LITMIR.BIZ

      Fourth Night

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      On a winter evening many years subsequent to the above-mentioned occurrences, the ci-devant shepherd sat in a well-furnished office in the north wing of Shakeforest Towers in the guise of an ordinary educated man of business. He appeared at this time as a person of thirty-eight or forty, though actually he was several years younger. A worn and restless glance of the eye now and then, when he lifted his head to search for some letter or paper which had been mislaid, seemed to denote that his was not a mind so thoroughly at ease as his surroundings might have led an observer to expect.

      His pallor, too, was remarkable for a countryman. He was professedly engaged in writing, but he shaped not word. He had sat there only a few minutes, when, laying down his pen and pushing back his chair, he rested a hand uneasily on each of the chair-arms and looked on the floor.

      Soon he arose and left the room. His course was along a passage which ended in a central octagonal hall; crossing this he knocked at a door. A faint, though deep, voice told him to come in. The room he entered was the library, and it was tenanted by a single person only—his patron the Duke.

      During this long interval of years the Duke had lost all his heaviness of build. He was, indeed, almost a skeleton; his white hair was thin, and his hands were nearly transparent. ‘Oh—Mills?’ he murmured. ‘Sit down. What is it?’

      ‘Nothing new, your Grace. Nobody to speak of has written, and nobody has called.’

      ‘Ah—what then? You look concerned.’

      ‘Old times have come to life, owing to something waking them.’

      ‘Old times be cursed—which old times are they?’

      ‘That Christmas week twenty-two years ago, when the late Duchess’s cousin Frederick implored her to meet him on Marlbury Downs. I saw the meeting—it was just such a night as this—and I, as you know, saw more. She met him once, but not the second time.’

      ‘Mills, shall I recall some words to you—the words of an oath taken on that hill by a shepherd-boy?’

      ‘It is unnecessary. He has strenuously kept that oath and promise. Since that night no sound of his shepherd life has crossed his lips—even to yourself. But do you wish to hear more, or do you not, your Grace?’

      ‘I wish to hear no more,’ said the Duke sullenly.

      ‘Very well; let it be so. But a time seems coming—may be quite near at hand—when, in spite of my lips, that episode will allow itself to go undivulged no longer.’

      ‘I wish to hear no more!’ repeated the Duke.

      ‘You need be under no fear of treachery from me,’ said the steward, somewhat bitterly. ‘I am a man to whom you have been kind—no patron could have been kinder. You have clothed and educated me; have installed me here; and I am not unmindful. But what of it—has your Grace gained much by my stanchness? I think not. There was great excitement about Captain Ogbourne’s disappearance, but I spoke not a word. And his body has never been found. For twenty-two years I have wondered what you did with him. Now I know. A circumstance that occurred this afternoon recalled the time to me most forcibly. To make it certain to myself that all was not a dream, I went up there with a spade; I searched, and saw enough to know that something decays there in a closed badger’s hole.’

      ‘Mills, do you think the Duchess guessed?’

      ‘She never did, I am sure, to the day of her death.’

      ‘Did you leave all as you found it on the hill?’

      ‘I did.’

      ‘What made you think of going up there this particular afternoon?’

      ‘What your Grace says you don’t wish to be told.’

      The Duke was silent; and the stillness of the evening was so marked that there reached their ears from the outer air the sound of a tolling bell.

      ‘What is that bell tolling for?’ asked the nobleman.

      ‘For what I came to tell you of, your Grace.’

      ‘You torment me it is your way!’ said the Duke querulously. ‘Who’s dead in the village?’

      ‘The oldest man—the old shepherd.’

      ‘Dead at last—how old is he?’

      ‘Ninety-four.’

      ‘And I am only seventy. I have four-and-twenty years to the good!’

      ‘I served under that old man when I kept sheep on Marlbury Downs. And he was on the hill that second night, when I first exchanged words with your Grace. He was on the hill all the time; but I did not know he was there—nor did you.’

      ‘Ah!’ said the Duke, starting up. ‘Go on—I yield the point—you may tell!’

      ‘I heard this afternoon that he was at the point of death. It was that which set me thinking of that past time—and induced me to search on the hill for what I have told you. Coming back I heard that he wished to see the Vicar to confess to him a secret he had kept for more than twenty years—“out of respect to my Lord the Duke”—something that he had seen committed on Marlbury Downs when returning to the flock on a December night twenty-two years ago. I have thought it over. He had left me in charge that evening; but he was in the habit of coming back suddenly, lest I should have fallen asleep. That night I saw nothing of him, though he had promised to return. He must have returned, and—found reason to keep in hiding. It is all plain. The next thing is that the Vicar went to him two hours ago. Further than that I have not heard.’

      ‘It is quite enough. I will see the Vicar at daybreak to-morrow.’

      ‘What to do?’

      ‘Stop his tongue for four-and-twenty years—till I am dead at ninety-four, like the shepherd.’

      ‘Your Grace—while you impose silence on me, I will not speak, even though nay neck should pay the penalty. I promised to be yours, and I am yours. But is this persistence of any avail?’

      ‘I’ll stop his tongue, I say!’ cried the

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