MRS. PORTER GROWS INQUISITIVE
A SILENCE followed, so heavy as to be felt, then Vera took the
black-edged card and, reversing it, read the engraved name. A rush of
memories obliterated the bleak countryside. In its place she saw a busy
city street, a swaying figure, a cry for help, the later clang of the
emergency ambulance--and the last agonizing parting from her beloved
mother. She had been conscious of the aid rendered by the skilful
hospital interne, but her mother had focused her attention to the
exclusion of all else. After the funeral she had sent a present with
her card “In grateful remembrance” to the city hospital authorities,
asking them to see that it reached the surgeon who had attended her
mother.
A sudden rush of tears almost blinded Vera, and the card fluttered to
the rock unheeded.
“Dr. Thorne”--her voice was not fully under control and a quiver crept
into it--“I did not know--I had no idea--” She stammered and broke down.
“Don’t.” Thorne swung himself up on the rock beside her and gazed at
her with contrition. “Please don’t cry.”
But the injunction was hardly needed, for Vera pulled herself together,
and except for a few tears which she winked violently away, she had
herself in hand again as she faced him.
“The card--” she commenced, but he did not allow her to finish the
sentence.
“The card,” he echoed, stooping to pick it up, “would never have
been shown you except that I knew of no other way to break down your
unfriendly attitude to me. Please,” coloring warmly under his tan,
“never allude to it again.”
Vera looked at him long and steadily. She saw a well-set-up figure with
the unmistakable air of good breeding; her eyes traveled slowly up to
his face, and paused there, meeting the steady gaze of the somewhat
quizzical gray eyes. His hair, slightly silvered at the temples, had
a wave in it which suggested that under due provocation it might curl
rather attractively, without altering the somewhat grave air of the
professional man. Vera held out her hand. “Let me have the card?” she
asked.
But instead of complying with her request he slipped the card into his
vest pocket. “I’ve carried it so long,” he said softly, drawing closer.
“Don’t deprive me of the card.” And as Vera caught the wistful appeal
in his eyes a hitherto unknown shyness overpowered her, and she stood
tongue-tied. Thorne’s next words, however, brought her back to her
surroundings with a jump. “Good heavens, Miss Deane!” he exclaimed as
he caught a full view of her face and noted the dark shadows under her
eyes and her hectic flush. “You must take care of yourself or you will
be ill in bed.”
“All I need is sleep,” protested Vera, but Thorne shook his head in
dissent.
“Consult your physician,” he advised, a trifle sternly. “With your
training you should know better than to trifle with your health. You
are on the point of a nervous breakdown.”
Vera smiled. “You exaggerate,” she said, with an attempt to speak
lightly. “I do not need medical attendance. The fresh air this
afternoon has done me good, and now,” moving forward to the edge of the
rock, “I must return and catch a few hours’ sleep before going on duty.”
Without a word, but with his jaw set at an obstinate angle, Thorne
scrambled down the rock, then turned back to assist Vera, only to find
her at his elbow. She smiled up at him, slightly breathless from her
exertions. Her face was dangerously close, and as Thorne looked deep
into her lovely eyes his pulse lost a beat, then raced on. Hardly
conscious of his action he clasped her hand in his.
“Vera--Miss Deane,” he stammered, and his voice shook with feeling.
“What madness led you to become so entangled in Bruce Brainard’s
murder?”
Vera drew back as if struck, and jerked her hand free. “_You_ are mad!”
she retorted vehemently. “I am in no way concerned in the tragedy.”
There was an instant’s pause, then Thorne picked up his witch-hazel
stick and stood aside, balancing it in his fingers. With a slight
inclination of her head Vera turned to leave him, but she had gone but
a few steps when he overtook her.
“I seem always to give offense,” he said despairingly. “I’m an unlucky
devil; never could express myself properly where I feel the most. Just
now, Miss Deane, I only meant--” A pause followed as he sought the word
he wanted. Vera’s sidelong glance convinced her that he appeared as
perturbed as his speech implied. “I only meant to offer my services.”
“As a physician?”
He flushed at her tone. “Yes, should you require medical attendance.”
“Thank you.” Vera stole another look at him under lowered lids, but
his air of detached, friendly interest baffled her. What motive had
inspired his burst of passion a scant five minutes before? Vera’s
eyes closed as if in pain, and there danced before her mental vision
the words: “February 14--In grateful remembrance.” Was Thorne sincere
in his proffer of friendship or was he still antagonistic to her and
trading upon a woman’s sentiment to mask his true feelings? Pshaw! It
was only fair to suspend judgment. It was the least that she could do
in view of Thorne’s past kindness--but why had he pocketed the card so
hastily? Vera opened her eyes to find Thorne anxiously regarding her.
With perceptible hesitancy she took up the conversation where she had
left off. “Perhaps when you call to see Mr. Porter I will get you to
prescribe for me.”
“I am at your service.” Thorne bowed courteously. “May I accompany you
as far as the lane?”
“Certainly.” And keeping step as much as the trees permitted they
finally reached the path and walked briskly down it. Vera, who had
been thinking intently, was the first to break the silence. “Have you
studied law as well as medicine, doctor?” she asked. “And is that why
they made you justice of the peace?”
“Not entirely,” he responded, as he opened the gate of the lane. “I
have a smattering of the law, and a passion for criminal investigation.”
“Indeed?” Vera was unable to repress a start, and she quickly covered
her agitation by pointing to the cleft switch which Thorne still
carried balanced lightly in both hands. The switch, apparently of its
own volition, had assumed a perpendicular position. “Why are you
carrying that twig?”
“Looking for water; I want to sink an artesian well, and this little
wand points the way in my investigation.”
“Oh! But you cannot hope to build the well on Mrs. Porter’s property.”
Thorne laughed heartily. “Hardly; Mrs. Porter would never give me
permission to do so.”
“Then why waste time trespassing on her property?”
Again Thorne laughed, but a shadow lurked in his eyes as he glanced
keenly at his questioner. “Frankly, I have two investigations under
way,” he acknowledged. “One to locate a spring, and the other to
discover who murdered Bruce Brainard.”
Vera’s back was toward the setting sun, and her face was in shadow. “If
you spend your time looking for wells you will not solve the mystery of
Mr. Brainard’s death,” she said with slow emphasis.
“I’m not so sure of that.” Thorne spun the cleft stick about in his
fingers. “Are we not told that truth lies at the bottom of a well?
Good-by.” And lifting his cap he vaulted the fence which separated his
property from the Porter estate and disappeared behind some barns.
Vera did not at once resume her walk to the house, and when she did
so her usually light footstep was dragging and her expression more
troubled.
“Has Miss Millicent returned, Murray?” she asked on entering the
butler’s pantry a few minutes later.
“No, miss.” And Vera went wearily into the deserted library.
The rooms, with shades and curtains partly drawn and the fire on the
hearth reduced to smoldering embers, was not conducive to cheerfulness,
and Vera shivered as she threw herself down on the wide leather couch
and pillowed her head on one of its numerous cushions.
“I wish I’d gone to Washington with Dorothy,” she muttered, snuggling
down under the warm folds of a carriage robe she had brought from the
coat closet. “I could have stood their chatter better than--” Her
thoughts supplied the name her lips did not utter, and Mrs. Porter,
gliding noiselessly into the library, never dreamed that Beverly
Thorne’s domineering personality was keeping her beautiful nurse from
peaceful slumber.
Mrs. Porter, her hands full of papers, went directly to the fireplace.
Poking the embers into a feeble blaze, she squatted down on a footstool
and placed the letters she carried one by one into the flames. Vera,
lying with eyes closed, and buried in her own thoughts, did not become
aware of her presence until the clang of a fire iron which Mrs. Porter
inadvertently let slip aroused her. A certain furtiveness in Mrs.
Porter’s movements checked Vera’s impulse to address her, and she
watched her employer in a growing quandary. Should she let Mrs. Porter
know that she was not alone in the room, or was she already aware of
her, Vera’s, presence? It was highly probable that the latter was
the case, as Mrs. Porter had to pass near the lounge to get to the
fireplace, and Vera resolutely closed her eyes and did her best to drop
off to sleep.
Mrs. Porter, with painstaking care, opened each letter and scanned it
intently before depositing it in the fire. Her features looked pinched
and worn in the ruddy glow from the burning paper. She faltered as
her busy fingers came at last to a handful of twisted papers, and
it took her some moments to smooth out the torn sheets and place
each separately on the red-hot embers. The last sheet followed its
predecessor before the first had been quite consumed, and Mrs. Porter
shuddered as the sheet, like some tortured body, twisted about, then
stiffened, and the words it bore showed in bold relief:
Tuesday morning--Saw Alan. God help us both.
A flame shot upward across the sheet, and the scorching trail left no
record in the ashes on the hearth.
Mrs. Porter poked among the embers until convinced that each scrap of
paper had been burned, then rising stiffly she gazed uneasily about
the library, letting her eyes finally rest on Vera. She studied the
girl’s perfect profile with appraising keenness before seating herself
in front of the center table and picking up her pen. But the words she
sought to put on paper would not come, and she threw down her pen with
a pettish exclamation; the continued silence in the room was getting on
her nerves.
“Vera!” she called shrilly. “Wake up.”
Even before she had finished speaking Vera was on her feet, and a
second more was standing by the older woman’s side, laying a soothing
hand on her trembling fingers.
“What is it, Mrs. Porter?” she asked. “What can I do for you?”
“Talk to me.” Mrs. Porter patted the chair next to hers and Vera sank
into it. “I must have some diversion or I shall go mad!” And the gleam
in her eyes lent color to her words. “Gossip with me.”
“About what--politics?” mentioning the topic farthest from her
thoughts; she was too nervously inclined to discuss personal matters.
“Politics?” repeated Mrs. Porter. “You’ll find no argument there, Vera;
I’ve lived too long in Washington not to float with the tide--mine
are always Administration politics. But”--with a sudden sharp glance
at her companion under lowered lids--“I am always interested in the
tattle-tales of Cupid. Your sister Dorothy and my nephew Hugh don’t
seem to be as good friends as formerly; what has estranged them?”
Vera’s fingers closed tightly over the arm of her chair and her answer
was slow in coming. “Oh, they have frequent bickerings.” She shrugged
her shoulders. “Perhaps the present tiff is more serious--for the
moment.”
Mrs. Porter looked relieved. “I hope you are right, for I have quite
set my heart on that being a match. Do you know,” in a sudden burst
of confidence very foreign to her usually reserved nature, “I was
beginning to fear that Bruce Brainard’s horrible death might have been
at the bottom of the estrangement.”
“Oh, Mrs. Porter!” Vera’s shocked expression drew instant explanation
and Mrs. Porter, in her excitement, failed to observe Vera’s growing
agitation.
“The atmosphere of this place since the tragedy distorts every action,
every idea!” she began incoherently. “I do my utmost to forget it,
but I can think of nothing else. And you found Bruce dead on Tuesday
morning--only forty-eight hours ago!”
“It seems a lifetime!” confessed Vera wearily.
“And that stupid detective has done nothing,” fumed Mrs. Porter. “In
the face of no evidence, he still thinks Bruce was murdered.”
“I don’t catch your meaning.” And Vera looked as puzzled as she felt.
“Why, if Bruce had been murdered there would have been some clue;
whereas, the lack of evidence against anyone proves that Bruce must
have committed suicide.”
“Where did he get the razor?” The question almost leaped from Vera, and
she bent forward in her eagerness to catch the other’s answer.
“Brought it with him.” But Mrs. Porter’s eyes had shifted and Vera
could not read their expression. “Listen, Vera, let us argue this
matter out--I’m tired of beating about the bush!” Mrs. Porter’s air
of candor would have convinced anyone not familiar with her moods and
tenses--Vera gazed at her and remained discreetly silent. “I know that
every door and window in the floor and the cellar were locked, because
I accompanied Hugh when he went the rounds to see that the house was
securely fastened on Monday night. Even the police admit that no one
broke into the house.”
“Yet they contend that Bruce Brainard was murdered.” Vera spoke almost
without her own volition, and bit her lip until the blood came, but the
words could not be recalled.
Mrs. Porter’s hand flew to her heart as if to still its rapid beating.
“Yes,” she agreed dully, the false animation of a moment before
deserting her. “Who in this household would have a motive for killing
Bruce?”
Her question met with no response, and as the pause lengthened they
avoided looking at each other; twice Mrs. Porter tried to speak, but
her voice failed her, and she rose uncertainly to her feet. Vera sat as
if carved from marble, and even the opening of the library door failed
to draw her attention.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Porter,” said Mrs. Hall, advancing toward the
desk. “I think you had better send for a physician for Mr. Craig.”
“Craig! Is he worse?” Mrs. Porter turned imploring eyes on the day
nurse.
“I don’t like his symptoms,” replied Mrs. Hall, noncommittally. “And I
dare not take the responsibility of treating him until a physician has
seen him. Please don’t delay in sending for one.”
By that time Vera was on her feet. “Can I be of assistance?” she asked,
addressing Mrs. Hall.
“Not now; perhaps later,” responded the day nurse. “Mrs. Porter,
please tell me whom you desire called in, now that Dr. Noyes is no
longer here, and Miss Deane can telephone for him.”
Mrs. Porter turned an agonized face toward them. “No, I’ll speak to
Dr. Thorne myself. He has been highly recommended to me and is the
nearest physician this side of Alexandria. I never expected,” she added
bitterly, picking up the telephone, “to ask any of his family to assist
me, but Craig’s need is paramount. Don’t wait, Mrs. Hall.” And the day
nurse hastened back to her patient.
Vera was on the point of following her when Mrs. Porter signed to her
to wait, and she listened with the keenest attention to the one-sided
conversation on the telephone. Mrs. Porter finally hung up the receiver
in a rage.
“His servant’s a fool!” she declared, laying an impatient finger on the
bell which connected with the servants’ hall. “He doesn’t know where
Dr. Thorne is or when he will be back. Ah, Murray,” as that worthy
appeared, “go at once to Thornedale and find Dr. Thorne and bring him
here,” she wound up, sinking down on the couch, and a burst of tears
relieved her overwrought feelings. “Oh, Craig, Craig--my dear, dear
boy!”
Murray, seeing Vera spring to Mrs. Porter’s side, vanished, and, being
impressed with the urgency of his errand, never stopped to get his
overcoat, and in a hatless condition made his way across the fields. He
was just entering the carriage drive to Thornedale when he descried the
doctor coming along the highway, and he started forward to meet him.
He was almost within hailing distance when a man stepped from behind a
clump of bushes and called him by name.
The footman stared at the newcomer as if unable to believe his eyes.
“So it’s yourself!” he ejaculated, walking slowly around him. “And who
do you wish to see, sir?”
“Miss Vera Deane, _of course_.” Both the words and the emphasis were
not lost on Beverly Thorne, whose rapid approach had gone unnoticed,
and he contemplated the newcomer with mixed feelings as he strode past
them, Murray never even seeing him.