WHAT THE GIRL TOLD THE MAN
The question remained so long unanswered that one was disposed to
wonder if the girl had heard it; and this time Mr Frazer persisted in
waiting for the reply which did not come. He showed no inclination to
press her. Picking up his pouch from the turf, he began, leisurely, to
refill his pipe; and, for the first time since he had begun his story,
he withdrew his glance from Dorothy; using his eyes to observe the
tobacco as he pressed it home. She sat motionless; her hands in front
of her; her gaze fixed on the sugar, which the flies still harried; a
slight slip of a girl, with black hair, drawn tightly back from her
temples, and twisted in a knot behind. That was how they had taught
her to do it when, in the convent, she had put it up; she knew no
other way, and had no notion of the wonders which an artist in
hairdressing could perform with her luxuriant tresses. Although her
face was so white and thin that one doubted if she had had enough to
eat, it was good to look at. When she raised the long lashes which
veiled her eyes, one seemed to see right through the violet orbs which
were beneath into her very soul. But the man on the other side of the
tablecloth had known many varieties of women's eyes; he was aware how
apt they are to look one thing and mean another; he had little faith
in that imponderable essence, the feminine soul; he merely thought
what curious eyes the girl had got; quite out of the common. And as,
with practised fingers, he packed his pipe, he waited, patiently, for
her to speak.
At last she did speak; and, when she did, her words were not an answer
to his question.
"You know she's not an old lady."
The attribution of such knowledge seemed to surprise him; he seemed,
for a moment, to be in doubt as to what, exactly, her words referred.
Then when he understood he smiled.
"Is that so?"
He continued to fill his pipe; and she to look at the sugar. Then she
asked:
"What are you going to do:"
"I am going to light a match."
He did so as he spoke, holding the flickering flame to the bowl of his
pipe.
"You know that's not what I mean."
"Do I?" The tobacco was becoming ignited; he sent a puff of smoke into
the air. "What do you mean?"
She looked round at him.
"I am Dorothy Gilbert."
"Of course you are."
Nothing could have been more matter-of-fact than the air with which he
said it. She spoke with a catching of her breath; as if she resented
his coolness.
"Did you--know it?"
"Of course I did."
"Did you--know it all along?"
"Certainly--that is, let me be exact; it's as well to be exact--now
and then. When I heard that story at 'The Bolton Arms' I would have
bet that you were; when you came out of my house, and I saw you
standing on the ledge, I was sure that you were. They have your
description so pat, over at Newcaster, that it was impossible not to
recognise you."
"Then--then why did you give me my breakfast?"
"Why shouldn't I? You were my guest."
"When--when you knew that I was Dorothy Gilbert!"
"Well? What follows? Even so you were my guest."
"When--when you believed I'd done that thing?"
"I didn't say that I did believe it; you jump at conclusions."
"Do you believe it?"
"I am not sure that I do."
"You are not sure!" She twisted herself round towards him, heat in her
voice, fire in her eyes. "You are not sure! How dare you--how dare you
say----" She stopped; as if suddenly conscious that her warmth was
uncalled for; continuing, with downcast eyes, in a different tone:
"What do you mean, when you say, you are not sure?"
"I mean that I don't believe you did do it. Still, in order that we
may have all things shipshape and aboveboard, I confess that I should
like to have your assurance that you didn't." She was silent. "Won't
you give it?"
"I'm not sure that I can."
"Can?--or will?"
"I--I'm not sure if I did do it, or if I didn't."
She put her hands up before her face; he could see her shivering. He
eyed her with what seemed to be growing curiosity.
"What was George Emmett to you?"
"Nothing! Nothing! I hated him!"
"That would seem to suggest that he might have been something to you
once; or--you would hardly hate him."
"I don't know what you mean; he never was anything to
me--never--except my guardian; at least, he said he was my guardian;
and I suppose he was; but from the first moment I saw him I hated
him."
"Isn't that, under the circumstances, rather a dangerous admission to
make?"
"Why?"
"Mayn't some people think that your feeling towards him may have
furnished a motive for--what happened?"
"Do you mean that some people may think that because I hated him I
killed him? I hadn't the courage; I shouldn't have dared, I'm such a
coward; it's because I'm such a coward that I'm here--it's all my
cowardice!"
She sat with clenched fists staring in front of her; there was
something in her expression which suggested to her companion that she
was not quite such a coward as she asserted. When he spoke again it
was as if a note of sympathy had, unawares, crept into his voice.
"You observed, Miss Gilbert, that George Emmett was your guardian,
which seems to point to your having lost at least one of your parents.
Is it your mother?"
"I never knew my mother--never; so far as I know, I never even saw
her. I suppose I must have had a mother, but I don't know who she was,
or anything at all about her."
"And your father?"
"I believe I was three years old when I saw him last, and now Mr
Emmett says he is dead."
"Mr Emmett says? I presume you have some proof of the fact beyond Mr
Emmett's bare word."
"I daresay the Sisters have."
"What Sisters?"
"At the convent."
"At the convent? Were you in a convent?"
"Of course; I was at the Convent of the Sacré C[oe]ur at
Vannes--Vannes is in Brittany, if you know where that is."
"I do happen to know where that is; indeed, I happen to have some
knowledge of Vannes. Were there any other girls there besides you?"
"Lots and lots, at different times."
"Could you give me the names of any of them?"
"Why, if I were to think, I could give you a list as long as that."
She stretched out her arms. "I was there for more than fourteen
years."
"I don't think I'll trouble you for quite so long a list as that, but
could you give me the name of, say, one, who's been there within the
last twelve months?"
"Rather!--for one thing, there was my special friend, Frances Vernon."
"Did you know Frances Vernon?"
"I should think I did, and---- Do you know Frances Vernon?"
"It's odd, but I do chance to know something about Miss Frances
Vernon."
"She was there when Mr Emmett took me away."
"Was she? Then, in that case, I rather fancy she's left since."
"I shouldn't be surprised. She said she shouldn't stop a moment longer
after I had gone than she could help."
"I fancy she has a knack of getting her own way--at times."
"Isn't she lovely?"
"That's scarcely the word I should have applied to her. I should have
said she was a handful."
"If that's all you can say then you don't know much about her. I say
she's lovely, because I know all about her, and I know she's lovely.
But--what did you say your name was?"
"Frazer; Eric Frazer." Presently she shook her head. "What," he
inquired, "are you doing that for?"
"I don't remember it; nor one in the least like, and I should have
done if she had mentioned it."
"If who had mentioned what?"
"You see, Frances and I were tremendous friends; we had no secrets
from each other. She used to tell me about everyone she knew; hes and
shes; their names, you know, and all about them. And she used to make
a list of their names, on a sheet of paper; so that she might be able
to check them, and find out if anyone had been left out; and I don't
believe she ever so much as even breathed your name, Eric Frazer; or I
feel sure I should remember."
"Such an omission on Miss Vernon's part was unkind; it shows how
little I was in her thoughts. I gather from what you say, Miss
Gilbert, that you have a large number of friends."
"I!" The girl's eyes were suddenly opened wide. "Why, I haven't a
friend in the whole world, except Frances, whom I may never see again;
and, perhaps, Sister Celestine; who, I daresay, never wants to see me
again--at the convent they found it so hard to get money from father.
I don't believe they'd have let Mr Emmett take me away if it hadn't
been that he paid all that father owed. Whatever made you think I'd
lots of friends?"
"Then, if you haven't, you might give me a trial. It seems to me that,
at this particular moment, a friend's an article you're rather in want
of."
"I am; but--when you think what you do--I couldn't!"
"Miss Gilbert, if you could see my thoughts, I doubt if you'd object
to them; only, I'm older than you are, and I just feel that, if you're
not careful, you're likely to be in a tighter place than you have any
notion of; and, being so much older, if you were to tell me just what
happened last night at 'The Bolton Arms,' I might be of some slight
use in getting you out of it. That's all there is at the back of my
mind, as regards you. So, if you can bring yourself to make of me a
confidant, I'll respect your confidence, and whatever kind of trouble
it is you're in I'll be all the service to you I can."
She looked at him, carefully; as if considering what kind of person he
really was; and then she told him, everything there was to tell. She
did not seem to find it easy to start; but, when she once had started,
she poured out all that was in her heart, as a child might have done.
As he listened, strange though her story was, he knew she was telling
the truth. The pathos of it, of which she herself seemed to be so
oddly unconscious, touched him more than he would have cared to own.
And, manlike, because that was so, his outward manner put on an
additional shade of gruffness. Suddenly she startled him by putting a
leading question.
"Now do you think that I killed him, or that I didn't?"
He tried to fence.
"That's not altogether an easy question to answer."
"Oh yes, it is; it's perfectly simple and perfectly easy; either I did
or I didn't: there can only be one answer."
"Pardon me, but, from what I can gather, it's a point on which you
yourself seem to have some doubts."
"I know I have. Of course I know I never actually touched him;
but--perhaps I might have prevented him being touched; and--when he
began to make those noises I might have got him help; and so--I don't
quite know how it is. What I want to know is what you think; if you
have the slightest atom of a doubt you had better take me over to
Newcaster, and hand me over to a policeman."
"In any case I certainly sha'n't do that."
"Then I'll give myself up. I--I daresay that I--I sha'n't be so very
much afraid when I--I've quite made up my mind I ought to."
"You'll do nothing of the kind, if I can help it."
"If you can help it?--why, would you try to stop me?"
"I shouldn't only try. Let me disabuse your mind on one point; putting
casuistry on one side, you're no more to blame for what took place
than I am."
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly sure."
"It's very sudden."
"What's sudden?"
"Your being so sure. You weren't sure just now; you were anything but
sure. I wonder if, for some cause, you want me to believe that I am
better than you believe I am."
"Nothing of the kind. However, I don't want to discuss the matter with
you. I am going immediately to tell you what I do propose to do. But,
before I get to that, there is one question which I should like to put
to you, in order that we may know exactly where we are. You saw the
man who made use of that champagne bottle? You had a distinct view of
him?"
"I saw him as distinctly as I see you."
"You would know him again?"
"Anywhere; always."
"Did you ever see him before?"
"Never."
"Of that you are certain?"
"Quite."
"Did he remind you of anyone you had seen before? Think!"
"I am thinking; but--I can think of no one. Why are you asking me
these questions? Do you--do you know him? And--are you thinking of
giving him up to the police? If you are--if you are, nothing will make
me say that I ever saw him before--nothing!--nothing! He sha'n't come
to harm because of me!"
"My dear child----"
"I'm not a child--and anyhow I'm not yours!--nor am I dear! Are
you--are you daring to think of playing the traitor?--of taking
advantage of what I've told you to--to get him punished? Are you?"
"I am doing nothing of the kind--how you do jump to conclusions! I
don't know the man from Adam. Why do you credit me with such sinister
intentions?"
"Why did you ask me those questions--like that?"
"I've half a mind to tell you; then perhaps we shall begin to
understand each other."
"Perhaps it is just as well that we shouldn't understand each other;
but you will please to tell me."
"Miss Gilbert, you're a young lady with a temper."
"If you wish to speak to me like that----"
She half rose from the ground; he checked her.
"I don't--pray stay where you are! What times you and Frances Vernon
must have had together!"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing--I suppose you must have had a good time with her in the
convent, if she was such a friend of yours."
"Are you going to tell me why you asked those questions?"
"I am; then I think you will be sorry you have taken up such a tone
towards me. I asked those questions because the person whom you saw
strike George Emmett informed the waiter that his name was Gilbert."
"Gilbert!--Mr Frazer! But--I heard the waiter tell Mr Emmett that the
gentleman wouldn't give his name."
"What seems to have occurred is this. Someone came to one of the
coffee-room waiters and told him that he wished to see Mr George
Emmett. The waiter asked him his name; he said 'Gilbert'; then
immediately added: 'Never mind my name; you need mention no name; give
him this.' He scribbled a line or two on a sheet of paper, in pencil;
put the sheet into an envelope, which he fastened, and gave to the
waiter. So it came about that the waiter who delivered the note
supposed the stranger to have given no name; while the original waiter
is prepared to swear that, in the first instance, he said his name was
Gilbert--which is why I asked if you had seen him, or anyone at all
like him, before."
"But I haven't--ever! Who can he be? I haven't any relatives."
"Your acquaintance with your family history seems to be so nebulous
that I scarcely see how you can say that of your own knowledge. Do you
remember what your father looked like?"
"Only very dimly."
"Try your hand at a description."
"I seem to remember him as very tall, and dark, and----" She stopped;
the fashion of her countenance was changed, as if by a sudden access
of fear; then, as if because she realised how closely he was watching
her, she broke into what seemed to be a fit of pettish temper. "But
what does it matter what he looked like? What does it matter? My
father is dead."
"According to George Emmett."
Something in his tone caused her to look swiftly round at him.
"What do you mean by 'according to George Emmett'? Don't you believe
that my father is dead?"
"I merely mean that I had sufficient acquaintance with Mr George
Emmett to be disinclined to accept any statement of fact on his mere
_ipse dixit_. It is possible--if you like, it is probable--that he
gave the Sisters at the convent proof of his assertion; but I rather
fancy that their ideas of proof would be their own. You certainly seem
to have had nothing in the shape of proof. The fact that he paid money
on your account makes his tale--well, we'll say, peculiar; that he
should have done this if, as he told you, your father died owing him
money, makes it--well, very nearly incredible. It doesn't sound at all
like what is generally known of George Emmett's character. If he had
come and dunned you, or done worse, because your father died in his
debt, there I should have recognised the man; but that, having lost
money by your father, he should be willing also to lose money by
you--George Emmett must have had very odd reasons of his own for doing
that. You can't remember what the stranger said to Emmett?--what they
were disputing about?"
"I can't; I may do later, but I can't now. My brain was so stupefied,
I was in such a state of cowardice, that I heard--without hearing;
certainly without understanding."
"You can't recall even a single phrase?"
"No, I can't; I tell you I can't! Why will you persist in asking?"
"Please don't suppose, Miss Gilbert, that I wish to worry you; to
cause you pain; nothing can be farther from my wish; but I do want you
to appreciate the situation; to put you on your guard. If by any
diabolical mischance this stranger who gave your name should turn out
to be some more or less distant relative of your own it's as well that
you should be prepared for such an eventuality. Circumstanced as you
are, and may be, the one thing you don't want is to be taken
unawares." Twisting himself round, he drew towards himself a large
brown paper parcel which had been reposing on the turf at his back.
"Now to business. You have no money?" She shook her head. "Not any?"
"I haven't a penny."
"And--forgive me if I seem intrusive; but, if you will bear with me,
you will see that mine is not a merely impertinent intention--your
wardrobe is limited?"
"I have no other clothes except those I have on.
"And--forgive me again--those are not fresh from the dressmaker?"
"Indeed they are not. I have had this dress---- At the convent I had
one dress a year; this is my last year's frock."
"What has become of your hat? Don't you generally wear one?"
"Oh yes, I wear one, but I left the one hat I had behind at the
hotel."
"I told you that I went into Newcaster to do some shopping; and among
other things I bought the contents of this parcel. If you'll take it
to the room in which you spent the night I think it possible that
you'll find it contains some articles which may be of use to you.
While you're trying them on to see if they're any sort of a fit I'll
be putting things to rights; and harnessing that horse of mine, who's
very much mistaken if he thinks that he's in for a whole day's
holiday."
She stared at him in amaze.
"Why should you buy things for me?"
"Why shouldn't I? You are Frances Vernon's friend; and she's a young
lady whom I happen to know rather a deal about."
"But that's no reason why you should buy things for me!--you know it's
no reason!--you know it's not!"
"Pray don't imagine that I'm offering to give you these things; I've
expressed myself ill if I've conveyed that impression. An exact
account of their cost will be rendered to you, for which I shall
receive payment in due course."
"From whom will you receive payment?--from me? How can you imagine
that I shall be able to pay you; when, as I tell you, I haven't a
penny; and don't suppose I ever shall have one."
"As a man, Miss Gilbert, you must allow me to understand commercial
matters better than you do--as a business man I know I shall be paid,
in full; so please make your mind easy on that score. When you have
changed your clothes--and I think that, considering all things, the
sooner you do change them the better--and I have stuck my steed
between the shafts, I will drive you, at the rate of about four miles
an hour, to a railway station; then, with your permission, acting as
your personal conductor, I will take you, with the help of a train, to
Mrs Vernon's house. Mrs Vernon is Frances Vernon's mother; and is by
way of being some sort of a kind of a relation of my own. She will be
delighted to give you house room, until inquiries have been made into
the truth of Mr Emmett's statements, as to your father being dead and
his having left no money--I feel sure he did leave money, or Emmett
would never have paid that bill at the convent; to say nothing of his
having expressed a wish to marry you--and in short, till your affairs
are placed upon a regular footing."
"Which may be never. Why should Mrs Vernon give me what you call house
room?"
"You are full of whys. I tell you that she will be delighted--for your
sake; for her own sake; for Frances' sake; and, perhaps, a little for
mine."
"For your sake!--it's perfectly ridiculous to suppose that you can
care either one way or the other."
"Quite so; it's very good of you to say so."
"Mr Frazer, are you deceiving me? Are you sure that you know Frances
Vernon--and her mother?"
"Extraordinary though it may seem, facts are facts; and I not only
know Frances Vernon and her mother, but also her father and her
brother."
"That's Jim."
"Yes, that's Jim; I perceive that you are acquainted with the young
scoundrel's name."
"He's not a young scoundrel. Frances told me he was a darling. She
showed me his photograph; I could see for myself that he's very
good-looking."
"You said Frances was lovely; I am therefore not surprised to hear
that you think her brother's good-looking. My word! However, on a
question of taste there is no disputing." He stood up; the brown paper
parcel in his hands. "Shall I place this inside that private apartment
of yours? And will you be so good as to make your toilet with all
possible expedition? I should like to start from here well inside
thirty minutes--if you could manage to be ready?"
"I'm very sorry to intrude; or to interfere with what seems to be a
very nice little arrangement; but it isn't only a question of what the
young lady can manage--what price me?"
This question came from a figure which all at once rose from a clump
of furze which was at the back of Mr Frazer.