s eyes looked that dreadful that William’s wife was taken with hysterics as she was telling me about the affair. Lor’, sir, I do hope nothing dreadful will happen in consequence.”
Dr. Netherbridge dismissed Mrs. Brooks presently, and going over to the Boar’s Head Hotel, where the latest local gossip was always to be heard, he found that his housekeeper’s account had been in no way exaggerated. James Carewe’s threats in court occupied a measure of public attention, but the gypsy woman’s curse was the cream of the news, and much solemn head-wagging took place over it. Not one person there, however, had the slightest suspicion of the relationship which existed between these poachers and gypsies and the lovely wife of Sir Philip Cranstoun, and Dr. Netherbridge returned to his home oppressed by the terrible responsibility which developed upon him of imparting the news of her father’s death and her brother’s imprisonment to Lady Cranstoun in her present critical state of health.
As to the chief actor in these scenes, Sir Philip Cranstoun, he was in his secret heart less unmoved by to-day’s events than he made himself appear. Old Mrs. Carewe’s curse lingered in his ears as he sat by his lonely dinner-table, trying vainly to dim his recollection of that unpleasant scene outside the court-house by deep draughts of rare old wine. But no amount of drinking had ever yet clouded his faculties, which to-night seemed abnormally on the alert.
His marriage had been a great, a terrible mistake, he told himself, as he sat in a deep, comfortable arm-chair before the great fire-place. Disdaining women of his own rank as silly, and those of a lower position in life as coarse and vulgar, nature had suddenly revenged herself upon him for his indifference to the other sex by inspiring in him a mad love for his sister’s beautiful gypsy protégée. In the height of this he had married her, and his passion had cooled almost as rapidly as it had grown hot. Instead of a docile and humble tool, he found a proud and self-willed girl, who seemed in no way impressed by his extraordinary condescension and kindness in making her Lady Cranstoun. Very speedily his love turned to a sombre dislike, and he set himself to work to crush all opposition out of her nature. On one point particularly he had insisted from the first. She must utterly and forever renounce her kindred, whose very existence he considered as an insult to him. His last remaining spark of affection for her was extinguished when he discovered that she had disobeyed his strenuous orders on this point, and had contrived to see and speak with her relatives. But his wish for an heir, and his fear lest the estates, which were strictly entailed, should pass to his brother, whom he heartily detested, forced him to tolerate his wife’s presence, and his anger, therefore, knew no bounds when, owing, as he believed to Clare’s indifference and neglect, his infant son’s life faded away. On that unlucky night when Hiram Carewe met his death, Sir Philip, who had been informed of the gypsies’ intention to visit his daughter, set his men on to seize the Carewes as poachers, and drive them out of the grounds. His men, over-zealous in executing their master’s orders, attacked the Carewes so savagely that, the wild gypsy blood of the latter being roused, one of the gamekeepers might well have paid for his obedience with his life but for Sir Philip’s shot. The Baronet had no intention of killing his wife’s father, although he was viciously glad of an opportunity to wound him. He hated Lady Cranstoun’s gypsy kindred most heartily, and wished them all out of the world; but it was a momentary matter of regret with him that his hand had fired the fatal shot which made Clare a orphan. After that point, affairs seemed taken out of his hands. The police interference, the inquest, and James Carewe’s trial, had all taken place without any impetus on his side; the one imperative necessity was that Lady Cranstoun should be, for some time at least, kept in ignorance of the fate of her father and brother.
Even as he thus reasoned, the door of the dining-room was suddenly opened, and Clare Cranstoun, corpse-like in her pallor, her long black hair dishevelled about her shoulders, and her eyes gleaming with what looked like madness, advanced toward him, ghost-like in her loose white dressing-gown, and he knew in an instant that she had learned the truth.
Sir Philip’s groom had, indeed, described to Margaret the scene outside the courthouse that afternoon, and the woman, totally ignorant of the interests at stake, had retailed the story to her mistress as she was brushing her hair for the night.