to be too highly principled: but towards his stepsons. He had no particular cause to suspect either of them: unless the testimony of Mrs. Duff’s son about the tall gentleman could furnish it: and it may be said that his suspicion strayed to them only from the total absence of any other quarter to fix it upon. Of the two, he could rather fix upon John, than Frederick. No scandal, touching Frederick, had ever reached his ears: plenty of it, touching John. In fact, Mr. Verner was rather glad to help in shipping John off to some far-away place, for he considered him no credit to Verner’s Pride, or to the neighbourhood. Venial sins sat lightly on John Massingbird’s conscience.
But this was no venial sin, no case of passing scandal: and Mr. Verner declared to that gentleman that if he found him guilty, he would discard him from Verner’s Pride without a shilling of help. John Massingbird protested, in the strongest terms, that he was innocent as Mr. Verner himself.
A trifling addition was destined to be brought to the suspicion already directed by Mr. Verner towards Verner’s Pride. On the night of the inquest Mr. Verner had his dinner served in his study—the wing of a fowl, of which he ate about a fourth part. Mrs. Tynn attended on him: he liked her to do so when he was worse than usual. He was used to her, and he would talk to her when he would not to others. He spoke about what had happened, saying that he felt as if it would shorten his life. He would give anything, he added, half in self-soliloquy, to have the point cleared up of who it was young Duff had seen in the lane. Mrs. Tynn answered this, lowering her voice.
“It was one of our young gentlemen, sir; there’s no doubt of it. Dolly saw one of them come in.”
“Dolly did!” echoed Mr. Verner.
Mrs. Tynn proceeded to explain. Dolly, the dairymaid at Verner’s Pride, was ill-conducted enough (as Mrs. Tynn would tell her, for the fact did not give that ruling matron pleasure) to have a sweetheart. Worse still, Dolly was in the habit of stealing out to meet him when he left work, which was at eight o’clock. On the evening of the accident, Dolly, abandoning her dairy, and braving the wrath of Mrs. Tynn, should she be discovered, stole out to a sheltered spot in the rear of the house, the usual meeting-place. Scarcely was she ensconced here when the swain arrived; who, it may be remarked, en passant, filled the important post of waggoner to Mr. Bitterworth. The spot was close to the small green gate which led to the lane already spoken of; it led to that only; and, while he and Dolly were talking and making love, after their own rustic fashion, they saw Dan Duff come from the direction of the house, and pass through the gate, whistling. A short while subsequently the gate was heard to open again. Dolly looked out, and saw what she took to be one of the gentlemen come in, from the lane, walking very fast. Dolly looked but casually, the moonlight was obscured there, and she did not particularly notice which of them it was; whether Mr. Lionel, or either of Mrs. Verner’s sons. But the impression received into her mind was, that it was one of the three; and Dolly could not be persuaded out of that to this very day.
“Hush—sh—sh!” cried she to her sweetheart, “it’s one o’ the young masters.”
The quick steps passed on: but whether they turned into the yard, or took the side path which would conduct round to the front entrance, or bore right across, and so went out into the public road, Dolly did not notice. Very shortly after this—time passes swiftly when people are courting, of which fact the Italians have a proverb—Dan Duff came bursting back again, calling, and crying, and telling the tidings of Rachel Frost. This was the substance of what Mrs. Tynn told Mr. Verner.
“Dolly said nothing of this before!” he exclaimed.
“Not she, sir. She didn’t dare confess that she’d been off all that while from her dairy. She let drop a word, and I have got it out of her piecemeal. I have threatened her, sir, that if ever she mentions it again, I’ll get her turned off.”
“Why did you threaten her?” he hastily asked.
Mrs. Tynn dropped her voice. “I thought it might not be pleasant to have it talked of, sir. She thinks I’m only afraid of the neglect of work getting to the ears of Mrs. Verner.”
This was the trifling addition. Not very much in itself, but it served to bear out the doubts Mr. Verner already entertained. Was it John or was it Frederick who had come in? Or was it—Lionel? There appeared to be no more certainty that it was one than another. Mr. Verner had minutely inquired into the proceedings of John and Frederick Massingbird that night, and he had come to the conclusion that both could have been in the lane at that particular hour. Frederick, previously to entering the house for his dinner, after he had left the veterinary surgeon’s, Poynton; John, before he had paid his visit to the Royal Oak. John appeared to have called in at several places, and his account was not particularly clear. Lionel, Mr. Verner had not thought it necessary to question. He sent for him as soon as his dinner tray was cleared away: it was as well to be indisputably sure of him, before fastening the charge on either of the others.
“Sit down, Lionel,” said Mr. Verner. “I want to talk to you. Had you finished your dinner?”
“Quite, thank you. You look very ill to-night,” Lionel added, as he drew a chair to the fire; and his tone insensibly became gentle, as he gazed on his uncle’s pale face.
“How can I look otherwise? This trouble is worrying me to death, Lionel. I have discovered, beyond doubt, that it was one of you young men who was in the lane that night.”
Lionel, who was then leaning over the fire, turned his head, with a quick, surprised gesture, towards Mr. Verner. The latter proceeded to tell Lionel the substance of the communication made to him by Mrs. Tynn. Lionel sat, bending forward, his elbow on his knee, and his fingers unconsciously running amidst the curls of his dark
