"PHILO! PHILO! PHILO!"
Never have I felt a weirder sensation than when I stepped from the cars
on to the solitary platform from which a few hours before I had seen the
little nursery-governess depart for New York. The train, soon to
disappear in the darkness of the long perspective, was all that gave
life and light to the scene, and when it was gone, nothing remained to
relieve the gloom or to break the universal stillness save the quiet lap
of the water and the moaning of the wind through the trees which climbed
the heights to Homewood.
I had determined to enter if possible by way of the private path, though
I expected to find it guarded against just such intrusion. In
approaching it I was given a full view of the river and thus was in a
position to note that the dock and adjoining banks were no longer bright
with lanterns in the hands of eager men bending with fixed eyes over the
flowing waters. The search which had kept so many busy at this spot for
well on to two days had been abandoned; and the darkness seemed doubly
dark and the silence doubly oppressive in contrast.
Yet hope spoke in the abandonment; and with renewed spirit and a more
than lively courage, I turned toward the little gate through which I had
passed twice before that day. As I expected, a silent figure rose up
from the shadows to prevent me; but it fell back at the mention of my
name and business, thus proving the man to be in the confidence of Mrs.
Ocumpaugh or, at the least, in that of Miss Porter.
"I am come for a social chat with the coachman," I explained. "Lights
burn late in such extensive stables. Don't worry about me. The people at
the house are in sympathy with my investigation."
Thus we stretch the truth at great crises.
"I know you," was the answer. "But keep away from the house. Our orders
are imperative to allow no one to approach it again to-night, except
with the child in hand or with such news as would gain instant
admission."
"Trust me," said I, as I went up the steps.
It was so dark between the hedge-rows that my ascent became mere
groping. I had a lantern in my pocket which I had taken from Jupp, but I
did not choose to make use of it. I preferred to go on and up, trusting
to my instinct to tell me when I had reached a fresh flight of steps.
A gleam of light from Mrs. Carew's upper windows was the first
intimation I received that I was at the top of the bank, and in another
moment I was opposite the gap in the hedge opening upon her grounds.
For no particular reason that I know of, I here paused and took a long
survey of what was, after all, nothing but a cluster of shadows broken
here and there by squares of subdued light. I felt a vague desire to
enter--to see and talk again with the charming woman whose personality
had made such an impression upon me, if only to understand the peculiar
feelings which those indistinguishable walls awakened, and why such a
sense of anticipation should disturb my admiration of this woman and the
delight which I had experienced in every accent of her trained and
exquisite voice.
I was standing very still and in almost total darkness. The shock,
therefore, was great when, in finally making up my mind to move, I
became conscious of a presence near me, totally indiscernible and as
silent as myself.
Whose?
No watchman, or he would have spoken at the rustle I made stumbling back
against the hedge-row. Some marauder, then, or a detective, like myself?
I would not waste time in speculating; better to decide the question at
once, for the situation was eery, the person, whoever he was, stood so
near and so still, and so directly in the way of my advance.
Drawing the lantern from my pocket, I pushed open the slide and flashed
the light on the immovable figure before me. The face I beheld staring
into mine was one quite unknown to me, but as I took in its expression,
my arm gradually fell, and with it the light from the man's features,
till face and form were lost again in the darkness, leaving in my
disturbed mind naught but an impression; but such an impression!
The countenance thus flashed upon my vision must have been a haunting
one at any time, but seen as I saw it, at a moment of extreme
self-abandonment, the effect was startling. Yet I had sufficient
control over myself to utter a word or two of apology, which was not
answered, if it was even heard.
A more exact description may be advisable. The person whom I thus
encountered hesitating before Mrs. Carew's house was a man of meager
build, sloping shoulders and handsome but painfully pinched features.
That he was a gentleman of culture and the nicest refinement was evident
at first glance; that this culture and refinement were at this moment
under the dominion of some fierce thought or resolve was equally
apparent, giving to his look an absorption which the shock attending the
glare I had thus suddenly thrown on his face could not immediately
dispel.
Dazed by an encounter for which he seemed even less prepared than
myself, he stood with his heart in his face, if I may so speak, and only
gradually came to himself as the sense of my proximity forced itself in
upon his suffering and engrossed mind. When I saw that he had quite
emerged from his dream, I dropped the light. But I did not forget his
look; I did not forget the man, though I hastened to leave him, in my
desire to fulfill the purpose for which I had entered these grounds at
so late an hour.
My plan was, as I have said, to visit the Ocumpaugh stables and have a
chat with the coachman. I had no doubt of my welcome and not much doubt
of myself. Yet as I left the vicinity of Mrs. Carew's cottage and came
upon the great house of the Ocumpaughs looming in the moonlight above
its marble terraces, I felt impressed as never before both by the beauty
and magnificence of the noble pile, and shrank with something like shame
from the presumption which had led me to pit my wits against a mystery
having its birth in so much grandeur and material power. The prestige of
great wealth as embodied in this superb structure well-nigh awed me from
my task and I was passing the twin pergolas and flower-bordered walks
with hesitating foot, when I heard through one of the open windows a cry
which made me forget everything but our common heritage of sorrow and
the equal hold it has on high and low.
"Philo!" the voice rang out in a misery to wring the heart of the most
callous. "Philo! Philo!"
Mr. Ocumpaugh's name called aloud by his suffering wife. Was she in
delirium? It would seem so; but why Philo! always Philo! and not once
Gwendolen?
With hushed steps, ears ringing and heart palpitating with new and
indefinable sensations, I turned into the road to the stables.
There were men about and I caught one glimpse of a maid's pretty head
looking from one of the rear windows, but no one stopped me, and I
reached the stable just as a man came sauntering out to take his final
look at the weather.
It was the fellow I sought, Thomas the coachman.
I had not miscalculated the nature of my man. In ten minutes we were
seated together on an open balcony, smoking and beguiling the time with
a little harmless gossip. After a free and easy discussion of the great
event, mingled with the naturally-to-be-expected criticism of the
police, we proceeded under my guidance to those particulars for which I
had risked losing this very valuable hour.
He mentioned Mrs. Ocumpaugh; I mentioned Mrs. Carew.
"A beautiful woman," I remarked.
I thought he looked astonished. "_She_ beautiful?" was his doubtful
rejoinder. "What do you think of Mrs. Ocumpaugh?"
"She is handsome, too, but in a different way."
"I should think so. I've driven rich and I've driven poor. I've even sat
on the box in front of an English duchess, but never have I seen such
features as Mrs. Ocumpaugh's. That's why I consent to drive an American
millionaire's wife when I might be driving the English nobility."
"A statue!" said I; "cold!"
"True enough, but one you never tire of looking at. Besides, she can
light up wonderfully. I've seen her when she was all a-quiver, and
lovely as the loveliest. And when do you think that was?"
"When she had her child in her arms."
I spoke in lowered tones as befitted the suggestion and the
circumstances.
"No," he drawled, between thoughtful puffs of smoke; "when Mr. Ocumpaugh
sat on the seat beside her. This, when I was driving the victoria. I
often used to make excuse for turning my head about so as to catch a
glimpse of her smile at some fine view and the way she looked up at him
to see if he was enjoying it as much as she. I like women who love their
husbands."
"And he?"
"Oh, she has nothing to complain of in him. He worships the ground she
walks on; and he more than worshiped the child."
Here _his_ voice fell.