"Come," he said; "it is all right, then. Do not take the matter so
seriously, my darling Laura. The worst part of it is that you should
have made such a journey alone, and have to go back alone, and at night!
That is what grieves me. If I could but go with you--and yet that would
scarcely be wise--but it is impossible under the circumstances. Come,
give me your arm, my dear Laura."
A little shiver ran through her frame, and she caught her breath with a
stifled sob.
"Come, come, my darling," he murmured; "don't look back, look forward.
In an hour or two you will be home."
"Do you think I am afraid?" she asked, and her voice trembled, but not
with fear. "No, I am looking back. Oh, Stephen, do you remember when we
met first?"
"Yes, yes," said Stephen, soothingly, and with an anxious, sidelong look
about--to be seen promenading the high road with a young woman on his
arm on the night of his uncle's death would be the ruin of his carefully
built-up reputation. "Yes, yes," he murmured. "Shall I ever forget? How
fortunate you lost your way, Laura, and that you should have come up to
me to ask it, and that I should have been going in that direction. And
yet the thoughtless speak of chance!"
And he cast up his eyes with unctuous solemnity, though there was no one
in the dark road to be impressed by it.
"Chance," said the girl, sadly--"an evil or a good chance for me--which?
Stephen, I sometimes wish that we had never met--that I had not crossed
your path, and so have left the old life, with its dull, quiet and sober
grayness; but the die was cast that afternoon. I went back to the quiet
home, to the old man who had been my father, mother and all to me, and
life was changed."
"Your grandfather has no suspicion?"
"No, he trusts me entirely. If he asks a question when I go to meet you,
he is satisfied when I tell him that I am going to a neighbor. Stephen,
if I had had a mother, do you think I should have deceived her also?"
"Deceived? Deceived is too harsh a word, my dear Laura. We have been
obliged, for various reasons, to use some reserve--let us say candidly,
to conceal our engagement. You have not mentioned my name to anyone?" he
broke off.
"To no one," she answered.
"Such concealment was necessary. My uncle was a man of rough and hasty
temper, ill-judging and merciless."
"But," she said, with a sudden eagerness, and a slight shudder, "he--he
is dead now, Stephen. There is no need for further concealment."
"Softly, softly, dear Laura. We must be patient--must keep our little
secret a little while longer. I can trust my darling to confide in
me--yes, yes, I know that----"
"Stephen, to-night for the first time--why, I know not--I have
doubted--no, not doubted, for I have fought hard against the suspicion
that I was wrong to trust you."
"My dearest!" he murmured reproachfully.
"You were wrong to leave me for so long without a word--you put my love
to too severe a test. I--I cannot say whether it has stood it or not.
To-night I am full of doubt. Stephen--look at me!"
He turned his face and looked down. He had not far to look, for she was
tall, and in the moment of excitement had drawn herself to her full
height. The moon, sailing from amongst the clouds, shone on her upturned
face; her lips were set, and the dark eyes gleamed from the white face.
"Look at me, Stephen. If--I say if--there is the faintest idea of
treachery lurking in your mind----"
"My dearest----"
"Cast it out! Here, to-night, I warn you to cast it out! Such love as
mine is like a two-edged sword, it cuts both ways, for love--or hate!
Stephen, I have loved, I have trusted you--for mine, for your own sake,
be true to me!"
He was more impressed than alarmed. This side of her character had been
presented to him to-night for the first time. Hitherto the beautiful
girl had been all smiles and humble devotion. Was she bewitched, or had
he been mistaken in her. Perhaps it was the moon, but suddenly his face
looked paler than ever, and the white eyelids drooped until they hid the
shifting eyes, as he put his arm around her.
"My dearest! What can you mean? Deceive you! Treachery! Can you deem
me--_me_--capable of such things. My dearest, you are overtired! And
your jacket has become unbuttoned. Listen, that is the railway bell.
Laura, you will not leave me with such words on your lips?"
"Forgive me, Stephen."
"I have done so already, dearest, and now we must part! It is very
hard--but--I cannot even go with you to the platform. Someone might see
us. It is for your sake, darling."
"Yes, yes, I know," she said, with a sigh. "Good-bye--you will write or
come to me--when?"
"Soon, in a day or two," he said. "Do not be impatient. There is much to
be done; my poor uncle's funeral, you know. Good-bye. See! I will stay
here and watch the train off. Good-bye, dear, dear Laura!"
She put her arm round him and returned his kiss, and glided away, but at
the turn of the road leading to the station she turned and, holding up
her hand, sent a word back to him.
It was:
"Remember!"
Stephen waited until the train puffed out of the station, and not until
it had flashed some distance did the set smile leave his face.
Then, with a rather puzzled and uneasy expression, he turned and walked
swiftly back to the house.
His brain was in a whirl, the sudden appearance of the young girl coming
on the top of the other causes of excitement bewildered him, and he felt
that he had need of all his accustomed coolness. The sudden peril and
danger of this accursed will demanded all his attention, and yet the
thought of the girl would force itself upon him. He had met her, as she
had said, in the streets, and had commenced an acquaintance which had
resulted in an engagement. Alone and unprotected, save for an old
grandfather, and innocent of the world, Laura Treherne had been, as it
were, fascinated by the smooth, soft-spoken Stephen, from whose ready
tongue vows of love and devotion rolled as easily as the scales from a
serpent in spring-time. And he, for his part, was smitten by the dark
eyes and quick, impulsive way of the warm-hearted girl.
But there had come upon him of late a suspicion that in binding himself
to marry her he had committed a false step; to-night the suspicion grew
into something like certainty.
To tell the truth, she had almost frightened him. Hitherto the dark eyes
had ever turned on his with softened gaze of love and admiration;
to-night, for the first time, the hot, passionate nature had revealed
itself.
The deep-toned "Remember!" which came floating down the lane as she
disappeared rang unpleasantly in his ears. Had he been a true-hearted
man the girl's spirit would have made her more precious in his eyes;
but, coward-like, he felt that hers was a stronger nature than his, and
he began to fear.
"Yes," he muttered, as he unlocked the library window, and sank into a
chair. "It was a weak stroke, a weak stroke! But I can't think of what
is to be done now, not now!"
No, for to-night all his attention must be concentrated on the will.
Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he lit another candle. This time
nothing should prevent him from destroying the accursed thing which
stood between him and wealth; he would burn it at once--at once. With
feverish eagerness he thrust his hand in his coat, then staggered and
fell back white as death.
_The pocket was empty. The will was not there._
"I--I am a fool!" he muttered, with a smile. "I put it in the other
coat," and he snatched up the overcoat, but a glance, a touch showed him
that it was not there either.
Wildly, madly he searched each pocket in vain, went on his knees and
felt, as if he could not trust his sight alone, every inch of the
carpet; turned up the hearth-rug, almost tore up the carpet itself,
shook the curtains, and still hunted and searched long after the
conviction had forced itself upon his mind that in no part of the room
could the thing be hidden.
Then he paused, pressing his hand to his brow and biting his livid lips.
Let him think--think--think! Where could it be? He had not dropped it on
the stairs or in any other part of the house, for he remembered, he
could swear, that he had felt the thing as he stood in the study
buttoning up his overcoat. If not in the house, where then?
Throwing aside all caution in his excitement, he unfastened the window,
and, candle in hand, examined the grand terrace, traced every step which
he had taken across the lawn--and all to no purpose.
"It is lying in the road," he muttered, the sweat dropping from his
face. "Heaven! lying glaring there, for any country clown to pick up and
ruin me. I must--I will find it! Brandy--I must have some
brandy--this--this is maddening me!"
And indeed he seemed mad, for though he knew he had not passed it, he
went back, still peering on the ground, the candle held above his head.
Suddenly he stumbled up against some object, and, looking up, saw the
tall figure of a man standing right in his path. With a wolfish cry of
mingled fear and rage, he dropped the candle and sprang on to him.
"You--you thief!" he cried, hoarsely; "give it to me--give it me!"
The man made an effort to unlock the mad grasp of the hands round his
throat, then scientifically and coolly knocked his assailant down, and,
holding him down writhing, struck a match.
Gasping and foaming, Stephen looked up and saw that it was Jack
Newcombe--Jack Newcombe regarding him with cool, contemptuous surprise
and suspicion.
"Well," he said contemptuously, "so it's you! Are you out of your mind?"
and he flung the match away and allowed Stephen to rise.
Trembling and struggling for composure, Stephen brushed the dust from
his black coat and stood rubbing his chest, for Jack's blow had been
straight from the shoulder.
"What have you got to say for yourself?" said Jack, sternly. "I asked
you if you had gone mad. What are you doing here with a candle, and
behaving like a lunatic?"
Stephen made a mighty effort for composure, and a ghastly smile
struggled to his face.
"My dear Jack, how you startled me!" he gasped. "I was never so
frightened in my--my life!"
"So it appeared," said Jack, with strong disgust in his voice. "Pick up
the candle--there it is."
And he pointed with his foot. But Stephen was by no means anxious for a
light.
"Never mind the candle," he said. "You are quite right--I must have
seemed out of my mind. I--I am very much upset, my dear Jack."
"Are you hurt?" inquired Jack, but with no great show of concern.
"No, no!" gasped Stephen; "don't distress yourself, my dear Jack--don't,
I beg of you. It was my fault, entirely. The--the fact is that I----"
He paused, for Jack had got the candle, lit it, and held it up so that
the light fell upon Stephen's face.
"Now," he said, his tone plainly intimating that he would prefer to see
Stephen's face while he made his explanation.
"The fact is," Stephen began again, "I have had the misfortune to lose a
pocketbook--no, not a pocketbook, that is scarcely correct, but a paper
which I fancied I had put in my pocketbook, and which must have dropped
out. It--it was a draft of a little legal document which my lawyer had
sent me--of no value, utterly valueless--oh, quite----"
"So I should judge from the calm way in which you accused the first man
you met of stealing it," said Jack, with quiet scorn.
Stephen bit his lip, and a glance of hate and suspicion shot from under
his eyelids.
"Pray forgive me, my dear Jack," he said, pressing his hand to his brow,
and sighing. "If you had sat up for so many nights, and were so worn and
overwrought, you would have some sympathy with my overstrained nerves. I
am much shaken to-night, my dear Jack--very much shaken."
And indeed he was, for the Savage's fist was by no means a soft one.
Jack looked at him in silence for a moment, then held the candle toward
him.
"You had better go to the house and get some of the servants to help you
look for the paper," he said. "Good-night."
"Oh, it is of no consequence," said Stephen, eagerly. "Don't go--stop a
moment, my dear Jack. I--I will walk with you as far as the inn."
"No, thanks," said Jack, curtly; then, as a suspicious look gleamed in
Stephen's eyes, he added: "Oh, I see! you are afraid I should pick it up
in the road. You had better come."
Stephen smiled, and laid his hand on Jack's arm.
"You--you are not playing a joke with me, my dear Jack? You haven't got
the--document in your pocket all the time?"
"If I said that I hadn't you wouldn't believe me, you know," he replied.
"There, take your hand off my coat!"
"Stop! stop!" exclaimed Stephen, with a ghostly attempt at a laugh.
"Don't go, my dear Jack; stop at the house to-night. I should feel very
much obliged, indeed, if you would. I am so upset to-night that I--I
want company. Let me beg of you to stop."
And in his dread lest Jack should escape out of sight, he held on to his
arm.
Jack shook him with so emphatic a movement of disgust that Stephen was
in imminent danger of making a further acquaintance with the lawn.
"Go indoors," he said sternly, "and leave me alone. I'd rather not sleep
under the same roof with you. As for your lost paper, whatever it may
be, you had better look for it in the morning, unless you want to get
into further trouble," and he turned on his heel and disappeared.
Stephen waited until he had got at a safe distance, and, blowing out the
candle, followed down the road with stealthy footsteps, keeping a close
watch on the rapidly-striding figure, and examining the road at the same
time. But all to no purpose; Jack reached and entered the inn without
stopping, and neither going nor returning could Stephen see anything of
the missing will.
Two hours afterward he crept back and staggered into the library more
dead than alive, one question rankling in his disordered brain.
Had Jack Newcombe found the will, and, if not, where was it?
After a time the paroxysm of fear and despair passed, and left him
calmer. His acute brain, overwhelmed but not crushed out, began to
recover itself, and he turned the situation round and round until he had
come to a plan of action.
It was not a very definite one, it was rather vague, but it was the most
reasonable one he could think of.
There in Warden Forest, living as the daughter of a woodman, who was
himself ignorant of her legitimacy, was the girl. I am sorry to say that
he cursed her as he thought of her. Where was the will? Whoever had got
it would no doubt come to him first to make terms, and, failing to make
them, would go to the real heiress.
Stephen, quick as lightning, resolved to take her away.
But where?
He did not much care for the present, so that it was somewhere under his
eyes, or in the charge--the custody, really--of a trustworthy friend.
The only really trustworthy friend whom Stephen knew was his mother.
"Yes, that is it," he muttered. "Mother shall take this girl as--as--a
companion. Poor mother, some great ignorant, clodhopping wench who will
frighten her into a nervous fit. Poor mother!" And he smiled with a
feeble, malicious pleasure.
There are some men who take a delight in causing pain even to those who
are devoted to them.
"Dear mother," he wrote, "I have to send you the sad news of my uncle's
death. Need I say that I am utterly overwhelmed in grief. I have indeed
lost a friend!" ("The malicious, mean old wolf," he muttered, in
parenthesis.) "How good he was to me! But, mother, even in the midst of
our deepest sorrows, we must not forget the calls of charity. I have a
little duty to perform, in which I require your aid. I fear it will
necessitate your making a journey to Wermesley station on this line. If
you will come down by the 10:20 on Wednesday, I will meet you at
Wermesley station. Do not mention your journey, my dear mother; we must
not be forgetful that we are enjoined to do good by stealth.
"In great affliction,
"Your loving son,
"STEPHEN DAVENANT."
It was a beautiful letter, and clearly proved that Stephen was not only
a bad man, but an extremely clever and dangerous one--for he could
retain command over himself even in such moments as these.