But he could not look the farewell, and began slowly to go round the room, laying his hand upon each in turn--his favourite books and pictures, his piano, the violin, the cornet, and the big 'cello in its case where it stood in the corner--all such dear old friends, and it was good-bye for ever!

And as he went on, his hand at last touched the little, long morocco case lying upon the side-table.

He clutched it hard, and something like a sob struggled to his lips; for that case contained, in company with the little piccolo, the flute that was once the property of the brave old soldier whose helmet hung dented there with its drooping black horse-hair plume.

Richard's thoughts went back into the past, and he recalled the evenings when he as a little child was enraptured listening to some operatic selection brilliantly played, while his mother sat accompanying upon the piano. Then he recollected the first lessons given him by his father upon that very flute, and years after the plaudits he listened to with burning cheeks after he had played one of his father's favourite pieces with such skill and execution that these words followed:

"Keep the flute, d.i.c.k, my boy, for my sake; it is yours."

And now he was bidding it farewell for ever--there in the darkness of that lonely night, whose silence was broken from time to time by the chiming and booming of the great Cathedral clock, which once more, to his disordered imagination, seemed a.s.sociated with a solemn procession to the tomb.

Richard Frayne's breast swelled and his hands trembled as his fingers clung round that little morocco case. Then, as a weak sob once more struggled for utterance, his breast swelled suddenly more and more, till there was a long, hard lump down the left side beneath the closely-b.u.t.toned jacket.

For, quick as lightning, the little case had been transferred to his breast-pocket. It was his father's. He could not part from that.

The rest of the favourite objects lying around were quickly touched; and then, there, in the middle of the room, the lad stood, feeling old and careworn, opposite two relics which he felt would be honourably removed from where they hung and sent away.

He could not see them--and yet he could, inwardly, in his mind's eye-- the gilded metal helmet and the sabre.

Then, as if performing some solemn act, the lad took a couple of steps towards the wall, gently and reverently lifted down the helmet, pressed his lips to the front, and put it back, to take down the sword and hold the blade and scabbard to his breast as he kissed the hilt.

Saddened visions came trooping before his closed eyes in that darkness-- of himself: a man, a soldier, as his father had been, an officer leading men against the enemies of his country; and at that, in his despair, he uttered a low, piteous sigh, and hung the sword in its place.

He drew back then, uttering a sound like a moan, and opened his eyes with a start; for a pale, bluish light was slowly filling the room--a light that seemed ghastly to him and unreal.

But it was the dawn of another day, the most eventful of his life, and he knew it was time to act.

There was one more thing to be done, and his action in this was accompanied by a shudder.

But he was quite firm and determined now, for his mind was fully made up. He had that to do first, and he would do it.

He was already at the door, hat in hand, when he recalled another little thing, and, turning quickly back to the table, he sat down and wrote the few lines to Jerry, folded them, and laid them near the loaf, from which earlier in the night he had broken off a few fragments to allay the gnawing hunger he had felt.

Now that was all, and, turning to the door once more, he paused for a final look round at the shadowy room, where the only thing which stood out clearly was the helmet, and this, seen in profile, seemed to a.s.sume a stern and threatening aspect.

The next minute he was outside in the dark pa.s.sage, listening; and then, as all was still, he walked, firmly and quietly, to the other end of the mansion, to stop by his cousin's door.

Here the chill of death seemed to strike upon him. No light stole through crack or keyhole--all was darkness and silence--and he sank upon his knees, to remain motionless for a few minutes, and then rise firmer of purpose than ever.

It was later than he thought, for his various preparations had taken time; and the soft glow of morning lit up the east staircase window as he slowly raised it, stepped out on to the leads, closed it again, and then, climbing over the balcony rails, lowered himself down till he could hang for a moment or two from the bottom of one of the iron bars, swing himself to and fro by his wrists, and then, with a backward spring, drop lightly on to the turf beneath.

In another minute--unseen, unheard--he had pa.s.sed out of the gate and was walking through the town, making for the lower road and the swollen river.

Here he rapidly awoke to the fact that the waters were out far more widely than he had ever seen them before; and again and again, as he made for the path that ran along by the river toward the bridge, he was driven back, the flood turning the different lanes he tried into huge ditches or ca.n.a.ls.

He tried every turning so as to reach the bridge as soon as possible, but it was always the same; and finally, after consuming a good deal of time, he made his way round by the road, following it on till it bore away to his right, crossing the river by the old two-spanned wooden bridge and then winding onward among the sunny vales and hills of Kent.

As he walked on swiftly, now in the bright sunshine, it was with his head lowered and a curious feeling of guilt troubling him. He told himself that he ought to have left the place sooner, and he shivered at the thought of being seen by someone who, knowing all the circ.u.mstances, would catch him by the arm and insist upon his going back.

But, at heart, he knew that the words would be in vain. Back he would never go, and, strong and active, he felt that he could easily free himself from the detaining clutch, and then--there was the river.

Richard had some recollection of pa.s.sing or being pa.s.sed by a man with sheep; but he was coming in the opposite direction, and this did not seem an enemy to fear, as he shouted from beyond the flock, and above the patter of their hoofs, a cheery "Good-morning."

Richard smiled bitterly to himself as he hurried on. Good-morning! If that happy, careless fellow had known!

At last, with his heart beating fast, and with the rushing sound of the river ever on the increase, he turned the curve which led to the wooden bridge, and, with his eyes fixed upon the dusty road, increased his pace, till he was suddenly brought up short, just as he was about to step down into the foaming, roaring flood.

Richard Frayne stood there aghast, staring at the gulf before him, and then at the ragged piles on the other side, from which the hard light-coloured road ran on and on between hedges, rising higher and higher above unflooded meadows--the road leading to safety and rest, away from the terrible troubles which had driven him to this wildly reckless act.

For Jerry Brigley was as wrong as he was right--right in his surmise that Richard would seek the bridge, which crossed the river at its deepest part, but wrong in imagining that it was for so horrible a deed.

No: it was the way to safety--to places where he was unknown. There was an idea fixed in his mind, and it was to carry out this idea that he had sought the bridge--to find it gone, and escape in that direction gone as well!

Still, he could swim vigorously as a young seal; but he shrank from so desperate a venture, for the swirling flood told him too plainly that it would be extremely doubtful whether the strongest swimmer who ventured there would ever reach the other side. If he did, it would be miles below. And as he looked, it was to see the carcase of a horse, a great willow-tree (torn out by the roots), and a broken gate float by.

What should he do?

There was a ferry two miles beyond the mill, but he felt that no boat would take him across.

There was the old stone bridge, too, at Raynes Corner, six miles down the road. Well, he must cross there, for it was not likely that the st.u.r.dy piers could have suffered even from such a flood as this.

That would do. He would get over the river there; but he must avoid the road, where he might meet the police or people going into the town, who knew him by sight as one of Mr Draycott's pupils.

Fortunately he knew the country well, and he could go along the high bank below the bridge as far as the mill, get into the field path at the back, and pa.s.s through the woods, and on and on as near the river as he could wherever the waters were not out.

Climbing over the rails by the side of the raised road, he dropped down and hurried down to the mill, to find to his dismay that beyond it the fields were covered and that a great deal of the woodland was under water, too. As for the path at the side of the mill, it was only dry for some twenty yards, and then ended in a dark-looking lake.

It was impossible to go by there, and he turned back toward the bridge, glancing up at the back of the mill as he reached it to see if he was observed.

But not a soul was stirring, for the simple reason that it had been closed just before; and he sighed as he thought of the pleasant days he had spent there, seated upon the weir, gazing down at the bar-sided perch playing about and shrimp-seeking in the weeds of the piles, and at the great fat barbel wallowing in the gravelly holes where the stream ran swiftest.

Happy days gone for ever, he thought, as he stepped out once more on the bank path, towards whose surface the tide was rapidly climbing up. He was making for the bridge once more, when his ears were thrilled by a faint, hoa.r.s.e cry; and, as he looked in its direction, it was to see a white face, level with the muddy water, gliding rapidly down behind the saturated fleecy coat of a drowned sheep, which was evidently keeping the unfortunate up.

It was a boy, by the smooth face--probably a shepherd lad, swept in while endeavouring to preserve his charge--only Richard did not think of that. His own troubles were forgotten, his best instincts aroused, in the desire to save the drowning lad.

He saw at a glance how short a distance the helpless boy was from the bank, and that an eddy was setting him in so near that, if he went close down to the rushing water, he might be able to reach out and seize the fleece of the sheep as they pa.s.sed.

In a few seconds Richard was down, knee-deep in water, holding on with his left hand to the reedy growth of the bank and reaching out to s.n.a.t.c.h at the sheep.

Vain attempt.

The dead animal did not come within five yards, but, after curving in, literally shot out again towards the middle of the river and was borne down, the boy uttering a despairing wail as he saw his help fade away.

At the same moment Richard Frayne felt the mud giving beneath his feet, and he had hard work to struggle out on to firm land. And then there was another despairing cry for help, so faint and yet so penetrating to the cowardly fugitive's heart that he turned, forgot everything but the fact that a brother was dying before his eyes, and took one brave plunge into the swollen river, to pa.s.s under into the thunderous darkness, feeling as if he had suddenly been grasped by a giant who was bearing him down.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.