EMILIA RETRACES THE OLD ROADS.
After I had learned all that Emilia had to tell me, I informed her
that I would take a day or two to decide upon my plan of action. In
the meantime she was to make no movement whatever, but to keep herself
and daughter in absolute privacy. She placed herself entirely in my
hands, and promised not to deviate by a hair's-breadth from the
instructions I gave her.
"Be sure of that," I said, "and I feel that I shall be able to further
your heart's wishes."
On the third day certain ideas had taken some kind of practicable
shape, and I determined to set to work. I must mention that I visited
Mrs. Middlemore regularly during my deliberations, and had taken the
rooms which had been inhabited by M. Felix. She had no news of the
slightest importance to communicate to me although she was in the mood
to make mountains out of molehills. Nothing further had transpired in
the Gerard Street house; no person had called to make inquiries, and
she had not been upset by any more false messages. I saw my little
friend Sophy also. She was as cheery and sharp as ever, and she
informed me that "Aunty was ever so much nicer than she used to be,"
and I expressed my delight at the good report.
"But I say," remarked Sophy, "ain't yer got nothink to give me to do
for yer?"
"Not just yet, Sophy," I replied. "Presently, perhaps."
"The sooner the better," said Sophy. "I likes to be busy."
"You will not go away, Sophy? I may want you at any moment."
"I shall be ready for yer. I'll do anythink for yer, never mind what
it is."
I explained to her on my last visit that I should not see her for a
week or so, as I was going out of London upon particular business, and
that while I was away she was to keep her eyes open. If she happened
to see the man who had sent her aunt on a false errand to the Bow
Street Police Court she was to follow him secretly and find out where
he lived, and upon my return to London she was to tell me everything
that had happened. Satisfied with her assurances of obedience I left
the grateful little creature, and an hour later was closeted with
Emilia. I had not yet informed her of the trick which had been played
upon Mrs. Middlemore, and of the disappearance of the revolver; I did
so now, and asked if she had any suspicion who the man was.
"No," she replied, "I cannot imagine."
"Describe Dr. Peterssen's appearance to me," I said, "as you last saw
him." She did so, and I continued, "It is as I supposed. He is the man
who gave Mrs. Middlemore the false message, and got her out of the
house to afford him the opportunity of obtaining what he wanted.
Money, of course, if he could lay his hand on any, but chiefly papers
and documents which might be valuable to him in the future--documents
probably connected with your story."
"Why should he wish to obtain possession of such things?" asked
Emilia. "They can be of no use to him he dare not appear."
"Publicly he dare not; privately he may. You know of his visit to M.
Felix; he does not know of yours. Say that he succeeded in obtaining
possession of something which would establish your marriage." Emilia
clasped her hands. "He would surely conceive the plan of discovering
where you were, and coming to you privately for the purpose of making
a bargain for these proofs."
"I would give him anything--everything," exclaimed Emilia.
"That is certain," I said, "and it might be worth while to come to
terms with him; but I should not allow him to rob you. M. Felix, so
far as we know, did not make a will. Doubtless he has left property of
some kind, and should your marriage be proved the property would be
yours. Indeed, in that case it would be yours if M. Felix were living
and in this room at the present moment."
Emilia shuddered, and looked around timorously.
"Have you any idea what can have become of his body?" she asked in a
whisper.
"No; I can form no theory upon that mystery. I would give a great deal
to unravel it."
"Is it possible that Dr. Peterssen can have taken it away?"
"It is more than possible, it is probable; but his motive for doing so
is as great a mystery as the disappearance of the body without his
intervention. A deliberate act of that kind is done with a deliberate
motive, and I can think of none which would prompt him to carry into
execution a scheme so full of risk. And now listen attentively to what
I say. Setting aside the danger attendant upon your nocturnal visit to
M. Felix--a danger which I trust will in time entirely disappear--it
is of the highest importance to you that you should obtain proof of
your marriage with Gerald Paget."
"It is all I desire," said Emilia. "That obtained, I should be content
to die."
"It will be better to live, to draw happiness from the union of your
daughter and Julian Bordier. My plan is this: That you and I go to
your native town, and starting from the house of the maiden ladies who
were so good to you on the night of the fire, endeavor to trace the
road you took when you flew from the shelter they gave you. You
remember the river----"
"I can never, never forget it," said Emilia, "nor the fearful thoughts
which seemed to force me toward it."
"There will be little difficulty in ascertaining your route thus far
on your journey. From that point we will make inquiries, and it may be
that we shall succeed in discovering the road the kind old wagoner
took toward his home. That done, all the rest is easy."
"Dear friend," she said, pressing my hand, "how can I thank you?"
"Thank me when success crowns our efforts. Are you ready to take the
journey? We will start to-morrow morning."
"But Constance!" she exclaimed. "She cannot go with us. She is
ignorant of my sad story."
"Let her remain so. I have provided for her comfort while we are away.
I have spoken to my mother--a lady in whom you can place implicit
confidence--and she will be glad if your daughter will accept her
hospitality during our absence. You may trust her; your daughter will
be well cared for."
"I know that, I know that," said Emilia, her tears overflowing. "But
what have I done to merit such goodness? What claim have I upon you?"
"The claim of a helpless, persecuted lady," I replied, gently. "What I
do is willingly, cheerfully done. Accept my offer, and you will make
me your debtor. It will be ample reward if I succeed."
"God is very good to me," she murmured. "Thankfully, gratefully do I
accept it."
"That is well. You had better arrange to retain these rooms, and we
will leave my mother's address with the landlady, in case the Bordiers
should come and make inquiries."
"You think it right that they should see us?" inquired Emilia.
"You will be acting injuriously to yourself if you affect any secrecy.
Certainly they must see you and your daughter; their first inquiries
will be for you and you will lay yourself open to the worst
construction if you keep out of their way. Be advised by me."
"I will, in all things."
"My sister will accompany us on our journey. It will be pleasant for
you to have a lady companion, and it will leave me free to make any
inquiries that may suggest themselves."
She appreciated the delicacy of the act and it was arranged that I
should call for her and Constance in the evening to conduct them to my
mother's house. This was done, and in the morning Emilia, my sister,
and I started on our journey.
I will waste no words in a description of our proceedings. There was no
difficulty in finding the house in which the kind maiden sisters had
resided, and from the street in which it was situated there was but
one outlet to the open country. From the time occupied by Emilia in
her flight on that never-to-be-forgotten night I judge that she must
have walked some eleven or twelve miles, and at about that distance
from the town lay the river Arbor. There we halted on the second day
of our journey, and from that spot our real difficulties began. There
was the hill Emilia had mounted, on the crown of which she had fallen
in a state of exhaustion, with the river stretching to the left of
her. It was inevitable that my sister should be taken into our
confidence, and in the distressing reminiscences which the scene
recalled to Emilia she was a true solace to the poor lady. I gently
wooed her to describe the impressions of that terrible night's
wanderings, and had any doubts been in my mind as to the truth of her
story the pathos of that recital would have effectually dispelled
them. But I entertained no doubts, and more strongly than ever did I
resolve to champion her cause and not to relinquish it till success
rewarded me, or absolute failure stared me in the face. As Emilia's
suffering tones fell upon my ears I could almost hear the tinkling
bells of the horses in the wagon and the driver's kindly exhortations
to his cattle. He came in view, in my fancy, and spoke to Emilia, and
receiving no encouraging answer, passed down the hill with his team.
He returned and addressed her again, and she implored him to save her
from the river. Supported by him, she descended the hill, and was
lifted into the wagon, where she lay in a blind stupor of
forgetfulness and insensibility. I declare that I saw the pictures of
this human agony as if they were actually presented to my sight. As
for my good sister, she was continually wiping the tears from her
eyes, and when we reached the bottom of the hill, and Emilia said, "It
was here the wagon stood, I think," she pressed the unfortunate lady
in her arms, and they mingled their tears together.
It was at this spot, I repeat, that our real difficulties began, for
at about a couple of hundred yards along the road the wagon must have
taken (there being no other) it branched out in three directions,
north, south, and east. Now, which road led to the wagoner's home?
Emilia could not inform us. We took one, the broadest--though why he
should have selected the broadest instead of the narrowest I cannot
explain, all three roads being equally available for horse
traffic--and pursued it for a mile or so, and were confronted by four
cross roads, which multiplied our difficulty. I will not enlarge upon
the labor of this perplexing enterprise. It is sufficient to say that
at the end of the twelfth day I was compelled to confess that we were
as far from success as on the first day of our journey. Of course I
made innumerable inquiries, but I was speaking of eighteen years ago,
and I could not elicit the slightest information of a reliable nature
to guide me in the search we were prosecuting. I spared no labor, and
although I was greatly discouraged I did not allow my companions to
observe my despondency. At length I came to the conclusion that it
would be useless to employ further time in the quest, and I told
Emilia and my sister that we should return to London on the morrow.
Emilia looked at me mournfully.
"Don't feel down-hearted," I said, with a cheerful smile. "This is the
smallest arrow in my quiver. I have a surer one to adjust when we
reach town."
It was touching when we arrived at my mother's house, to see the
meeting between Emilia and her daughter. We left them to themselves
awhile, and when they joined us I conveyed to Emilia a pressing
request from my mother that they would stop with her as long as they
remained in London. It needed persuasion to induce Emilia to comply,
but she saw that Constance wished her to accept, and she did so with
much grace, but with a humbleness of manner which powerfully affected
me. Constance had some news to communicate. The Bordiers had arrived
in London, and had visited her. I was impressed by a certain
tremulousness in her voice as she spoke of them, but I made no comment
upon it, not feeling myself warranted to intrude upon her confidence.
"My mother's house is open to your friends," I said. "They will be
always welcome here."
She thanked me, and shortly afterward I was hurrying to the W. C.
district, first to present myself at the office of the _Evening Moon_,
and afterward to go to my chambers, where, in response to a telegram I
had forwarded from the country, I expected a visitor.