VII + 

When Aymer’s first and longest letter reached The Towers, together with the copy of his book, Violet could hardly contain herself with pleasure. His triumph was her triumph⁠—his fame her fame⁠—and in the excitement of the moment she but barely skimmed the remainder of his letter, and did not realise the fact that she was the heiress to the most valuable property in England. Her faith in Aymer had proved to be well-founded; he had justified her confidence; his genius had conquered every obstacle. As she had read Marese’s letters to Agnes, so it was only natural that she should proudly show this letter to her. + 

Agnes fully sympathised with her, and declared that the sketches (she had already looked cursorily through the copy of his book which Aymer had sent her) were wonderfully good. But it was natural for her to be less excited than Violet, and therefore it was that the second part of the letter made a greater impression upon her. Violet the heiress of the Stirmingham estate? It was impossible⁠—a marvel undreamt of. Marese was the heir⁠—there could not be two⁠—and in Marese she was personally interested. Together they reread that portion of Aymer’s letter, and wondered and wondered still more. His line of argument seemed laid down with remarkable precision, and there was no escape from his conclusions⁠—but were his premises correct; was he not mistaken in the identity? + 

The whole thing appeared so strange and bizarre, that Agnes said she really thought he must be romancing⁠—drawing on his imagination, as he had in the book she held in her hand. + 

Violet knew not what to think. She could not doubt Aymer. She warmly defended him, and declared that he was incapable of playing such practical jokes. She had a faint recollection of poor old Jason once telling her that her great-grandfather’s name was Sibbold, or something like that⁠—she could not quite be sure of the name. She remembered it, because Jason had instanced it as an example of the long periods of time, that may be bridged by three or four persons’ successive memories. He said that his father had conversed with this Sibbold, or Sibald, and he again had met in his youth an old man, who had fought at Culloden in ’45. If it had not been for that circumstance, the name would have escaped her altogether. + 

The more Agnes thought of it, the more she inclined to the view that Aymer, overworked and poorly-fed, had become the subject of an hallucination. It was impossible that Marese could lay open claim to be the heir if this were the case⁠—perfectly impossible. A gentleman of the highest and most sensitive honour like Marese, would at once have renounced all thought of the inheritance; he would have been only eager to make compensation. Why, even Aymer said that the matter had never been mentioned at the family council⁠—surely that was in itself sufficient proof. It was an insult to Marese⁠—to herself⁠—to credit such nonsense. Aymer must be ill⁠—overexcited. + 

Violet kept silence, with difficulty, from deference to her generous friend; but she read the letter the third time, and it seemed to her that, whether mistaken or not, Aymer had given good grounds for his statement. She was silent, and this irritated Agnes, who had of late been less considerate than was her wont. It seemed as if some inward struggle had warped her nature⁠—as if in vigorously, aggressively defending Marese, she was defending herself. + 

The incident caused a coolness between them⁠—the first that had sprung up since Violet had been at The Towers. Violet was certainly as free from false pride as Lady Lechester was eaten up with it; but even she could not help dreaming over the fascinating idea that she was the heiress of that vast estate, or at least a part of it. How happy they would be! What books Aymer could write; what countries they could visit together; what pleasures one hundredth part of that wealth would enable them to enjoy! Thinking like this, her mind also became thoroughly saturated with the idea of the Stirmingham estate. Like a vast whirlpool, that estate seemed to have the power of gradually attracting to itself atoms floating at an apparently safe distance, and of engulfing them in the seething waters of contention. + 

In the morning came Aymer’s second letter, imputing the worst of all crimes to Marese Baskette, or to his instigation. + 

Violet turned pale as she read it. Her lips quivered. All the whole scene passed again before her eyes⁠—the terrible scene in the dining-room, where the wedding breakfast was laid out⁠—the pool of blood upon the carpet⁠—Jason’s head lying helplessly against the back of the armchair⁠—the ghastly wound, upon the brow. Poor girl! Swift events and the change of life, and her interest in Agnes, had in a manner chased away the memory of that gloomy hour. Now it came back to her with full force, and she reproached herself with a too ready forgetfulness⁠—reproached herself with neglecting the sacred duty of endeavouring to discover the murderer. To her, the facts given by Aymer⁠—the interest, the motive⁠—seemed irresistible. Not for a moment did she question his conclusion. She thought of Marese as she had seen him for a few hours: she remembered his start as he heard her name⁠—it was the start of conscious guilt, there was no doubt. + 

A great horror fell upon her⁠—a horror only less great than had fallen that miserable wedding-day. She had been in the presence of her father’s murderer⁠—she had eaten at the same table⁠—she had shaken hands with him. Above the loathing and detestation, the hatred and abhorrence, there rose a horror⁠—almost a fear. Next to being in the presence of the corpse, being in the presence of the murderer was most awful. She could not stay at The Towers⁠—she could not remain, when at any hour he might come, with blood upon his conscience if not upon his actual hands⁠—the blood of her beloved and kindly father. A bitter dislike to The Towers fell upon her⁠—a hatred of the place. It seemed as if she had been entrapped into a position, where she was compelled to associate with the one person of all others whom love, duty, religion⁠—all taught her to avoid. She must go⁠—no matter where. She had a little money⁠—the remnant left after all. Jason’s debts had been paid⁠—only some fifty pounds, but it was enough. Mr. Merton had sent it to her with a formal note, after the affairs were wound up. At first the idea occurred to her that she would go back and live at The Place which was still hers; but no, that could not be⁠—she could not, could not live there; the spirit of the dead would cry out to her from the very walls. She would go to some small village where living was cheap; where she could take a little cottage; where her fifty pounds, and the few pounds she received for the rent of the meadow at The Place, would keep her⁠—till Aymer succeeded, and could get her a home. She hesitated to write to him⁠—she half decided to keep her new address a secret; for she knew that if he understood her purpose he would deprive himself of necessaries to give her luxuries. + 

That very day she set to work to pack her trunk, pausing at times to ask herself if she should, or should not, tell Lady Agnes that her lover was a murderer. Well she knew that Agnes would draw herself up in bitter scorn⁠—would not deign even to listen to her⁠—and yet it was wrong to let her go on in the belief that Marese Baskette was the soul of honour. Clearly it was her duty to warn Agnes of the terrible fate which hung over her⁠—to warn her from accepting a hand stained with the blood of an innocent, unoffending man. One course was open to her, and upon that she finally decided⁠—it was to leave a note for Agnes, enclosing Aymer’s letter. + 

It was Agnes’ constant practice to go for a drive about three in the afternoon; Violet usually accompanied her. This day she feigned a headache, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight sent for the groom, and asked him to take her to the railway station. + 

The man at once got the dogcart ready, and in half an hour, with her trunk behind her, Violet was driving along the road. She would not look back⁠—she would not take a last glance at that horrible place. The groom, in a respectful manner, hoped that Miss Waldron was not going to leave them⁠—she had made herself liked by all the servants at The Towers. She said she must, and offered him a crown from her slender store. The man lifted his hat, but refused to take the money. + 

This incident touched her deeply⁠—she had forgotten that, in leaving The Towers, she might also leave hearts that loved her. The groom wished to stay and get her ticket, but she dismissed him, anxious that he should not know her destination. Two hours afterwards she alighted at a little station, or “road,” as it was called. “Belthrop Road” was two and a half miles from Belthrop village; but she got a boy to carry her trunk, and reached the place on foot just before dusk. + 

On the outskirts of Belthrop dwelt an old woman who in her youth had lived at World’s End, and had carried Violet in her arms many and many a time. She married, and removed to her husband’s parish, and was now a widow. + 

Astonished beyond measure, but also delighted, the honest old lady jumped at Violet’s proposal that she should be her lodger. The modest sum per week which Violet offered seemed in that outlying spot a mine of silver. Hannah Bond was only afraid lest her humble cottage should be too small⁠—she had really good furniture for a cottage, having had many presents from the persons she had nursed, and particularly prided herself upon her feather beds. Here Violet found an asylum⁠—quiet and retired, and yet not altogether uncomfortable. Her only fear was lest Aymer should be alarmed, and she tried to devise some means of assuring him of her safety, without letting him know her whereabouts. + 

Circumstances over which no one as usual had had any control, made that spring a memorable one in the quiet annals of Belthrop. The great agricultural labourers’ movement of the Eastern counties had extended even to this village; a branch of the Union had been formed, meetings held, and fiery language indulged in. The delegate despatched to organise the branch, looked about him for a labourer of some little education to officiate as secretary, and to receive the monthly contributions from the members. + 

Chance again led him to fix upon poor old Edward Jenkins, the gardener, who still worked for Mr. Albert Herring, doing a man’s labour for a boy’s pay. The gardener could write and read and cipher; he was a man of some little intelligence, and, though a newcomer, the working men regarded him as a kind of “scholar.” He was just the very man, for he was a man with a grievance. He very naturally resented what he considered the harsh treatment he had met with after so many years faithful service, and he equally resented the low pay which circumstances compelled him to put up with. Jenkins became the secretary of the branch, and this did not improve his relations with Albert Herring. Always a harsh and unjust man, his temper of late had been aroused by repeated losses⁠—cattle had died, crops gone wrong; above all, an investment he had made of a thousand pounds of the money that should have been Violet’s, in some shares that promised well, had turned out an utter failure. He therefore felt the gradual rise in wages more severely than he would have done, and was particularly sore against the Union. He abused Jenkins right and left, and yet did not discharge him, for Jenkins was a cheap machine. His insults were so coarse and so frequent that the poor old man lost his temper, and so far forgot himself (as indeed he might very easily do) as to hope that the Almighty would punish his tormentor, and burn down his house over his head. + 

Early in the spring the labourers struck, and the strike extended to Belthrop. The months passed on, the farmers were in difficulty, and meantime the wretched labourers were half-starved. Albert was furious, for he could not get his wheat sown, and upon that crop he depended to meet his engagements. Yet he was the one of all others, at a meeting which was called, to persuade the farmers to hold out; and above all he abused Jenkins, the secretary; called him a traitor, a firebrand, an incendiary. The meeting broke up without result; and it was on that very evening that Violet arrived. The third evening afterwards she was suddenly called out by gossiping old Hannah Bond, who rushed in, in a state of intense excitement⁠— + 

“Farmer Herring’s ricks be all ablaze!” + 

Violet was dragged out by the old woman, and beheld a magnificent, and yet a sad sight. Eight and thirty ricks, placed in a double row, were on fire. About half had caught when she came out. As she stood watching, with the glare in the sky reflected upon her face, she saw the flames run along from one to another, till the whole rickyard was one mass of roaring fire. The outbuildings, the stables, and cow-houses, all thatched, caught soon after⁠—finally the dwelling-house. + 

The farm being situated upon the Downs, the flames and sparks were seen for miles and miles in the darkness of the night, and the glare in the sky still farther. The whole countryside turned out in wonder and alarm; hundreds and hundreds trooped over Down and meadow to the spot. Efforts were made by scores of willing hands to stay the flames⁠—efforts which seemed ridiculously futile before that fearful blast; for with the fire there rose a wind caused by the heated column of air ascending, and the draught was like that of a furnace. Nothing could have saved the place⁠—not all the engines in London, even had there been water; and the soil being chalky, and the situation elevated, there was but one deep well. As it was, no engine reached the spot till long after the fire was practically over⁠—Barnham engine came in the grey of the morning, having been raced over the hills fully fifteen miles. By that time, all that was left of that noble farmhouse and rickyard, was some twoscore heaps of smoking ashes, smouldering and emitting intense heat. + 

Hundreds upon hundreds stood looking on, and among them there moved dark figures:⁠—policemen⁠—who had hastily gathered together. + 

And where was Albert Herring? Was he ruined? He at that moment recked nothing of the fire. He was stooping⁠—in a lowly cottage at a little distance⁠—over the form of his only son, a boy of ten. The family had easily escaped before the dwelling-house took fire, and were, to all intents and purposes, safe; but this lad slipped off, as a lad would do, to follow his father, and watch the flames. A burning beam from one of the outhouses struck him down. Albert heard a scream; turned, and saw his boy beneath the flaring, glowing timber. He shrieked⁠—literally shrieked⁠—and tore at the beam with his scorched hands till the flesh came off. + 

At last the onlookers lifted the beam. The lad was fearfully burnt⁠—one whole shoulder seemed injured⁠—and the doctors gave no hope of his life. (As I cannot return to this matter, it may be as well to state that he did not die⁠—he recovered slowly, but perfectly.) Yet what must the agony of that man’s mind have been while the child lay upon the bed in the lowly cottage? Let the fire roar and hiss, let rooftree fall and ruin come⁠—life, flickering life more precious than the whole world⁠—only save him this one little life. + 

In the morning Albert turned like a wild beast at bay, shouting and crying for vengeance. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord;” but when did man ever hearken to that? He marked out Jenkins, the gardener; he pointed him out to all. That was the man⁠—had they not heard him say he hoped Heaven would burn the farm over his head? + 

That was true; several had heard it. Jenkins had been the last to leave the premises that night. + 

The gardener, utterly confounded, could not defend himself. The leader of the Unionists! The police looked grave, and the upshot was he was taken into custody. + 

Feeling ran high in the neighbourhood, as well it might. There were grievances on both sides, and the great fire had stirred up all uncharitableness. The justices’ room was crowded, and a riot was feared. The Union had taken up poor Jenkins’ defence, and had sent down a shrewd lawyer who put a bold face on it, but had little hope in his heart. Suspicion was so strong against the prisoner. + 

His poor old wife was perhaps even more frenzied than she had been at the coroner’s inquest. Such a circumstance as Violet’s arrival at Belthrop, though trivial in itself, was, of course, known in the village; she once again rushed to Violet for help. Violet, though anxious to keep quiet, could not resist the appeal, she was herself much excited and upset about the matter. She went with the miserable wife to the Court, and being a lady, was accommodated with a good seat. Out of her little stock she would have willingly paid for a lawyer, but that was unnecessary. The counsel retained by the Union was a clever man; but he could make no head against the unfortunate facts, and in his anxiety to save the prisoner he made one great mistake⁠—justifiable perhaps⁠—but a mistake. He asked who would profit by the fire, whose interest was it? Was not hard cash better than ricks, and an uncertain and falling market? In a word, he hinted that Albert himself had fired the ricks. + 

A roar of denial rose from the farmers present, a deafening cheer from the labourers. It was with difficulty that the crowd was silenced, and when the proceedings were resumed, it was easy to see that the Bench had been annoyed by this remark. + 

The solicitor on the other side got up, and asked the justices to consider the previous character of this man the prisoner⁠—who had been on his trial for murder⁠—was there a single person who would speak to his good character? + 

“Yes,” said Violet, standing up. Amid intense surprise she was sworn. “My name is Violet Waldron,” she said, nerving herself to the effort. “I am the daughter of⁠—of⁠—the person who was⁠—you understand me? I have known this man for years⁠—since I was a child. He and his served us faithfully for two generations. He is incapable of such a crime⁠—I believe him innocent⁠—he is a good man, but most unfortunate.” + 

She could not go further, her courage broke down. They did not cross-examine her. + 

The prosecution professed great respect for Miss Waldron, whose misfortunes were well known, but of what value was her testimony in this case? She had not even seen Jenkins for a long time; circumstances warped the best of natures. + 

The end was, that Jenkins was committed for trial at the assizes within two months. Thus did circumstances again involve this victim of fate in an iron net. Here again I must anticipate. Jenkins was sentenced at the assizes to twelve months imprisonment with hard labour. Nevertheless the imputation against Albert Herring was never quite forgotten; to this day the poor believe it, and even the police shake their heads. At all events he profited largely by it. The corn had been kept in the hope that the markets would rise, but they had fallen. The insurance-money saved him from irretrievable ruin. + 

The prisoner’s poor wife was reduced to utter beggary. Violet did her best to keep her, but she could not pay the debts the gardener, with his miserable pay, had of necessity contracted. Ten pounds still remained unpaid. At last the poor woman bethought her of an ancient treasure, an old bible;⁠—would Miss Violet buy it? It really was Violet’s⁠—it had been lent by Violet’s grandmother to the poor woman, and never returned. Violet at once remembered Lady Lechester’s fancy for such books, and recommended her to take it to The Towers. The woman went, and returned with the money. + 

Now, the immediate effect upon our history of this fire was that Violet Waldron became a prominent name in the local paper published at Barnham, and that local paper had been taken for years regularly at The Towers. And at The Towers at that time Theodore Marese was temporarily staying, under circumstances that will shortly appear. + 