A FRIEND'S ADVICE
One of those sudden changes had taken place in the weather to which we
in England are so accustomed. With the day the glory had departed.
Evening was ushered in by leaden skies. Dorothy became conscious how,
all at once, shadows seemed to have gathered. She had no means of
telling what the time was; she had never possessed a watch, and in the
pink room there was no clock. The regatta seemed over; the garden had
emptied; the hum of people's voices, of laughter, which had floated in
to her through the open window, had ceased; silence reigned. To her
excited fancy there was something ominous in the sudden stillness, the
growing darkness. What was going on downstairs? It was odd that they
should have left her so long alone--with the ghosts which would press
on her even in the sunshine, but which pressed still closer with the
advent of the night. Why had she seen nothing, heard nothing, of
Frances? The people had gone. Was she forgotten?--or what? It was very
hard to sit there waiting, watching, listening. Why did not something
happen? She was so unnerved that, of her own volition, she seemed
incapable of doing anything. When she was a very small child, whenever
there was trouble in the air, if opportunity offered, she would
undress herself and get into bed, as if bed were sanctuary. She would
have liked to insinuate herself between the sheets then, though it was
scarcely night, but she was afraid; and she had a feeling that, for
her, the days when bed was sanctuary had gone. Why did not someone
come, if it was only to tap at the door and ask how she was?
Someone did tap. The sound was so unexpected that it started her
trembling. It was such a curious tap; not at all the firm, pronounced
tap Frances might have given, but faint, furtive; almost as if the
tapper were anxious not to be heard. Indeed, in the silence which
followed, Dorothy was not sure that it was a tap--until it came again,
no louder, as if someone touched the panel of the door lightly, with
the tip of a single finger. Dorothy vouchsafed no invitation to enter.
She did not ask who was there. She felt sure it was not Frances, nor a
message from her; it was not the sort of tap which would be given by a
bearer of good tidings.
The tap was not repeated. Instead, after an interval, the door was
opened, softly, slowly, with about its movement the same furtive
something which had characterised the tapping; a few inches, then a
pause; a few more inches, another pause; there was an appreciable
space of time before it was opened wide enough to permit of a person
entering. Then there slipped, rather than came, into the room, a young
woman, a servant, of about Dorothy's own age; in appearance her
antipodes--short, squat, with a square head and face, high
cheek-bones, skin the colour of old port when held up to a strong
light. Closing the door as stealthily as she had opened it she tiptoed
towards the centre of the room. Twisted half round on her seat,
Dorothy had sat and watched her in silence; now, as she approached,
she rose from her chair.
"What do you want? Who are you?"
The girl answered, speaking in a husky whisper, as if she feared that
the walls had ears:
"Never mind who I am; don't ask me to tell you my name; then, if
anyone asks you, you can't tell them--see? You don't want to get me
into trouble, do you? Of course you don't." She put a stubby red
finger, in which the dirt was engrained, to her lips, with an air of
the utmost mystery. "I am a friend, that's who I am; and, placed as
you are, that's all you want to know about me, and as a friend I've
come to give you a word of advice, which is--bolt!"
"I don't know what you mean! Why--why have you come to me like this?
Who has sent you?"
"No one hasn't sent me--not much! Only they've found out all about you
in the kitchen; and West, she's the parlourmaid, she's after that
hundred pounds."
"Which hundred pounds? What--what do you mean?"
"Mean to say you don't know they've offered a hundred pounds for you?"
"Who--has offered a hundred pounds?"
"Why, over at Newcaster--I suppose it's them police--it generally is
the police what offers rewards, isn't it? Mean to say you didn't know
there was a reward out for you?"
Dorothy shrank back. A sound came from her lips which might have been
"No."
"Why, it's in all the papers; I expect there's thousands looking out
for it by now. That's what West says: someone's sure to get it, so it
might as well be her. So she went to put her hat on; meaning to start
off to them police; and if she didn't leave the key outside her
room--so I gave it a turn, and here it is." She produced a door-key
from a pocket in her skirt. "And there she is, locked in. Won't she be
in a tear when she finds out!" The girl grinned, as if enjoying the
mental picture she called up of the parlourmaid's rage when she
discovered she was prisoned. "They won't be so eager to let her out,
neither; there's none of them loves her. So if you're sharp you ought
to get clear off before she's even started after that reward."
Dorothy made no attempt to deny the terrible imputation which the
speaker's words conveyed. The thing was so continually present to her
own mind that the idea did not occur to her of even pretending not to
understand. The question she put tacitly admitted the truth of the
whole tale of horror at which the other only remotely hinted.
"Do--do the others know?"
"You mean--the family? I should think by now they do; I know Mr Parkes
started off to tell 'em."
"Perhaps--perhaps that's--why no one's been near me.
"I daresay. I shouldn't be surprised if I was the only friend you'd
got in the house, truly! The truth is--though, mind you, there's no
one in the place so much as guesses at it--the truth is, I have had
trouble in my own family, so that gives me a sort of fellow-feeling--I
know from bitter experience what them police are; no one sha'n't get
into trouble if I can help it, I don't care who it is; so, if you take
my advice, off you go as far as ever you can; because it's no use
waiting till them police come before you start--not much it's not!"
"Why--why should I go?"
"Why? Well, if you don't know, I don't!--why!"
"Mrs Vernon herself may have sent for the police."
"Of course she may; I expect a hundred pounds is a hundred pounds to
her as well as to anybody else."
"Then, if you think so, why shouldn't I let them come and find me
here? I'm tired of--of running away--of hiding!"
"Don't be so silly. It makes me feel as if I'd got the rope round my
own neck to hear you talk. You don't know what hanging is--I do! My--a
relative of mine was hanged, he was; and my mother, she's told me,
often and often, that the last three months she was carrying me she
used to wake every night feeling that the rope was round her neck, and
she used to have to get it off quick for fear it choked her. It
happened just before I came--see? And before I was born she used to
wonder if I should feel it because she did--and I have; ever since I
was a small kid I have; and I shall again to-night. I lay I shall; I
shall be as nearly hanged to-night as I can be without being quite.
And that's why I say to you, don't be silly--you don't know what it
feels like to be hanged." The speaker paused; she would have laid her
hand on the other's arm, only Dorothy shrank back, shivering. She
noted the action, commenting on it in a fashion of her own. "You
needn't be afraid of me, miss; you needn't really. There's no harm
about me; not a morsel. I couldn't help what happened, it was before
my time; and I can't help feeling like that--can I?" She waited, as if
for an answer; when none came she went on: "What I was going to say
is--I'm told that Miss Frances is a friend of yours!"
"We--we were at school together."
"Were you now? Well, don't you think that by waiting for the police to
take you here you'll be doing her a good turn, or her mother, or her
father, nor yet none of them. You did 'em a bad enough turn by coming
here at all; you don't want to make it worse, as you would do if the
police was to take you in this house. It'll be all about it in the
papers--how you was staying here, and how they was friends of yours,
and no end; and gentlefolks don't like to have it known that they're
friends of such as you; it gives the place a bad name; I shouldn't be
surprised if nobody never came near it again--see?"
Dorothy did see. The idea had been in her head from the first; the
speaker expressed it in a form which added to its force.
"You're quite right; that's what I've felt all along; I'll go at
once."
She moved towards the door, as if with the intention of putting her
words into instant execution. The girl caught her by the arm, this
time before Dorothy had a chance to prevent her.
"Where are you going? What do you think you're doing?"
"I am going to leave the house. Please--please let go of my arm."
The girl only tightened her grip, until the pressure hurt.
"What, down the stairs and through the front door--is that the way
you're going? Why, you might as well stay where you are as do that."
"Which other way can I go? Please--please release my arm; you're
hurting me."
The girl paid no heed to her request.
"Why, if you was to go down the stairs someone would be sure to see
you, and as likely as not they'd stop you; it isn't many as would
throw away a hundred pounds like I'm a-doing. And if they was to let
you go out of the house it would be almost the same; if them police
was to ask them if they'd seen you they'd be bound to say they had.
Cause why? They might get into trouble themselves if they was to say
they hadn't; it's not easy to deal with them police in a job like
this; you don't know the risk I'm running in acting as your friend.
What you want is not to do the family a worse turn than you've done
'em already; so what you've got to do is to get off the place without
their knowing anything about it, nor anyone else neither; because, of
course, I don't count. Very well, then; the stairs is no good for
that, nor yet the front door; the only way's the window." Dorothy
thought of the window in that private sitting-room in "The Bolton
Arms." She shut her eyes, and shivered. The girl mistook the cause of
the other's evident disturbance. "Don't you be afraid, there's no call
for you to go shivering; why, I felt you right up my arm. It's no
distance from this window to the ground; why, it's nothing of a drop,
to say nothing of there being a flower bed, what's pretty nearly as
soft as a feather bed, for you to drop upon. If you haven't noticed
come here and I'll show you."
She made as if she proposed to drag Dorothy to the window, _nolens
volens_, for she still retained her grasp on her arm. But Dorothy
stood fast.
"Will you please to take your hand away? I don't like you to hold me.
I've already told you that you hurt." The girl looked at her a moment,
then withdrew her hand. Dorothy held out her arm. "Look at the marks
you have made."
Although in the room it was nearly dark there was light enough to
enable them to see the imprints of the other's fingers on Dorothy's
white arm.
"Sorry, miss, I'm sure. You must mark easy."
"You are stronger than you think."
"I am strong; I know I am stronger than some; still, I never should
have thought that I was hurting you. I was only going to show you that
the window's no distance from the ground."
"I'm not afraid of dropping from the window; I am not such a coward as
that. Only what am I to do, and where am I to go, when I am down?"
"That's what I'm a-going to tell you. You see if you was to bend down,
and keep as close to the hedge as you can, as likely as not you'll get
to the water without anyone seeing you; though, of course, that frock
you've got on does show up----"
"I can change it; I'd rather."
"No, there ain't no time for you to do that--you've wasted too much
time already. You do as I tell you and you won't be seen, not in this
light, especially as I expect they're all on the lookout for the
police on the other side of the house. When you come to the river bend
down again, and go along the bank till you come to where the boat's
tied up to the steps. You get into the boat and row yourself across to
the other side. The other side of the river's in another county. The
police what belongs to this county they can't touch you in another
county; so if you can get there you're safe as far as they're
concerned; and the family here--Miss Frances and that, you know--they
can't be made out to have anything to do with you if you are took in
another county--see?"
Dorothy did see; or she thought she did--possibly her grasp of the
situation was as clear as the other's exposition. Rejecting the
other's offer of assistance she climbed, unaided, on to the sill; and,
without the slightest hesitation, dropped on to the bed of flowers
which was immediately below. The girl above, as if to assure herself
that no harm was done, waited for her to stand up straight; then, as,
in accordance with her directions, Dorothy, bent nearly double, began
to move quickly along in the shadow of the hedge, towards the river,
she withdrew her head; and, as stealthily as she had entered, she
passed from the room.