Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/cowardbehindcur00marsgoog
(Oxford University)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE COWARD
BEHIND THE CURTAIN
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Girl and the Miracle
In the Service of Love
A Duel
The Marquis Of Putney
The Twickenham Peerage
A Metamorphosis
Both Sides of the Veil
Marvels and Mysteries
The Seen and the Unseen
The Goddess: A Demon
The Joss: A Reversion
The Romance of a Maid of Honour
The Beetle: A Mystery
A Woman Perfected
THE COWARD
BEHIND THE CURTAIN
BY
RICHARD MARSH
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1908_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. DOROTHY SETS OFF WITH HER GUARDIAN.
II. THE CURTAIN.
III. THE COWARD.
IV. THE MAN IN THE CHAIR.
V. DOROTHY IS LEFT ALONE WITH HER GUARDIAN FOR THE NIGHT.
VI. HOW DOROTHY MADE HER EXIT.
VII. THE CARAVAN.
VIII. MR FRAZER GOES SHOPPING.
IX. WHAT THE GIRL TOLD THE MAN.
X. WHAT THE CARAVAN LEFT BEHIND.
XI. DANGER AHEAD.
XII. HEADLINES.
XIII. THE VERNONS--PARTICULARLY FRANCES.
XIV. STRATHMOIRA.
XV. DOROTHY GILBERT OF NEWCASTER.
XVI. THE SPREADING OF THE NEWS.
XVII. A FRIEND'S ADVICE.
XVIII. THE MAN WHO DID IT.
XIX. AN INTERLUDE.
XX. THE HOUSEBOAT.
XXI. WHY HE KILLED HIM.
XXII. THE TELEGRAM.
XXIII. THE SURGEON AND THE LAWYER.
XXIV. TIDINGS.
THE COWARD BEHIND
THE CURTAIN
CHAPTER I
DOROTHY SETS OFF WITH HER GUARDIAN
The girls were in the convent garden, when word came that Dorothy
Gilbert was wanted. Dorothy was walking with Frances Vernon. Ever
since she could remember her world had been that garden, with its
shaded walks and its high walls; never before had a visitor come to
her. The moment she was told that someone desired her presence she
turned to Frances, exclaiming:
"It is he!"
With characteristic impetuosity Frances threw her arms about her,
remarking as she did so:
"Just as we were speaking of him!"
As if there were anything strange in that. The strangeness would have
been if he had come when they had not been speaking of him; for, of
late, they had spoken of little else. Elsie Farquhar, who had brought
the message, pressed it home.
"You had better be quick, Dorothy. Sister Celestine said you were to
hurry."
So Dorothy hurried, her tall slender figure held very straight, her
pretty head a little in the air, in her eyes a gleaming light. She
believed herself to be passing from a world she knew into one of which
she had dreamed. But she was mistaken; she was going into a world of
which she had not dreamed. Sister Celestine met her at the door.
"It is Mr Emmett?" she inquired.
"Yes," replied the Sister, "it is Mr Emmett."
Something in her tone; on her face; in her glance; struck quick-witted
Dorothy.
"What is the matter? Why do you look at me like that? What is he
like?"
"Who am I that I should be able to tell you what he is like, when I
have seen him for scarcely five minutes?"
The Sister smiled, it seemed to Dorothy, not with that brightness
which she knew so well. The young lady's mental processes were rapid.
She divined, on the instant, that Sister Celestine was disappointed
with Mr Emmett. As she went with the Sister from the garden to the
guest-room she wondered why. Would she be disappointed also?--after
all her talks with Frances?--her communings with herself? She had
fashioned the unknown Mr Emmett in so many shapes that she could not
have told which of them she expected to see; certainly it was not the
person she actually saw. Her knowledge of men had practically been
restricted to the personages in the storybooks which found their way
into the convent precincts. These had to undergo a severe examination
before being admitted, as one bad character was enough to damn them;
and, as the conventual standard of masculine morals was peculiar, even
if the individuals who figured in the tales were not drawn from
imagination they certainly were not taken from life. One requirement
all the men in the books had to satisfy: they all had to be gentlemen,
or what the convent censor took to be gentlemen. Dorothy Gilbert might
have had more or less vague doubts, but it never had been brought
clearly home to her that a man could be anything but a gentleman till
she entered that guest-room and was introduced to Mr Emmett. When she
saw him, any illusions she may have had upon that point were shattered
at once and for ever.
A big, burly man was sitting on the edge of the table. One foot rested
on the floor, the other dangled in the air. He did not move when she
entered; he merely looked round at her and stared. His great bald head
had a narrow fringe of sandy hair which was just turning grey. He wore
a huge sandy moustache, whose hue was more than matched by his head
and face. A large, angry-looking spot was on the left of his big nose,
a smaller one was on his right cheek near the ear. His eyes were so
bloodshot that it was not easy to tell what colour they really were;
they reminded her of the eyes of a wicked giant who had played a
prominent, and disreputable, part in a fairy tale she had once read.
Indeed, the whole man recalled that giant; she had an uncomfortable
feeling that he might, at any moment, set about the--to him--agreeable
business of devouring her. Sister Celestine performed the ceremony of
introduction.
"This, Mr Emmett, is Dorothy Gilbert."
Still he kept his seat on the edge of the table, and his hands in the
pockets of the huge overcoat which he wore, although the weather was
so warm. Only he stared at Dorothy a little harder.
"No! You don't say! Well I'm damned!"
There was that in his voice, his words, and his manner which affected
Dorothy almost as if he had struck her. Sister Celestine was shocked
nearly into speechlessness.
"Sir!" was all she could say.
"Beg pardon, I'm sure, forgetting where I was; I suppose you ladies
don't do much of that sort of thing in here." He addressed himself to
Dorothy, with what apparently was meant to be jocosity. "So you're
Bully Gilbert's girl? I shouldn't have thought it; it only shows that
you never can tell. I don't know where you get your looks from--not
from him. Why, you really are---- Do you know who I am?"
"Sister Celestine says you are Mr Emmett."
"Georgie Emmett, your father's best friend--in fact, his only friend,
because he was not the kind of person who gathers them round. When,
some nine months ago, he departed this life, he left it owing me a
hatful of money; and I'm damned--beg pardon, I'm blessed if he hadn't
the cheek and impudence, by way of wiping off his owings, to appoint
me your one and only guardian; as if you were a little bit of
something which could be turned into cash. I'd have come and looked at
you before if I'd known you were so well worth looking at; but who
would have guessed that your father would have had a girl with a face
like yours. However, here I am at last; and I daresay you won't be
sorry to say good-bye to this queer old shanty, and to come with me to
have a peep at what the world looks like outside. I rather think there
aren't many men who can show you more of it than I can. Anyhow, I've
come to take you along; so run upstairs and put your hat and jacket
on, and your things in your box. My car's outside, a 60 F.I.A.T.--if
there's anything on earth can move it's her: but that's no reason why
she should be kept waiting, so if you can manage to do your packing
inside ten minutes I'll be obliged."
Sister Celestine and Dorothy looked at each other, as if both were at
a loss for words; as, indeed, they were. It seemed incredible that
Dorothy should be expected to quit, at a moment's notice, the place
which had sheltered her her whole life long; to go, with this uncouth
stranger, she knew not where. The Sister asked where he proposed so
take her; his reply could scarcely have been vaguer. "Oh, for a bit of
a run round; just now I'm rather at a loose end; my future movements
depend upon circs."
To the Sister's orderly mind the prospect seemed uncomfortably
nebulous; yet there seemed nothing to do but to let the girl go. The
man was her lawful guardian. In his method of paying the convent dues
the late Mr Gilbert had been erratic. Quite a considerable sum had
been owing when he died. During the intervening months that sum had
become still larger. Taking out a fat pocket-book, Mr Emmett paid all
demands with bank-notes: in that respect nothing could have been more
satisfactory. The convent, which could ill afford to lose the money,
had become anxious; the sight of those bank-notes removed a burden
from the Sister's mind and Dorothy was sent upstairs, to put her hat
and jacket on, and her things into her box. The process was not a
lengthy one. She still had the small wooden box which she had brought
to the convent as a tiny child. But her stock of clothes had not grown
much larger; those which would not go into the box were wrapped in a
sheet of brown paper. As, theoretically, Frances Vernon assisted in
the business of packing, she plied Dorothy with questions. The answers
she received were very short; gradually Frances became conscious that
some subtle change had taken place in her friend during the last few
minutes.
"What is he like?" she demanded; as Dorothy had done of Sister
Celestine. In her answer Dorothy paraphrased the Sister.
"How can I tell you, when I have been acquainted with him only ten
minutes?"
Frances leaped to conclusions as she herself had done.
"I know what that means--it means that he's horrid. Is he very
horrid?"
"I didn't say he was horrid."
"No, but you didn't say he wasn't. You might at least tell me what he
looks like. Dolly, do!"
And Dolly did. She painted Mr Emmett exactly as he had appeared to
her. She had a pretty knack of description; by the time the portrait
was finished Miss Vernon was gazing with wide-open eyes.
"Why," she cried, "he must be perfectly hideous!"
"He is not," admitted Dorothy, "what some people would call
good-looking."
"Fancy going you don't know where with such a man as that!--you who
have always said that in a man you must have beauty of mind, and soul,
and form!"
Dorothy bent over the frock she was folding.
"We have been taught that a plain casket may contain a priceless
jewel."
She might have been taught it; yet she doubted if Mr Emmett was a
casket of that kind. Before long she was sure that he was not. Her
box, whose appearance produced uncomplimentary remarks from her
guardian, was fastened on the top of the car; presently she had
quitted the convent, with all her worldly possessions. Mr Emmett was
his own driver. She sat beside him, on the front seat, while the
chauffeur sat behind. She would have preferred to have had it the
other way round, but it was settled for her without her having a voice
in the matter. A big coat was slipped over her shoulders; she was on
the seat; a rug was wrapped round her knees; they were off; before she
clearly realised what had happened; certainly before she had said all
the adieux she would have liked to say. It was all like some strange
dream; whose strangeness was accentuated by the subsequent flight of
the throbbing monster through the air.
What was the name of the town at which they stayed that first night
she never knew. She had not curiosity enough to ask; no one
volunteered the information. After dinner, which was to her a wholly
unaccustomed feast, at which she ate scarcely anything, in spite of Mr
Emmett's well-meant gibes and jeers, she stole up to bed as soon as
she could; to a big bed; in a big room, in the old inn, there she lay,
a lonely, forlorn maiden; thinking, puzzling, doubting, wishing, with
all her heart, that she was back again in the safe shelter of the
convent. She wished it often during the days and weeks which followed.
She was a young girl, and, like a young girl, all agog to stand on
tiptoe, if needs be, and open the windows which would enable her to
look into the house of life. Under normal circumstances, that motor
cruise might have been to her one long delight; but the circumstances
were abnormal; so that for long afterwards a motor car stood for her
as a sort of synonym for a nightmare.
Everything was spoilt by Mr Emmett's presence. From the first moment
he had impressed her disagreeably; that impression grew with each hour
that she spent in his near neighbourhood. The trouble was that it was
so hard to get away from him. He would have her sit beside him on that
front seat; ignoring utterly her reiterated requests to be allowed to
sit behind. During the first days they motored continually; stopping
in the daytime only to eat and drink--principally, so it seemed to
Dorothy, where Mr Emmett was concerned, for the latter. The quantity
he drank amazed and frightened her; always, when night fell, he had
drunk too much. During the day the liquor he consumed had an unhappy
effect upon his driving. He was quick enough to perceive that he had
not inspired the girl with sentiments of affection; and this he
resented. But, instead of setting himself to get the better of any
distaste she might have for him, he seemed to take a malicious
pleasure in paying her out for entertaining a feeling of the kind.
Discovering that she felt a not unnatural girlish timidity in her new
position as passenger on a motor car, he went out of his way to
increase instead of lessen it, so that, before long, her timidity
became actual terror. Nearly always he took the car along at what
appeared to her to be a dangerous speed; as the day advanced, and the
drinks multiplied, the speed grew more. At first she remonstrated,
feebly enough; but he only laughed, and pressed the car still faster.
Afterwards she sat silent; but she could not prevent her cheeks from
turning white, or her mouth from shutting tighter. When he saw these
signs he delighted in taking risks which made her heart stand still.
One afternoon he knocked down a child in a village street on the other
side of Blois. At first, in her agony, she thought it was killed; but
it appeared that only its arm was broken. When the people came
flocking round he gave the parents two thousand francs in bank-notes;
one could not but feel that they would have been willing to have their
own arms broken on those terms. He was lavish enough with his money.
They spent that night in Tours. The next day he offered her a wad of
notes, and suggested that she should go into the town and provide
herself with a sufficient wardrobe. She had not realised till lately
how scanty it really was; continual travelling made drains on her
resources which she found it hard to meet. But he offered her cash in
a way which jarred on her every nerve; she would not buy herself
clothes with money which came from him. When she made this clear to
him he called her an adjectived fool; and broke into a torrent of
language from which she fled in terror.
At Lyons he tried to kiss her; whereat she burst into a frenzy of rage
which surprised herself, and startled him. It was in the hall of the
hotel after dinner, just as she was going up to bed; always, so soon
as dinner was over, she went straight to her room. Billson, the
chauffeur, happened to enter at the moment, to get orders for the
morrow. Emmett, turning, saw him grinning at his discomfiture.
"By----!" he cried, eager to vent his fury on someone. "If you don't
take care I'll kill you!"
But Billson never flinched; and he continued to grin. He was a
shortish, youngish man, with a white, clean-shaven face, and black
hair, which he wore parted in the middle. He seemed to have a gift for
silence; Dorothy had hardly heard him speak a dozen times. She had a
feeling that, for some cause, his master stood in awe of him. Although
he went on grinning, Mr Emmett made no attempt to carry out his
threat--at least, while she was flying up the stairs.
They spent some days at Aix-les-Bains. There he made to her his first
proposal of marriage; he was in his cups at the time. To say that she
refused him is to say little. When she gained the sanctum of her own
apartment she was in an agony of shame and distress. Her dilemma was
not a pleasant one. It seemed to her that it was just as impossible to
remain in this man's company as it was to escape from it. She was
penniless, friendless. How was she to get away from him? To whom was
she to turn? Her ignorance was pitiable. For all she knew, his
position as her guardian gave him powers over her against which it was
vain to struggle. If she ran away from him, she thought it very
probable that he could compel her to return; in which case her last
plight would be worse than her first. Besides, with no money in her
pocket, where could she run? Despite her horror of the man, to her, in
her childlike ignorance, it seemed as if he had gripped her to him
with bonds of steel.