The Witchs Head | Page 5

you remember Mary Atterleigh, his daughter, with
whom we were all in love when we were young?"
Mr. de Talor's broad cheek took a deeper shade of crimson as he
nodded assent.
"Then," went on Mr. Cardus, in a voice meant to be indifferent, but
which now and again gave traces of emotion, "you will also remember
that I was the fortunate man, and, with her father's consent, was
engaged to be married to Mary Atterleigh so soon as I could show him
that my income reached a certain sum." Here Mr. Cardus paused a
moment, and then continued, "But I had to go to America about the
great Norwich bank case, and it was a long job, and travelling was slow
in those days. When I got back, Mary was--married to a man called
Jones, a friend of yours, Mr. de Talor. He was staying at your house,
Ceswick's Ness, when he met her. But perhaps you are better

acquainted with that part of the tale than I am."
Mr. de Talor was looking very uneasy again now.
"No, I know nothing about it. Jones fell in love with her like the rest,
and the next I heard of it was that they were to be married. It was rather
rough on you, eh, Cardus? but, Lord, you shouldn't have been fool
enough to trust her."
Mr. Cardus smiled, a bitter smile. "Yes, it was a little rough, but that
has nothing to do with my story. The marriage did not turn out well; a
curious fatality pursued all who had any hand in it. Mary had two
children; and then did the best thing she could do--died of shame and
sorrow. Jones, who was rich, went fraudulently bankrupt, and ended by
committing suicide. 'Hard-riding Atterleigh' flourished for a while.
Then lost his money on horses and a ship-building speculation, and got
a paralytic stroke that took away all his speech and most of his reason. I
brought him here to save him from the madhouse."
"That was kind of you, Cardus."
"Oh no, he is worth his keep, and besides, he is poor Mary's father. He
is under the fixed impression that I am the devil; but that does not
matter."
"You've got her children, too, eh?"
"Yes, I have adopted them. The girl reminds me of her mother, though
she will never have her mother's looks. The boy is like old Atterleigh. I
do not care about the boy. But, thank God, they are neither of them like
their father."
"So you knew Jones?" said de Talor, sharply.
"Yes, I met him after his marriage. Oddly enough, I was with him a few
minutes before he destroyed himself. There, Mr. de Talor, I will not
detain you any longer. I thought that you could perhaps tell me
something of the details of Mary's marriage. The story has a fascination

for me, its results upon my own life have been so far-reaching. I am
sure that I am not at the bottom of it yet. Mary wrote to me when she
was dying, and hinted at something that I cannot understand. There was
somebody behind who arranged the matter, who assisted Jones' suit.
Well, well, I shall find it all out in time, and whoever it is will no doubt
pay the price of his wickedness, like the others. Providence has strange
ways, Mr. de Talor, but in the end it is a terrible avenger. What! are you
going? Queer talk for a lawyer's office, isn't it?"
Here Mr. de Talor rose, looking pale, and, merely nodding to Mr.
Cardus, left the room.
The lawyer watched him till the door had closed, when suddenly his
whole face changed. The white eyebrows drew close together, the
delicate features worked, and in the soft eyes there shone a look of hate.
He clenched his fists, and shook them towards the door.
"You liar, you hound!" he said aloud. "God grant that I may live long
enough to do to you as I have done to them! One a suicide, and one a
paralytic madman; you--you shall be a beggar, if it takes me twenty
years to make you so. Yes, that will hit you hardest. O Mary! Mary!
dead and dishonoured through you, you scoundrel! O my darling, shall
I ever find you again?"
And this strange man dropped his head upon the desk before him, and
groaned.
CHAPTER III
OLD DUM'S NESS
When Mr. Cardus came half an hour or so later to take his place at the
dinner-table--for in those days they dined in the middle of the day at
Dum's Ness--he was not in a good mood. The pool into which the
records of an individual existence are ever gathering, which we call our
past, will not often bear