HELEN THURWELL ASKS A DIRECT QUESTION
At the summit of the little spur of cliff they paused. Close on one side
were the windows of Falcon's Nest, and on the other the batch of black
firs which formed the background to it ran down the steep cliff side to
the sea. The path which they were following curved round the cottage,
and crossed the moor within a few yards of the spot where Sir Geoffrey
had been found. As they stood together for a moment before parting, she
noticed, with a sudden cold dismay, that thick shutters had recently
been fitted to the windows of the little room into which she had stolen
on the day of Sir Geoffrey's murder.
"Are you afraid of being robbed?" she asked. "One would imagine that
your room there held a secret."
She was watching him, and she told herself the shot had gone to its
mark.
He followed her finger with his eyes, and kept his face turned away from
her.
"Yes, that is so," he answered quietly. "That little room holds its
secret and its ghost for me. Would to God," he cried, with a sudden
passion trembling in his tones, "that I had never seen it--that I had
never come here!"
Her heart beat fast. Could it be that he was going to confess to her?
Then he turned suddenly round, and in the twilight his white face and
dark luminous eyes seemed to her like mute emblems of an anguish which
moved her woman's heart to pity. There was none of the cowardice of
guilt there, nothing of the criminal in the deep melancholy which seemed
to have set its mark upon his whole being. And yet he must be very
guilty--very much a criminal.
Her eyes strayed from his face back to the window again. There was no
light anywhere in the house. It had a cold desolate look which chilled
her.
"Is that the room where you sit?" she asked, pointing to it.
"Yes. There is no other furnished, except my housekeeper's, and she is
away now."
"Away! Then who is with you in the house?"
"At present, no one," he answered. "She was taken ill, and went home
this morning. She is generally ill."
She looked at him perplexed.
"But who does your cooking for you, and light the fires, and that sort
of thing?"
"I haven't thought about it yet," he answered. "I did try to light the
fire this afternoon, but I couldn't quite manage it. I--I think the
sticks must have been damp," he added hesitatingly.
She looked at him, wet through and almost blue with cold, and at the
dull cheerless-looking cottage. Again the woman in her triumphed, and
her eyes filled with tears.
"I never heard anything so preposterous," she exclaimed almost angrily.
"You must be out of your senses, Mr. Brown. Now, be so good as to obey
me at once. Go into the house and get a thick overcoat, the thickest you
have, and then come home with me, and I will give you some tea."
He hesitated, and stood quite still for a moment, with his face turned
steadily away from her. All the subtle sweetness of that last visit of
his to her home had come back to him, and his heart was sick with a
great longing. Was he not a fool to refuse to enter into paradise, when
the gates stood open for him? No words could describe the craving which
he felt to escape, just for a brief while, from the lashings of his
thoughts and the icy misery of his great loneliness. What though he were
courting another sorrow! Could his state be worse than it was? Could any
agony be keener than that which he had already tasted? Were there lower
depths still in the hell of remorse? If so, he would sound them. Though
he died for it, he would not deny himself this one taste of heaven. He
turned suddenly round, with a glow in his eyes which had a strange
effect upon her.
"You are very good to me, Miss Thurwell," he said. "I will come."
"That is sensible of you," she answered. "Get your coat, and you can
catch me up. I think we had better go back the same way, as it is
getting late."
She walked slowly down the path, and he hurried into the cottage. In a
few minutes he overtook her, wrapped in a long Inverness cape from head
to foot, and they walked on side by side.
The grey afternoon had suddenly faded into twilight. Overhead several
stars were already visible, dimly shining through a gauze-like veil of
mist stretched all over the sky, and from behind a black line of firs on
the top of a distant hill the moon had slowly risen, and was casting a
soft weird light upon the saddened landscape. Grey wreaths of
phantom-like mist were floating away across the moor, and a faint breeze
had sprung up, and was moaning in the pine plantation when they reached
the hand-gate. They paused for a moment to listen, and the dull roar of
the sea from below mingled with it in their ears. She turned away with a
shudder.
"Come!" she said; "that sound makes me melancholy."
"I like it," he answered. "Nature is an exquisite musician. I never yet
heard the sea speak in a tone which I did not love to hear. Listen to
that slow mournful rise of sound, reaching almost to intensity, and then
dying away so sadly--with the sadness that thrills. Ah! did you hear
that? The shrieking of those pebbles dragged down to the sea, and crying
out in almost human agony. I love the sea."
"Is that why you came to this desolate part of the world?" she asked.
"Partly."
"Tell me the whole reason," she said abruptly. "Was there anything
special which made you fix on this neighborhood? You may think me
curious, if you like--but I want to know."
"I had a vow to keep," he answered hoarsely. "You must ask me no more. I
cannot tell you."
Her heart sank like lead. A vow to keep. There was something ominous in
the sound of those words. She stole a glance at him as they walked on in
silence, and again her judgments seemed put to confusion and her hopes
revived. His face, dimly seen in the shadows of the plantation, was
suddenly illuminated by a pale quivering moonbeam, as they passed
through a slight opening. Could these be the features of a murderer? Her
whole heart rebelled against her understanding, and cried out "No!" For
the first time she realized the aesthetic beauty of his face, scarred and
wasted though it was by the deep lines of intellectual toil and
consuming sorrow. There was not a line out of place, save where his
cheek-bones projected slightly, owing to his extreme thinness, and left
deep hollows under his eyes. Nor was his expression the expression of a
guilty man, for, notwithstanding the intense melancholy which dwelt
always in his dark eyes, and seemed written into every feature, there
was blended with it a strange pride, the slight yet wholesome contempt
of a man conscious of a certain superiority in himself, neither physical
nor in any way connected with material circumstances, over the majority
of his fellows. And as the realization of this swept in upon her, and
her faith in him suddenly leaped up with a new-born strength, there came
with it a passionate desire to hear him proclaim his innocence with his
own lips, and, having heard it, to banish for ever doubts and
suspicions, and give herself up to this new sweetness which was hovering
around her life. She caught hold of his hand, but dropped it almost at
once, for the fire which flashed into his face at the touch of her
fingers half frightened her. He had come to a sudden standstill, and
before his eyes she felt hers droop and the hot color burn her cheeks.
What had come to her? She could not tell. She was nervous, almost faint,
with the dawning promise of a bewildering happiness. Yet her desire
still clung to her, and she found words to express it.
"I cannot bear this any longer," she cried. "I must ask you a question,
and you must answer it. The thought of it all is driving me mad."
"For God's sake, ask me nothing!" he said in a deep hollow tone. "Let me
go back. I should not be here with you."
"You shall not go," she answered. "Stand there where the light falls
upon your face, and answer me. Was it you who killed Sir Geoffrey
Kynaston? Tell me, for I will know."
There was a dead silence, which seemed to her fevered nerves
intolerable. From all around them came the quiet drip, drip, of the
rain, from the bending boughs on to the damp soaked ground, and at that
moment a slight breeze from over the moorland stirred amongst the
branches, and the moisture which hung upon them descended in little
showers. From below, the dull roar of the sea came up to them in a
muffled undertone, like a melancholy background to the slighter sound.
There was an indescribable dreariness about it all which quickened the
acute agony of those few moments.
More awful than anything to her was the struggle which she saw in that
white strained face half hidden in his clasped hands. What could
hesitation mean but guilt? What need was there for it? Her feet seemed
turned to stone upon the cold ground, and her heart almost stopped
beating. There was a film before her eyes, and yet she saw his face
still, though dimly, and as if it were far off. She saw his hands
withdrawn, and she saw his ashen lips part slowly.
"I did not kill Sir Geoffrey Kynaston," he said in a low constrained
voice. "If my life could have saved his, I would have given it."
A warm golden light seemed suddenly to banish the misty gloom of the
damp plantation. The color rushed into her cheeks, and her heart leaped
for joy. She heard, and she believed.
"Thank God!" she cried, holding out both her hands to him with a sudden
impulsive gesture. "Come! let us go now."
She was smiling softly up at him, and her eyes were wet with tears. He
took one quick passionate step towards her, seizing her hands, and
drawing her unresistingly towards him. In a moment she would have been
in his arms--already a great trembling had seized her, and her will had
fled. But that moment was not yet.
Something seemed to have turned him to stone. He dropped her fingers as
though they were burning him. A vacant light eclipsed the passion which
had shone a moment before in his eyes. Suddenly he raised his hands to
the sky in a despairing gesture.
"God forgive me!" he cried. "God forgive me!"
For very shame at his touch, and her ready yielding to it, her eyes had
fallen to the ground. When she raised them he was gone. There was the
sound of his retreating footsteps, the quick opening and closing of the
hand-gate, and through the trees she saw him walking swiftly over the
cliffs. Then she turned away, with her face half hidden in her hands,
and the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
Again there was silence, only broken by the louder roar of the incoming
tide, and the faint rustling of the leaves. Suddenly it was broken by a
human voice, and a human figure slowly arose from a cramped posture
behind a clump of shrubs.
"Holy Moses! if this ain't a queer start," remarked Mr. Benjamin Levy,
shaking the wet from his clothes, and slowly filling a pipe. "Wants him
copped for murder, and yet tries to get him to make up to her. She's a
deep un, she is. I wonder if she was in earnest! If only she was, I
think I see my way to a real good thing--a real good thing," he
repeated, meditatively.