what I would ask. How long have you been cognisant of these unhappy facts?”
“I declare, Mr. Verner, I don’t know what you mean,” was Captain Cannonby’s answer, given in a hearty tone. “To what do you allude?”
Lionel paused. Was it possible that he—Captain Cannonby—was in ignorance? “Tell me one thing,” he said. “Your brother mentioned that you had heard, as he believed, some news connected with me and—and my wife, in Paris, which had caused you to hurry home, and come down to Verner’s Pride. What was that news?”
“The news I heard was, that Mrs. Massingbird had become Mrs. Verner. I had intended to find her out when I got to Europe, if only to apologise for my negligence in not giving her news of John Massingbird or his property—which news I could never gather for myself—but I did not know precisely where she might be. I heard in Paris that she had married you, and was living at Verner’s Pride.”
Lionel drew a long breath.
“And that was all?”
“That was all.”
Then he was in ignorance of it! But, to keep him in ignorance was impossible. Lionel must ask confirmation or non-confirmation of the death. With low voice and rapid speech he mentioned the fears and the facts. Captain Cannonby gathered them in, withdrew his arm from Lionel’s, and stood staring at him.
“Fred Massingbird alive, and come back to England!” he uttered, in bewildered wonder.
“We cannot think otherwise,” replied Lionel.
“Then, Mr. Verner, I tell you that it cannot be. It cannot be, you understand. I saw him die. I saw him laid in the grave.”
They had not walked on. They stood there, looking at each other, absorbed in themselves, oblivious to the attention that might be fixed on them from any stray passers-by. At that moment there were no passers-by to fix it: the bustle of Deerham only began with the houses, and, those, they had not yet reached.
“I would give all my future life to believe you,” earnestly spoke Lionel; “to believe that there can be no mistake. For my wife’s sake.”
“There is no mistake,” reiterated Captain Cannonby. “I saw him dead; I saw him buried. A parson, in the company halting there, read the burial service over him.”
“You may have buried him, fancying he was dead,” suggested Lionel, giving utterance to some of the wild thoughts of his imaginings. “And—forgive me for bringing forward such pictures—the mistake may have been discovered in time—and—”
“It could not be,” interrupted Captain Cannonby. “I am quite certain he was dead. Let us allow, if you will, for argument’s sake, that he was not dead when he was put into the ground. Five minutes’ lying there, with the weight of earth upon him, would have effectually destroyed life; had any been left in him to destroy. There was no coffin, you must remember.”
“No!”
“Parties to the gold-fields don’t carry a supply of coffins with them. If death occurs en route, it has to be provided for in the simplest and most practical form. At least, I can answer that such was the case with regard to Fred Massingbird. He was buried in the clothes he wore when he died.”
Lionel was lost in abstraction.
“He died at early dawn, just as the sun burst out to illumine the heavens, and at mid-day he was buried,” continued Captain Cannonby. “I saw him buried. I saw the earth shovelled in upon him; nay, I helped to shovel it. I left him there; we all left him, covered over; at rest, for good, in this world. Mr. Verner, dismiss this great fear; rely upon it that he was, and is, dead.”
“I wish I could rely upon it!” spoke Lionel. “The fear, I may say the certainty, has been so unequivocally impressed upon my belief, that a doubt must remain until it is explained who walks about, bearing his outward appearance. He was a very remarkable-looking man, you know. The black mark on his cheek alone would render him so.”
“And that black mark is visible upon the cheek of the person who is seen at night?”
“Conspicuously so. This ghost—as it is taken for—has nearly frightened one or two lives away. It is very strange.”
“Can it be anybody got up to personate Fred Massingbird?”
“Unless it be himself, that is the most feasible interpretation,” observed Lionel. “But it does not alter the mystery. It is not only in the face and the black mark that the likeness is discernible, but in the figure also. In fact, in all points this man bears the greatest resemblance to Frederick Massingbird,—at least, if the eyes of those who have seen him may be trusted. My own butler saw him last night; the man passed close before him, turning his face to him in the moment of passing. He says there can be no doubt that it is Frederick Massingbird.”
Captain Cannonby felt a little staggered. “If it should turn out to be Frederick Massingbird, all I can say is, that I shall never believe anybody’s dead again. It will be like an incident in a drama. I should next expect my old father would come to life, who has lain these twelve years past at Kensal Green Cemetery. Does Mrs. Verner know of this?”
“She does, unfortunately. She was told of it during my absence yesterday. I should have wished it kept from her, until we were at some certainty.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Verner, take heart!” impulsively cried Captain Cannonby, all the improbabilities of the case striking forcibly upon him. “The thing is not possible; it is not indeed.”
“At any rate your testimony will be so much comfort for my wife,” returned Lionel, gladly. “It has comforted me. If my fears are not entirely dispelled, there’s something done towards it.”
Arrived at the Belvedere Road, Lionel looked about for his carriage. He could not see it. At that moment Jan turned out of the surgery. Lionel asked him if he had seen Sibylla.
“She is gone home,” replied Jan. “She and
