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(University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
TEMPEST-DRIVEN
TEMPEST-DRIVEN
A Romance.
BY
RICHARD DOWLING,
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF KILLARD," "THE WEIRD SISTERS,"
"THE SPORT OF FATE," "UNDER ST. PAUL'S," "THE DUKE'S SWEETHEART,"
"SWEET INISFAIL," "THE HIDDEN FLAME," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES_.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8 CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1886.
[_All rights reserved_.]
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
CRYSTAL PLACE PRESS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT.
CHAPTER II.
FOUL PLAY?
CHAPTER III.
HINTS OF EARLY HISTORY.
CHAPTER IV.
SEEKING HELP.
CHAPTER V.
PRINGLE UNANSWERED.
CHAPTER VI.
HER SUDDEN RESOLVE.
CHAPTER VII.
LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS.
CHAPTER VIII.
MR. DAVENPORT'S ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER.
CHAPTER IX.
"WHICH OF US IS MAD?"
CHAPTER X.
THE ELDER PRINGLE SPEAKS.
CHAPTER XI.
"MRS. DAVENPORT WAS CALLED."
CHAPTER XII.
ANOTHER WITNESS.
CHAPTER XIII.
BLAKE'S EVIDENCE.
CHAPTER XIV.
ALFRED PAULTON'S WALK.
CHAPTER XV.
"I SHALL BE READY FOR MY DEATH WHEN THEY ARE READY FOR IT!"
CHAPTER XVI.
THE VERDICT.
CHAPTER XVII.
JERRY O'BRIEN'S PROPHECY.
TEMPEST-TOSSED
CHAPTER I.
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
It was pitch dark, and long past midnight. The last train from the
City had just steamed out of Herne Hill railway station. The air was
clear and crisp. Under foot the ground was dry and firm with February
frost. All the shops in the neighbourhood had long since been shut.
Few lights burned in the fronts of private houses. The Dulwich Road
was deserted, and looked dreary and forlorn under its tall, skeleton,
motionless, silent trees. There was not a sound abroad save the
gradually-dying rumble of the train, and the footfalls and voices of
the few people who had alighted from it. Little by little these
sounds died away, and the stillness was as great as in the pulseless
heart of a calm at sea.
Alfred Paulton had arrived by the last train. He was twenty-eight
years of age, of middle height, and fair complexion. He lived in Half
Moon Lane, and after saying good-night to some acquaintances who came
out in the train with him, turned under the railway viaduct at Herne
Hill, and walked in the direction of his home. He was in no hurry,
for he knew his father and mother and sisters had gone to bed long
ago. He had his latch-key, and should let himself in. His ulster
covered him comfortably from neck to heel. He had supped pleasantly
with a few friends at his club, the Robin Hood, and earlier in the
day finished, a very agreeable transaction with his solicitor, and
now had in his pocket a handsome bundle of notes.
As he walked he swung his stick, and hummed in a whisper a few bars
from the favourite air of a comic opera which he had been to hear
that evening.
Suddenly he started. As he was directly opposite the door of a house,
standing back a few yards from the road, the door opened noisily, and
he heard a woman's voice in a tone of piteous entreaty exclaim:
"Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do?"
Alfred Paulton drew up and listened. For a while all was silent.
He looked over the paling, which was just as high as his chin. In the
doorway of the house stood the figure of a woman against the light of
a lamp on a table in the hall. The leafless boughs of the intervening
shrubs prevented his getting an uninterrupted view, but he could in a
brief glance gather a good deal.
The figure was that of a woman neither tall nor short, neither stout
nor thin. She was evidently not a servant. She wore an ordinary
indoor costume, and had nothing on her head. Although she had
scarcely moved since the opening of the door, he came to the
conclusion she was of alert and active habit. He judged her to be
neither old nor young. Her hair shone raven-black in the lamplight.
The illumined cheek was finely modelled, dark in hue--that of a
brunette. She leaned forward into the darkness, and peered right and
left, moving her head but slightly as she did so. Something glittered
in the starlight at her throat and at her girdle. Her hands were held
behind her to balance the forward inclination of her body. On her
fingers jewels sparkled in the lamplight of the hall behind her.
All this he saw at a glance. He was perplexed, and did not know how
to act. It was scarcely fair in him to stand there eaves-dropping, as
it were. If he moved now she would hear him, and know he had seen her
and had stopped to listen. If he spoke he might alarm her.
Up to the moment the door opened and she appeared and called out, he
believed this house to be empty. It had been vacant for a long time.
Now he recollected having heard that it was let at last, and that the
new tenant was expected to arrive this day. The place was called
Crescent House. He had heard talk about the new-comers at the
breakfast-table that morning; but nothing seemed known of them except
that they came from a distance and were well off.
The woman in the doorway now straightened herself, raised both hands
to her forehead, and moaned out in a lower and more despairing tone
her former words:
"Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do?"
He could hesitate no longer. It was plain she was in a sore strait.
He coughed, advanced to the gate, and, putting his hand on the latch,
said:
"I beg your pardon. Is there anything wrong?"
She started back a pace into the hall. In doing so her full face met
the lamplight for a moment. It was a very beautiful face, full of
terror.
"Do not be alarmed," he said softly; "I was passing when you opened
the door, and I heard you speak. Is there anything wrong? Anything I
can do for you?"
She seemed reassured, and stepped once more to the threshold, and
said, in a quick, low voice:
"I am a stranger here. I came to this house only to-day. I am alone
with my husband in the house, and he has been seized by sudden
illness. I do not know where to find a doctor, even if I could leave
the house, and I cannot go away from my husband."
"In what way can I be of use? Pray command me."
He tried to open the gate, but failed.
She perceived his efforts to open the gate, and once more withdrew a
pace into the hall, crying in alarm:
"No, no; you must not come in! If you wish to help me, go for the
nearest doctor. Go at once. Do not stand there. In heaven's name, do
not lose a moment! Go, I implore you."
She clasped her hands, and held them out towards him in entreaty.
"As you wish," he said. "I shall not be many minutes."
He turned and ran back towards the railway station. Dr. Santley, the
family physician of the Paultons, lived close by, and Alfred Paulton
resolved to summon him, although he might not be exactly the nearest
medical man. Time would be gained rather than lost by going for him,
as Santley would come at once without waiting for explanations--that
is, if he were at home.
On his way he had little space to think, the time being short and the
pace quick. He was more lucky than he had hoped, for he almost ran
over the man he sought at the gate of his house.
"Oh, doctor," he cried, almost breathless, "I am so glad to meet you
up and dressed! I want you, if you will be good enough to come with
me at once."
"Mr. Paulton, I'm sorry. What is the matter? I have just come back
from another unexpected patient.
"It's no one at our place, thank goodness! It's some one at Crescent
House. I don't even know the name."
By this time both men were walking rapidly towards Half Moon Lane.
Dr. Santley was a tall, slender man, with full black beard and
moustaches. He had a quiet, gentle, responsible manner, and rarely
smiled. As the two strode on together, Alfred Paulton described the
scene in which he had just taken part. When he had finished, his
companion said:
"Ah, I saw the vans at the door to-day; but surely they cannot have
got a big house like that straight in so short a time. Here we are."
They had arrived at the spot where a few minutes before the younger
man had stood and spoken to the strange woman in the doorway. The
door was now not open.
Paulton rattled noisily at the gate, and then waited a while. There
was no answer. He looked at the windows of the house; none was
lighted up. Light shone in the fan-sash over the door.
"You cannot have mistaken the house in the dark?" asked Dr. Santley,
suppressing a yawn.
"Impossible! It was the only house to be let. It is Crescent House,
and you yourself saw the furniture going in to-day."
Again he rattled the gate, this time as loudly as he could.
At length the door of the house was opened slowly, and against the
light of the lamp the same figure as Paulton had seen before was
revealed. Again the woman stood still on the threshold and leaned out
into the darkness. This time she at once turned her face towards the
gate.
Before either of the men had time to speak, she said in a calm, low,
penetrating voice:
"Is the doctor there?
"Yes," answered both in a breath.
"I will open the gate in a moment."
With a firm, swift step she left the doorway and trod the gravelled
path leading to the gate. She did not hesitate or fumble at the
latch. In a few seconds the gate swung open.
"This is Dr. Santley; he is our family physician. He and I live close
by. May I offer you my card? I and my family will, I am sure, feel
delighted to be of any service to you," said Paulton, raising his
hat.
"Stay," she said. "Will you both come in? I am terrified. I do not
know what has happened. I hope you are not too late."
Her words were measured and her tone calm. Although the trees
overhead were leafless, where she stood was dark, and neither of the
men could see her clearly.
Without further words she led the way back to the house. The two men
followed in silence. When they entered the hall she turned round in
the full light of the lamp, and, stretching out her right arm towards
the first door on the left, said:
"In that room. I shall wait for you. There is no other light. Take
this lamp."
Paulton now saw her fully. She was dark, almost swarthy. There was no
colour in her cheek. Her forehead was small and compact. Her eyebrows
and hair jet, glossy. Her eyes were dark, large, a little sunken,
brilliant, and full of suppressed fire. The nose was slightly
aquiline. The only relief to the dark hue of the face and the black
of the eyebrows, hair, and eyes, was afforded by the full, red, ripe
lips. And all the features, the forehead, the nose, the chin, the
mouth, the cheeks, were finely modelled. The face was commanding,
imperial, triumphant. It was as set and firm as marble. It was the
face of an empress born to lead her legions to victory--of a woman in
whom courage was a matter of course, who regarded obedience to her
wish as a spontaneous offering. She had the immortality of
indestructible will in her face, the weight of irresistible
determination.
With the face ended the heroic aspect of the woman.
At her throat blazed the diamonds of a brooch large as the palm of
her hand. On her fingers glittered a dozen diamond rings. The belt
round her waist was fastened with a diamond clasp. The diamonds at
her throat held an orange-coloured silk scarf. The rest of her dress
was dead black, close-fitting to the figure, and full of folds below
the waist. The arms were bare half-way from the elbow to the wrist.
The figure, the arms, the hands were subduingly soft and feminine.
The arms and wrists were round, the hands exquisitely delicate, with
fine taper fingers, the bust a miracle of rich symmetry.
It was the head of Boadicea on the figure of Rosamond.
Dr. Santley took up the lamp from the hall table and entered the room
she had indicated. Paulton paused for a moment in doubt as to whether
he should go or stay. The hall lay now in comparative darkness; there
was no light except what came through the open door of the front
room.
"Follow him."
It was her voice.
Paulton obeyed. As he got inside the doorposts he turned round and
looked back into the hall. He could make out nothing but the glitter
of the diamonds at her throat, in her girdle, on her fingers. They
were stars against the darkness of her dress, as the stars abroad in
heaven against the sightless robe of night.
The room in which Dr. Santley and Paulton found themselves was in the
greatest disorder. In one corner lay the carpet rolled up, in another
the hearth-rug, fender, fire-irons, and coal-scuttle. All along the
right side stood a row of chairs, one inverted on another. Pictures
rested on the floor with their faces against the wall; the gaselier
sprawled close by the window; the leaves of the dining-table were set
against the folding-doors at the back. The drawers and pillars of the
sideboard were hard by, the top and back of it stretched upward into
the gloom of a deep recess; several boxes and canvas packages
littered the floor. Two knights in plate-armour reclined one at each
corner of the chimney-piece; easy-chairs were wedged in among
amorphous bundles wrapped in Indian matting; rods and poles protruded
from under legs of chairs, under bales heaped upon one another. A
small table, face down upon another, held its slender legs up in air.
Some fire still smouldered in the grate; the fire must have been
large not long ago, for the room was still warm.
In the centre of the room stood the dining-table, reduced to its
smallest dimensions. On this were spread the remains of a simple
supper. Close by the table stood a couch, and on the couch appeared
the figure of a man.
The figure was sitting up in the arm of the couch, the legs rested on
the couch, the head drooped forward; the chin and lower part of the
face were buried in the thick, long, grizzled beard that flowed down
over the chest.
Dr. Santley stepped up to the couch on which the figure lay, and
having placed the lamp upon the table close at hand, began his
examination. It did not take long. After a few minutes he turned to
Paulton, and, pointing to the figure, shook his head.
"Well?" asked the young man below his breath.
The doctor went up to him and whispered in his ear:
"Dead some time."
Paulton looked round apprehensively at the door, and whispered back:
"How will she take it?"
The doctor shook his head.
Both men stood staring at one another.
Suddenly both started; they heard a footfall behind them. Some one
had entered the room.