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The Queen's Scarlet, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 9. Dead--And Buried |
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_ CHAPTER NINE. DEAD--AND BURIED By the next morning the flood was subsiding rapidly, and at night the muddy meadows began to show that the river was sinking back into its bed. All that evening boats were out, and people watched in expectation of that which they felt would soon be found. Twenty-four hours more elapsed, and sheep, caught in hedgerows by the wool, were dragged through the mud and slime. Lower down the river an ox or two were found, while news came of other carcases, miles away, stranded in bends where gravel and mud had half-buried them. But there was a good deal of water still in the river, and a threatening of another rise. At Mr Draycott's Mark Frayne still lay insensible, but he seemed to sleep calmly enough, and was beginning to take the food given to him, while the doctors both agreed that there was no fear of a relapse; the only trouble was--What would the young man's mental state be when he recovered from his long stupor? Day after day glided by. Mr and Mrs Frayne reached the house, Mark's father evidently painfully ill of the complaint which had taken him from his bleak Devonshire vicarage to the warmer climate and change of the South of France and the Riviera. The news had been a very great shock, and the doctor looked at him anxiously as he went to his son's room, so weak that he had to be assisted by Jerry and the weeping mother. They accepted Mr Draycott's hospitality and stayed, eager to be near their son, while longing to hear tidings of the discovery of their nephew--tidings that did not come. Jerry stole away more than once to try and make out the exact place where he had seen Richard plunge in, and returned, shaking his head, for it was impossible. Day by day he grew more morose, for fragments of the chatter reached him--petty talk, which blackened the young baronet's fame; while, worst stab of all, he read in the little local paper, where, in a long article concerning the trouble of "our respected townsman, Mr Draycott," it was said that the principal in the terrible tragedy had been guilty of that rash act to avoid the punishment likely to befall him consequent upon the assault he had committed and his connection with a monetary scandal. "And if I go and punch the head of him as wrote that, they'll have me up before the magistrates," said Jerry; "and they call this a free land!" Three weeks had passed, and Mark Frayne was beginning to show signs of returning consciousness, when, towards evening, the police inspector came to the house to ask to see Mr Draycott. "He's in, I s'pose, Mr Brigley?" said the official, looking very serious and important. "Oh, yes; he's in," said Jerry, excitedly; "but--tell me--have you found him?" "Just got a wire, Mr Brigley, from Chedleigh, fifty mile away, sir!" Jerry caught at one of the hall chairs, and made it scroop on the stone floor. The news was correct enough, and the next day an inquest was held upon the cruelly disfigured body which had been discovered, stripped by the action of the flood, and buried in sand and stones. Jerry was there to give his evidence, along with that of others; and, looking haggard and suffering from mental anxiety, Mr Draycott was there to give his. The medical man who had been called told of his examination, and, as there seemed to be no doubt as to the identity, a verdict was readily returned. Two days later there was a funeral at Richard Frayne's native place, and the unfortunate lad was laid to his rest--aged eighteen, people read upon his breastplate--just about the same time that Mark Frayne was lying upon his back, gazing at the open window, through which there came the pleasant odour of new-made hay, and wondering why he was there in bed, while a woman in white cap and apron was sitting reading. "I say," he whispered at last; and the nurse started up, smiling. "Yes?" she said, coming to his bedside. "Who are you?" "The nurse. Don't speak, please. You have been ill." "Oh!" said Mark, "have I? Don't go away!" "Only for a minute, to send word for somebody to come." She stepped softly out into the corridor, just as the two pupils who had witnessed the encounter were coming upstairs. "Would you mind telling Mrs Frayne that he is quite sensible now?" "What! Mark Frayne?" cried Sinjohn. "Yes; all right." The two young men turned and went together to deliver the news. "Then he is really getting well," said Andrews, in a whisper. "Why, Sin, if he does, he'll be Sir Mark Frayne!" "Not while his father lives," said the other. "But only think!--poor old Dick buried to-day! I wish we could have gone." "Yes," said Andrews, bitterly. "Poor old Dick!" "We shall never hear his flute agin!" _ |
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