“And from that time to this I am alone,
And I shall be alone until I die.”
Theodore and his friend strolled across the Park on Saturday
afternoon in the direction of the west gate, Cuthbert Ramsay intent
upon carrying out his intention of introducing himself to Mrs.
Porter, and Theodore submitting meekly to be led as it were into the
lion’s den.
“You have no idea what hard stuff this woman is made of,” he said;
and then he told Ramsay what Lord Cheriton had said to him about Mrs.
Porter on the previous evening, and how the daughter’s life was to be
made happy, if possible, without reference to the mother.
“The harder she is the more I am interested in making her
acquaintance,” replied Cuthbert. “I don’t care a jot about
commonplace women, were they as lovely as Aphrodite. I go to see
this soured widow as eagerly as Romeo scaled Juliet’s balcony. Did
his lordship ever tell you what it was that soured the creature, by
the way? That kind of hardness is generally in somewise the result
of circumstance, even where there is the adamantine quality in the
original character.”
“I never heard any details about the lady’s past life; only that her
husband was in the merchant navy, upon the India and China line—that
he died suddenly and left her penniless—that she was a lady by birth
and education, and had married somewhat beneath her. I have often
wondered how my cousin, as a barrister, came to be intimate with a
captain in the merchant service.”
They were at the gates of the Park by this time, and close to the
rustic steps which led up to Mrs. Porter’s garden. It was one of
those tropical days which often occur towards the end of August,
and the clusters of cactus dahlias in the old-fashioned border, and
the tall hollyhocks in the background, made patches of dazzling
colour in the bright white light, against which the cool grays of
the stone cottage offered repose to the eye. One side of the cottage
was starred with passion-flowers, and on the other the great waxen
chalices of the magnolia showed creamy white against the scarlet of
the trumpet ash. It was the season at which Mrs. Porter’s hermitage
put on its gayest aspect, the crowning feast of bloom and colour
before the chilling breath of autumn brought rusty reds and pallid
grays into the picture.
The two young men heard voices as they approached the steps, and on
looking upward, Theodore saw the curate and his wife standing on the
little grass-plot with Mrs. Porter. There could hardly be a better
opportunity for approaching her, as she was caught in the act of
receiving visitors, and could not deny herself.
Mr. and Mrs. Kempster were young people, and of that social
temperament which will make friends under the hardest conditions. Mr.
Kempster belonged to the advanced Anglican school, and ministered the
offices of the Church as it were with his life in his hand, always
prepared for the moment when he should come into collision with his
Bishop upon some question of posture or vestments. He had introduced
startling innovations into the village church, and hoped to be
able to paraphrase the boast of Augustus, and to say that he found
Cheriton Evangelical and left it Ritualistic. Needless to say, that
while he gratified one half of his congregation he offended the other
half, and that old-fashioned parishioners complained bitterly of his
“gewgaws fetched from Aaron’s old wardrobe or the flamen’s vestry.”
Mrs. Kempster had work enough to do in smoothing down the roughened
furs of these antediluvians, which smoothing process she effected
chiefly by a rigorous system of polite afternoon calls, in which
no inhabitant of the parish was forgotten, and an occasional small
expenditure in the shape of afternoon tea and halfpenny buns toasted
and buttered by her own fair hands. She was a bright, good-tempered
little woman, whom her husband generally spoke of as a “body.”
The Kempsters had just accepted Mrs. Porter’s invitation to tea, and
were making an admiring inspection of her garden before going into
the cottage.
“I don’t believe any one in Cheriton parish has such roses as you,
Mrs. Porter,” said the curate’s wife, gazing admiringly at the
standard Gloire de Dijon, which had grown into gigantic dimensions in
the middle of the grass-plot. “I never saw such a tree; but then, you
see, you give your mind to your garden as none of us can.”
“I have very little else to think about, certainly,” said Mrs. Porter.
“Except Algernon’s sermons. I know you appreciate them,” cried
Mrs. Kempster, in her chirruping little voice. “Algernon says no
one listens as attentively as you do. ‘She quite carries me away
sometimes with that rapt look of hers,’ he said the other day. I am
half inclined to feel jealous of you, Mrs. Porter. Oh, here is Mr.
Dalbrook. How d’ye do, Mr. Dalbrook?”
Mrs. Kempster shook hands with Theodore before he could approach
Mrs. Porter, but having got past this vivacious lady, he introduced
Cuthbert Ramsay to the mistress of the house.
“My friend is a stranger in the neighbourhood, Mrs. Porter,” he
said, “and he was so struck by the beauty of your cottage yesterday,
that he set his heart upon being introduced to you, and I was really
obliged to bring him.”
“My cottage is not generally considered a show place, Mr. Dalbrook,”
she answered coldly, turning her dull gray eyes full upon Theodore
with a look which made him uncomfortable, “but I shall be very happy
to show it to your friend—and his lordship’s friend, I conclude.”
“I don’t know if I dare claim that distinction, Mrs. Porter,”
answered Cuthbert, in his cheerful resonant voice. “This is my first
visit to the Chase; and if Lord Cheriton has received me with open
arms it is only because I am his kinsman’s friend.”
Theodore introduced the stranger to the Kempsters, who welcomed him
eagerly, as one who came fraught with the interests and excitements
of the outer world.
“May I ask if our man has got in for Southwark?” demanded Mr.
Kempster. “His lordship would be sure to get a telegram after the
polling.”
“I blush to say that I forgot all about the election, and didn’t ask
after the telegram,” replied Cuthbert. “When you say ‘our man,’ you
mean——”
“The Conservative candidate. I conclude you belong to us.”
“Again I blush to say I don’t belong to you the least little bit. I
am an advanced Liberal.”
Mr. Kempster sighed, with a sigh that was almost a groan.
“A destroyer and disestablisher of everything that has made the glory
of England since the days of the Heptarchy,” he said, plaintively.
“Well, yes, there have been a good many false gods toppled over, and
a good many groves of Baal cut down, since the Saxon Kings ruled over
the Seven Kingdoms. You don’t want Baal and the rest of them stuck up
again, do you, Mr. Kempster?”
“Mr. Ramsay, there are times and seasons when I would to God I could
wake up in the morning and find myself a subject of King Egbert.
Yes, when I see the rising tide of anarchy—the advancing legions of
unbelief—the Upas Tree of sensual science,” said Kempster, slipping
airily from metaphor to metaphor, “I would gladly lay hold upon all
that was most rigid and uncompromising among the bulwarks of the
past. I would belong to the Church of Wolsey and A’Becket. I would
lie prostrate before the altar at which St. Augustine was celebrant.
I would grovel at the feet of Dunstan.”
“Ah, Mr. Kempster, we can’t go back. That’s the plague of it, for
romantic minds like yours. I am afraid we have done with the
picturesque in religion and in everything else. We are children of
light—or the fierce white light of science and common sense. We may
regret the scenic darkness of mediævalism, but we cannot go back to
it. The clouds of ignorance and superstition have rolled away, and we
stand out in the open, in the searching light of truth. We know what
we are, and whom we serve.”
At Mrs. Porter’s invitation they all followed her into the cottage
parlour, where the tea-table stood ready, and much more elegantly
appointed than that modest board which the curate’s wife was wont to
spread for her friends. Here there appeared both old china and old
silver, and the tea which Mrs. Porter’s slender white hands dispensed
was of as delicate an aroma as that choice Indian pekoe which
Theodore occasionally enjoyed in Lady Cheriton’s boudoir.
Mrs. Porter placed herself with her back to the window, but
Cuthbert’s keen eyes were able to note every change in her
countenance as she listened to the conversation going on round her,
or on rare occasions took part in it. He observed that she was
curiously silent, and he was of opinion that Theodore’s presence was
in some manner painful to her. She addressed him now and then, but
with an effort which was evident to those studious eyes of Cuthbert
Ramsay’s, though it might escape any less keen observer.
The conversation was of politics and of the outer world for the first
ten minutes, and was obviously uninteresting to Mrs. Kempster, who
fidgeted with her teaspoon, made several attempts to speak, and had
to wait her opportunity, but finally succeeded in engaging Theodore’s
attention.
“Have you seen Lady Carmichael lately, Mr. Dalbrook?” she inquired.
“I saw her three days ago.”
“And how did you find her? In better spirits I hope? She hardly ever
comes to Cheriton now, and her old friends know very little about
her. I am told she has a horror of the place, though she was once so
fond of it. Poor thing, it is only natural! You found an improvement
in her, I hope?”
“Yes, I saw at least the beginning of improvement,” answered
Theodore. “Her child gives a new interest to her life.”
“What a blessing that is! And by-and-by she will meet some one else,
who will interest her even more than her baby, and she will marry
again. She is too young to go on grieving for ever. Don’t you think
so, Mrs. Porter?”
“Yes, I suppose she will forget sooner or later. Most women have a
faculty for forgetting.”
“Most women, but not all women,” said Cuthbert, with his earnest air,
which made the commonest words mean more from him than from other
men. “I do not think you would be the kind of woman to forget very
quickly, Mrs. Porter.”
She was in no hurry to notice this remark, but went on pouring out
tea quietly for a minute or two before she replied.
“There is not much room in my life for forgetfulness,” she said,
after that protracted pause. “So without being in any way an
exceptional person, I may lay claim to a good memory.”
“She remembers her daughter, and yet memory does not soften her
heart,” thought Theodore. “With her, memory means implacability.”
He looked round the room, in the flickering light of the sunshine
that crept in between the bars of the Venetian shutters. He had not
expected ever to be sitting at his ease in Mrs. Porter’s parlour
after that unpromising conversation upon the first day of the year.
He looked round the room, thoughtfully contemplative of every detail
in its arrangement which served to tell him what manner of woman Mrs.
Porter was. He was not a close student of character like Ramsay; he
had made for himself no scientific code of human expression in eye
and lip and head and hand; but it seemed to him always that the room
in which a man or a woman lived gave a useful indication of that
man’s or that woman’s mental qualities.
This room testified that its mistress was a lady. The furniture
was heterogeneous—shabby for the most part, from an upholsterer’s
point of view, old-fashioned without being antique; but there was
nevertheless a _cachet_ upon every object which told that it had
been chosen by a person of taste, from the tall Chippendale bureau
which filled one corner of the room, to the solid carved oak table
which held the tea-tray. The ornaments were few, but they were old
china, and china of some mark from the collector’s point of view;
the draperies were of Madras muslin, spotless, and fresh as a spring
morning. Theodore noticed, however, that there were no flowers in the
vases, and none of those scattered trifles which usually mark the
presence of refined womanhood. The room would have had a bare and
chilly aspect, lacking these things, if it had not been for a few
pictures, and for the bookshelves, which were filled with handsomely
bound books.
“You have a nice library, Mrs. Porter,” he said, somewhat aimlessly,
as he took a cup of tea from her hands. “I suppose you are a great
reader?”
“Yes, I read a great deal. I have my books and my garden. Those make
up my sum of life.”
“May I look at your books?”
“If you like,” she answered coldly.
He went about the small, low room—so low, with its heavily-timbered
ceiling, that Cuthbert Ramsay’s head almost touched the
crossbeams—and surveyed the collections of books in their different
blocks. Whoever had so arranged them had exercised both taste and
dexterity. Everything in the room fitted like a Chinese puzzle, and
everything seemed to have been adapted to those few pieces of old
furniture—the walnut-wood bureau, the oak table, and the old Italian
chairs. The books were theological or metaphysical for the most
part, but among them he found Carlyle’s “Sartor Resartus,” “Past and
Present,” and “French Revolution;” Bulwer’s mystical stories, and a
few books upon magic, ancient and modern.
“I see you have a fancy for the black art, Mrs. Porter,” he said
lightly. “One would hardly expect to find such books as these in the
Isle of Purbeck.”
“I like to know what men and women have built their hopes upon in the
ages that are gone,” she answered. “Those dreams may seem foolishness
to us now, but they were very real to the dreamers, and there were
some who dreamed on till the final slumber—the one dreamless sleep.”
This was the longest speech she had made since the young men entered
her garden, and both were struck by this sudden gleam of animation.
Even the large grey eyes brightened for a few moments, but only
to fade again to that same dull, unflinching gaze which made them
more difficult to meet than any other eyes Theodore Dalbrook had
ever looked upon. That unflinching stare froze his blood; he felt a
restraint and an embarrassment which no other woman had ever caused
him.
It was different with Cuthbert Ramsay. He was as much at his ease in
Mrs. Porter’s parlour as if he had known that lady all her life. He
looked at her books without asking permission. He moved about with a
wonderful airiness of movement which never brought him into anybody’s
way. He fascinated Mrs. Kempster, and subjugated her husband, and
impressed everybody by that strong individuality which raises some
men a head and shoulders above the common herd. It would have been
the same had there been a hundred people in the room instead of five.
Mrs. Porter relapsed into silence, and the conversation was carried
on chiefly by Cuthbert Ramsay and the Curate, until Mrs. Kempster
declared that she must be going, lest the children should be unhappy
at her absence from their evening meal.
“I make a point of seeing them at their tea,” she said; “and then
they say their prayers to me before nurse puts them to bed—so
prettily, and Laura sings a hymn with such a sweet little voice. I
am sure she will be musical by-and-by, if it is only by the way she
stands beside the piano and listens while I sing. And such an ear as
that child has, as fine as a bird’s! You must come and hear her sing
‘Abide with me,’ some day, Mrs. Porter, when you drop in to take a
cup of tea.”
Mrs. Porter murmured something to the effect that she would be
pleased to enjoy that privilege.
“Ah, but you never come to tea with me, though I am always asking
you. I’m afraid you are not very fond of children.”
“I am not used to them, and I don’t think that children like people
who are out of the habit of associating with them,” answered Mrs.
Porter deliberately. “I never know what to say to a child. My life
has been too grave and too solitary for me to be fit company for
children.”
The Curate and his wife took leave and went briskly down the steps to
the lane, and Theodore made a little movement towards departure, but
Cuthbert Ramsay lingered, as if he were really loth to go.
“I am absolutely in love with your cottage, Mrs. Porter,” he said;
“it is an ideal abode, and I can fancy a lady of your studious habits
being perfectly happy in this tranquil spot.”
“The life suits me well enough,” she answered icily, “perhaps better
than any other.”
“You have a piano yonder, I see,” he said, glancing through the
half-open door to an inner room with a latticed window, beyond which
a sunlit garden on a bit of shelving ground sloped upwards to the
edge of the low hillside, the garden vanishing into an upland meadow,
where cows were seen grazing against the evening light. This second
sitting-room was more humbly furnished than the parlour in which they
had been taking tea, and its chief feature was a cottage piano, which
stood diagonally between the lattice and the small fireplace.
“You too are musical, I conclude,” pursued Cuthbert, “like little
Miss Kempster.”
“I am very fond of music.”
“Might we be favoured by hearing you play something?”
“I never play before people. I played tolerably once, perhaps—at
least my master was good enough to say so. But I play now only
snatches of music, by fits and starts, as the humour seizes me.”
She seated herself by the casement with a resigned air, as much as to
say, “Are these young men never going?” Her long, thin fingers busied
themselves in plucking the faded leaves from the pelargoniums which
made a bank of colour on the broad window ledge.
“You were at home at the time of the murder, I suppose, Mrs. Porter?”
said Cuthbert, after a pause, during which he had occupied himself
in looking at the water-colour sketches on the walls, insignificant
enough, but good of their kind, and arguing a cultivated taste in the
person who collected them.
“I am never away from home.”
“And you heard and saw nothing out of the common course—you have no
suspicion of any one?”
“Do you suppose if I had it would not have been made known to the
police immediately after the murder? Do you think I should hoard and
treasure up a suspicion, or a scrap of circumstantial evidence till
you came to ask me for it?” she said, with suppressed irritation.
“Pray forgive me. I had no idea of offending you by my question. It
is natural that any one coming to Cheriton Chase for the first time
should feel a morbid interest in that mysterious murder.”
“If you had heard it talked about as much as I have you would
be as weary of the subject as I am,” said Mrs. Porter, rather
more courteously. “I have discussed it with the local police and
the London police, with his Lordship, with the doctor, with Mr.
Dalbrook’s father, with Lady Carmichael, with Lady Jane Carmichael,
these having all a right to question me—and with a good many other
people in the neighbourhood who had no right to question me. I answer
you as I answered them. No, I saw nothing, I heard nothing on that
fatal night—nor in the week before that fatal night, nor at any
period of Lady Carmichael’s honeymoon. Whoever the murderer was he
did not come in a carriage and summon my servant to unlock the gate
for him. The footpath through the Park is open all night. There was
nothing to hinder a stranger coming in and going out—and the chances
were a thousand to one, I fancy, against his being observed—once
clear of the house. That is all I know about it.”
“And as an old resident upon the property you have no knowledge of
any one who had a grudge against Lord Cheriton or his daughter—such a
feeling as might prompt the murder of the lady’s husband as a mode of
retaliation upon the lady or her father?”
“I know no such person, and I have never considered the crime from
such a point of view. It is too far-fetched a notion.”
“Perhaps. Yet where a crime is apparently motiveless the mainspring
must be looked for below the surface. Only a far-fetched theory can
serve in such a case.”
“Shall I tell you what I think about the murder, Mr. Ramsay?” asked
Mrs. Porter, looking up at him suddenly, and fixing him with those
steady grey eyes.
“Pray do.”
“I think that no one upon God’s earth will ever know who fired that
shot. Only at the Day of Judgment will the murderer stand revealed,
and then the secret of the crime and the motive will stand forth
written in fire upon the scroll that records men’s wrongs and sorrows
and sins. You and I, and all of us, may read the story there,
perhaps, in that day when we shall stand as shadows before the great
white throne.”
“I believe you are right, Mrs. Porter” answered Cuthbert, quietly,
holding out his hand to take leave. “A secret that has been kept for
more than a year is likely to be kept till we are all in our graves.
The murderer himself will be the one to tell it, perhaps. There are
men who are proud of a bloody revenge, as if it were a noble deed.
Good day to you, Mrs. Porter, and many thanks for your friendly
reception.”
He held the thin, cold hand in his own as he said this, looking
earnestly at the imperturbable face, and then he and Theodore left
the cottage.
“Well, Cuthbert, what do you think of that woman?” asked Theodore,
after they had passed through the gate, and into the quiet of the
long glade where the fallow deer were browsing in the fading day.
“I think a good deal about her, but I haven’t thought out my opinion
yet. Has she ever been off her head?”
“Not to my knowledge. She has lived in that house for twenty years. I
never heard that there was anything wrong with her mentally.”
“I believe there is something, or has been something very wrong.
There is madness in that women’s eye. It may be the indication of
past trouble, or it may be a warning of an approaching disturbance.
She is a woman who has suffered intensely, and who has acquired an
abnormal power of self-restraint. I should like to know her history.”
“My God, Cuthbert,” cried Theodore, grasping him by the arm, and
coming suddenly to a standstill, “do you know what your words
suggest—to what your conclusion points? The murder of my cousin’s
husband was an act of vengeance, or of lunacy. We have made up our
minds about that, have we not? The detective, Juanita, you and I,
everybody. We are looking for some wretch capable of a blindly
malignant revenge, or for homicidal madness, with its unreasoning
thirst for blood; and here, here at these gates is a woman whom you
suspect of madness, a woman who could have had access to the gardens
at any hour, who knew the habits and hours of the servants, who would
know how to elude observation.”
“My dear fellow, you are going a great deal too far. Who said I
suspected that unhappy woman of homicidal madness? The brain disease
I suspect in Mrs. Porter is melancholia, the result of long years
of self-restraint and solitude, the not unfrequent consequence of
continuous brooding upon a secret grief.”