JEAN
SOME TWO weeks after the staff of Beech Lodge had been completed by the
engagement of the gardener, Mrs. Millicent and her daughter were walking
along a quiet lane at a little distance from their old home. The house
itself they had not seen since the time of the tragedy, and over them
still hung the weight of a great grief. It had touched Mrs. Millicent’s
hair with gray and given her a strangely wistful expression. Her sorrow
was increased by the belief that her husband had had an enemy, the
husband who had worshiped her with love and devotion for twenty years of
married companionship. What enemy could such a man make in all the
world?
For Jean, her daughter, the blow had been no less severe. And it had a
deeper significance. Dazed and stupefied, she was nevertheless aware of
the power behind the blow, the power that dealt it. Where her mother was
inclined to give way with a hopeless wonder at the cruelty of fate, Jean
perceived that the hand that thus struck the helpless might not have
been stayed by her father’s blood. If her father were in the way of
something—she knew not what—might there not be others similarly
threatened? The resiliency of her youth refused merely to accept the
situation.
They came to a fork in the lane, one turn of which led past Beech Lodge
and then on to their own small house. Mrs. Millicent took the other turn
instinctively, but Jean, for some reason she could never explain, felt a
sudden impulse to pass this time by the road they had both hitherto
avoided. She stopped, and her mother glanced back with surprise.
“What is it, dear?”
“I don’t know, mother, but”—she hesitated—“I rather want to go this
way.”
“But why?”
“I can’t tell you, really. It’s rather an odd feeling. Would you much
sooner not?”
It flashed into Mrs. Millicent’s mind that perhaps she had been unwise
in allowing her own shrinking timidity to influence the girl. The only
reason she had to put forward sounded a little too personal to carry
much weight, and if time was healing the wound in Jean’s heart, should
she not be thankful—and show it?
“Very well, dear,” she said slowly. “Perhaps it is better to begin this
way. I think I’d like your arm.”
They went on thus, with unvoiced recognition of remembered things. Came
the bend in the lane beyond which lay Beech Lodge, and the older woman
seemed to feel the knife in her own throat. So many times had she walked
here, and so happily. The dip in the hedge, the glimpse of rolling
fields patched with woodland, the belt of timber that marked the grounds
of Beech Lodge, the cluster of old trees with their pale gray trunks
close by the roadside; then the white gates and tiny red-roofed cottage.
Her fingers tightened on the girl’s strong arm.
“My dear, my dear,” she whispered. “Just two years ago!”
Jean nodded sympathetically but did not speak. She was staring up the
drive at the house with its shining windows, its clustering ivy, and the
wide door, in every timber of which seemed to be a welcome.
“Isn’t it strange?” she whispered. “So different, and yet so unchanged.”
She paused, then went on uncertainly. “I sometimes wonder, mother,
whether houses have some kind of consciousness and are aware of us who
live in them. Isn’t it queer, but I feel now as though Beech Lodge was
somehow glad to see us, and was wondering why we had never come before.”
Mrs. Millicent shook her head. “It’s a pretty fancy, child, but—”
Jean stopped, nearly opposite the white gates. “Who’s that at the
window—your old room? Mother, it looks like Perkins!”
“It is Perkins. You knew she stayed on when the Thursbys left.”
“Yes, but I did not know she was still here. And yet I’m not surprised.
She’s part of the house. I wonder if the Derricks like her.”
“She always had a very peculiar manner, but she was an excellent
servant.”
Mrs. Millicent’s voice faltered. This inspection was becoming too
poignant, and she moved on. It seemed that any moment there might emerge
that well-remembered figure, with the straight, familiar form and those
clear, thoughtful eyes. She had turned away, her lips trembling, when
Jean spoke quickly and sharply.
“Mother, who is that?”
From the climbing rose-bushes that bordered the wide drive, a figure had
emerged, shears in hand, a figure that halted and stared. The broad
shoulders, the uncouth head, the powerful and deliberate movements of
the man were unmistakable.
“Martin!” she said under her breath. “It’s Martin!”
Mrs. Millicent stopped, turned, and came unsteadily back. Then she too
looked, and became weak and agitated.
“It _is_ Martin—”
“But where can he have come from, and why come back here?”
For a moment her mother could not answer, being too shaken by this
quivering recognition of one who she felt held the key to her husband’s
tragic death. It was Martin who had moved with threatening domination
through the nightmare of her dreams for the last two years. Now the
threat was alive again. It had returned with him. Then she heard Jean.
The color had fled from the girl’s cheeks, but her eyes were alight with
some thrilling instinct.
“What does it mean, mother?”
“I do not know, child. Come away now, please; I must get home.”
Jean held back. Something more was stirring in her soul than Martin’s
return. He had come back to strangers who probably knew nothing of him.
If they did, he could not be at Beech Lodge. And Perkins was there, too,
and Perkins knew all. It followed, then, that the woman had not spoken.
Was it all in preparation for another tragedy? At this thought she felt
frightened and choked. Some one must speak—before speech was too late.
She glanced again at the motionless figure. Martin was staring, too, and
he also had recognized. He touched his cap, and at the curve of that arm
she nearly cried out.
“Mother,” she whispered again, “we must tell them.”
“Tell them what, Jean? Come along. I can’t stand this.”
The girl held her ground. “We must tell the Derricks about Martin. Don’t
you see it would be utterly unfair, and perhaps cowardly, if we didn’t?
They’ve taken the place and, being strangers, can have known very little
about it. They have probably heard about father’s death through Perkins,
but perhaps not. The agent would naturally say nothing about it, and I
don’t suppose the Thursbys would advertise the truth. Perkins has
evidently said nothing about Martin, or the Derricks would not have
engaged him. We know all, and the suspicions as to Martin, and we simply
cannot be silent. Oh, we must tell them, and now!”
“If you feel so strongly I’ll write to-night,” protested her mother
faintly, “but, Jean, I cannot go in now. I could not walk past that
man.”
The girl was unmoved. “That won’t do, mother. There are too many things
one can’t put on paper. One of us must speak.”
“I cannot make myself speak now, and you can’t go in there alone.”
“Why not?”
“There’s Martin looking at you. He knows what we are talking about.”
“Perhaps he does, and if so he’s more afraid of me than I am of him. At
any rate I must go. You keep on toward the village, and I’ll catch you
up. If I have to wait I’ll have some one walk home with me. And please,
please understand that I’m not afraid, because there’s nothing to fear.
I know now why we came this way to-day for the first time.”
Mrs. Millicent sighed despairingly and turned away. There was a look on
the girl’s face she could not meet, and Martin had not moved.
Jean rallied her courage, passed between the white gates, and walked
firmly up the drive. Martin saw her coming and stepped back till he was
half screened among his roses. His face was working. When she drew level
he touched his cap the second time, and for an instant their eyes met.
In hers there was a cold recognition; in his a sort of mute and restless
petition. Yes, he knew why she had come and what she was about to impart
to his new employer. A surge of impotent anger shot through him, and he
turned silently lest he should betray it. He had not reckoned on this
when in the Burmese jungle there reached him the first of those
discomforting promptings that finally brought him half-way round the
world, he knew not why. Jean did not look back. Her eyes were fixed on
the too familiar door. It opened almost at once, and she met the
changeless look of Perkins. Now she could speak, but the sight of the
hall, its rugs and pictures, all as though she had never left them, was
nearly too much. They were as unchanged as Perkins herself. Suddenly she
felt like an intruder or a thief and wanted to leave. At that she
remembered Martin.
“Good afternoon, Perkins. Is Mrs. Derrick in?”
“There is no Mrs. Derrick, miss. It’s Mr. Derrick’s sister who is here.”
“Oh, is she in, then?”
“No, miss, but Mr. Derrick is here.”
“Then I’d like to see him for a moment.”
“Will you wait in the living-room, miss? Mr. Derrick is working in the
study.”
“Thanks, I’ll wait here.”
Perkins tapped at the study door.
“Miss Millicent, sir.”
Derrick put down his pen. “Miss Millicent,” he repeated puzzled.
“She is waiting in the hall and would like to see you. She asked for
Miss Derrick first, but Miss Derrick is out.”
He got up, his pulse beating hard, and came quickly into the hall. They
glanced at each other, these two, drawn thus together by the shadow of a
crime. Instinctively she held out her hand, feeling for a strange moment
almost as though no introduction was necessary.
“How do you do, Miss Millicent? My sister will be very sorry to miss
you. Will you come into the living-room or”—he hesitated an
instant—“the study?”
“I won’t keep you a moment,” she said a little nervously. “Are you
working in the study?”
He nodded, smiling. “I think it’s a wonderful room. Please come in.”
He followed her in, while Perkins, after a lingering glance, closed the
door. Jean took a big chair by the fireplace, and for a moment neither
spoke. Then she saw the manuscript littering the desk.
“I’m so afraid I’ve interrupted you.”
He shook his head ruefully. “What I was writing, or trying to write, is
all the better for being interrupted. And,” he added, “we have been
hoping to meet you and your mother.”
Again their eyes met. Derrick noted the smooth oval of her face and the
sensitive curve of her lips. Her expression suggested imagination, a
mind at once alert and subjective. She was looking now at her father’s
portrait, and he saw the resemblance between these two. And, try as he
might, he could not guess her thoughts or what brought her there. But
something whispered that a Millicent was again in Beech Lodge.
“I did not know I was coming here to-day,” she said gravely, “not till
mother and I came past the gates. Then I knew.”
It was all so strange, and yet so utterly real, that Derrick did not
answer at once. Here was Millicent’s daughter in Millicent’s study. That
to begin with. And there was about the girl a nameless aura she had
brought with her that made the ordinary preliminaries of acquaintance
seem pointless and out of place. He did not feel that he had always
known her, but that somewhere and somehow they possessed something in
common.
“Please tell me,” he said quietly.
“Yes, if I may begin by asking questions.”
“It will be very kind of you.”
“Then, did you know about Beech Lodge when you took it?”
“No; that is, if I understand what you mean. I was looking for a quiet
place to work in, found this, and fell in love with it. I went straight
to the agent in London and made an offer. He telephoned to Mr. Thursby,
and the offer was accepted so quickly that it surprised me—and here we
are.”
“It was Perkins who showed you over the house?”
“Yes, she was alone here, and in charge.”
“And the rest?” She glanced at him as though counting on his intuition.
“I discovered that after we moved in.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said involuntarily.
“But why, Miss Millicent?”
“Because I’m sure you would not—”
She stopped abruptly. A whisper came to her that she was saying things
of which she was not quite sure. What if Beech Lodge had imparted the
edge of its secret, the secret of which she had long been conscious, to
its new tenant? His face was that of one who might be able to receive
such things.
“You were going to tell me that if I had known what happened here two
years ago I would not have taken the house.”
She nodded thankfully. Yes, he did understand.
“Then may I say that I think I realize what it must have meant to you to
come in here for that purpose? And, Miss Millicent, while I did not know
at the time, I do know now, and regret nothing.”
“Nothing?” she murmured.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Shall I go on?”
She nodded again and, lifting her eyes, took a long straight look at her
father’s portrait. Perhaps he was here now, and knew, and was in a way
glad she had come. She noted, too, with a sort of thankfulness that
Derrick did not sit at the desk.
“When I came first,” he continued, “I saw Perkins. She gave me a strange
impression, but it was not altogether discomforting. I took the house
without consulting my sister, being attracted to it in a way that I only
began to understand by degrees. I actually felt what had happened here
before being told about it. That isn’t the sort of thing one can
explain, but—”
“It doesn’t need explanation,” she put in.
He sent her a quick, searching glance. “It helps to have you say that.
Well, after we moved in, the thing, or perhaps it was the influence,
grew stronger—I can’t express it in any other way—till presently I was
sure we were meant to come. I got some details from Perkins, but they
were incomplete; I was convinced that I must wait for more—which would
certainly be furnished from some source.” He paused, reflected for a
moment, and went on rapidly. “Does it seem impertinent for me, an utter
stranger, to be so interested and allow myself to be drawn into
something which is not my affair? If it does, I can only assure you that
it is not curiosity, or,” he added thoughtfully, “the result of anything
I have done or said.”
“It is impossible to think that.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, because it brings me to Martin. Is it on
account of Martin you were kind enough to come in?”
“Yes.”
“Then, some day, if you or Mrs. Millicent will tell me, I’d like to hear
more about him; but meantime please be assured that Martin’s being here
is all part of the rest of it. I knew what was said and thought about
him when I took him on. He told me why he happened to come back at this
particular time.”
“Why was it?” asked Jean swiftly.
“He _had_ to come. Telling you that seems to explain a good many other
things one can’t very well put into words. I know now that Perkins had
to stay, that I had to take this house, that you had to pass this way
for the first time in many months; and I know, too, that the gathering
is not yet quite complete. It is all utterly intangible; there is no one
point on which one can put a finger and say the reason lies there; and
one of the most remarkable things is that we can meet for the first time
and talk like this. It is something more than fate; it is purpose.”
She looked at him wonderingly. The room, with its poignant memories, was
speaking to her now, its ancient walls vibrant with mystical messages.
Here was the sounding-box of the unknown, where in times past she had
thrilled to mysterious whispers. Here her father had sat—himself even,
with all his love, something of a mystery—and here at the end his life
had been snatched from him. What reason was there to assume that evil
and danger had passed away? And till it did pass the tale could not be
complete.
“I am not going to try and thank you,” she said slowly, “for having made
my coming here so much easier than it promised to be, but when I saw
Martin I knew what I had to do. Mother was with me, but she could not
face it and has gone on to the village. Martin looked at me as I came in
and knows why I came. He must know that.”
“Would you and your mother feel more comfortable if I sent Martin away?”
“No, you must not do that. We are in no danger from him. I mean you must
not do it on our account. But there’s your sister and yourself to think
of.”
He shook his head. “I am convinced that this need not trouble you. The
police know of the new arrangement, and Martin knows that they know. No
danger of the sort you mean lies there. I want to leave Martin to his
roses and Perkins to her house-work till something I cannot describe is
reëstablished. Beech Lodge seems to be waiting for that. Perkins and
Martin are also waiting, though unconsciously. I am certainly waiting.
And, Miss Millicent, I think that without knowing it you have been
waiting, too.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “it’s the only thing.”
“Then, may I ask something that’s rather difficult to ask? I wouldn’t
unless I believed that you too felt something that’s very difficult to
express.”
“Please—what is it?”
“You hold with me that we are all surrounded by influences we do not
understand, and in so far as we are able to interpret them the difficult
things become less threatening?”
“One cannot escape that,” she said slowly.
“I thought as much. But there are some who fight against such powers,
and, believing them to be all for evil, are frightened, they know not
why. If they are not frightened, they scout them. But since these powers
are both for good and evil, and I believe those for good must be the
strongest, it is only right to admit that the beneficent and invisible
influences are always fighting for readjustments of some kind and will
conquer in the end. If this were not the case, what advantage could
there be in life? You believe all this?”
“I must believe it.”
“Well, my sister does not; she says she’s too practical, and I do not
argue the point. Unless one can accept it, there’s no room for anything
but restlessness and probably fear. So what I’d like to suggest, if I
may, is that you do not say anything of all this to—to any one who
does—not see this as we do.”
“You mean my mother?” she said quickly.
He nodded. “You told me she could not face coming in here, but you came,
and that explained much.”
“Mother would not understand,” she admitted, “and I think you’re very
wise. But is there nothing else I can do?”
“Yes, if you will, a little later on, tell me some of the things I would
like to know. May I bring my sister to see you?”
“Please do; we should be very glad.”
She said good-by. The ordeal she had dreaded was over and concluded in a
fashion she never anticipated. It was all strange—and yet not strange.
She was persuaded that this interview had been dominated by something
her father had left behind, in order that it might fight for what
Derrick called readjustment. And in that she was ready to aid to the
utmost. There was no room for fear now. She declined Derrick’s offer to
walk home with her and went thoughtfully back with a new sense of being
fortified in things that for years past had stirred secretly in her
soul.
Derrick sat in the study late that night, with no pretense at work.
Beech Lodge had dipped into utter silence, and the fire was low. His
mind was full of the visitor of the afternoon, whose coming had lent a
new significance to his surroundings. Now he perceived more clearly what
it must have cost her to come. He was conscious of her communicable
courage, the charm of her youth, and above all of the fact that to her
also something had whispered from the infinite. How vivid she was, how
understanding!
He wondered, too, what impression she carried away. Had he said too
much, or too little? In talking, as he had done, to the daughter of a
murdered man while she sat in her father’s study beneath her father’s
portrait, in taking on himself the office of avenger—had he not already
gone too far and too fast? Could Jean Millicent have done otherwise than
approve while she must have been still struggling with profound and
reawakened emotions? Had he been stilted and self-assured and pedantic?
Had he assumed too much? These questions harassed him.
Against it he put the girl’s coming. She had not known what manner of
person she would find but, braving the revival of her own loss, had
determined to do what she could to save others from any tragic
experience. This thought grew in his mind till, in turn, he recognized a
new element in this strange affair. He had desired to answer if he could
the voiceless petitions of the dead man, but now, in addition, he felt a
wave of protection for those whom Millicent had left behind. It was
this, he realized, that had animated him during his talk with Jean
Millicent. And she had promised to help. He got up restlessly, lowered
the lamp, and, moving to the French window, stared out at the
moon-smitten lawn. How often must Millicent, who was so close to-night,
have stared like this? Perhaps it was on such a night that the evil
thing came, strong and merciless. But whence and how?
It was in the midst of a space of profound silence that he heard the
faintest click at the door. He started at that, for his sister had been
long in bed, and Perkins’s room was in the far corner of the house. What
moved in Beech Lodge now? The door was opening, so slowly that it was
almost imperceptible. His hair began to prickle. Was this the evil
thing, and what did it seek?
He stood, breathless and motionless, his pulse hammering, till through
the widening crack projected a hand, followed by a long arm and
white-clad shoulder. The fingers were empty and extended as though
feeling blindly. Then a face, pallid as of the dead. It was Perkins!
She glided forward without sound or speech, a wraith, a spirit of the
night, so unreal, so remote as to be divested of human attributes, the
thin hand still held out, exploring and testing the half-light that
filtered through the silent chamber. It was the hand rather than the
body that had life, with consciousness in its quivering finger-tips. She
was only partly dressed and wore a loose white wrapper that accentuated
the tall straightness of her figure. Her black hair hung in two thick
ropes over her shoulders; her feet were bare; and her face was that of
one who sees unspeakable things. The eyes were wide open, and in their
glassy stare was a strange hunger and a great question.
She came on like an uncaptured spirit, feeling delicately along the
paneled wall, a creature of body and flesh, but directed by some
mysterious influence beyond human ken. She did not look toward the
window but paused for a moment to survey the portrait with an unearthly
and profound recognition. From this she turned to the desk, leaning over
it, her dangling ropes of hair rendered semi-luminous against the lamp,
peering, peering, till at length the long, questing fingers found what
they sought, and poised, quivering above the stain.
Now she swayed, leaning ever a little more forward, till at last her
head drooped, her arms stretched out, and her lips touched that darkened
patch where they rested in a mute and desperate caress.
“Master,” she pleaded, “master, where are you now? Why did you go; why
are you not here where you used to be? The evil waits still, and all is
empty and cold and dead without you, all dead, all dead!”
The voice ceased like a wail in the night, drowned in silence. Her lips
pressed close to the stain till they seemed to infuse into it the
message of her own blood, while the blind fingers groped and groped for
that they could not find. Then with a sigh that hung tremulous in the
throbbing air she moved to the portrait, made a slow, despairing gesture
of farewell, and glided back to the door and out of sight.
Derrick, rooted where he stood, thrilled to a new light that began to
flicker in his brain. The fabric of his imagination was becoming more
substantial. He had seen the soul of a woman stripped of all disguise,
and heard a voice that was robbed of all powers of concealment. The
essential meaning of this danced before his mind’s eye.