The body of the detective lay, by chance, lengthwise along the mat at
the foot of the stairs. In order to reach the hall, therefore, Juana
had no alternative but to step over the prone figure. This she did
unhesitatingly, and then turned to Richard.
‘Carry the poor fellow upstairs, will you?’ she asked quietly. ‘He is
delirious. The room overhead.’
Richard obeyed. The small, light frame of the detective gave him no
trouble. At the top of the stairs he met Mrs. Bridget hastening towards
him.
‘Holy Virgin!’ she exclaimed. ‘I did but run down by the backstairs to
the kitchen and left the spalpeen with Miss Juana, and when I came back
to them the room was as empty as my pocket.’
‘He got a bit wild,’ Richard explained. ‘I suppose his head is affected.
Miss Juana is talking with her father. Where is Miss Teresa?’
‘Sure, she’s gone out to the mares. They must have their water, if every
soul of us was dying.’
Richard carefully laid Nolan on the bed in the room over the porch. By
this time the sufferer had recovered consciousness. He murmured a few
meaningless strings of words, then sighed.
‘I will leave him with you,’ said Richard.
‘Not alone! If he begins to kick out----’
‘He’s quite quiet now,’ said Richard, closing the door behind him.
Richard was extremely anxious to be present, as he had a sort of right
to be, at the conversation between Raphael Craig and Juana. He descended
the stairs with such an air of deliberation as he could assume, and
stood hesitatingly at the foot. He felt like an interloper, an
eavesdropper, one who is not wanted, but, indeed, there was no other
place for him to put himself into, unless it might be the kitchen; for
the drawing-room lamp was extinguished, and the lamp in the dining-room
had not been lighted.
Juana had approached her father, who still sat on the oak chest. She
bent slightly towards him, like a figure of retribution, or menace, or
sinister prophecy. Richard noticed the little wisps of curls in the nape
of her neck. She was still dressed in her riding-habit, but the lengthy
skirt had been fastened up by means of a safety-pin. Richard could not
be sure whether father or daughter had so much as observed his presence
in the hall.
‘I’ll stay where I am,’ he thought. ‘I’m a member of the family now, and
it is my business to know all the family secrets.’
For at least thirty seconds Juana uttered no word. Then she said, in a
low vibrating voice:
‘Why do you tell me to go, father?’
‘Did I not say to you last year,’ the old man replied, ‘that if you left
me you must leave me for ever?’
‘You abide by that?’ the girl demanded.
‘I abide by it,’ said Raphael Craig.
Like a flash, Juana swept round and faced Richard, and he at once
perceived that she had been aware of his presence.
‘Mr. Redgrave,’ she said, with head in air, and nostrils dilated,
‘Teresa has just told me that at my father’s--er--suggestion you and she
have become engaged to be married.’
‘That is so,’ said Richard politely. ‘May we hope for your
congratulations?’
She ignored the remark.
‘Do you know whom you are marrying?’ she asked curtly.
‘I am under the impression that I am about to marry the daughter of Mr.
Raphael Craig, manager of the Kilburn branch of the British and Scottish
Bank.’
‘You are about to do nothing of the sort,’ said Juana. ‘Mr. Raphael
Craig has no daughter. Teresa and myself, I may explain to you, are
twin-sisters, though I have the misfortune to look much the older. We
have always passed as the daughters of Mr. Craig, We have always called
him father. Teresa still thinks him her father. It was only recently
that I discovered----’
‘Juana,’ the old man interrupted, ‘have you, too, got hold of the wild
tale? It is astonishing how long a falsehood, an idle rumour, will
survive and flourish.’
‘There is no falsehood, no idle rumour,’ said Juana coldly; ‘and I think
it proper that Mr. Redgrave should know all that I know.’
‘It will make no difference whatever to me,’ said Richard, ‘whose
daughter Teresa may be. ‘It is herself, and not her ancestors, that I
shall have the honour of marrying.’
‘Still,’ said Juana, ‘do you not think that you ought to know Teresa’s
history?’
‘Decidedly,’ said Richard.
With an embittered glance at her father, Juana resumed:
‘Some time ago, Mr. Redgrave, a difficulty between Mr. Craig and myself
led to my leaving this house. I was the merest girl, but I left. I was
too proud to stay. I had a mare of my own, whom I had trained to do a
number of tricks. I could ride as well as most. Bosco’s circus happened
to be in the neighbourhood. I conceived the wild idea of applying for a
situation in the circus. Only a girl utterly inexperienced in life would
have dreamt of such a thing. The circus people had me performing for
them, and they engaged me. On the whole I lived a not unhappy existence.
I tell you this only to account for my presence not long since in
Limerick.’
‘Limerick!’ exclaimed Raphael Craig in alarm. ‘You have been there?’
Juana continued calmly:
‘The circus travelled in Ireland, and eventually came to Limerick. I
knew that Limerick was my mother’s home, and I began to make inquiries.
I found out that my sister and I were born previous to Mr. Craig’s
marriage with my mother. She had been married before, or she had, at
least, been through the ceremony of marriage with another man--a man
unknown, who came suddenly into her life and as suddenly went out of it.
You will gather, then, that Mr. Craig is not our father, and that he has
no authority over us.’
‘Redgrave,’ muttered Raphael Craig, ‘I tell you the poor girl is mad.’
Juana resumed quietly:
‘I must inform you of another thing. While in Limerick and the district
I met this Nolan, the detective. He had another name there. I know now,
from what my sister has told me, that he must have been investigating
the early history of my mother, and my real and false fathers, for some
purpose of the police. But I judge him as I found him. He was very kind
to me once, and I liked him. He was the personification of good-nature
and good temper. When our ways parted he expressed the certain hope that
we should meet again. We have met again, under circumstances extremely
painful. He has not yet recognised me. You may ask, father,’ she went
on, turning to Raphael Craig, ‘why I came back to your house to-day.
There were two reasons. It is three months since I learnt about my
parentage, and during the whole of that time I have been debating with
myself whether or not to come and have it out with you. I inclined more
and more to having a clear understanding, not only for my own sake,
but for Teresa’s. Then, the second reason, the circus folk had begun to
talk. There were jealousies, of course; and the rumour that my birth
was surrounded by doubtful mysteries somehow got afoot in the tents. I
decided to leave. Here I am. I came prepared for peace; but you, father,
have decided otherwise. I shall leave to-morrow morning, We have no
claim on each other. Mr. Redgrave, that is all I have to say.’
She ceased.
Richard bowed, and looked expectantly towards the old man, but the old
man said nothing.
‘I have the right to ask you, sir,’ said Richard, ‘for your version of
what Miss Juana has just told us.’
‘We will talk of that to-morrow,’ answered the old man testily. ‘We will
talk of that to-morrow.’
‘It is already to-morrow,’ said Juana scornfully.
There was a sudden tremendous racket overhead. A scream could be heard
from Bridget, and a loud, confused chattering from Nolan. The latter
rushed violently half-way downstairs, his eyes burning, Mrs. Bridget
after him.
[Illustration: 0206]
‘I tell you I won’t stay there!’ he shouted. ‘It’s unlucky--that room
where Featherstone slept the night before he killed himself! It’s
unlucky!’
The restless patient sank on the stairs, exhausted by the exertion.
Before Richard could do anything, Mrs. Bridget, that gaunt and powerful
creature, had picked up the little man, and by great effort carried him
away again. The people downstairs saw no more of him. Mrs. Bridget had
at last made up her mind to take him firmly in hand.
Richard was startled by a light touch on his shoulder, and he was
still more startled when he caught the horror-struck face of Juana--the
staring eyes, the drawn mouth.
‘Tell me,’ she said, her finger still on his shoulder--‘tell me--I
cannot trust him--has Mr. Featherstone committed suicide? Is he dead?’
‘Yes,’ said Richard, extremely mystified, but judging that simple
candour would be the best course to adopt under the circumstances.
‘There was an inquest. Didn’t you see it in the papers?’
‘Circus folk seldom trouble with newspapers,’ she said. ‘When was it?’
‘About a month ago.’
‘Poor fellow!’
Tears ran down her cheeks, and she spoke with an accent indescribably
mournful.
‘You knew him?’ Richard suggested.
‘I should have been his wife a year ago,’ said Juana, ‘had _he_ not
forbidden it.’ Again she pointed to Raphael Craig. ‘I never loved Mr.
Featherstone, but I liked him. He was an honourable man--old enough to
be my father, but an honourable man. He worshipped me. Why should I
not have married him? It was the best chance I was ever likely to get,
living the life we lived--solitary, utterly withdrawn from the world.
Yes, I would have married him, and I would have made him a good wife.
But _he_ forbade. He gave no reason. I was so angry that I would
have taken Mr. Featherstone despite him. But Mr. Featherstone had
old-fashioned ideas. He thought it wrong to marry a girl without her
father’s consent. And so we parted. That, Mr. Redgrave, was the reason
why I left the house of my so-called father. Scarcely a month ago Mr.
Featherstone came to me again secretly, one night after the performance
was over, and he again asked me to marry him, and said that he had
decided to dispense with Mr. Craig’s consent. He begged me to marry him.
His love was as great as ever, but with me things had changed. I had
almost ceased even to like Mr. Featherstone. I was free, independent,
and almost happy in that wandering life. Besides, I--never mind that.
I refused him as kindly as I could. It must have been immediately
afterwards that the poor fellow committed suicide, And you’--she flashed
a swift denunciatory glance on Raphael Craig--‘are his murderer.’
The old man collected himself and stood up, his face calm, stately,
livid.
‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘daughter--for I shall I still call you so, by the
right of all that I have done for you--you have said a good deal in your
anger that had been better left unsaid. But doubtless you have found
a sufficient justification for your wrath. You are severe in your
judgments. In youth we judge; in age we are merciful. You think you have
been hardly done to. Perhaps it is so; but not by me--rather by fate.
Even now I could tell you such things as would bring you to your knees
at my feet, but I refrain. Like you, I am proud. Some day you will
know all the truth--the secret of my actions and the final goal of my
desires. And I think that on that day you will bless me. No man ever
had a more sacred, a holier aim, than that which has been the aim of my
life. I thank God it is now all but achieved.’
He lighted one of the candles which always stood on the bookcase in the
hall, and passed into the drawing-room, where he sat down, leaving the
door ajar.
Richard crept towards the door and looked in. The old man sat
motionless, absently holding the candle in his hand. The frontdoor
opened from the outside, and Teresa ran into the house. She saw her
father, and hastened, with a charming gesture, towards him.
‘Old darling!’ she exclaimed; ‘why that sad face, and why that candle?
What are you all doing? See!’ She pulled back the shutters of the
window. ‘See! the sun has risen!’
So ended that long night.