“I don’t think, if I were you, I should--it would only upset her; and
probably they were only talking nonsense.”
Netta was silent till we had quitted the garden; then as we were
crossing the road to the hotel she said, still speaking in the sign
language:
“I shouldn’t wonder if Uncle Jack did marry Miss Parsons--I believe I
nearly caught him kissing her last night on the veranda.”
She spoke with a little malicious smile; I was aware that she had not
too high an opinion of her relative, but her words took me aback.
Before I could reply, her mother came towards us down the steps, with
Mr. Finlayson himself at her heels.
Mrs. Hastings bore Netta off into the town; Mr. Finlayson returned to
the balcony of the hotel, and I went with him. He was a scanty-haired
little man, inclined to stoutness. A monocle was rarely absent from
his right eye, and he wore two tiny tufts of hair upon his upper lip,
which he had once confided to me he thought made him look French, and
which I thought made him look ridiculous. He had inherited a large
fortune from a relative, had never done anything useful--so far as I
could see, his chief occupation was changing his clothes. I do not
know how many suits he had, but I do not think it is any exaggeration
to say that he changed from head to foot half a dozen times a day. My
belief is that the majority of men are conceited--in that respect he
was far ahead of his fellows. Yet, since his sister and her husband
had shown themselves very good, and thoughtful, and generous to me,
and I owed them many kindnesses, I felt that I could not allow his
simplicity to make him the victim of that intriguing young woman, who
called herself Parsons, without at least attempting to put him on his
guard.
The veranda of the Cliftonville Hotel runs along the road, being
raised a few feet above the pavement. As I stood there with him, Miss
Parsons and her friend, coming out of the garden across the way,
passed close by us. Mr. Finlayson acknowledged their presence with a
sweeping bow, and Miss Parsons smiled--a smile which evidently pleased
him.
“Most attractive young lady that--don’t you think so?” He was the sort
of person who always spoke of a woman as a lady. “Very odd how strange
some ladies are. My sister, now, has taken up a most extraordinary
position as regards Miss Parsons--she simply doesn’t like her.”
“I fancy Mrs. Hastings’ instinct in such matters is generally to be
relied on. Of course, Mr. Finlayson, you are much older than I am, and
should know more of the world----” He cut me short.
“I don’t know about being much older, Miss Lee; but there’s no doubt
that I do know more of the world. A man in my position would.”
He spoke with a smirk which I thought comical.
“In spite of your wider knowledge of the world, Mr. Finlayson, I hope
you won’t mind my suggesting that it might be the part of wisdom to be
on your guard against Miss Parsons.”
“My dear Miss Lee, I’m always on my guard against all ladies--I know
them. I always say to myself when I meet a fresh one: Now what designs
has she on me? In such matters I’m the soul of caution.”
The man was perfectly absurd; what he meant by his last words I could
not guess. If I had not felt that the danger was a very real one, and
was thinking more of Mr. and Mrs. Hastings than of him, I would have
left him alone in his conceit.
“Is it not possible that you imagine yourself to be better acquainted
with the sex of which I am a member than you really are? Isn’t it
conceivable that Miss Parsons, for instance, may understand you better
than you do her?”
His rejoinder was so preposterous that I could have shaken him.
“What I said to my sister I say to you--jealousy in a lady’s breast
takes many forms; Eleanor is jealous of Miss Parsons, and so are you.
You will excuse me saying so, won’t you?--but facts are facts.”
“Facts are facts!” Despite his impertinence I was disposed to laugh at
him. “On what conceivable grounds do you say that I am jealous
of--that woman?” He gave a sort of little hop.
“There you are--‘that woman’--the very phrase betrays you. Now, Miss
Lee, permit me for one moment. I do not say that jealousy in your case
is unbecoming--quite the contrary. I’ve had--shall we say an
idea?--for some time past that your feelings towards me were--of the
most flattering kind. I have known you, off and on, at frequently
recurring intervals, for about three years. During that time I have
observed you with, I may say, growing interest. The result has been
that I have come to the conclusion that you are in all respects an
estimable young lady--yes, Miss Lee, I really mean it. I discussed you
with my sister----”
“You discussed me with your sister!”
“Yes, and with her husband; and they both agree that, since the period
has arrived at which it is desirable that I should have an
establishment of my own, although the difference in our fortunes is
immense, you are a young lady eminently fitted to become the head of
it. Therefore your jealousy of the fascinating Miss Parsons is
excusable, but, I assure you, baseless; one does not marry such
persons; no, no, do not suppose it for one moment. My choice, Miss
Lee, is fixed on you--there is no reason why I should not take
advantage of this opportunity to tell you so; it may relieve your
mind. I have cause to know that the announcement of our engagement
will relieve my sister’s mind. Therefore, with your permission, I will
make that announcement this--no, not this evening at dinner, I happen
to have an engagement this evening”--he wore a slight air of
confusion--“but--on the first occasion which offers.”
When he stopped, which he did just as I was wondering when he was
going to, I could only gasp. A foolish person I had always supposed
him to be, but such folly eclipsed my conception of him altogether.
What he expected me to say I do not know; he beamed at me with a most
fatuous air; but when he permitted himself to put out his hand and
touch my glove, I rapidly withdrew. He affected to be amused.
“My dear Miss Lee--what harm is there, even in such a public place as
this?--especially as our relations to each other will soon be public
property.”
I saw that it was necessary to make myself quite plain to this little
man.
“Mr. Finlayson, I won’t pretend that I don’t understand what you have
been talking about, though anything funnier I never heard.”
“Funny?--My dear young lady!--Nothing was further from my intention
than to be funny.”
“That’s the funniest part of it--that anyone could be so
unintentionally funny. I don’t know if I may take it that you have
just been offering me your hand in marriage?”
He nodded his head like some brightly hued and foolish bird.
“Exactly, precisely--you have it--there is that way of putting it.”
“As you observe, there is that way of putting it--though I notice that
is not the way you put it; you seem to be under the impression that
you have only to throw your glove at my feet and I will pick it up and
be grateful. I don’t know what gave you that impression; you are quite
mistaken if you suppose that I ever meant to. You certainly have
amused me, Mr. Finlayson; I always have felt that you were a funny
little man; but as for anything else--I, at an early age, made up my
mind to live and die an old maid, and if anything could strengthen my
resolution, it is the fact that there are in the world such funny
little men as you, and that some women, poor souls! have to have them
as husbands.”
I just walked off the balcony and left him there. It so chanced that
as I entered the hotel Miss Parsons came into the hall. Not a little
to my surprise--it was an afternoon of surprises--she addressed me.
“I should like to say two or three words to you, Miss--I believe
it--is Lee. May I ask why, since you are quite a stranger to me, you
take such an interest in my movements?”
It was no use my telling her that I did not know what she meant,
because I did. Her assault, coming so quickly after my surprising
interview with Mr. Finlayson, took me aback. I had no answer ready.
She went on:
“This afternoon, to give an example of the sort of thing I mean, you
and that deaf and dumb young woman, whose governess I believe you are,
watched my friend and myself while we were having tea, as if you were
doing your very best to overhear every word we said. I don’t like that
sort of thing; don’t let it happen again, or I may show my dislike in
a way you won’t like.”
She walked off, with her nose in the air, very much as I had just
walked off from Mr. Finlayson. Had I been the dirt beneath her feet
she could not have treated me with more contempt--and in that public
place!
I could hardly have said, when I reached my bedroom, with whom I felt
maddest--with her, Mr. Finlayson, Netta, or myself; Netta, for calling
my attention to them first of all; Mr. Finlayson, for his astonishing
stupidity; Miss Parsons, for her studied insolence; myself, for ever
having had anything to do with any of the three. But the crowning blow
was to come. I was stamping up and down, feeling that I must do
something to some one, when Netta came into the room; without an
instant’s warning she burst out with:
“Well, why wouldn’t you marry him?” I stared, wondering if I could
have understood her; she repeated the question with a clearness which
put the matter beyond all doubt. “Why wouldn’t you marry Uncle Jack
when he asked you?”
“Netta!--What are you talking about?--What do you mean?”
She explained, with a horrible lucidity.
“I was on the cliff on the other side of the garden. I looked over the
hedge, and there were you with Uncle Jack on the balcony--and I saw a
good deal of what you were saying.” She was, as I have already said,
quite an adept at lip-reading, especially in the case of persons she
knew well. “I didn’t see all he said, but I did see that he was what
he meant to be proposing; then you strutted off as if you were twenty
feet high--which is a trick you have--and left poor Uncle Jack
despairing. Why on earth wouldn’t you marry him?”
I could not tell her--plainly the absurdity of the affair did not
appeal to her so clearly as it did to me. I could not even try to
explain--I do not often lose my temper with my pupils, but I nearly
lost it with Netta then. Her persistence nearly drove me mad. When she
had gone, on one point, it seemed to me, there were no two
opinions--Cliftonville was no longer the place for me. I would not
stop and confront the insolent Miss Parsons, with whom I wished to
have no sort of traffic; still less would I give the keen-eyed Netta a
chance of enjoying herself at my expense, in observing my efforts to
avoid her singular relation. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings were leaving in two
or three days in any case. I had had a letter that morning from an
aunt who was passing through London, and who wanted me, if I was in
town, to meet her. I resolved that I would be in town that night. I
packed my trunk; scribbled a note to Mrs. Hastings; and departed for
the station--without anyone of the least consequence, so far as I
knew, becoming conscious of my departure. I congratulated myself on
the manner in which, avoiding explanations, I had contrived to slip
away. But I got no farther than the station; in spite of the fashion
in which I had congratulated myself, I did not go to town that night.
I reached the station several minutes before my train was due to
start. The arrival platform was crowded with passengers; a train had
just come in from London. As I went towards the bookstall to buy some
papers I passed two men whose appearance had a curious effect upon me;
I was conscious of what I call one of those premonitory little shivers
which I say are sent to me as warnings--it may be a mere superstition,
but it is one which I hold strongly, that certain evil things emanate,
in a sense which is perhaps my own, an atmosphere to whose presence I
am acutely sensitive; it gives me what I call a premonitory shiver.
That shiver went all over me as I passed those two men, and it
startled me. Close behind them were two other men. I saw one of them
say to the other:
“See those two? The one on the right is Chicago Charlie. It isn’t
often he’s walking about; if he’d had his rights he’d have been strung
up long ago. I shouldn’t like to be within reach of him if I’d
anything on me worth having; he’s more like a wild beast than a man. I
wonder what his game is down here--some one’s in for trouble. I could
tell you some tales of him.”
I should have liked him to tell me some of those tales--I could not
have said why, but I should. He was a hard, weather-beaten individual,
who looked as if he might have had some queer experiences of his own.
At the bookstall I turned and looked after the two men who had passed
me. A woman was coming down the platform to meet them; it was the
woman who had been having tea with Miss Parsons at the next table to
ours. Her presence there gave me shock number two. She greeted the
pair with an air of a familiar acquaintance; was “Chicago Charlie”
Miss Parsons’ friend as well as her own?
They were going out of the gate at the end of the platform; I went to
a door on the left, and, hurrying, got there first. Under cover of the
paper I had bought I watched them coming; the woman was too engaged in
talking to her companions to notice that a female was holding her
newspaper up in front of her face. I saw Chicago Charlie ask:
“What’s the fellow’s name?”
“John Finlayson--he’s soft as butter--one of nature’s own mugs. She
says he’s good for fifty thousand pounds--if properly handled.”
“Soft as butter, is he? And he’ll be handled by a master. If there’s
anything left when I’m through with him he can keep it.”
She looked at him sharply. I should very much like to have known what
her answer was, but I could not see from the back of her--they were
past before she spoke again. Apparently, since they paid no heed to
the cabman who hailed them, they were going to walk to where they were
going. What was I to do? I had my ticket, my luggage was labelled, my
train was due; I had advised Mrs. Hastings of my departure, I had
washed my hands of Mr. Finlayson for ever and a day, what might happen
to him was no concern of mine; the obvious course was for me to carry
out my intentions and go to town. And yet---- That was it--and yet!
It is contrary to every instinct in my being to stand by and see
anyone, even the meanest of God’s creatures, in danger without
offering help--such help as I can offer; or even helping without
offering, if it comes to that. It was certainly impossible for me to
offer to help Uncle Jack. He had misunderstood me once; he should have
no chance of misunderstanding me a second time.
There was the sound of a whistle; a train was steaming into the
station--my train. I should have to hurry if I meant to catch it--they
would send my luggage by it, since it was labelled, if I went or not.
That consideration did start me moving. I rushed over to the departure
platform; caught a porter--my porter--in the act of putting my luggage
into the van; stopped him, explaining that I had changed my mind and
did not propose to travel by that train; induced him to take my
luggage back and put it on to a cab--and then looked to see if the
three persons on whom my interest was centred were still anywhere in
sight. They were; they were at a distance of perhaps two hundred
yards, and were moving at a leisurely pace towards the town. I said to
the cabman:
“I suppose your horse can go slowly?”
The cabman grinned; he thought I was joking.
“It isn’t his fault if he ever does anything else--about two miles an
hour is what he likes--either that or standing still.”
“I don’t want him to stand still, but two miles an hour will about
suit me; I want to read my paper and enjoy this beautiful evening. You
go straight along at not more than three miles an hour--until I give
you further directions.”
That cabman carried out my instructions to the letter; we certainly
did not exceed the limit I had imposed, and I pretended to read my
paper. The trio in front were going about as fast as we were--straight
on, with us still about two hundred yards behind. Presently I saw them
turn into an hotel overlooking the sea. When we reached it I stopped
the driver.
“Pull up, please. I want to see if they can let me have a room here.”
They could, rather a pleasant one, looking towards Cliftonville. Then
it struck me that it was about time to consider. I was quite aware
that I had done an eminently foolish thing. I had given way to my
irresistible inclination to meddle in other people’s affairs without
having the faintest notion what sort of meddling it was going to be.
What kind of mental standard Miss Parsons’ friend might have I did not
know; unless she was extremely unobservant, she had taken sufficient
stock of me that afternoon to know me again. Even if she had not
noticed me before, I had noticed her several times, and had an idea
that she was supposed to be a Mrs. Hammond. Miss Parsons had a room at
the Cliftonville--where Mrs. Hammond was staying I did not know; she
might not be residing at the hotel in which I had taken a room, but
might merely have entered, with the two men, for the purpose of
refreshment. I had to risk that--I have taken a good many risks of
that sort in the course of my adventures; what I did not want to risk
was the chance of being recognized.
Reluctantly--I do not like to do it, though there are occasions when I
have to--I say, reluctantly I took out of a case which was in my trunk
an article which is known as a “transformation.” It is simply amazing
what an alteration is produced in a woman’s appearance by a change of
hair--if the change is well done. My hair is very dark brown; it has
been called black, but I doubt if there is any really black hair in
the world. When I am crowned with scarlet, a casual acquaintance would
have to stare and stare, and yet be in doubt. “Transformation” is a
polite synonym for a wig; the one I donned that night was scarlet. I
touched my countenance here and there--I did not want the contrast
between my complexion and my hair to be too striking; attired myself
in my most gorgeous robe--I had a notion that a red-haired, unattached
young woman, in an hotel at Margate, ought to be gorgeous; and I went
down to dinner. The first thing I saw when I entered the dining-room
was a table at which were seated Mrs. Hammond and her two male
acquaintances.
As I entered Mrs. Hammond bestowed on me the glance which, under such
circumstances, every woman does bestow on every other woman. But for
that I was prepared; I was pretty nearly certain that she did not
recognize me as a person whom she had ever seen before. There was a
difficulty about my table. All the small tables were occupied. The
waiter offered me the choice of sharing a very small table with a
pimply-faced old gentleman, who looked as if he might be a publican,
or of a seat at the large table which occupied the centre of the room.
I accepted the latter; although I did not tell that waiter so, nothing
could have suited me better. There were seats at the table for I
suppose a dozen people; I was quite content, at least on that
occasion, to be one of a crowd, especially as it was decorated with
old-fashioned ornaments in the shape of epergnes and tall vases full
of flowers, and my chair was directly in front of a structure, half
metal, half glass, than which nothing could have served me better as a
screen. The table with which I was concerned was directly in my line
of vision; I had only to lift my eyes from my plate to see the three
persons who were at it perfectly, while I was behind a quantity of
flowers and foliage which made it impossible for them to see me at all
without a special effort. One trial I foresaw I should have to
face--on one side of me was a middle-aged man, on the other was a mere
boy. I thought it not improbable that before very long they would both
of them be trying to talk to me. That I did not mind; my attention
does not wander because I have to listen to inane remarks; my eyes
serve me quite as well when I am talking.
Mrs. Hammond had on a not unbecoming dress of violet silk; her hair
was fair--I fancy it was as much hers as my scarlet crown was mine.
Chicago Charlie had what seemed to be rather a nice diamond in the
middle of his shirt front. His companion was a big, bullet-headed man,
who looked as if he were something in the prize-fighting line.
“Charlie” was a lean, hatchet-faced man, with an over large nose, too
wide a mouth, a protruding chin. He had small blue eyes, which had the
fixed, stony stare of the glass beads which you see in the head of a
doll. Had he only known it, his mouth was his most unfortunate
feature; every word he uttered was so distinctly shaped on his long,
thin lips, that, from my point of view, he might as well have shouted.
I have no doubt that they spoke in the most decorous, subdued
tones--they had need to do so, for they said some very curious
things--but that made no difference to me; that man’s mouth was like a
magnifying glass, giving almost uncanny prominence to every syllable
he uttered. The first words of his I saw were sufficiently startling.
“What did I do to him? I killed him, that’s what I did to him. They
think nothing of that sort of thing out there; it’s a man’s business
to see--that he isn’t killed.”
He raised his glass of champagne and emptied it. Mrs. Hammond and the
other man exchanged glances; I fancied they were asking each other if
the speaker was to be taken seriously. For my part, I set him down as
that homicidal type of criminal who holds human life of no account at
all; who, indeed, in the gratification of his own lusts, holds nothing
of any account. Mrs. Hammond remarked, as she carefully removed the
head and tail from a smelt on her plate:
“You know, Charlie, there mustn’t be any killing here. As some French
gentleman said--I believe it was a Frenchman--in England that’s not a
crime, it’s a blunder; no man’s life is worth to you so much as your
own.”
Charlie’s reply was characteristic.
“I’m not so sure of that; I have met men--and women--for whom I’d be
glad to swing.--How long has Finlayson been here?”
“Baby says that he came down last week, but it doesn’t necessarily
follow that he did. She’s a curiosity, Baby is. She’s been down here
about a month; I’ve been here nearly three weeks. It seems that she
began planning this almost directly after she came, but she never so
much as breathed a word about it to me till this afternoon; for
keeping a thing dark I never saw her equal.”
“Baby Parsons can hold her tongue better than any woman I ever met.”
This was the bullet-headed man. “I’ve been in more than one little
game with her, when silence was everything, so I know.”
“There are times when a dumb woman is more precious than rubies.”
As he delivered himself of this profound sentiment, Charlie smiled.
Mrs. Hammond retorted--and I smiled as I saw what she said:
“Then in that case there’s a girl stopping up at the Cliftonville who
ought to suit you--she’s deaf and dumb. She’s in charge of some
governess kind of creature whose neck I’d like to wring.”
It was at those latter words I smiled. I wondered if her desire would
have been intensified if she had suspected the identity of the
scarlet-headed creature at the centre table. It was towards the end of
the meal that the trio began to touch upon the topic which interested
me most; I feared that they might never touch on it at all, preferring
to leave so delicate a theme for private discussion. Probably what
they ate and drank loosened their tongues; or they might have been
excused for taking it for granted that speaking together in lowered
tones, at their own particular table, they were as private as need be.
They probably were not aware that there was in the world such an
ability for taking notes as was possessed by the creature with the
scarlet head. The table had been cleared for dessert, when, without
any preamble, Chicago Charlie plunged into the very middle of things.
“So Mr. Griffiths, or Miss Parsons, or both of them together, have
taken a house in a retired neighbourhood, at a convenient distance
from this town, in a position in which uninvited interruptions need
not be feared; and to this house the excellent Mr. Finlayson has been
invited for a little evening party.”
“Prefaced by a little dinner for three, like ours--Bob Griffiths,
Baby, and Uncle Jack.” So Mrs. Hammond--for she was the speaker--had
picked up the Hastings’ trick of speaking of him as “Uncle Jack.”
“There was some idea of having the Kitten in for dinner, and so making
the party square, but it was felt that even Uncle Jack might find her
a little hard to swallow. The Kitten will eat with her knife, and is
never quite sure whether to use her fork or her fingers.”
“The Kitten,” observed the bullet-headed man, who seemed to answer to
a variety of names--I had seen them address him as “Lobster,”
“Arthur,” and “Puncher”--“is a child of nature. If it weren’t that she
will get outside the contents of a bottle, I know few women I’d sooner
have beside me in a row.”
“I presume,” continued Charlie, “that the programme is that Mr.
Finlayson is to be well done at dinner, so that he can be done better
afterwards, when we come in to complete the party.”
Mrs. Hammond explained, leaning over the table with a cigarette
between her lips:
“Baby has found out all about him; he is so fond of braying that any
woman can do that who likes--I don’t know any girl who’s better at
that sort of thing than Baby is. It seems that he has been telling her
all about himself--the silly ass! A mortgage of over fifty thousand
pounds has just been paid up; the money is lying at his banker’s. He’s
going to buy something with it when he’s made up his mind what--stock,
I mean; in the meanwhile, as Baby says, there’s a chance for some
one.”
“That certainly is so; when we have got the confiding Mr. Finlayson to
ourselves, there ought to be a chance for all of us. I’m not greedy;
so long as I get my bellyful that’s all I want.” Charlie took his
cigar from between his lips and examined it. “The smokes in this hotel
do not seem to be so good as they might be, if this one I’ve got is a
fair sample.”
The bullet-headed man looked at his watch.
“Isn’t it about time we start? What time are we supposed to get
there?”
“No particular time, Baby said--somewhere about ten. They dine at
eight; Uncle Jack is very fond of his food, and of his wine; to do him
really well, as Charlie put it, takes time. The idea is to get him
just drunk enough to make him think that he is still sober.”
“It’s past half-past nine. How are we to get there?”
“Taxi-cab; Baby’s got a friend who drives one. He’s going to call for
us.”
“Hanged if Baby doesn’t seem to have friends everywhere. At what time
is this particular friend of hers to call? Perhaps he’s come.--Waiter,
see if there’s a taxi-cab outside.”
The waiter presently returned with his report: “There is a taxi-cab
outside, sir.”
“Good; we’ll be with him in a minute.”
This was the bullet-headed man. Charlie struck in:
“I don’t promise that I’ll be with him in a minute. When I’ve had a
decent dinner I hurry over my coffee for no man; as for gulping my
liqueur, you may as well throw it down the sink.” Then he asked a
question which solved for me what I had been fearing might become a
problem. “By the way, where is this house at which the party is to be
held? Even when I’m in a strange country I like to know as nearly as
may be where I am--I may have to find my way back on my lonesome.”
Mrs. Hammond gave him the information he wanted, and at the same time
she gave it me; if she had only known that I needed it so much more
than he did!
“The house is called ‘The Wilderness’; it is off the Broadstairs Road,
lies back perhaps two hundred yards, is approached by an avenue of
trees. Everybody about here knows ‘The Wilderness’; it’s a house which
has had a history.”
“To which another page is to be added to-night.” If Charlie had only
known how true that was, his smile might have been less suggestive of
amusement. “If our dear Mr. Finlayson only knew what pleasures are in
store for him!”--and if only the speaker had known!
I left the trio at table; Mrs. Hammond and the bullet-headed man
wanted to go, but Charlie declined. It seemed that, to him, coffee was
a sacred rite, to say nothing of the liqueur which was to follow--I
fancy that after a good dinner he was not a very persuadable person.
The three pairs of eyes were fixed on me as I went out; I saw Charlie
say:
“That’s rather a fine girl; bit of a stepper.”
Mrs. Hammond said: “I can’t think where I’ve seen some one like her
before.”
If only she had cultivated the faculty of observation! Her puzzlement
tickled me. I was in the highest spirits, foreseeing that, quite
possibly, I was in for the sort of adventure that I loved. I slipped
on a long, black coat, with a hood attached, which I drew over my
head, and I took a taxi-cab--preferring to take mine off the rank. I
did not wish to light, if I could help it, on another of Baby’s many
friends. There was a taxi-cab waiting at the door of the hotel; I eyed
the driver--wishing to take particular note of him for future
reference. I even noted the number of his vehicle.
There were plenty of taxis on the rank. I did not hail the first, but
walked past them all, until I saw a lonely taxi in the distance,
moving slowly, with its flag up. I advanced towards it.
“Do you know a house called ‘The Wilderness’?”
“On the Broadstairs Road?--Mr. Macfarlane’s?”
“Mr. Macfarlane is not there now, is he?”
“I couldn’t say; I fancy he’s about the town, I saw him only the other
day; he’s a gentleman what’s very well known, Mr. Macfarlane is. I
know the house you mean. I don’t know that I care to go there at this
time of night--there’s my fare back. It’s a lonely place, his house
is. There won’t be a soul about. I shall have to come back empty.”
“Don’t you worry about that; I’m going to keep you; I’ll see that you
have a fare back. Are there more roads to the house than one?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, there is, but one of them isn’t a very
good one; it gets to the back of the house, the servants’ entrance.”
“You take me by that road--and move. I suppose you can move?”
He grinned--as the cabman had done at the station. “She can do about
forty--a bit more, if she’s pressed.”
“Then--I think you might press her. By the way, is there a lodge at
the back entrance?”
He shook his head. “No lodge anywhere that I know of.”
“How far is the back entrance, to which that other road takes you,
from the house itself?”
“Oh--may be----” He pushed his cap back. “I couldn’t rightly say, it’s
a good distance; the grounds are large, and the house stands in the
middle.”
“In the house would they hear a taxi-cab approaching along that road?”
“It depends; you see, it’s lonely out there, and in the country, at
night, sound travels; there’s no reason why they should know it was me
coming along.”
That was sound reasoning, in its way. I got in the cab; we started. I
do not know at what pace we travelled, but we did move pretty fast. I
know that the vehicle stopped before I expected. The driver came to
the door. “Here’s the house, miss, and this is the back
entrance--through the gate. Do you want me to drive you in?”
I alighted. There was no moon, but it was a starlight night, and I
could see the gate quite plainly.
“Thank you--I want you to wait here till I come back. I suppose if I
go through the gate and follow the path I shall have no difficulty in
finding the house?”
“Not a bit, miss--you’ve only got to go straight on; there’s a broad
drive; as it gets near the house there’s a turning on the left which
goes round to the front; but, if you want the servants’ entrance, you
don’t turn--you go straight forward.”
“I may be some time, perhaps an hour; but if I’m more than an hour,
you had better come up to the house and knock until some one
answers--I may require assistance.”
He stared at me as if he did not understand my words--and was not sure
that he liked them if he did understand. I quite expected him to ask
me for a deposit which would at least guarantee his fare, because for
all he knew I might never be coming back at all; in which case, after
waiting an hour, he would look awkward. But I imagine that he was of a
trusting disposition, or that I inspired confidence; he let me go
without a hint of the kind, just touching his cap as I walked off.
It was darkish along that avenue; when--as in places they did--the
trees met overhead, I had simply to grope my way. The house came
rather with the force of a surprise; there were no lights at the
windows--I was on it before I knew that it was there, pulling up only
just in time to save myself from blundering into a door.
I waited and listened. There seemed to be no sound on the other side.
I tried the handle; the door yielded at once--I slipped through it
without a moment’s hesitation. I seemed to be in a sort of
entry--there was a light in what was probably a passage round the
corner. I explored--there was a passage, and there was a light, a
flaring jet of gas; but still not a sound nor a creature in sight.
Nothing venture, nothing win, was ever a motto of mine; I sped along
that passage, reached a flight of steps, ascended them. There was a
glass panelled door at the top, on the left a sort of recess into
which it opened; as I reached it I heard steps approaching; I drew
back into the recess. Two women appeared; they pushed back the door
wholly unconscious of me.
“I thought I heard some one come up the stairs,” said one to the
other; “didn’t you?--just as we were coming along?”
“It was your fancy,” replied the other. “There’s no one down there to
come upstairs.”
They descended; I waited some moments, then slipped through the door.
I was in quite a decent sized hall, lighted by incandescent gas; I
could hear voices, but could see no one. Advancing, I came upon rather
a good staircase, with lights above. Up I went. The door of a room
stood wide open, the brilliant lights came from within. On the left
was another door, closed. I chanced it and went through. Where I was I
had no idea--all was dark. I had a small electric torch in my pocket,
and I switched it on. Apparently I was in a sort of sitting-room;
there were double doors on the other side. I went to them, switching
off my torch. All at once I heard voices--and a laugh. I had had my
doubts about the voices, I had none about the laugh. Anyone who had
heard Uncle Jack’s queer little cackling laugh could scarcely fail to
recognize it when heard again. Mr. Finlayson was entering the
adjoining room with, at least, one companion. I could only catch one
other voice besides his, a woman’s--it was Miss Parsons. Were they two
alone? I listened, but could not make sure; I should have liked to try
the handle of that door and peep. Just as I had almost decided that I
might venture, there was the sound of other voices--at least three or
four. Then a man said, in what I should have called rather boisterous
tones--every word he said was audible to me:
“These people have found their way here at last--I believe, Mr.
Finlayson, you know Mrs. Hammond.”
Uncle Jack’s rather ringing voice replied, with another cackle of
laughter:
“Oh, yes, yes, yes. I know Mrs. Hammond--of course I know Mrs.
Hammond, very well indeed--don’t I, Mrs. Hammond?--Pleased to see
you.”
“Not so pleased to see me as I am to see you, Mr. Finlayson; I pay you
no compliment in saying that.”
“It’s very good of you to say so; I always like people to be glad to
see me--especially if it’s a lady.”
The boisterous voice was heard again.
“Mr. Finlayson, allow me to introduce you to my two friends--Colonel
Stewart, of the United States army, a distinguished officer whose name
is no doubt well known to you; Mr. Arthur Poyntz, a first-rate
sportsman, like yourself.”
I took it that Colonel Stewart was “Chicago Charlie,” and that Mr.
Arthur Poyntz was the gentleman with the bullet head. There was a good
deal of loud talking, all joining in paying the most egregious
compliments to Mr. Finlayson, he swallowing them all with continual
little cackles of laughter; I felt sure that he must have been very
well done at dinner. Then in a little lull in the conversation, I
heard Miss Parsons ask:
“What are you gentlemen going to play?--I believe poker is your game,
Mr. Finlayson.”
Uncle Jack laughed--I doubt if he would have been able to explain why;
and, as if it were a signal, the others broke into a simultaneous roar
of laughter--I have no doubt that they would have been able to explain
what caused that mirth. They saw the joke better than he did. The
boisterous voice exclaimed:
“Mr. Finlayson, you’re bad to beat--I’ve no doubt all games are the
same to you. I shouldn’t wonder if you learnt poker on your mother’s
knee.”
“No, no, no. I assure you I did nothing of the kind. I have played the
game, oh yes--as you say. I’ve played a good many games, and I don’t
say I mightn’t be able to hold my own.”
The boisterous voice spoke again. “Hold your own! I don’t pretend to
be a poker player, Mr. Finlayson, in the presence of a man like you
I’m timid; I expect we all are.”
“There’s no reason why you should be--not the slightest--you will find
me merciful--not a bit alarming.”
“I’ve got some poker chips somewhere. Ah, here they are. Now, boys, to
business--I tell you quite frankly, Mr. Finlayson, I’m frightened of
you. Miss Parsons, may I ask you to see that we have something to
drink? Mrs. Hammond looks as if she were thirsty; Mr. Finlayson looks
as if he would like something to drink. You’ve got all the chips you
want, gentlemen? Good! Who deals?”
For several minutes the voices were subdued; there were occasional
bursts of Uncle Jack’s cackling laughter.
“You’re clearing us all out, Mr. Finlayson. I told you how it would
be--I shall have to have more chips. How goes it, Colonel?”
“More chips for me. Mr. Finlayson plays the game as I never saw it
played before, and I thought I had seen it played most ways. Mr.
Finlayson, you’re a remarkable player.”
Uncle Jack cackled and said:
“I do seem to have got the best of it--I told you I’d played the game
before--seem to have most of the chips, haven’t I?--I don’t know how
much these chips are worth?”
The boisterous voice rejoined: “You’ve got nearly ten thousand pounds’
worth of chips in front of you, Mr. Finlayson, and here am I buying
two thousand five hundred more. We’ll be ruined if this goes on.”
“What!” There was a vibrant note in Uncle Jack’s voice which suggested
that the speaker’s words had got through the vinous mists which fogged
his brain. “Ten thousand pounds’ worth of chips! You don’t mean to
say---- What is the value of each chip?”
“The white are ten pounds, the blue are fifty, the red are a hundred,
the green are five hundred. We started with two thousand five hundred
pounds’ worth of chips each, and you’ve got them nearly all.”
“But I--I had no idea.” In Uncle Jack’s tremulous tones there was no
hint of an inclination to cackle. “Really, you know, this kind of
thing is quite out of my line--altogether out of my line. I--I never
gambled in my life--I’m not a gambler.”
“I don’t know about being a gambler, Mr. Finlayson. You’ve won ten
thousand pounds of our money.”
“But I--I had no notion we were playing for such stakes. What am I to
do with these--these chips? We’ve none of us paid for them.”
“I’ll pay for mine right now, sir, if you don’t mind. It’s the general
custom for gentlemen in the circles in which I move to pay for their
chips at the end of the game. But since you put it that way, I’ll put
my money up.” This was unmistakably Chicago Charlie. I wondered how
much money he really had--that was money. “Here, Mr. Griffiths, is two
thousand five hundred pounds in Bank of England notes.” Although I
could not see them, I doubted. “You’re banker; perhaps you’ll just go
through them, and at the end of the game pay this gentleman with that
money for any of my chips he may have won; and while I’m at it, I’ll
have two thousand five hundred pounds’ worth more. And here are the
notes, sir.”
The tone of Uncle Jack’s voice when he spoke again gave me some notion
of the expression which was on his countenance as he beheld Chicago
Charlie’s off-handed manner of dealing with such enormous sums.
“But, my dear sir, I repeat that I never dreamed of playing for such
stakes.”
“If the stakes are not large enough for you, Mr. Finlayson, the value
of the chips can be raised. We are not children, sir. It may be but a
trifle that you’ve won, but, as my friend Griffiths remarked, you have
won our money, so what’s the use of talking?--Arthur, it’s you to
deal. Mr. Finlayson, your very good health; I like a good game once in
a while; I’ve brought a little money with me here to-night, and may
you win it all--you’ll find me all smiles if you do. Won’t you drink
to me, sir?”
I fancy Uncle Jack did drink to him--in imagination I could see how he
did it; his state of fluster; his tremulous hands, causing him to take
a bigger drink than he had meant to--and he was in a state in which
every thimbleful counted. I supposed the cards were dealt. Several
hands were played--I should like to have seen how Mr. Finlayson played
them. I could not make out who won; comparative silence reigned--they
spoke in lowered voices; only a word or two got through to me. My
fingers itched to turn the handle of that door. Then, after an
interval of several minutes, during which only murmurs came to me now
and then, the boisterous voice was raised.
“I say, you know, I don’t mind a rousing good game, but isn’t this
getting rather serious? I don’t know, Mr. Finlayson, if you’re keeping
count of the losses--Miss Parsons keeps ladling out the chips--and now
you’re cleaned out again. How much has Mr. Finlayson had?”
“I’ve got it all down on this piece of paper.” It was Miss Parsons who
replied. “That last lot makes twenty eight thousand six hundred and
fifty pounds.”
“What!” This was a sort of shriek from Mr. Finlayson.
“Sure you’re right?” This was the man with the boisterous voice.
“I don’t pretend to be very good at addition--I put down the figures
as I give him each lot of chips; you’d better add it up yourself.”
I took it that a paper was handed to Mr. Griffiths, who cast up the
various amounts which were on it.
“That’s all right--twenty-eight thousand six hundred and fifty, didn’t
you say? There were ten thousand which he had from me. I don’t know
how far you’re prepared to go, Mr. Finlayson, but that makes nearly
forty thousand.”
“I’m good to go on all night. I’m spoiling for a rousing gamble;
what’s forty thousand pounds!” This was Chicago Charlie; I wondered if
he had as many farthings of his own in the world.
There was another silence; then Mr. Finlayson began to speak in weak,
quavering accents, which made it impossible for his words to reach me.
The crisis was approaching--I had to hear what he said; I resolved to
risk opening the door; I calculated that they would be so absorbed in
listening to and watching him that a slight movement of the door would
go unheeded. I had better fortune than I had hoped. I turned the
handle, noiselessly--to find that it opened inwards, and that it was
screened on the other side by curtains, so that what I had done was
entirely unnoticed. I was even able, without being perceived, to
glance between the curtains and observe what was happening in the room
beyond.
It was a large room, well lit by several inverted incandescent
gas-burners. There was a card-table in the centre, at which four men
were seated--Chicago Charlie, on his left Mr. Poyntz, opposite Mr.
Finlayson, on his right a bullocky sort of man, whom I took to be Mr.
Griffiths. There was a little table between each two men, on which
were glasses; evidently Mr. Finlayson, for one, had been drinking much
more than he should have done, possibly assisted by Mrs. Hammond, who
sat on his left to see that his glass was kept filled, and possibly,
also, to inform the others what sort of cards he had. On his right was
Miss Parsons, with a box divided into partitions, in which were ivory
counters of different colours, which are used for the game of poker,
and are known as “chips.” Chicago Charlie was leaning back, a big
cigar in his mouth, on his face an insolent grin. Poyntz was eyeing
Mr. Finlayson as a dog might a rat on which he proposes presently to
spring. Griffiths was apparently cast for the part of the genial host,
who desires above all else to avoid unpleasantness. The only unhappy
looking person present was Uncle Jack. He was sober enough to know
that he had made a consummate ass of himself, but too drunk to
understand clearly how he had managed to do it, and, still less, how
he was to avoid paying the penalty of his folly. The others eyed him
with amusement as he did his best to make his position plain.
“You must understand, gentlemen, that I am no gambler--never was. It’s
against my principles. My idea was a little friendly game--I had no
intention to play for high stakes--so let’s hope there’s no harm
done.”
“Certainly there’s no harm done. What’s forty thousand pounds to a man
like you?” This was Charlie--the insolence of his grin grew more
pronounced; I wondered how often he had played the same sort of part
in similar scenes. Uncle Jack tried to wag his finger at him.
“Excuse me, sir--I beg your pardon, Colonel; I forgot for the moment
that you were a military gentleman--I say, excuse me, but forty
thousand pounds is more money than I ever had in my life.”
Charlie took his cigar from between his lips and carefully knocked off
the ash. “And will you excuse me, Mr. Finlayson, if I say you are a
liar?”
“Sir! What--what language do you use!”
Griffiths interposed. “Come, Colonel, isn’t that sort of thing a
little irregular? We’re all friends here; Mr. Finlayson is both a
gentleman and my particular friend.”
“Mr. Griffiths, I’m a man of peace, as you’re aware, so I merely make
this remark--Mr. Finlayson has lost to me twenty-three thousand one
hundred and fifty pounds; if Mr. Finlayson will hand me his cheque for
that amount I will consider the matter closed.”
“Very handsomely said, Colonel, very handsomely indeed. How do you
stand with Mr. Finlayson, Poyntz?”
“Mr. Finlayson has lost a few hundred to me, but as he seems to be a
bit on the wrong side, they can stand over.”
“I say the same, Mr. Finlayson. You’re just on sixteen thousand down
to me, but I’ll wait.”
“I won’t wait; it has always been my rule to play for cash, as all my
friends are aware.”
“It’s quite right, Colonel, and a very good rule too. So all you need
do, Mr. Finlayson, is to give Colonel Stewart a cheque for the
twenty-three thousand odd you are down to him, and we’ll leave the
other little matters for friendly discussion later on. You have your
cheque-book on you, Mr. Finlayson?”
“No, sir, I have not, sir. And if I had it would make no difference.
I--I--I give you my word--I’m not a fool.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?” The Colonel rose in sudden wrath.
“Now, Colonel--gently.” This was Griffiths, the peacemaker.
“Are you prepared to pay me, sir, the twenty-three thousand one
hundred and fifty pounds you owe me in cash?”
Drink seemed to be having the effect of making Uncle Jack sleepy; he
looked up at the irate Charlie with heavy eyes.
“I am not, sir--I am not prepared--to pay it--at all.”
“This is too much--you dirty little hound!”
Charlie, leaning over the table, lifted Uncle Jack off his chair and
bore him across the green cloth as if he were but the small quadruped
he called him. The action suggested that Charlie was strong. Then,
laying him flat across the board, he ran his fingers through his
victim’s pockets with a swiftness and dexterity which hinted at much
practice. He held up a pocket-book.
“We’ll see what you have in this, sir.” He proceeded to do so. “You
may not have a cheque-book on you, sir, but you do appear to have a
cheque.” He unfolded one which he had taken from the pocket-book.
“Now, sir, pen and ink will be given you, and you will fill up that
cheque in my favour for twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty
pounds--at once, without any further nonsense.” He picked him off the
table, sat him on a chair. “Griffiths, where’s a pen and ink?” Those
requisites were produced by Miss Parsons. “Here, sir, are pens for you
to choose from; find one which suits your hand and fill up this
cheque. Try this one, sir--if you don’t take hold of it----”
It was not necessary for Charlie to finish his sentence, because Uncle
Jack did take hold. A woeful spectacle he presented, after the
ignominious manner in which he had been handled--a fuddled, muddled,
frightened little man, with those three great men, and two big women,
looking down at him. Charlie continued to play the part to which he
was accustomed.
“Now, sir, have you got well hold of that pen? Draw that cheque in
favour of Colonel Frederick Stewart for twenty-three thousand one
hundred and fifty pounds, put your usual signature at the bottom and
leave it open. Why aren’t you doing as I tell you, sir?”
“I--I’d rather not,” stammered Uncle Jack.
“Then you’re a thief, sir. As it is the custom in the part of the
world in which I was raised for a gentleman to shoot a thief at sight,
if you don’t get a move on you and fill up that cheque, I’ll put the
contents of this gun inside you.”
Charlie, producing a revolver from some part of his person, pointed it
at Uncle Jack, whose terror was so great as to be almost ludicrous.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he wailed. “I’ll draw the cheque.”
He made haste to do as he was bid. Charlie checked his enthusiasm.
“Steady, sir, steady, or your handwriting will be all shaky, and
you’ll spoil the cheque. Just you fill up this cheque, without a
shiver or a shake, in your usual handwriting--and you’ll make a friend
of me for life.”
Whether the prospect held out to him by the other’s words charmed
Uncle Jack I cannot certainly say; he filled up the cheque with what
appeared to be a surprisingly steady hand. The others watched him.
Charlie picked up the cheque when he had finished. He handed it to
Griffiths.
“Seems all right.”
The two women and Poyntz came and looked at it over his shoulders as
he held it between his fingers.
“It does seem all right,” he admitted, “as far as seeming goes.”
“I’ll see that it is all right. You keep him here a night. I’ll go up
by the first train. If they make any fuss at the bank, I’ll put them
on to the telephone. You see that he tells them to cash it--they
probably know his voice. Only don’t you let him play the fool by
seeming to hesitate.”
“I’ll make it my business to see to that.” This was Poyntz, who smiled
as he spoke. “Trust me. Hadn’t you better put him to bed straight off,
perhaps with something which will help him sleep?”
“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t--we’ve done with him.” Griffiths
turned to Miss Parsons. “You can manage a little something, can’t
you?”
Drawing a tiny bottle from her corsage, Miss Parsons took from it what
seemed to be a minute globule, which she dropped into a glass, drowned
in whisky to which she added soda and held to Uncle Jack.
“Drink that up, old man,” she told him. “It’s a night cap.”
It seemed to me that the time had come for me to interfere. For a
minute or so I had been conscious of certain sounds without the house
for which I had been waiting. While the dashing lady was endeavouring
to induce her poor little dupe to take the tumbler, with its drugged
contents, between his tremulous fingers, drawing the curtains asunder,
I stepped into the room. Mine was quite an effective entry--they
stared at me as if I were some strange object dropped from the skies.
Before either of them had a chance of speaking or of moving, I
whistled. I am rather a good hand at whistling. My whistle rang
through the house. Before it died away, or they had an opportunity to
recover from their amazement, half a dozen men came streaming through
the door--uniformed policemen, with an inspector at their head. Him I
addressed.
“That man, Inspector, with the revolver in his hand, is Chicago
Charlie, a well-known American crook, for whom, I have no doubt, the
police have had inquiries.”
Charlie’s stupefied astonishment was almost funny. For once in his
life he had been caught napping. He stared at the inspector, then his
glance came back to me--which was where he made a mistake; for while
he glared in my direction two policemen stole on him from behind, one
gripped the wrist which held the revolver and snatched it from him,
while round the other wrist his colleague snapped a handcuff. His
surprise was complete; he did not even attempt to struggle. He merely
thundered, ornamenting his words with adjectives which I am unable to
reproduce:
“Who in the name of all that’s wonderful are you?”
“I’m a person,” I informed him, “who takes a great interest in
characters like you, and your friends. I am already well known to Mr.
Finlayson; not so well to Miss Parsons; and only slightly to Mrs.
Hammond. Allow me to recall myself to their recollections--I am Judith
Lee.”
As I spoke I removed the scarlet transformation--and how they stared!
It is surprising what a difference a little thing like that does make,
under certain circumstances, to unobservant eyes. While seated at
dinner, watching what that trio was saying, I had been scribbling a
note on the back of a menu card, which I slipped into an envelope
brought me by the waiter. When I left the dining-room I gave
instructions that it was to be taken at once to the police station. In
that note I had made it clear what I expected in that remote house,
rightly named “The Wilderness,” and requested that adequate assistance
might be sent; a certain signal was to advise me of the arrival of
that assistance; my whistle was to serve as a signal for the police to
enter. Everything worked as smoothly as could have been desired; that
little party had quite a different ending from what had been intended.
Uncle Jack was taken back to the hotel; his cheque was retrieved; the
two ladies and three gentlemen who had proposed to share the proceeds
of that cheque between them spent the night as His Majesty’s guests.
The unfortunate part of the business was that later the ridiculous
little man expressed himself, to me as well as to others, as
absolutely convinced that my action in the matter was inspired by the
affection I felt for him. I have reason to doubt if even the plainest
possible language from me sufficed to drive the preposterous notion
wholly from his head. As I asked at the beginning--why are some men so
silly?
X.
MANDRAGORA
So many things come about by what seems accident, a caprice of
chance. In this world few things seem hidden from me; I am a sort of
general confessor to the universe at large; only the confessions are
both involuntary and unconscious. So often, where people are gathered
together, I have only to look about me to share their thoughts, their
confidences, their secrets. How often I have made a special effort not
to do so. Only once, perhaps, in a thousand times do I light on
something worth a second thought, and then it is by the merest hazard.
Take what I call the case of George Young. Who would suppose that
while eating a hasty lunch in a crowded restaurant I should have
picked up the first threads of what was destined to prove one of my
not least interesting experiences?
I had returned from week-ending with a friend, and was having lunch at
the railway station dining-room before returning to my work. The place
was crowded, with that miscellaneous assemblage which is the
peculiarity of such places. Just as the waiter had brought me what I
ordered, two men, coming hurriedly in, took the only two vacant seats
in sight, at a little round table next to mine. Something in their
appearance attracted my attention. They were of different ages. One
was about thirty, tall, dark, square-faced; the other was possibly
nearly twice that age, a little white-haired man, who looked as if his
health was failing. What caught my attention chiefly was that he
seemed to be in such a curious state of nervousness. He could not keep
still; some part of his body was always in motion; watching him gave
one the jumps. At last his companion commented on it; they were
sitting sideways to me, so that I could see both their faces. The
younger man spoke in a most matter-of-fact way, between the mouthfuls
of cold roast beef which he was eating.
“If I were you, Hutton, I should take something for it.”
It was the first time either had spoken; perhaps it was the
unexpectedness of the remark which caused the elder man to give a sort
of lurch in his chair. He replied with his fork suspended between his
mouth and his plate:
“For what?”
The other answered with a stolidity which was almost bovine:
“For whatever it is you’ve got.”
The elder looked as if, for a moment, he did not grasp the other’s
meaning; then he sighed--a sigh which seemed to come from the very
depths of his being.
“Ah, Walker, I wish I could take something for it; but--who can
minister to a mind diseased? Mandragora would have no effect on me.”
Then he sighed again. An unpleasant look came upon the other’s face;
then he said:
“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense; what do you suppose is the
good of it?”
“There is no good in it--that’s the worst of it; there’ll never be any
good in anything any more; we’ve murdered goodness. You’re a different
type of man from me.”
“Thank heaven!” The speaker took a long drink of beer.
“For one thing, I am nearer the grave than you are; perhaps that’s why
I’m so much more disposed than you to think of what’s beyond it. I
never thought that I should go to the Judgment Seat with such a crime
to answer for; I don’t know what I shall say when I get there. If I
feel like this now, what shall I feel like then?”
“If you don’t stop talking like that, taking up that pose, you and I
will quarrel.”
“I’m not afraid of that, Walker; I’m inclined to wish that you and I
had quarrelled before. Rather Dartmoor with Young than hell with you.”
“You are a pretty creature, Hutton; didn’t the first suggestion come
from you? When we saw the way which things were going, didn’t you hint
to me, pretty clearly, that our only chance was to put Young in the
cart?”
“I dare say; I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t know how it all began; I only
know what it’s come to; and, Walker, I’m afraid to think of how it’s
going to end. What shall I say when I’m before the Judgment Seat of
God?”
“Hutton, I can’t think what’s come to you; you didn’t use to be this
kind of man. You’ll worry yourself into actual illness if you don’t
look out.”
“I’m a sick man already, sick unto death.”
Although they were unaware of the fact, I had become more absorbed in
their conversation than in my lunch; I thought, as he said that, how
he looked it. There was a quality in the coming shadow which seemed to
be upon his face which went to my heart. His companion took another
mouthful of beef and another drink of beer.
“Of course, if it pleases you to feel like that, I can’t help it, can
I? Only--let me give you a tip. You played a trick on George Young,
don’t you try to play a second on me. It won’t benefit you to go to
the Judgment Seat with two crimes to answer for.”
“That’s true; don’t I know it? That’s what holds me in bonds. I’d have
made a clean breast of things before this if I were the only one who
would have to suffer; but we stood together at a critical moment for
both of us, and--how can I play the traitor to you?”
The younger man put down his knife and fork and, sitting back in his
chair, regarded his companion fixedly. He pressed his lips close
together; a savage something came into the expression on his face.
“Hutton, we did this thing together, but the first suggestion came
from you. If I thought that because of any sophistical nonsense, or
because your digestion was out of order, you were meditating putting
me where we put him--I’m not sure that I wouldn’t kill you.”
“I wish you would kill me, Tom; if it weren’t that you’d have to pay
the penalty, I’d say do it at once. I dare not determine my own life;
but--God forgive me for saying so--if some one would do it for me--I’d
be grateful. You don’t know it yet, but one can be in hell even in
this life; I know it--because I’m there.”
His sincerity seemed to impress his younger companion, who looked at
him as if seeking words with which to answer; then, as if finding
none, he summoned the waiter, paid their joint bill, and rose from his
chair.
“Come on,” he said; “aren’t you ready?”
“Yes,” said the old man, with the oddest smile, “I am ready.”
They went out; they had got through their lunch in a very few minutes.
Since their entry I had barely touched mine. I had, before I knew it,
become a confidante in a tragedy under circumstances which had
deprived me of the little appetite I had had. I sat with that old
man’s face in front of me long after they had gone. What would he have
done if he had had the remotest idea that the brown-faced girl at the
next table was drinking in the words which revealed his agony? Would
his companion have liked to kill me? There was one of the moot cases
which I was often putting to myself. Ought I to carry a board in front
of me--“Warning to all those present! I can tell every word you are
saying by merely looking at your faces”? Or ought I to go to each
individual separately, observing, “Do be careful what you say--I have
only to glance at your lips to know what it is. You just now asked the
waiter for the mustard; suppose you had been discussing the family
skeleton, I should have known what it was”? Neither of those courses
commended itself to me; still I ought not to have watched the two men
at the little table next to mine; yet--at the moment it had seemed as
if I could not help it. For days afterwards I kept asking myself what
was the nature of the tragedy which made that old gentleman so willing
that his companion should kill him.
In the late summer of that year I went to a seaside town, which I will
call Easthampton. I believed it to be an obscure hamlet, until, on
getting there, I found it impossible to rent a bed and sitting-room,
either for love or money. It seemed that every house in the place was
crammed to the roof. When I had received the same answer for about the
twentieth time, I asked the flyman, who was taking me from one likely
house to another, if there was still another he could think of.
“I can’t say, miss, that there is; at least there is a cottage in the
fields about half a mile along the shore in which you might find
accommodation, but I can’t say that I know much in its favour.”
“Do you know anything against it?”
“I can’t say exactly that I do, not against the house itself, that
is.”
There was something in his tone which, ordinarily, might have prompted
me to ask him what he meant; but there was my box, and there was I,
and neither of us wanted to go back to town, and the outlook began to
appear desperate. I told him to drive me to that cottage. It turned
out to have just the accommodation I was looking for and to be quite a
charming cottage in itself. It was not overburdened with furniture,
but there was all I needed, and the rooms were spotlessly clean. Then,
I liked the landlady: she was quite a pretty woman, possibly not more
than twenty-six years old. She told me she had one child, a girl of
six, and kept no servant but did all the work herself. When I touched
on the question of terms, she asked if I thought fifteen shillings a
week too much. As at the last house at which I had made inquiries they
had told me that their terms at that time of the year were a guinea
and a half per room, without extras, which amounted to I do not know
how much more, I thought them absurdly little. I entered on my tenancy
then and there.
I was never in more comfortable quarters. I had been threatened by one
of those nervous collapses which do come to me when I have been
overworked, and rest, comfort, and fresh air were the three things of
which I had need. I found them all three at Laurel Cottage. And my
landlady was a most charming person; no make-believe lady, but a very
real one. Before I had been in the place four-and-twenty hours I was
wondering how she could have come to be where she was. Although she
showed herself unusually competent to do the work she had undertaken,
I was certain that only very lately had she done anything of the kind.
She was very reticent. She told me that her name was Mrs. Vinton, and
that she was a widow--her husband had been dead three years. I could
see that she was very poor, but she never allowed a hint to escape her
that she had ever occupied a different position. Since she was
practically my sole companion, I saw a good deal of her. Mine was the
only sitting-room the house contained. I asked her to share it with
me, she and her little girl. She did bring her sewing and sit with me
nearly every evening, and often I sat with her in the kitchen, which
was quite as comfortable as my sitting-room. I never met a woman who
had a finer gift of silence. She could sit for hours and say nothing;
not because she had nothing to talk about; she was not only a highly
educated woman but she had seen a great deal of the world. She had
been to most of the places I knew, and to many I did not. What cause
she had for silence I could not tell; she had a cause; she could talk
freely, and brightly, and charmingly enough upon all sorts of subjects
when she could forget it; then memory would return, and in an instant
she would become almost like one of the dumb folks with whom so much
of my life was spent.
I admit that she interested me greatly; in a way she mystified me
still more. One or two trifles set me wondering. One evening, as I was
going to my room to change my blouse for dinner, the door of the
bedroom which she shared with her small child was wide open. She was
putting the maid to bed. The child, kneeling at her mother’s knee, was
about to say her prayers; the mother, bending over, said to her:
“I want you, Nellie, to pray for papa to-night very specially indeed;
it’s his birthday.”
Tears fell from her eyes on to the child’s fair hair. I had left my
walking shoes downstairs and was moving very quietly; I suppose that
was why she had not heard me come. I just glanced in as I passed, and
that was all I saw her say--and that left me with a feeling of having
intruded on a sacred confidence. Yet in such fashion am I constituted
that I could not help thinking--though it was no business of mine. I
had been there ten days. She had told me, in so many words, that her
husband was dead--had been dead three years; she had told me so more
than once. If he had died three years ago, why did she direct her
child to pray for him so specially because it was his birthday? She
was not a Roman Catholic, she was a member of the Church of England.
She did not pray for the souls of the dead; why had she made such a
point of wishing her child to do so?
The very next day something else occurred. I made another intrusion on
her confidence--I protest, quite unwillingly. It was when I was
passing the kitchen window, which, like the bedroom door on the
previous evening, was wide open. I could not help seeing that Mrs.
Vinton was on her knees beside the kitchen table, that she had a
photograph in her hands, that tears were streaming down her cheeks,
and that her lips were forming words.
“My dear! my dear! May the Lord God bless and keep you, and send you
back to me before my heart is quite broken.”
The words were undoubtedly addressed to the original of the photograph
which she had in front of her. Plainly, there was a skeleton in this
lady’s cupboard. Why did she say her husband was dead if she prayed
the Lord God to send him back to her? It struck me that if he were to
come back to her before her heart was broken he would have to be
pretty quick. That some secret grief was eating into her soul was
pretty clear. Observation has convinced me that a grief shared is a
grief halved. This woman was fighting alone when she had much better
have some one else at her side. I was so drawn to her that I was
prepared to be that some one. I resolved to force her confidence.
It was the following evening, after dinner. We were at my sitting-room
window, looking out across the wheat-field which divided us from the
sea. Although she had done her best to hide it, I felt pretty certain
that she had been crying nearly all day long. She looked worn and
white, and almost like one at despair’s last gate.
“If you are not careful, Mrs. Vinton, you will make yourself ill.”
With this remark I broke a silence which was becoming almost painful.
She started, and her cheeks were flushed with pink--I did not like the
way in which that pink flush came and went.
“Why do you say that?” she asked, with startled eyes.
“Because it is so obvious. I wonder if you’ll forgive me if I say
something. Do you know that each of us has been keeping a secret from
the other?”
“What do you mean?” Her surprise seemed to increase. The sewing, which
she had seemed for some time to have lacked energy to continue,
slipped from her unconscious fingers on to the floor.
“The secret I have kept from you is that I have the gift of seeing
what people say by merely watching their lips, even if they are
speaking to themselves.”
“I don’t understand. How can you possibly do that?” Her eyes seemed to
grow larger; they were very pretty eyes. She sat straight up on her
chair; just now she had seemed to be a limp rag, I was certainly
putting life into her.
“The secret you have been keeping from me is that your husband is
still alive.” I had done it then--she got off her chair with quite a
jump.
“Miss Lee!”
I thought she was going to say things to me, pointed things; she would
have been quite justified. What she actually did was to collapse in a
sort of heap on to the floor, pillow her head on the seat of the chair
on which she had been sitting, and burst into tears. It was my turn to
be startled. I sat for a moment silent, then, kneeling beside her on
the floor, I put my hands on her shoulders, whispering:
“I am so sorry to have intruded on your confidence, but I could not
help it; I would not have said a word about it, only I felt you were
in such trouble and I thought that I might help; I can be of help at
times. Keep your own counsel if you like; if you like I will never
speak of it again; but if you think it just possible that a human
being can be of help--give me a chance.”
She stood up, the tears still streaming down her cheeks.
“I am ashamed of myself, Miss Lee. I have been ashamed ever since I
told you I was a widow, and afraid, because I knew you would find out;
I suppose some one has been telling you something.”
“Not a word. All I know you have told me yourself.” I explained to her
how that was. Her tears ceased to fall; the expression on her face was
like a note of exclamation. “You see, it is because of this gift I
have of reading people’s most secret thoughts--sometimes, as in your
case, even against my will--that I thought I might be of some little
help to you; that gift of mine has been of help to people now and
then.”
“I don’t see how you can be of help to me; I am past helping;
that’s--that’s where it is. It’s quite true, as you say, that my
husband is alive; but he might as well be dead, because he’s in
prison.”
She said it with what I dare say she meant to be an air of defiance,
but even as she spoke she shuddered, and she put her hands up to her
face. Her words were unexpected. I do not know why, but I had taken it
for granted that he had deserted her, or that for some reason they had
parted. I had not thought it was like that; I felt ashamed of myself
for having touched upon so tender a spot. I told her so.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Vinton; I did not guess it was that
way--please forgive me; still, perhaps I can be of help to you--please
give me a chance. Don’t think me conceited--sometimes I have wrought
wonders.”
Neither her attitude nor her words were encouraging; she stood very
straight, her hands to her sides, her cheeks very white, her voice
suddenly grown hard and cold; something in her manner went to my
heart.
“My husband was sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude; he has
served three; under those circumstances, I don’t see what help you, a
perfect stranger, can be to me. I had a little money when--when it
happened, but it is nearly all gone. I thought to make a little by
letting lodgings, but I have not made enough to pay the rent even of
this cottage.”
“I might at least be able to send you some lodgers.”
“Do you think people will come and lodge with me when they know who I
am? They whisper all sorts of things about me in Easthampton--I know.
I don’t suppose anyone knows the whole truth about me, I have done my
best to hide it, but even as it is they shun me as if I were the
plague. I sometimes think that I must create an atmosphere about me in
which decent creatures cannot breathe.”
“That is nonsense; I have never breathed better than since I knew you;
I believe that I am fairly decent.”
I was at a loss for things to say, the situation being one for which I
was so utterly unprepared. Had I realized what was the real story of
the missing husband, I might have had my mind in order; as it was, the
thing of which I was chiefly conscious was that banalities were out of
place. Presently she gave me unlooked-for help, while inflicting on me
what was very like a snub.
“This is a subject, Miss Lee, on which you have forced my
confidence--I am not sure, quite fairly; whether you go or stay, on
one point there must be no misunderstanding--it is a subject on which
you must never speak to me again. But before quitting it for ever, I
should like to make myself clear to you on one matter; the jury found
him guilty, the judge sent him to prison for fourteen years, the world
thinks that punishment well merited; but I know that my husband is
innocent. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll see about your dinner.”
She turned to leave the room; but something within made it impossible
for me to let her go--at least without an effort to detain her.
“Mrs. Vinton!--One moment, please! Don’t you see that if your husband
is innocent, that is just the point on which I might be able to help
you?”
Again her manner was not encouraging; she looked me up and down as if
I were some one distinctly undesirable.
“Help me?--You?--How can you help me?”
“I might be able to make your husband’s innocence clear to the whole
world.”
Her pretty face was distorted by a smile which was worse than tears.
“You must forgive me, Miss Lee, but circumstances have made me
suspicious of the whole world. Why should you, an entire stranger,
take such an interest in a woman who lets you lodgings for a fortnight
or three weeks? Do you suppose that if it were an easy thing to
establish my husband’s innocence that I should not have done it long
ago? I truly believe I have done all that can be done; do you
seriously think that you could succeed where I have failed? You say
you have wrought wonders; I do not know who you are, nor anything
about you; you will have to work a miracle to restore my husband to
his former place among his fellow-men; yet I tell you he is innocent.”
“Even miracles may be worked. You say that he is innocent. I have
sufficient confidence in your judgment, Mrs. Vinton----”
“My name is not Vinton; nor is my husband’s. His name is George
Young.” I suppose it was because I started that she added: “Now you
will probably adopt a different tone; in common with all the world you
held my husband to be guilty.”
“I know nothing of either your husband’s innocence or guilt.”
“You recognized his name; you must be acquainted with his case. The
newspapers made it one of the topics of the hour.”
“Nearly four years ago I left England for a long tour round the world;
your husband’s trial must have taken place while I was away. If there
was an account of it in any of the few English papers I saw during my
absence I never read it.”
“I saw you start when I said my husband’s name was George Young; if
you did not know it, why start as if you did?”
Her tone was suspicious, even resentful.
“I have a retentive memory; I keep all sorts of facts there as it were
in pigeon-holes; I had a feeling, when you mentioned it, that I had
heard your husband’s name before, and was wondering in which
pigeon-hole it was.”
“You probably heard it in connection with his trial; how else could
you have done? What is the matter with you? Why do you jump up like
that?”
“I do believe I’ve found the pigeon-hole,” I said. “Of all the
extraordinary things. Talk about wonders.” I sat down again as
suddenly as I had risen. “You have heard how the mouse helped the
lion; I honestly think it is within the range of possibility that I
may be able to help you. You say your husband’s name was George
Young--tell me all about him; although what you say is quite true, and
I am an entire stranger, I don’t think you will regret it. With what
was he charged?”
She hesitated; looked at me very fixedly; then she asked herself, as
if unwillingly--her lips moving so slightly that only my keen eyes
could have caught the words which were shaped on them:
“I wonder if I can trust her?”
“Yes,” I exclaimed, the instant her lips had formed the words, “you
can; Mrs. Young, you can trust me wholly.”
How she stared!--as if I were some amazing object.
“Miss Lee!” she gasped. “What--what do you mean?”
“Did I not tell you that by merely looking at a person’s lips I can
tell what he is saying--even, sometimes, what he is thinking? I saw
the words upon your lips, ‘I wonder if I can trust her,’ and I tell
you that you can. I do not wish to gush, or to indulge in any
high-fallutin, but I should not wonder if I turned out to be one of
the best friends you ever had. Now tell me with what your husband was
charged.”
Abandoning her intention of quitting the room to look after my dinner,
she had sunk upon a chair, seeming like one who was suffering from
shock. Her words limped a little.
“My husband was managing clerk to a firm of solicitors. He was about
to be made a partner when it was discovered, that, among other things,
a large number of securities which had been entrusted to his
principals for safe-keeping were missing. They were very fond of
George, and for his sake as well as their own they did their best to
try to conceal the facts, in hope of restitution. There was a trust
fund of rather more than twenty thousand pounds of which they were
custodians; when the trustees wanted the money, it was gone; they
charged George with taking it. Other charges were made against him in
the course of the trial; but it was on that charge that he was found
guilty and sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude. I have
newspapers upstairs containing a full report of his examination before
the magistrate, and afterwards of his trial. You can read them if you
like; you will see that nothing can be clearer than the evidence
against him; yet I tell you he is innocent.”
The story, told thus baldly, did not sound very lucid; it would have
to be told at much greater length and with much more attention to
detail if even the rudimentary facts were to be adequately grasped;
but it was not those facts I was after. My thoughts were travelling in
a direction of their own; they were in that railway refreshment-room,
in which two men were lunching at a little table next to mine--two men
whose conversation had so oddly affected me almost willy-nilly. Had
they been sent to that particular table, and had I been directed to
watch them, by what almost seemed to be a special Providence? I might
be on a wrong tack altogether; it behoved me to be careful; I felt my
way.
“What was the name of the firm by which your husband was employed?”
“Hutton--Hutton and Walker. Young Mr. Hutton had died sometime before
the discoveries were made. The firm consisted of old Mr. Hutton, the
senior partner, and Mr. Walker.”
“Was his name Thomas Walker? and did Mr. Hutton sometimes call him
Tom?”
“You know the firm--or do you know Tom Walker? His name was Tom. I was
almost engaged to him once, and should have been quite, if George had
not--well, you know.”
A faint flush tinged her white cheeks; I wondered if that had had
anything to do with the position Mr. Walker had taken up.
“Was Mr. Hutton a little man, all a bundle of nerves?”
“His nerves were strong enough before the trouble began; he was a very
able man; his health broke down after it was over--he grew old all of
a sudden. Now he is ill and, I believe, unhappy--at least he says so.
It seems to have been almost as great a trouble to him as to me; once
he found out where I was and came to see me; he was so changed that I
hardly knew him. I cannot help thinking that he has my movements
watched, because when I came here I not only concealed my address, but
I changed my name. Yet the other day he wrote to me, a curious,
rambling letter, parts of which almost suggested that he was in his
second childhood. He is at Torquay, and hints that he does not expect
to leave it again alive. But that I can hardly believe. He wants me to
go and see him, but--I couldn’t.”
“What is his address at Torquay? It is just possible that I may go and
see him.”
“You? Then you do know him?”
“I saw him once in my life--and I am not quite sure of that, but I
think I did. He is not conscious of my existence--but it is possible
that he soon will be.”
“You are very mysterious; I don’t understand you in the least. I tell
you everything, you tell me nothing; I hope I have not been even more
foolish than usual--that you are not going to make an improper use of
what I have said.”
“Mrs. Vinton, or Mrs. Young, whichever it is: experience, if not
nature, has made of me a non-committal, cautious kind of creature. I
wish to make no positive statement, but I think it just possible that
before many weeks have passed the miracle of which you spoke may not
seem so impossible as you supposed.”
She plied me with questions, to which, I fear, she received but scanty
answers. I was not sure that I had not said too much already; she grew
quite excited. I had no right to raise her expectations, or to drop so
much as a hint which might cause them to be raised. As perhaps I am
prone to do, I had only jumped to conclusions from what might be quite
insufficient premises; I had absolutely nothing positive to go upon;
it might be the merest will-o’-the-wisp I was chasing; all the same,
when she had given me old Mr. Hutton’s address at Torquay, and had
gone to bed that night, I was convinced that something like a gleam of
hope had come into her life, the responsibility for which lay on me.
It was a pretty heavy responsibility, because if I failed to perform
what the ordinary observer would have said was an impossibility her
last fate would be worse than her first.
I went to Torquay the very next day, having to go right across London
to do so. A tedious journey it was; especially as the nearer I came to
my destination the stronger became the feeling, not only that I might
be engaged on the veriest wild-goose chase, but that anyhow I was
mixing myself up in matters which were not the slightest concern of
mine, and behaving, generally, like a weak-minded busybody, who would
put a finger into other people’s pies. So conscious was I of my folly,
that when the train stopped at Exeter I got out of my carriage,
resolved to go no farther; only when the train was on the point of
restarting did I clamber back again, my impedimenta in both hands. It
was the thought of the white-faced woman who was hoping such great
things of this wild-cat expedition which urged me on again.
On arrival at Torquay I put up at an hotel on the Strand; dined; spent
a very dull evening; and went to bed. The next morning when, waking
up, I remembered where I was and what I was there for, I asked myself
what on earth I was to do. I had no plan of campaign. I could hardly
go to the rooms of that ailing old man and charge him with all sorts
of misdemeanours on the strength of a few words he had uttered in a
public dining-room, which, perhaps, he had never meant at all--or
which, at any rate, had never been intended to bear the significance I
had given them. I dressed, had breakfast, went into the public garden
on the other side of the road, armed with a book and a newspaper.
After I had had enough of reading, which was pretty soon, I wondered
what I was to do next, I had hoped that inspiration would come while
reading; it had not; it had had the cheering result of having left me
more conscious of the futility of my quest. Rising from my seat, I
began to walk about. There were not many people in the garden--I never
have seen many people in Torquay. Somehow, in spite of its pleasant
situation, it always seems to me to be one of the places which have
been, and which now wear an air of decay. Even most of the people you
do see there seem to be “have beens”--the few adults in those public
gardens struck me as relics of humanity. I wondered what their pasts
had been. There was an elderly woman alone on one seat, who was
certainly an old maid, and a very old lady alone on the next, who
looked as if she never could have been young; and on the third there
was an old gentleman----
I stopped as I was approaching that old gentleman, suddenly conscious
of a little catching of the breath. I had seen that old gentleman
before--once; it was to see him a second time that I was there. He
would certainly never recognize me; I was convinced that he had not
recognized me in the first instance; yet it was with an effort that I
brought myself to continue my walk in his direction, and it was with a
feeling of absurd nervousness that I marched slowly past him. I need
not have troubled--he paid not the slightest heed to me. He sat back
in his seat, and his eyes were closed; but not even the most
unobservant could have supposed that he slept--there was a look upon
his face which no sleeper ever has. I thought of what Mrs. Young had
told me he had said in his curious, rambling letter--that he did not
expect to leave Torquay alive. He had not been very far from the mark
there. He looked to me like a very sick man indeed; smaller than when
I had seen him first--as if he had lost both flesh and vitality.
I passed and repassed him six times; not once did he change his
position--he seemed at least to have acquired the art of keeping
still. I was wondering whether or not to address him, and what method
of address to employ, when I had another little shock of surprise.
Some one else had entered the gardens; a tall, upstanding, quite young
man, who certainly did not look as if he were a relic of the past. It
was the square-faced man who had sat with the other at the adjoining
table. He struck me as being the kind of man who does observe; I had
an uncomfortable feeling that he had noticed me on what was likely to
prove that momentous occasion. He eyed me as we passed each other as
if my face was not entirely unfamiliar--as if he were asking himself
where he had seen it before. It would matter little if he recalled the
occasion; yet for some reason I had a feeling that I would rather he
did not.
He went one way, I the other; I had no doubt that he was making for
the old man on the seat. Turning into a side path upon the left, I
turned again into another narrower path which ran parallel with the
broad one I had left. I retraced my steps along it. Between the
intervening shrubs and trees I could see the seats on the broader
walk. When I came abreast of the one on which the old man had been
sitting, he was talking to the new-comer. I was particularly anxious
to know what was being said. A clump of rhododendrons was between us,
high enough, unless particular search was made for a suspected
presence, to serve as a screen. Standing as far back as I could
without losing sight of the two men’s faces, I made it serve as a
screen for me, and I watched, so far as I could, what was being said
upon the seat.
The younger man came up while the elder still had his eyes closed. He
stood for a moment observing him; then he greeted him: “Good morning.”
The old man opened his eyes, looking up at him as if he were not quite
sure who he was; then he said:
“It will never be a good morning to me again--never, never.”
The other smiled ironically.
“Isn’t that rather a strong thing to say on a morning like this, when
the sun’s in a cloudless sky?”
“Nor will there be any sun again for me--ever; for me there is only
outer darkness.”