At first I could scarce believe my own eyes. In the window, just as I
had seen it on that fateful night, was the stuffed bear cub, and behind
the smoky panes was a pale, haggard face peering forth wistfully, yet
cautiously, as though in expectation of the passing of some person to
whom the signal would convey a meaning, a face upon which anxiety and
terror were betrayed--the countenance of the woman I had so suddenly
grown to love.
In an instant, at sight of me, she drew back and was lost to view, there
remaining only that curious yet fatal sign that conveyed so much to the
person or persons for whom it was exhibited.
The house presented the same dingy, neglected appearance as before, the
steps uncleaned and covered with pieces of paper and wisps of straw, the
jetsam of the street. The shutters of the basement were still closed,
and upon the area gate was a stout chain and heavy padlock. It was a
roomy yet depressing place, more depressing than any other in the whole
of Bloomsbury, a strange air of mystery pervading it from basement to
attic.
My first impulse was to ascend those neglected steps and inquire for
Lady Judith; but, on reflection an instant later, the fact that she had
withdrawn so quickly from the window made it evident that she did not
wish me to discover here there--that, indeed, she was in Selby's house
in secrecy.
She had evidently been watching long and vigilantly for some person she
expected would pass for the purpose of receiving the sign. The intent,
anxious look upon her countenance told me this. But instead of the
person she was looking for, I, the least expected, had suddenly come
upon the scene and detected her. Her mouth had opened as her eyes met
mine, and I knew that a cry had escaped her as she had fallen back
behind the dusty curtains.
She was still watching me most probably, therefore I did not glance up
again, but merely walked on as leisurely as before, and turned the
corner out of Harpur Street.
I stood for some minutes deliberating whether it were policy to go
boldly to the house and inquire for her. What could I lose by so doing?
Little--very little. What could I gain? A few minutes' chat, perhaps,
with the woman who, although she held herself so aloof from me, was
nevertheless always in my thoughts.
I was determined to get at the bottom of the mystery of that secret
sign; therefore, without hesitation, I drew a long breath, turned again
into Harpur Street, and, ascending the steps, rapped loudly at the door.
The place sounded hollow, as a half-empty house always does. But there
was no response.
I listened attentively at the door, but the roar of the traffic over the
granite in Theobald's Road prevented my hearing anything distinctly.
Nevertheless, my quick ear caught sounds of whispering within. A door
somewhere in the hall was closed and locked, and then I heard a man's
low, gruff voice exclaim, "Not yet--not yet, you fool!"
All was silent again, and I waited in patience for a couple of minutes
longer. Then I gave another sounding _rat-tat-tat_ that rang through
the hollow house.
Again there was a movement in the hall, and softly footsteps crossed the
linoleum, which was comparatively new, I felt sure, by its stickiness.
Somebody was whispering; then a few seconds later the chain was
withdrawn, and the door was opened half-way by Mrs Pickard, the little
wizened old lady in black cap and dress, the same who had crossed the
Channel bearing The Closed Book to England.
Fortunately she did not recognise me, so I inquired, "You have a lady
named Gordon here? She has just recognised me from the window. Will
you ask her whether she will see me for a few moments, as I wish to
speak with her on a rather important matter?"
"She has noticed you," was the little old woman's reply, "and she's just
putting on her hat. She'll be down to speak with you in a few moments,
if you'll wait," and she admitted me to the hall, which was covered with
a cheap black-and-white oilcloth, and showed me to the dining-room,
which overlooked the street--a big, old-fashioned apartment, very dingy,
with ceiling and walls smoke-grimed, and furnished in an inexpensive and
tasteless style, which bore "hire system" marked upon it as plainly as
though the chairs and tables were ticketed "easy payments taken." The
carpet was one of those Kidderminster squares that always appear in
hire-system furnishing, and the furniture was of veneered walnut,
covered with dark-green plush. There was no overmantel, no sideboard,
nothing, indeed, to give it the slightest air of comfort. The room
somehow looked as though it had only just been furnished, and that with
some motive, for it was evidently not the dining-room in use.
After making a tour of inspection, I stood before the empty
old-fashioned grate, listening intently. There were footsteps in the
room above--the drawing-room--but no other sound. The dismal outlook,
the utter cheerlessness of the room, the sooty curtains waving slowly at
the half-opened window, added to the atmosphere of gloom which pervaded
the interior even to a greater extent than the exterior. It was
certainly a house of mystery.
Once I thought I heard renewed whisperings in the hall; but only for a
moment, then all was silent again.
At last the door opened, and there appeared my pale-faced love, neatly
dressed in black, with a small toque that suited her admirably, and a
bodice that showed off her figure to perfection. Her sombre attire
heightened the pallor of her countenance, yet, as she approached me with
a sweet smile and outstretched hand, I saw that she possessed a
marvellous self-control.
"Only fancy your recognising me, Mr Kennedy!" she cried. "I'm so glad.
You left Sheringham suddenly, and no one knew where you had gone."
"I, too, have been wanting to meet you again," I said, "and believed you
to be still at Saxlingham."
"I returned to town yesterday," she answered. "But if we are to talk,
had we not better go for a walk?" she suggested. Then she added, in a
low, confidential whisper, "There are eager ears here."
Nothing loath to escape from that house of mystery, I agreed to her
proposal, and she let me out, after considerable trouble with a very
complicated lock, which I noted could not be undone by anyone
unacquainted with its secret--another suspicious circumstance.
Outside, we turned towards Theobald's Road, and I walked beside her in
the hazy glow of the London sunset, full of admiration of her beauty,
her grace, and her sweetness of expression.
As we walked towards Oxford Street I told her of my desire to be, if not
in public, then in secret, her friend.
"But why?" she asked, opening her splendid eyes widely.
"Because--well, because I believe we shall be good friends some day," I
said lamely, for it was on the tip of my tongue there, in that crowded
street, openly to declare myself.
"We are good friends now, otherwise I would not be out walking with you
here," she remarked.
"Exactly; but there is still a stronger reason," I said. "You will
recollect that when I met you on that path across the cliffs you
confessed to me your unhappiness--that in your heart there lies
concealed some terrible secret which has driven you to despair, and
which--"
"My secret?" she gasped, looking at me suddenly with the same expression
of terror I had seen upon her face on that wet night in Harpur Street.
"Who told you of my secret?"
"No one," I said quietly. "But to me the truth is apparent, and it is
for that reason that I desire to stand your friend. You recollect you
spoke of your enemies, who were so strong that they had crushed you.
Will you not let me render you assistance against them; may I not act on
your behalf? You surely can trust me?"
I asked her the reason of her visit to that house of mystery and the
meaning of the symbol of the bear cub, but she hesitated, just as she
had done before. Ah! how blind is man to the beginning of any series of
great consequences!
All our previous conversation passed through my mind like a flash, and I
saw how utterly I had failed to convince her of my good intentions in
her interest.
The curious breach between father and daughter was inexplicable, just as
much as their secret presence in London or their association with that
dingy house in Harpur Street.
"I know that in ordinary circumstances the small knowledge you have of
me would cause you to hesitate to allow me to become your confidential
friend," I went on in deep earnestness. "But these circumstances are
surely extraordinary ones. You are in distress, threatened by enemies
who terrorise you, and are driving you to despair; and I believe I am
also right in suggesting that you possess no friends?"
She had grown paler, and I knew my words made an impression upon her.
We were then walking in the crowd of Oxford Street, and I was compelled
to bend and speak confidentially to her, lest others might overhear.
Surely that great busy thoroughfare was a strange place in which to
court a woman's love! But love is always one of life's ironies. Many
are the world's wonders; but surely Honour, Conscience, and Love are the
three greatest. They will never be explained, and never cease to be
bewildering. Of such are the source and the end of what is wonderful in
our life--the sea and the shower, the aggregate whereof is in God and
the atom in man.
I saw from her countenance, and knew from the trembling of her hand,
that she would confide in me if only she dared. The mystery of it all
was maddening. My natural intuition told me that she was not averse to
my companionship, yet the mention of her secret--whatever it was--caused
the truth to arise before her in all its hideousness, holding her
transfixed by the crisis that she knew must inevitably ensue.
"It is true," she sighed at last. "I am in sore need of a friend; but I
fear your help is impossible. Indeed, if our friendship were known to
certain persons it would place me in a position of even graver peril."
"Then your enemies would be mine," I remarked quietly. "This is as it
should be. But why would my association with you place you in peril? I
don't understand."
"Oh!" she cried, "I cannot explain. I would tell you everything if I
could--everything. But I cannot, for your sake as well as for my own."
"For my sake?" I echoed. "Would knowledge of it affect me so gravely?"
"I fear it would," was her reply. "It is best that you should remain in
ignorance."
"But believe me, I cannot bear to think of you utterly friendless as you
seem to be," I went on earnestly. "Why do you not let me be your friend
in secret?"
"Because if you were my friend it would be necessary for you to know the
whole truth before you could help me. Yet, in my present position, I
can explain nothing. If I did, it would be fatal to me--and perhaps to
you also."
"You are so very mysterious, Lady Judith!" I said. "Cannot you be more
explicit? What you tell me only excites my curiosity and interest."
"I can tell you nothing more--absolutely nothing," she said, quite calm
again. "I am unfortunately a victim of certain strange and incredible
circumstances; that is all."
"But why are you so averse to my friendship?" I demanded. "I assure
you that I will do my utmost to serve you if you will accept me as your
friend."
"I do not doubt it. I can only regret that our friendship is debarred,"
she answered.
"Why debarred?"
"Because of circumstances which, as I have already told you, I am unable
to explain. Besides, I have long ago read in the newspapers that you
reside abroad. I could not think of keeping you here in England on my
account."
"I intend to live in England for the future," I hastened to assure her.
"In fact, I'm on the lookout for a home at an easy distance from London,
and in the meantime I am the guest of my old schoolfellow and friend,
Captain Wyman, of whose recent explorations in Central Africa you may
have heard."
She shook her head slowly, and in a low, mechanical voice, almost as
though speaking to herself, said, "I cannot see why you should be so
ready to sacrifice everything for my sake. It is far best if we part
now, never to meet again. It will be best for both of us, Mr Kennedy,
I assure you. Remember, once and for all, that our friendship is
forbidden."