A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
"Wolf! Wolf!"
Wolfenden, to whom sleep before the early morning hours was a thing
absolutely impossible, was lounging in his easy chair meditating on the
events of the day over a final cigarette. He had come to his room at
midnight in rather a dejected frame of mind; the day's happenings had
scarcely gone in his favour. Helene had looked upon him coldly--almost
with suspicion. In the morning he would be able to explain everything,
but in the meantime Blanche was upon the spot, and he had an uneasy
feeling that the girl was his enemy. He had begun to doubt whether that
drive, so natural a thing, as it really happened, was not carefully
planned on her part, with a full knowledge of the fact that they would
meet Mr. Sabin and his niece. It was all the more irritating because
during the last few days he had been gradually growing into the belief
that so far as his suit with Helene was concerned, the girl herself was
not altogether indifferent to him. She had refused him definitely
enough, so far as mere words went, but there were lights in her soft,
dark eyes, and something indefinable, but apparent in her manner, which
had forbidden him to abandon all hope. Yet it was hard to believe that
she was in any way subject to the will of her guardian, Mr. Sabin. In
small things she took no pains to study him; she was evidently not in
the least under his dominion. On the contrary, there was in his manner
towards her a certain deference, as though it were she whose will was
the ruling one between them. As a matter of fact, her appearance and
whole bearing seemed to indicate one accustomed to command. Her family
or connections she had never spoken of to him, yet he had not the
slightest doubt but that she was of gentle birth. Even if it should turn
out that this was not the case, Wolfenden was democratic enough to think
that it made no difference. She was good enough to be his wife. Her
appearance and manners were almost typically aristocratic--whatever
there might be in her present surroundings or in her past which savoured
of mystery, he would at least have staked his soul upon her honesty. He
realised very fully, as he sat there smoking in the early hours of the
morning, that this was no passing fancy of his; she was his first
love--for good or for evil she would be his last. Failure, he said to
himself, was a word which he would not admit in his vocabulary. She was
moving towards him already, some day she should be his! Through the
mists of blue tobacco smoke which hovered around him he seemed, with
a very slight and very pleasant effort of his imagination, to see
some faint visions of her in that more softening mood, the vaguest
recollection of which set his heart beating fast and sent the blood
moving through his veins to music. How delicately handsome she was, how
exquisite the lines of her girlish, yet graceful and queenly figure.
With her clear, creamy skin, soft as alabaster below the red gold of her
hair, the somewhat haughty poise of her small, shapely head, she brought
him vivid recollections of that old aristocracy of France, as one reads
of them now only in the pages of romance or history. She had the grand
air--even the great Queen could not have walked to the scaffold with a
more magnificent contempt of the rabble, whose victim she was. Some more
personal thought came to him; he half closed his eyes and leaned back
in his chair steeped in pleasant thoughts; and then it all came to a
swift, abrupt end, these reveries and pleasant castle-building. He was
back in the present, suddenly recalled in a most extraordinary manner,
to realisation of the hour and place. Surely he could not have been
mistaken! That was a low knocking at his locked door outside; there was
no doubt about it. There it was again! He heard his own name, softly but
unmistakably spoken in a trembling voice. He glanced at his watch, it
was between two and three o'clock; then he walked quickly to the door
and opened it without hesitation. It was his father who stood there
fully dressed, with pale face and angrily burning eyes. In his hand he
carried a revolver. Wolfenden noticed that the fingers which clasped it
were shaking, as though with cold.
"Father," Wolfenden exclaimed, "what on earth is the matter?"
He dropped his voice in obedience to that sudden gesture for silence.
The Admiral answered him in a hoarse whisper.
"A great deal is the matter! I am being deceived and betrayed in my own
house! Listen!"
They stood together on the dimly lit landing; holding his breath and
listening intently, Wolfenden was at once aware of faint, distant
sounds. They came from the ground floor almost immediately below them.
His father laid his hand heavily upon Wolfenden's shoulder.
"Some one is in the library," he said. "I heard the door open
distinctly. When I tried to get out I found that the door of my room was
locked; there is treachery here!"
"How did you get out?" Wolfenden asked.
"Through the bath-room and down the back stairs; that door was locked
too, but I found a key that fitted it. Come with me. Be careful! Make no
noise!"
They were on their way downstairs now. As they turned the angle of the
broad oak stairway, Wolfenden caught a glimpse of his father's face, and
shuddered; it was very white, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild, his
forefinger was already upon the trigger of his revolver.
"Let me have that," Wolfenden whispered, touching it; "my hand is
steadier than yours."
But the Admiral shook his head; he made no answer in words, but the
butt end of the revolver became almost welded into the palm of his hand.
Wolfenden began to feel that they were on the threshold of a tragedy.
They had reached the ground floor now; straight in front of them was
the library door. The sound of muffled movements within the room was
distinctly audible. The Admiral's breath came fast.
"Tread lightly, Wolf," he muttered. "Don't let them hear us! Let us
catch them red-handed!"
But the last dozen yards of the way was over white flags tesselated, and
polished like marble. Wolfenden's shoes creaked; the Admiral's tip-toe
walk was no light one. There was a sudden cessation of all sounds; they
had been heard! The Admiral, with a low cry of rage, leaped forwards.
Wolfenden followed close behind.
Even as they crossed the threshold the room was plunged into sudden
darkness; they had but a momentary and partial glimpse of the interior.
Wolfenden saw a dark, slim figure bending forward with his finger still
pressed to the ball of the lamp. The table was strewn with papers,
something--somebody--was fluttering behind the screen yonder. There was
barely a second of light; then with a sharp click the lamp went out, and
the figure of the man was lost in obscurity. Almost simultaneously
there came a flash of level fire and the loud report of the Admiral's
revolver. There was no groan, so Wolfenden concluded that the man,
whoever he might be, had not been hit. The sound of the report was
followed by a few seconds' breathless silence. There was no movement
of any sort in the room; only a faint breeze stealing in through the
wide-open windows caused a gentle rustling of the papers with which the
table was strewn, and the curtains swayed gently backwards and forwards.
The Admiral, with his senses all on the alert, stood motionless, the
revolver tense in his hand, his fiercely eager eyes straining to pierce
the darkness. By his side, Wolfenden, equally agitated now, though from
a different reason, stood holding his breath, his head thrust forward,
his eyes striving to penetrate the veil of gloom which lay like a thick
barrier between him and the screen. His fear had suddenly taken to
itself a very real and terrible form. There had been a moment, before
the extinction of the lamp had plunged the room into darkness, when
he had seen, or fancied that he had seen, a woman's skirts fluttering
there. Up to the present his father's attention had been wholly riveted
upon the other end of the room; yet he was filled with a nervous dread
lest at any moment that revolver might change its direction. His ears
were strained to the uttermost to catch the slightest sign of any
movement.
At last the silence was broken; there was a faint movement near the
window, and then again, without a second's hesitation, there was that
level line of fire and loud report from the Admiral's revolver. There
was no groan, no sign of any one having been hit. The Admiral began to
move slowly in the direction of the window; Wolfenden remained where he
was, listening intently. He was right, there was a smothered movement
from behind the screen. Some one was moving from there towards the door,
some one with light footsteps and a trailing skirt. He drew back into
the doorway; he meant to let her pass whoever it might be, but he
meant to know who it was. He could hear her hurried breathing; a faint,
familiar perfume, shaken out by the movement of her skirts, puzzled
him; it's very familiarity bewildered him. She knew that he was there;
she must know it, for she had paused. The position was terribly
critical. A few yards away the Admiral was groping about, revolver in
hand, mumbling to himself a string of terrible threats. The casting of a
shadow would call forth that death-dealing fire. Wolfenden thrust out
his hand cautiously; it fell upon a woman's arm. She did not cry out,
although her rapid breathing sank almost to a moan. For a moment he was
staggered--the room seemed to be going round with him; he had to bite
his lips to stifle the exclamation which very nearly escaped him. Then
he stood away from the door with a little shudder, and guided her
through it. He heard her footsteps die away along the corridor with a
peculiar sense of relief. Then he thrust his hand into the pocket of his
dinner coat and drew out a box of matches.
"I am going to strike a light," he whispered in his father's ear.
"Quick, then," was the reply, "I don't think the fellow has got away
yet; he must be hiding behind some of the furniture."
There was the scratching of a match upon a silver box, a feeble flame
gradually developing into a sure illumination. Wolfenden carefully lit
the lamp and raised it high over his head. The room was empty! There was
no doubt about it! They two were alone. But the window was wide open and
a chair in front of it had been thrown over. The Admiral strode to the
casement and called out angrily--
"Heggs! are you there? Is no one on duty?"
There was no answer; the tall sentry-box was empty.
Wolfenden came over to his father's side and brought the lamp with him,
and together they leaned out. At first they could see nothing; then
Wolfenden threw off the shade from the lamp and the light fell in a
broad track upon a dark, motionless figure stretched out upon the turf.
Wolfenden stooped down hastily.
"My God!" he exclaimed, "it is Heggs! Father, won't you sound the gong?
We shall have to arouse the house."
There was no need. Already the library was half full of hastily dressed
servants, awakened by the sound of the Admiral's revolver. Pale and
terrified, but never more self-composed, Lady Deringham stepped out to
them in a long, white dressing-gown.
"What has happened?" she cried. "Who is it, Wolfenden--has your father
shot any one?"
But Wolfenden shook his head, as he stood for a moment upright, and
looked into his mother's face.
"There is a man hurt," he said; "it is Heggs, I think, but he is not
shot. The evil is not of our doing!"