AN APPEAL.
Chris walked as long as she could be seen by Donald; but as soon as she
was out of his sight, she ran. Into the house, up the stairs, never
taking breath until she had shut herself into the dressing-room, and
turned the key in the lock. Then she took out the precious letter, her
eyes so dim that at first she could scarcely read it. When at last
she had conquered her agitation sufficiently to do so, she read the
following words, written in a bold, clear hand:
“You must forgive,” so it began, without any heading, “all that
is strange, all that is wrong in this letter, for it is the first
I have ever written. If my words are like those of a savage you
must forgive that too, for it is not my fault. I have lived alone
for years that I cannot count, but it is nearly all my life, ever
since my father died. I have been miserable enough, and yet I
never knew what misery was until I saw you. Neither have I ever
known what joy was until I looked into your eyes and touched your
hand. You have opened the world to me. You have woke me out of a
long sleep. You have given me heart and courage, you have saved me
from becoming what they pretend that I already am. I had thought
myself an outcast from all the world; long ago I had forgotten
what hope was, when you came here like a ray of sunshine and
changed the whole face of the world for me. I scarcely know how to
go on. I am afraid to offend you, afraid that you will not believe
what I say. But you are kind, you are good; and as I cannot see
you again I must write. I ask you just this one thing; it is a
favour I think you will not refuse. Come into the enclosed garden
under my window every day, at any time, if only for five minutes,
and let me see you. I know the gates are kept locked, but you will
be able to do this if you will, for if you ask for the key you
will get it, as nobody could resist you.
“One more thing I beg you to do. Be silent about me to the man
who keeps me here. If you intercede for me you will only do me
harm. I don’t know myself why he keeps me here; he has never even
let me know my own name. I know, as you know, that I am cursed
with an infirmity which condemns me to a solitary life; but I ask
you to judge whether it was necessary to treat me as I have been
treated. I know he pretends that I am dangerous; and he has just
this excuse, that, as far as he is concerned, he has made me so.
But I will not write to you of him. The time for me to call him to
account is nearer than he thinks.
“If I see you in the garden to-morrow I shall know that you have
found my letter, and that you forgive me.
“DICK.”
Chris had been interested in Mr. Richard. She had known of this
interest, which had seemed to be occasioned by pity only. Now that she
held his letter in her hands, and pressed it against her lips she
knew more than this. She knew that the feeling she had for the forlorn
recluse was something deeper, more tender than pity. She knew that she
loved him.
When she went downstairs to dinner, her face seemed transfigured, her
fresh beauty had never been so brilliant. All eyes were attracted by
the delicate colour in her cheeks, by the brightness of her eyes; and
Donald, who guessed the cause for this unusual radiance, was jealous
and sullen throughout the meal.
The next day was that of the Graham-Shutes’ departure. The fair Maude
thought it only right to warn her dear cousin John, before she went,
to be on his guard against the Abercarnes, as they were very designing
people. Dear cousin John retorted with a bombshell:
“I hope, my dear Maude,” said he, coolly, “that one of them will no
longer be an Abercarne by the time I see you again.”
Crestfallen, the poor lady pretended not to understand. So John
remorselessly explained:
“Why, I hope to make Christina Mrs. John Bradfield before many weeks
are over.”
Poor Mrs. Graham-Shute drew a long breath. At last she said:
“Whatever you do, of course, you have my best wishes for your
happiness. But--lucky as you are, John,” she ended, with spiteful
emphasis, “I wouldn’t tempt Providence too far, if I were you!”
To which dear John answered by a roar of derisive laughter, which made
Maude say to her husband, as they drove away, that, under the influence
of those two harpies, John’s manners were deteriorating greatly.
John Bradfield went back into the house quickly after seeing his
cousin off; he ran upstairs, and was in time to catch sight of Stelfox
hovering about the doorway of the injured Marrable. John’s expression
grew threatening. There was danger, danger too great to be tolerated,
in the meeting of these two men. Each of the two possessed the links
which the other lacked in a chain of facts, which, if known, would be
John Bradfield’s ruin. With a black frown on his face, the master of
the house opened the door of the sick-room quietly, and walked to the
bedside.
Poor Marrable had begged to get up that day, being, indeed, quite
well enough to do so. But John had insisted on his remaining in bed,
apparently out of solicitude for his friend, but really in order that
he might the more easily keep him under his own eye. Alfred appeared
to be asleep. John Bradfield glared at him ferociously. With this man
was the key to John’s fate. The knowledge he held of the past life
of his old chum was shared by nobody else on this side of the ocean.
With these thoughts passing through his mind, John Bradfield almost
involuntarily began to lift up, one by one, the various bottles, some
containing medicines, and some lotions for outward application, which
stood upon the table.
Suddenly Alfred sprang up in bed, and stared at him with feverish eyes.
“There, there, there!” he cried, as if fear and indignation had
deprived him of words. “Do you want to poison me? I believe you do. I
can’t make you out, John. I’m afraid of you. You’re not the same man I
used to know, and I’ll not stay under your roof another night! I tell
you, I’m afraid of you.”
Remonstrance was useless, but indeed his host did not press him very
much to stay; his chief wish now was to get his guest out of the house
before Stelfox could learn his intention to go. In this he succeeded.
Ordering the landau to be brought round, he himself helped Marrable
downstairs, accompanied him to the station, reserved a first-class
compartment for him, and made him as comfortable as he could with rugs
and wraps. Then he looked in at the carriage window and spoke to him in
tones to which joy at his departure lent an appearance of real warmth.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “I am afraid ours has been an unlucky
meeting after all these years. But I’ve been worried lately; I’m not
myself at all. But I’m not one to forget my old friends, and so you’ll
find when you get back to town, if you’ll open this,” and he handed
Marrable a large envelope sealed with red wax. “Just send me your
address when you get home, and let me know whenever you change it. And
every quarter you shall have a similar little packet from me as long as
you need it, for auld lang syne. And a happy new year to you, old man.”
So saying, John Bradfield wrung his friend’s hand with a heartiness
which soothed Marrable’s wounded feelings, and even went far, for
the moment at least, towards deceiving him as to his friend’s real
sentiments.
John Bradfield went home with a lighter heart. Here was one danger got
over, for the present at least. There remained one other to be grappled
with; that other was--Stelfox.
There could be little doubt that the man-servant had of late formed
some sort of league against his master with that master’s victim, and
Mr. Bradfield was anxious to know the exact terms of the compact. On
reaching home, therefore, he condescended to play the spy, and with
this object watched his opportunity, and when Stelfox unlocked the door
of Mr. Richard’s apartments and went in, Mr. Bradfield followed him,
entering by means of a duplicate key of his own.
Between the outer door by which he had just passed in, and the door
of Mr. Richard’s sitting-room, there was a passage, very dark and
very narrow, lighted only by a little square window in the centre of
the inner door, which had been made for secret observation, by Mr.
Bradfield’s order, of the lunatic’s movements.
Mr. Bradfield was advancing with cautious steps towards this window
when he suddenly paused, struck motionless with terror. And yet he
could see nothing, he could not even distinctly hear the words that
were being exchanged in the room. All that he knew, in fact, was that
he heard two voices in conversation. After a few moments of absolute
stillness and hideous terror, he moved spasmodically forward to the
inner door and looked through the little square window. All that he
saw was Mr. Richard, seated at the table talking to Stelfox, who stood
respectfully before him.
Mr. Bradfield drew a long, gasping breath; made his way, stumbling at
every other step, back through the passage on to the landing at the
head of the staircase outside. There he made one step in the direction
of the stairs, staggered, and fell down, gasping, unconscious, digging
his nails into the flesh of his hands.