he realized that Du Cane’s motive in exposing him was twofold – in order to save himself, and also to curry favour in certain high quarters affected by the mysterious death of the young Parliamentary Under-Secretary who had placed to his lips that fatal cigar. Self-preservation being the first instinct of the human race, it surely was not surprising that Arnold Du Cane should seek to place himself in a position of security.
Enormous eventualities would be consequent upon solving the mystery of that man’s death. Medical science had pronounced it to have been due to natural causes. Dare the authorities re-open the question, and allege assassination? Aye, that was the question. There was the press, political parties and public opinion all to consider, in addition to the national prestige.
He held his breath, gazing blankly away at the blood-red afterglow. How strange, how complicated, how utterly amazing and astounding was it all. If the truth of that dastardly plot were ever told, it would not be believed. The depths of human wickedness were surely unfathomable.
Because he, Phil Poland, had endeavoured to cut himself adrift from his ingenious friends, they were about to make him the scapegoat.
He contemplated flight, but, if he fled, whither should he go? Where could he hide successfully? Those who desired that he should pay the penalty would search every corner of the earth. No. Death itself would be preferable to either arrest or flight, and as he contemplated how he might cheat his enemies a bitter smile played upon his grey lips.
The crimson light slowly faded. The balmy stillness of twilight had settled upon everything, the soft evening air became filled with the sweet fragrance of the flowers, and the birds were chattering before roosting. He glanced across the lawns and well-kept walks at the rose-embowered house itself, his harbour of refuge, the cosy place which Sonia loved so well, and as his eyes wandered he sighed sadly. He knew, alas! that he must bid farewell to it for ever, bid farewell to his dear daughter – bid farewell to life itself.
He drew at his dead cigar. Then he cast it from him. It tasted bitter.
Suddenly the grave-faced Felix, the man who seldom, if ever, spoke, and who was such a mystery in the village, came across the lawn, and, bowing, exclaimed in French that the curé, M’sieur Shuttleworth, had called.
“Ah! yes,” exclaimed his master, quickly arousing himself. “How very foolish of me! I quite forgot I had invited Mr. Shuttleworth to come in and smoke to-night. Ask him to come out here, and bring the cigars and whisky.”
“Oui, M’sieur,” replied the funereal-looking butler, bowing low as he turned to go back to the house.
“How strange!” laughed Poland to himself. “What would the parson think if he knew who I am, and the charge against me? What will he say afterwards, I wonder?”
Then, a few moments later, a thin, grey-faced, rather ascetic-looking clergyman, the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, rector of Middleton, came across the grass and grasped his host’s hand in warmest greeting.
When he had seated himself in the low chair which Poland pulled forward, and Felix had handed the cigars, the two men commenced to gossip, as was their habit.
Phil Poland liked the rector, because he had discovered that, notwithstanding his rather prim exterior and most approved clerical drawl, he was nevertheless a man of the world. In the pulpit he preached forgiveness, and, unlike many country rectors and their wives, was broad-minded enough to admit the impossibility of a sinless life. Both he and Mrs. Shuttleworth treated both chapel and church-going folk with equal kindliness, and the deserving poor never went empty away.
Both in the pulpit and out of it the rector of Middleton called a spade a spade with purely British bluntness, and though his parish was only a small one he was the most popular man in it – a fact which surely spoke volumes for a parson.
“I was much afraid I shouldn’t be able to come to-night,” he said presently. “Old Mrs. Dixon, over at Forest Farm, is very ill, and I’ve been with her all the afternoon.”
“Then you didn’t go to Lady Medland’s garden-party?”
“No. I wanted to go very much, but was unable. I fear poor old Mrs. Dixon may not last the night. She asked after Miss Sonia, and expressed a great wish to see her. You have no idea how popular your daughter is among the poor of Middleton, Mr. Poland.”
“Sonia returns from London to-morrow afternoon,” her father said. “She shall go over and see Mrs. Dixon.”
“If the old lady is still here,” said the rector. “I fear her life is fast ebbing, but it is reassuring to know she has made peace with her Maker, and will pass happily away into the unknown beyond.”
His host was silent. The bent old woman, the wife of a farm-labourer, had made repentance. If there was repentance for her, was there not repentance for him? He held his breath at the thought.
Little did Shuttleworth dream that the merry, easy-going man who sat before him was doomed – a man whose tortured soul was crying aloud for help and guidance; a man with a dread and terrible secret upon his conscience; a man threatened by an exposure which he could never live to face.
Poland allowed his visitor to chatter on – to gossip about the work in his parish. He was reviewing his present position. He desired some one in whom he could confide; some one of whom he might seek advice and counsel. Could he expose his real self in all his naked shame; dare he speak in confidence to Edmund Shuttleworth? Dare he reveal the ghastly truth, and place the seal of the confessional upon his lips?
Twilight deepened into night, and the crescent moon rose slowly. Yet the two men still sat smoking and chatting, Shuttleworth somewhat surprised to notice how unusually preoccupied his host appeared.
At last, when the night wind blew chill, they rose and passed into the study, where Poland closed the French windows, and then, with sudden resolve and a word of apology to his visitor, he crossed the room and turned the key in the lock, saying in a hard, strained tone —
“Shuttleworth, I – I want to speak to you in – in strictest confidence – to ask your advice. Yet – yet it is upon such a serious matter that I hesitate – fearing – ”
“Fearing what?” asked the rector, somewhat surprised at his tone.
“Because, in order to speak, I must reveal to you a truth – a shameful truth concerning myself. May I rely upon your secrecy?”
“Any fact you may reveal to me I shall regard as sacred. That is my duty as a minister of religion, Poland,” was the other’s quiet reply.
“You swear to say nothing?” cried his host eagerly, standing before him.
“Yes. I swear to regard your confidence,” replied his visitor.
And then the Honourable Philip Poland slowly sank into the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, and in brief, hesitating sentences related one of the strangest stories that ever fell from any sane man’s lips – a story which held its hearer aghast, transfixed, speechless in amazement.
“There is repentance for me, Shuttleworth – tell me that there is!” cried the man who had confessed, his eyes staring and haggard in his agony. “I have told you the truth because – because when I am gone I want you, if you will, to ask your wife to take care of my darling Sonia. Financially, she is well provided for. I have seen to all that, but – ah!” he cried wildly, “she must never know that her father was – ”
“Hush, Poland!” urged the rector, placing his hand tenderly upon his host’s arm. “Though I wear these clothes, I am still a man of the world like yourself. I haven’t been sinless. You wish to repent – to atone for the past. It is my duty to assist you.” And he put out his strong hand frankly.
His host drew back. But next instant he grasped it, and in doing so burst into tears.
“I make no excuse for myself,” he faltered. “I am a blackguard, and unworthy the friendship of a true honest man like yourself, Shuttleworth. But I love my darling child. She is all that has remained to me, and I want to leave her in the care of a good woman. She must forget me – forget what her father was – ”
“Enough!”