Gerard glanced at Rachel, but she was too much occupied with her own
thoughts, as she stealthily watched the retreating figure of the
erect, middle-aged gentleman with the snow-white mustache, to pay
any attention to him, or to remark the shrewdness with which his eye
followed the direction of hers.
The fact was that one glance at the stranger outside on the pavement,
and then another at Rachel, had been enough to assure Gerard that he
had at last found the key to the mystery which surrounded the actions
of Miss Davison.
True, it was a key which he could not yet make use of, but he was none
the less confident that he now had it in his hands.
The man in the white mustache, whom Miss Davison at once recognized,
and whose appearance filled her with evident consternation, was, Gerard
felt sure, the leader of the organization which was using the unhappy
girl for its own illegal ends, and his first care, on noting this, was
to hide every sign that he had seen anything.
So he turned to Lady Jennings to give Rachel an opportunity of
recovering her composure.
He was still talking to the old lady when Rachel, taking out her watch,
said--
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Lady Jennings, that I have to be in the
city again this afternoon by four o’clock. I shall only just manage it
if I run away now. Do, do forgive me for having forgotten to tell you
before.”
But Lady Jennings was in no forgiving mood. The news thus suddenly
sprung upon her transformed her at once from an angel of mildness into
an embodiment of just indignation. Drawing herself up, she said--
“This is the third time during the last few days that you have done
this, Rachel, disappointed me at the very moment when we have been
going out together! I can’t understand how you can make appointments
and forget them in this manner. Even if I, who don’t pretend to be
a woman of business, were to do so, I should soon be in a state of
hopeless confusion as to what I had to do and where I had to go.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Rachel meekly. But even as she spoke she was
walking to the door. “But really you don’t know how difficult it is to
reconcile the two conditions, and to be a woman of business and a woman
of leisure at the same time.”
She went out of the room without giving time for any more discussion,
and Lady Jennings turned to Gerard indignantly. The young man had a
sympathetic manner, and old ladies always found in him an interested
hearer.
“Isn’t it too bad of that girl,” she asked, “to treat me in this
manner? I make every allowance for the fact that she is a busy woman,
and that business appointments have to take precedence of social
engagements with her. But when she has expressly asked me to take her
to call on certain people, and at the last moment she throws me over
like this, I really feel that I have just reason to complain. One can’t
treat a duchess in this way, whatever one’s position may be, and it was
to meet the Duchess of Beachborough that I was going to take her this
afternoon.”
“Don’t you think,” suggested Gerard gently, “that it is because she is
overworked that she is rather erratic in her ways just now? It seems
to me that she looks paler every time I see her, and that her face has
grown very much sharper in outline even during the past few weeks.
Couldn’t you persuade her to take a rest from business, and to go away
for a thorough change? I feel it would do her all the good in the
world. Six months abroad, for instance, might make a new woman of her.”
The old lady shook her head.
“You forget her circumstances,” said she. “How can a woman who has any
sort of business connection, leave her work for six months? I don’t
know much about these things, but I feel sure I am right in that.”
Gerard knew that she was, and found it hard to continue his argument.
“At least,” he suggested, “a six weeks’ holiday, then, might be tried
with advantage. Don’t you think so?”
“She has been talking of taking a holiday,” said Lady Jennings rather
coolly, “but I don’t want her to go with me. I want a little rest from
her tiresome ways.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear you say that,” urged Gerard earnestly. “Feeling
the interest I do in Miss Davison, I have always been so glad to think
that she had by her a friend so judicious, so kind, and so considerate
as you.”
“Consideration is wasted upon a girl so self-willed. I don’t mean to
say anything against her. No doubt if she were not headstrong she would
never have done anything for herself or her people. But I confess she
has tried my patience lately.”
“Why doesn’t she go down to her mother for a little while?”
“She was talking of going away with her and with Lilian,” said the old
lady; “but I don’t know whether she has decided upon anything. She
seems now not to know her own mind for two minutes together.”
Gerard felt afraid that it was because she was under the control of a
mind other than her own, and was silent. Lady Jennings sighed.
“However,” she said, “we must hope it is as you say, and that a holiday
of some sort will work wonders in her. I wish you, who appear to have
some influence with her--”
“Oh, no, no; I wish I had!” interpolated Gerard.
“I wish you would talk to her, and try to persuade her to be more
reasonable. You might show her that she is doing herself--and
consequently Lilian--a great deal of harm by her vagaries. People won’t
take the younger sister up, as Rachel wants them to do, if they find
the elder is too much of a handful.”
Gerard was dismayed by what he heard. He felt that if Lady Jennings
were to throw Rachel over, the girl would be left entirely to the
influence of those false friends who must, he felt sure, be already
poisoning her happiness and spoiling her life. Ineffectual as Lady
Jennings’ friendship and protection appeared to be in restraining her
in her reckless course of conduct, Gerard clung to the hope that a
short period of rest might bring reflection, and that, as long as her
best friends stood by her, she might at least be saved from giving
herself up wholly to the bad influences which were at work upon her,
and that he himself might, by probing the mystery surrounding her to
the very bottom, be able to save her from her dangerous acquaintances,
by threatening to put the police on the track of the gang.
“I will talk to her,” said he, in a low voice; “though I’m afraid it
won’t have much effect.”
“She likes you very much, I know. She uses you as an example of what a
man should be,” said Lady Jennings.
Gerard’s face brightened in spite of himself.
“Does she really?”
“Only this morning she did, in speaking to her sister. Will you, Mr.
Buckland, dine with us to-morrow night, and see what you can do with
her?”
“I’m afraid I’m engaged to-morrow night.”
“What night can you come?”
“I’ve got to go down to some friends on the river for the week-end.
That will take me up to Monday.”
“And this is Thursday. Let me see. How will Wednesday next suit you?”
“I should be delighted to come.”
Gerard was on his feet, most anxious to get away, for he had heard the
door shut after Rachel, and he was determined to follow her and to
witness, if possible, her meeting with the man of the white mustache.
He shook hands with his hostess, and went away with the proper air of
leisured reluctance.
But when once he was outside, he went up the street at a great pace,
taking it for granted that Rachel, who was no longer in sight, would
have gone in the same direction as the stranger.
He slackened his pace when he got to Sloane Square, and taking great
care never to leave the shelter of a crowd, a matter which was easy
enough at that time in the afternoon, he looked about him in all
directions for a sign of either the white-haired man or Miss Davison.
And at last he caught sight of them both, the man a little in front of
the girl, making their way to the station.
They had no sooner disappeared than Gerard crossed the road hastily
in pursuit, and, still taking care to keep himself out of their
sight, watched them go down the stairs; taking a ticket himself, he
followed them down to the platform, where they were now engrossed in
conversation.
Gerard had deliberately set himself the task of getting as near as he
could to them without being seen, in order to overhear, if possible,
enough of their conversation to know in what relation these two stood
to each other.
And, even before he heard a word they were saying, he knew by what he
saw all that he wanted to know.
For the white-haired stranger, who was a handsome, well-preserved man
of about sixty years of age or perhaps a little younger, was evidently
laying down the law to Miss Davison, quietly but emphatically, speaking
in such a low voice that not a word he uttered went beyond her ears,
but so effectively that the girl, who was trembling as she stood with
bent head before him, listened in absolute submissive silence to what
Gerard felt must be directions, commands.
Not until their train came in with the usual rattle and roar, and the
hurrying movement among the passengers began, did the white-haired man
raise his voice. Then Gerard, from behind them, as they moved towards
the train, caught these words uttered by Miss Davison in a tone of
despair--
“Won’t you let me off? Haven’t I done enough?”
He did not hear the answer, but he heard a little faint moan from the
girl, which told him that her request had been refused. Then he heard
the man’s voice, as he whispered something quickly into the girl’s ear,
and, raising his hat, immediately hurried on to a smoking carriage.
Left by herself, Miss Davison got into a first-class compartment, into
which Gerard followed her. She went quickly to the extreme end of it,
and sitting down with her back turned towards him, affected to be
reading a letter.
But he knew very well that she could not see, that she was quietly
shedding tears, and that, having heard him get in without guessing who
he was, she had used the pretense of the letter so that, bending over
it, she could dry her eyes furtively without, as she believed, being
observed.
The train started, no other passengers having got in with them.
They stopped at the next station, and still Rachel had not moved.
Gerard’s heart bled for her. He knew that she was miserable, that she
was being coerced, that she was suffering tortures, which must be
doubly keen to a woman as proud as she was, and that she was in such
a position that she could not go for comfort or advice to any of her
friends.
What the conditions were which the white-haired man had insisted upon
with her, what the work was that he commanded her to do, he could not,
of course, tell. But that there was something distasteful in the work,
something shocking, terrible to her, in the task he had insisted upon
her performing, was no longer open to question.
The words he had heard her utter in remonstrance to the man still rang
in Gerard’s ears.
“Won’t you let me off? Haven’t I done enough?”
What was it that she had done already? What was it that he now wanted
her to do? In spite of all he knew, and all he had seen and heard, in
spite of the suspicions which would crop up at every point of their
acquaintance, concerning the mysterious work upon which Miss Davison
was engaged, Gerard had never ceased to ask himself whether there might
not be some possible explanation of the suspicious circumstances, some
more favorable interpretation to be put upon her mysterious actions,
than the obvious one that she was engaged in some sort of criminal
enterprise, or that she was not responsible for her actions.
This meeting with the man of the white mustache seemed to make the
latter hypothesis untenable. Kleptomaniacs do not act under orders;
they steal from impulse and impulse alone.
Whereas Rachel was plainly under orders, acting against her own will,
and at the instigation of someone with a will stronger than her own.
It was utterly incomprehensible to Gerard how a woman of Miss Davison’s
birth and breeding, a woman who had seemed to him exceptionally
high-principled, honest, fearless, and strong-willed, should so far
have stifled all the natural and acquired instincts and principles of
an honorable woman as to have listened to the suggestions of a man
engaged in some sort of nefarious enterprise.
Was the theory of hypnotism to be considered? Gerard knew very little
about the subject, but had a vague idea that persons under hypnotic
influence, far from protesting, as he had heard her do, against the
power they feel, act like machines, without strength enough to protest
against the will that makes them commit acts at which, were they free
agents, their minds might well revolt in horror and dismay.
His heart went out to the girl, in spite of all that he had heard; and,
touched to the quick by the misery which he knew her to be suffering,
he suddenly left his seat, placed himself near her on the opposite side
of the compartment, and said in a low earnest voice--
“Miss Davison, what is troubling you? Won’t you speak to me?”
The girl started back, dashed away the tears which had gathered in her
eyes, and sat up and faced him.
“Have you been here all the time, watching me, spying on me again?”
Her tone was not passionate, or even indignant. She was worn out,
irritable, impatient. That was all.
“I got in when you got in. Yes, call it spying if you like, I followed
you from Lady Jennings’ house.”
“Of course,” interrupted she impatiently. “I thought I had slipped away
without your seeing me, but I might have known you were too clever for
me. Pray, what made you come?”
She had dashed away her tears, sat up, and tried to resume her ordinary
manner. She was evidently not sure how much he knew, and was trying to
“bluff.”
Gerard looked down and answered quietly. He must tell her all he knew,
in the hope that she would then admit the rest.
“I came because I knew--or at least I guessed--that you were going to
meet someone, someone whom you saw from the window.”
She flushed with surprise.
“You have keen eyes!” she said sarcastically.
She might mean that he had seen more than there was to be seen, or
merely that she admitted there was something to see which he had been
quick to notice.
“They are keen where you are concerned, Miss Davison. It is no secret
to you, or to anybody who knows us, that whatever concerns you is of
the deepest interest to me.”
She made a movement as if she would have answered him in the same tone
as before, with sarcasm, with coldness, with an air of being offended;
but before she could utter a word, she glanced askance at him, and
something in his look and manner made her expression change. She looked
down suddenly, and he saw her lower lip quiver.
“I do wish you wouldn’t,” she said querulously, like a child. “Of what
use is it to be interested in me, considering what you think?”
“It’s too late for me to ask if it’s of any use,” said he. “Besides,
isn’t it just possible that it may be of use--to you--to know that
there is someone to whom you could go if you were in a difficulty,
someone who knows so much already that there would be little harm in
telling him the rest?”
She threw a frightened glance at him.
“You know nothing,” she said sharply. “You may guess a great deal, and
put a wrong construction upon everything; but you really know nothing
whatever.”
He hesitated a moment, and then said--
“I know that you are in some way in the power, or under the influence
of a man who wishes you to do things against which you revolt.”
It was evident that, whatever she might pretend, Miss Davison was
startled by this statement.
“How do you know?” she asked abruptly.
He went on, without answering her question--
“And that you have protested, and protested apparently in vain, against
his suggestions, or orders.”
Then she understood, and did not pretend to misunderstand or deny any
longer--
“You have been eavesdropping,” she said contemptuously.
“I would not scruple to do anything that would lead to a better
understanding of the marvel that makes a well-bred, honorable woman do
things which she is ashamed of, and that she does not dare to mention
to her family and friends,” retorted Gerard boldly.
She stared at him, with her lips parted, her eyes very wide open, her
breast heaving. Both were in terrible earnest.
“You talk nonsense,” she said at last sharply. “All your listening
and spying only result in your learning half the truth; and if you
were wise, not to say chivalrous, you would take it for granted that
you were mistaken in your evil thoughts of me, and that there is just
something to be learned which I do not choose to tell you, and which
you have no possible right to know.”
He looked at her steadily.
“I wish I could believe you,” he said. “I wish to Heaven I could. But
it’s impossible to credit that you, a young girl, should have secrets
from all your friends and relations in which there is no harm.”
She faltered and her eyes fell under his gaze.
“Harm!” she echoed, in a hoarse voice. “There are different degrees of
harm. What one person thinks justifiable may shock and disgust another
person. If your ideas of what is right are so very lofty, you have no
right to take for granted that mine, which may be rather lower, are
degrading and wholly unjustifiable.”
“I take nothing for granted. I only see that you are miserable and
unhappy, and that you are so because you are acting against your
conscience at the bidding of a person whom you fear and whose influence
you know to be bad,” retorted Gerard.
She made an impatient movement.
“Why begin the old arguments all over again?” she said shortly. “Why
don’t you see for yourself that I have willingly and with open eyes
adopted a certain course, and why don’t you leave me alone to endure
the punishment if I have done wrong, or to receive the reward if I
have done right? Believe me, you are only harassing me, adding to my
troubles and embarrassments by your persistent persecution. Nothing
will turn me from the course I have entered upon, about which I will
only say this, that I entered upon it of my own free will, with
entire knowledge of its promises and possible rewards, and of its
disadvantages as well.”
“I would leave you alone if you were happy,” burst out Gerard. “It
is because I see you are miserable and harassed, because I hear you
imploring to be let off doing that which you have been ordered to do,
that I beg you to leave this career, and its rewards, and the rest of
it, at any rate for a time. If you would only leave London for a while,
go away somewhere and rest and forget this work and all its troubles,
I would be content. But until you do, until I know that you are taking
the rest and holiday you need, I shall continue what you call my
persecution, in the hope of being near you at the moment--which is sure
to come--when you will want a friend to stand by you, a better one than
those for whom you are working now.”
He was conscious that he was weak in argument, and that his lame words
would have but little effect against the resolve which set her mouth
firm and shone in her mournful eyes.
What he had not been prepared for, however, was the gentleness with
which she received this tirade, as she stood up in the compartment and
prepared to get out at the next station.
“You are only adding to my difficulties,” she said, in a tone of
mournful resignation. “I quite appreciate the kindness of your motives,
but your actions worry and harass me. In gratitude for your good
intentions I say ‘Thank you.’ But in self-defense, as you are with the
best will in the world doing me a decided injury, I must say also: I
wish to Heaven I had never met you, and that I may, now that I have had
the misfortune to meet you, never meet you again.”
She ended with a sort of stifled sob.
The cruel words stabbed Gerard to the heart. He uttered an incoherent
protest, but she would not listen. Going quickly to the end of the
compartment, she remained standing, with her back turned towards him
and without uttering another word, until the train stopped at the next
station, when she hurriedly got out, ran up the steps, and jumped
into a hansom, leaving him, remorseful, uneasy, and miserable, on the
platform.
He had jumped out after her, but saw that it was ridiculous to think of
further pursuit.
But a glance at the moving train as it went out of the station showed
him, in one of the compartments, the face of the white-haired
gentleman, with a faint smile on his cold features.
And Gerard, who saw that the mysterious stranger was looking at him,
with a sort of faint, cold contempt upon his face, wondered vaguely
whether he had not seen those well-cut features, and that inscrutable
expression, somewhere before that day.
And as he walked away and thought the matter over, the impression grew
stronger and stronger upon him that, either in a picture or in the
flesh, he had seen the man’s face before.