THE WIDOW'S THEORY OF THE CASE.
When Mrs. Davenport got back to the hotel, she inquired if any
telegram had come for her, and was told not. She seemed displeased,
disappointed. She asked questions, and discovered that it would be
next to impossible that her telegram could reach London before the
departure of the morning mail. This put things right, for she felt
certain that if Blake got her message he would have replied. He was on
his way, and would be in Dublin that evening. In Dublin, yes; but how
should he know where to seek her? She spoke to the manager, to whom
she explained her difficulty.
If the lady telegraphed to the mail-boat at Holyhead, the gentleman
would be sure to get the message.
She thanked the manager, and adopted his suggestion. The day was
unpleasant under foot and overhead. There were no friends upon whom
she wished to call. The ten years of secluded life at Kilcash House
had severed all connection with old acquaintances, and she had made no
new ones.
She remained by herself in the sitting-room. She did not even try to
read. She sat in the window, and kept her eyes turned towards the busy
street. It could not be said she watched the crowds and vehicles, or
was even conscious of their existence. She kept her eyes in their
direction--that was all.
Luncheon was brought in. She sat at the table for a quarter of an
hour, ate something, and then went back to the old place at the
window. It was dark before dinner appeared, but she did not ring for
lights. When dinner was over, it was close to the time for the arrival
of the mail. She put on her bonnet, and went to Westland Row terminus.
The weather was still unpleasant, but she did not care, did not heed
it. She had not long to wait in that dismal, squalid cavern at the
foot of the stone steps leading down from the platform. The train
rumbled in, and the passengers began to descend and pass between the
double row of people. Suddenly she stepped forward and touched a man
on the arm. He turned quickly, and looked at her, exclaiming:
"You here, Marion! I got your telegram on the boat."
"I was afraid it might miss you, so I thought it safer to come
myself."
"What extraordinary story is this? I can scarcely believe you were
serious when you wired me yesterday from Rugby."
"I was in no humour for jesting," she said. "This is no place to talk
in. Wait until we get to the hotel."
When they were seated in Mrs. Davenport's sitting-room, he waited for
her to speak. She was in the arm of the couch--he by the table, with
his elbow resting on it. They were facing one another. She clasped her
hands in her lap and rested against the back of the couch. She was
deadly pale, and when she spoke her voice was low, firm, and full of
thought.
"I want you to tell me _all_ you know about this man Fahey. Mind, you
are to tell me all. There is no use in concealing anything now. I will
not take a penny of that money. Speak plainly."
"Not take the money, Marion! Are you mad?" he exclaimed, starting
forward on his chair.
"Not yet. The future of my reason will depend a good deal on the
plainness of your speech. Go on."
"But I have told you all that is worth telling."
"Tell it to me all over again, and this time add everything, great or
little, you can think of, you can recollect. Let me judge what is
worth listening to, and what is not. I am waiting."
"I know next to nothing of Fahey, and never saw the man in all my
life. You are allowing this absurd story of his ghost to prey on you.
You will make yourself ill."
"Nothing is so bad as uncertainty. I am racked by uncertainty. Go on
if you wish to do me a service."
"Service! I'd die for your sake, Marion."
"Then speak for my sake." She did not move or show any interest one
way or the other in his words, although they had been spoken
pleadingly, passionately.
"At Florence, when he was seized by that delusion, he raved now and
then, and in his ravings he said continually that there was a plot to
rob and murder him. He did not include me in the conspiracy, but all
others were leagued against him. At times he would become furious, and
defy his imaginary foes, swearing that all of them together were
powerless against him, as Fahey was loyal, and would be loyal to the
death."
"Loyal in what?"
"I don't know. He did not say in either his sane or frantic moments."
"What _did_ he say?"
"That Fahey knew, but that no power on earth would drag the secret out
of Fahey."
"What secret?"
"How should I know?"
"Do you know?"
"Upon my soul, Marion, I do not."
"Well, and after that what would happen?"
"He would laugh and snap his fingers at imaginary conspirators, and
dare them to do their worst, and then he would break out into a laugh
of triumph. And, as I hope to live, Marion, that's all."
"Every word?"
"Every syllable, I swear to you. Marion, I could not tell you a lie.
Marion, I never loved you until now. If you bid me, I will die for
you. If you tell me, I will go away and never see you again. Try me.
Bid me go or bid me die. Tell me to do anything, if you will only
believe I love you as I never loved you before--as I never loved any
other woman in the world. Since you will not forgive me, since you
will not give me your love for mine, since you will not let me be near
you or see you, set me something to do by which I can show you I am
sincere--madly in earnest."
He bent towards her, and held out his hands, but did not leave his
chair. His voice, his whole frame shook with excitement.
She raised her hand and lowered it gently, as a signal that he was to
be still and silent.
He drew his arms and his body quickly back, and sat mutely regarding
her.
"I am sorry," she said, slowly, gently, "that you spoke in that strain
now. This is not the time for such matters----"
"Then a time may come, Marion--a time may come soon or late? I do not
care when----"
"No," she answered, quietly, resolutely.
"That time came and went long ago. Be silent on that subject. I want
to speak of long ago."
He groaned, and struck his forehead with his clenched fist.
"It was scarcely fair of me to ask you to come. Will you answer my
questions?"
"Ask me what you please. I'll do it. The only hope now left to me is
that you will allow me to serve you."
"My next question may be, must be painful to you."
He laughed bitterly.
"That does not matter. Nothing can matter now, except feeling I can be
of no use to you."
"What means of influence had you over my husband beyond what I knew
of?"
"I am not in the least pained by that question. I was a poor idiotic
fool to give you up, but I could not support you if I married you on
my own means then. I had no means. But still less could I, vile as I
was, marry you on money got from him."
"What influence had you?"
"I had only one spell to conjure with."
"And that was?"
"The name of Fahey."
"How did you employ that name?"
"I said to him once, 'Is Fahey still loyal?' I said it half in jest.
We were alone. He begged of me never to mention that name again, as it
recalled his awful condition in Florence. He said if I would do him
the favour of never referring to that circumstance or name, he would
be my life-long debtor--adding: 'And I mean what I say, and that it
shall have practical results.'"
"He meant money."
"Yes."
"Was that before or after he gave you the thousand pounds?"
"Before--some months before. But now-poor Davenport is no more, and
cannot be hurt by any one. And Fahey is dead, and can hurt no one,
though foolish old women frighten themselves with the thought that
they have seen his ghost. Did you know this Fahey?"
She shuddered. This was the first sign of feeling she showed. What it
sprang from he could not guess.
"I did," she answered, unsteadily.
"And you believe this story about the ghost?"
"No."
"What then?"
"That"--with another shudder--"he is alive."
"Alive, Marion--alive! You are overexcited. You are talking nonsense.
Go and lie down. You are worn out."
"I am. I feel my head whirling round. Leave me."
He rose obediently to go.
"My mind is giving way, Tom."
That name spoken by her lips again rooted him to the spot.
"They suspected you, Tom, of that awful deed, and they say he did it
himself. I am going mad. Surely this is madness."
"What--what! Marion!"
"And now I suspect--_him!_"
"Whom, in the name of heaven?"
"Fahey. He was jealous of you both. Why did you put out the
lights----"
She tottered!