"WHERE'ER I CAME I BROUGHT CALAMITY."
Tom Blake was thunderstruck. They were both standing facing one
another a few feet apart. Blake was not a man to be disturbed by a
trifle. He had been a good deal about in the world, and had had
experience of various kinds of men and women. Many years ago he had
met this woman frequently, and in the end he made love to her.
Although she accepted that love and returned it, she had never taken
him fully into her confidence.
In Marion Butler, as he knew her eleven or twelve years ago, there had
always been a certain undefined reserve. She would not refuse to
answer any question put to her, nor was there a doubt she answered
truly and fully. But she always created the impression that there were
questions which he could not devise or discover, and the answer to
which he was in no way prepared for. He had no idea or hint of what
these questions might be. He was in no way uneasy about them. He was
convinced there were portions of her nature which would always be
concealed from him; but he was not jealous or suspicious. He was not
then even slightly disquieted by this blankness, this reticence. It
had no more meaning for him than would her native tongue, had she been
born a Hindoo and laid that language aside for English. She had told
him she had never loved any one but him, and he believed her without
the possibility of doubt. She promised to be his wife, and he believed
she would have stood at the altar with him though death were his rival
for the first kiss.
But now he was amazed, confounded. He had never seen the man Fahey,
but he had heard and read in the papers a little about him, and from
all he had gathered he fancied Fahey was a kind of upper servant or
hanger-on of some kind. Davenport had spoken to him of Fahey, but the
talk had been very general and vague, except with regard to the
conspiracy, and the former man always showed the greatest possible
disinclination to hear anything, or be asked any questions relating to
the latter. Blake had never run the risk of riding a free horse to
death. He got money in large sums from Mr. Davenport, but he had been
judicious. There was nothing so low or coarse as blackmail hinted at
by Mr. Davenport. That gentleman and he were excellent friends, and he
had had bad luck, or was in want of money for some other cause, and
when men became alarmed about money matters, although they were quite
innocent, they often did foolish things. Look at that idiot Fahey. So
Mr. Davenport, because he was a gentleman and a friend of Blake's,
gave him money out of mere courtesy and good nature, and not fear, as
one gives to a strange fellow-pedestrian on the footway when the
stranger carries a load. There was no more hint of threat or dread of
fear in the case of Mr. Davenport's offering the money, or of Blake
taking it, than in the case of the meeting of two unacquainted
wayfarers.
He had thought nothing the widow could tell him would take him by
surprise, and here he now was fairly breathless and amazed. There was
no doubt in his mind this Fahey had not been the social equal of
Marion Butler, and Blake was of opinion the man's origin had been much
lower than Mr. Davenport's, though whence the dead man had sprung he
did not exactly know. Kilcash House had not always been the dead man's
property. He had bought it only a little while before his marriage.
Davenport seemed to be a man accustomed to meet men only. He was not
by any means at his ease in an ordinary mixed company, and he had
explained this to Blake by saying that until comparatively late in
life he had been almost wholly a business man and unaccustomed to the
society of ladies.
But now what ghastly light shone on the dire tragedy of the Crescent
House in Dulwich! What a wonderful revelation was this! Fahey, the
humble follower of the dead man, had been an admirer of the dead man's
wife; and he who had been declared dead a decade of years ago was by
her believed to be living, and to have been connected directly with
her husband's death! No wonder he was giddy. No wonder he could find
no words to speak to her. No wonder he could only stand and gaze at
her in stupid fear, revolving in a dim light the ghostly pageant of
the past.
It was she who broke the silence.
"I wish I were dead!"
Her voice recalled him to her presence and the immediate hour. He took
her by the hand, led her to a seat, and began pacing up and down the
room without speaking.
"Advise me," she went on, after a pause. "Advise me, out of mercy. If
I were dead, there would be no lips to tell, no soul to suspect the
horrors by which I am haunted. Advise me. You know more of me than any
other living being. Shall I die?"
Still he could not speak. Her question came to his ears as though it
were something apart from her personality and his consideration--as
though it were a tedious impertinence rising from an indifferent
source. Although he knew he was in that room with the widow of Louis
Davenport, and that she had just said she believed Fahey was alive,
and had killed her husband from jealousy, he could not give the
situation substantial form. There were confounding murmurs in his
ears, and indeterminable shadows floating before his eyes. His mind
was clamorous for quiet, and the clamour stunned and confounded him.
"Speak to me," she pleaded. "I am not deserted, yet I am alone. I have
always been alone since I can first remember. Only I myself have
broken the solitude in which I lived. Once, long ago, I thought you
were coming towards me from a distance, to share my solitude, but
you--you--went by. I felt like a castaway on a desolate island, who
sees a sail bear down upon him in the twilight, only to find the
morning sea a barren desert of water. Should I die? That is not a hard
question for you to answer, is it?"
"No; not a hard question, Marion. You must live."
"For what?"
If she had asked this question an hour ago, before she told him her
horrible suspicions, he would readily have answered, "For me." As it
was, such an answer would have seemed flippant, profane. But an answer
of some kind must be made. He could find no answer, and said merely,
"Give me time."
She sat upright on her chair. One hand and arm rested on the table,
the white hand lying open upon the leaf, the thumb holding on by the
edge. Her head and face were thrust forward, her chin projecting, the
forehead reclining. Her eyes, wide open, followed him closely,
intently, but not eagerly. She seemed curious, more than anxious. It
was as though she took but a reflected interest in the question,
although the reply might govern her action. She waited for him
patiently. He was a long time before he spoke.
"Marion," he said at length, "if I am to be of any use to you--if even
my advice is to be of service to you--I must know all--all, without
reserve of any kind. On the face of it, your question is absurd.
Supposing you had no code--no religious feeling in the matter; suppose
you had no fear or hope of the other world, what earthly good could
come of your doing violence to yourself?--of your throwing away your
life suddenly?"
While he was saying this, he continued to walk up and down the room,
with his eyes bent on the floor.
Her eyes had continued to follow him in the same close, intent way.
Still they lacked eagerness. She was a pupil anxious to know--not an
enthusiast impatient to act.
"It would," she answered, with no trace of emotion, "close up his
grave for ever, and give peace to his name."
"Your husband's--your husband's grave and name! Come, Marion, let us
be frank."
"In what am I uncandid?"
"You did not--you swore at the inquest you did not--love your husband,
and now you are talking of killing yourself for his sake. Marion, you
cannot hold such words candid."
He paused in his walk, and stood before her. He looked at her a
moment, and then averted his gaze. Her eyes, although they rested
intelligently on him, did not appear to identify him. They were the
eyes of one occupied with the solution of a mental problem, aided by
formula of which he was merely the source.
"Thomas Blake," she said, "I once thought you might grow to understand
me, and then I came to the conclusion you never could. You are now
further off than ever. Louis Davenport was my husband, and I belonged
to him. I belong to him still. I swore--as they were good enough to
remind me at the inquest--to love, honour, and obey him. I did not
come to love him as women love their husbands, but my feeling towards
him was whole and loyal. I was his, and I am his; and if my death, now
that he is dead, can benefit him or comfort his name with quiet, I am
willing to die. Do not be alarmed. I shall make no unpleasantness
here. Do you think I am in the way of his rest?"
"Marion, you are talking pure nonsense. Why, your feelings as a
Christian alone----"
"Who told you I was a Christian? I tell you I am a Pagan. Leave me at
least the Pagan virtues of courage and fearlessness." She did not
move.
He looked at her. There could be no doubt she was sincere. Mad as her
words sounded, they must be taken at the full value of their ordinary
meaning.
"I will not seek to break down your resolution or turn your purpose
aside. But before I can be of any real use to you in the way of
advice, you must trust me wholly. How am I to judge of your duty
unless I know the entire case? Tell me all you know. Tell me all that
passed between you and this Fahey, and all you know of the relations
between him and your husband."
"I will tell you all you need know."
"Do you think you are a good judge of where your confidence in a
matter of this importance should end?"
"I think I am. At all events, I shall be reticent if I consider it
better not to speak."
"Well, then, go on, Marion, and tell me all you may. Mind, the more I
know the more likely I am able to be of use to you."
She passed the hand not resting on the table across her forehead.
"Sit down," she said. "I can speak with greater ease while you are
sitting."
He took a chair directly opposite her, and she began:
"All that I said at the inquest is true, and I told the whole truth in
answer to any questions I was asked; but I did not say all that was in
my mind. I have had bitter trials in my life. I will not refer again
to what was once between you and me; and, remember, in anything I may
say I shall have no thought of that. I put that away from my mind
altogether, and it will be ungenerous of you if you draw any deduction
towards our relations in the past from anything I may say. Is that
understood?"
"Perfectly, Marion. I know you too well to fancy for a moment you
could be guilty of the mean cowardice of talking at any one. Go on."
"Thank you. I am glad you think I am no coward." She still kept her
hand before her face, as though to concentrate her attention upon her
mental vision. "As I said at that awful inquest, there was never
anything ever so slightly like a quarrel between Mr. Davenport and me.
Except that we lived almost exclusively at Kilcash House, which was
dull, I had little or nothing to complain of; and the great quiet and
isolation of that place did not affect me much, for I had small or no
desire to go out into the world, and after a few years it would have
given me more pain than pleasure to have to mingle in society. Very
shortly after my marriage I met Michael Fahey for the first time----"
"What was he like?" asked Blake, interrupting her.
"He was tall and slender. His hair was brown, his eyes light in
colour--blue, I think. He wore a moustache of lighter colour than his
hair, and small whiskers of the same colour. He was good-looking in a
way----"
"What kind of way?"
"Well, a soft and gentle way. At first he struck me as being a man who
was weak, mentally and physically. Later I had reason to think him a
man of average, if not more than average, physical strength."
"About how old was he then?"
"I could not say exactly. Under thirty, I should think. He also struck
me as a man of not quite good social position. His manners were
uneasy, apprehensive, and his English uncertain. He was restless and
ill at ease, and for my own peace of mind I was glad when I parted
from him; for it struck me he would be much more comfortable if he and
my husband were left alone together.
"My husband spoke to me in the highest terms of Fahey, and said that
although he wished nothing to be said about it just then, or until he
gave me leave to mention it, Fahey had done him useful service in his
time. That was all Mr. Davenport volunteered, and I asked no question.
I was sure of one thing more--namely, that the less I was with Michael
Fahey the better my husband would be satisfied.
"I smiled when this conviction came first upon me. Up to the moment I
felt it I had in my mind treated this Fahey as a kind of upper
servant, who was to be soothed into unconsciousness that he was not an
equal. For a short time I felt inclined to expostulate with Mr.
Davenport on the absurdity of fancying Fahey could think of me save as
the wife of his patron; but I kept silence, partly out of pride and
partly out of ignorance of the relations which really existed between
this man and my husband. You may, or may not, have heard of a
circumstance which occurred shortly after my marriage?"
"I remember nothing noteworthy. Tell me what it was."
"At that time it was Mr. Davenport's habit to keep large sums of money
in the house. Once upon his having to go away for a few days, he left
me the keys of the safe in which the money was locked up. While he was
away, an attempt was made to rob the house. A door was forced from
outside, and two men were absolutely in my room, where I kept the key
of the safe, when Fahey, who was staying in the village of Kilcash at
the time, rushed in and faced the thieves. I was aroused and saw the
struggle. Fortunately the men were unarmed. The light was dim--only my
low night lamp.
"The first blow Fahey struck he knocked one of the men through a
window. Then he and the other man struggled a long time, and at last
the thief broke loose and escaped by the way he had come in. Fahey had
overheard the two thieves plan the robbery in the village, and had
followed them that night to our house. My husband wished the matter to
be kept quiet, and so it was hushed up.
"The next time I met Fahey after that night I was alone on the downs.
He was alone too. I stopped to thank him. I do not remember exactly
what I said--commonplace words of gratitude, no doubt. While I was
speaking I was close to him, and gazing into his face. I cut my speech
short, for I saw a look in his eyes that told me I was not indifferent
to him."
The widow's hand fell from her face, and she looked at her visitor
with an expression of trouble and dismay.
"There was nothing distressing or alarming in that," said Blake, with
an encouraging smile. "You must remember you were then, as you are
now, an exquisitely lovely woman.
"'No marvel, sovereign lady; in fair field
Myself for such a face had boldly died.'"
"Ay, ay," she said, with a shudder and a glance of horror round the
room. "In the stanza before the one from which you quote my fate is
written:
"'Where'er I came I brought calamity.'"
She stared before her, shuddered again, and sighed.
"Well?" said he. "You have more to tell me?"
"Yes; I'll go on."