It was about a month after the shipwreck which brought such strange
consequences to the Blue Lion and its inmates that Clifford King, much
against his will, found himself, for the first time that winter, at a
dance. He detested dancing, never accepted an invitation to a ball if
he could help it, and never turned up if he found himself compelled to
accept.
But this entertainment was an exceptional one, being given in honor of
the “coming out” of Otto Conybeare’s youngest sister, and the mines
laid for him had proved successful.
When he got to the house, however, he found the sight such a pretty
one that he could not tell even himself that he was a martyr in having
to come. The rooms were large and beautifully decorated with ferns and
daffodils, “just like a church on Easter Sunday,” as Otto said.
Clifford’s attention was attracted early in the evening by the sight of
a girl whose face he knew, who looked at him again and again, as if she
expected him to recognize her, but whose name he could not remember.
In fact, the more often he met her eyes, the more sure he felt he did
not even know it.
Before long Clifford saw her speak to Otto and glance in the direction
of himself.
“Now,” thought he, “I shall get to the bottom of the mystery.” For he
had had no opportunity of getting hold of Otto, or of any one who could
tell him who she was. Otto came straight toward him.
“I want to introduce you to Miss Lansdowne,” said he.
Lansdowne! The name was quite unfamiliar to Clifford. But as soon as he
was introduced the puzzle came to pieces.
“I wanted so much to know you, Mr. King,” said the girl, who was
pleasant, unaffected and amiable-looking. “I can see you don’t know me,
and yet I know you very well.”
“That is not quite fair,” said Clifford. “I do remember your face
perfectly well; it is your name only which is unfamiliar to me. I am
certain I have never spoken to you in my life; you may be sure I should
not have forgotten if I had.”
“I live near Stroan,” said Miss Lansdowne.
Clifford started, and his face clouded.
“I have often seen you about there,” went on the girl, “and I know
intimately more than one of your friends there.”
“I have no friends there now,” said Clifford, with a sudden change to
grave bitterness in his voice and manner.
“Well, you had friends there at one time, I think. Miss Bostal and her
father, the Colonel, would, I am sure, be rather hurt to know that you
no longer reckoned them as your friends.”
“The Bostals! Oh, yes,” answered Clifford, indifferently. “I know them,
but Miss Bostal would hardly reckon me as a friend. I lost my place in
her esteem, if I ever had any, by walking from Courtstairs to Stroan on
a Sunday in a tourist’s suit.”
Miss Lansdowne smiled.
“She is an odd little creature,” she said, “but she has a very good
heart. To hear her deplore the disappearance of a young girl whom she
was fond of and kind to,” and Miss Lansdowne looked steadily away from
Clifford as she spoke, “no one could doubt the depth of her feelings.”
Clifford was silent for a few moments. Then he glanced at the face of
the girl beside him, saw that it invited confidence, and guessed that
her last words had been carefully chosen.
“You mean that Miss Claris has disappeared?”
“Yes. You had heard about it, I suppose?” she asked, with a pretense of
indifference.
“Of course.”
“And that nobody knows more than this--that she and her uncle have gone
away?”
Clifford answered, with scarcely a pretense on his side of concealing
the emotion he felt:
“I went down to the place myself, saw the house shut up, deserted, and
found that nobody could tell me more than this--that George Claris had
gone mad, and that he was in an asylum; and that his niece had gone
away at the same time. If you can tell me anything more, I shall be
very grateful to you.”
“I don’t _know_ any more than you do. One can only guess--or repeat the
guesses of others.”
“Well, let me hear the guesses.”
“They say--people think--that the girl has been shut up, too.”
“In an asylum?” asked Clifford, hardly able to control his voice.
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it!” said he, hoarsely.
“Well, isn’t it better than believing--anything else?”
“Believing--that she is a thief, a--”
Clifford could not go on.
“Do you know what happened on that morning when George Claris was found
mad?” asked Miss Lansdowne, abruptly.
“The woman at the nearest cottage told me the story,” he answered,
shortly.
“Did she tell you--” Miss Lansdowne hesitated--“that Miss Claris
fainted when they told her what had happened to her uncle, and that
they found under her pillow--a canvas bag containing the money
collected for some shipwrecked sailors the night before?”
Clifford’s face changed.
“No,” said he at once, in the tone of a man who has made up his mind on
some weighty point, “they did not tell me that.”
“It is true, though. After that, who could doubt the girl’s guilt?”
“_I_ could,” said Clifford, quietly.
“And one other person--Miss Bostal. And you are both equally
unreasonable.”
“Miss Bostal takes her part? I didn’t think the dried-up little
creature had it in her!” said Clifford, with admiration. “I shall go
and see her.”
“That is just what she wants you to do,” replied Miss Lansdowne. “She
has said so to me so often that I thought, when I saw I had a chance of
speaking to you, I would not let it slip.”
“It is very good of you,” said Clifford. “Which was the dance you said
I might have?”
The next morning, before luncheon-time, he was at Stroan.
It was a bright day, and there was only just enough wind to stir the
air pleasantly on his way across the marsh road. The sun shone on the
white, chalky soil, and the place where the body of Jem Stickels had
been found was now no longer distinguishable by any outward sign from
the rest of the grass-grown border to the road. People had begun to
forget the tragedy, and even the fresh interest excited by the more
recent events at the Blue Lion had by this time faded in their minds,
relegated to the background by the pressure of some less stirring but
newer occurrence.
The Blue Lion itself looked melancholy enough, having been uninhabited
for a month. With its doors closed, its shutters barred, with broken
panes in its upper windows, it was a dreary contrast to the little inn
he had known. No market-carts now drew up before the door; the ducks
and the chickens no longer wandered about the road; the shed where the
cart had stood was empty and already out of repair. Clifford, after one
walk round into the little garden and down to the shed where he had
first met Nell, hurried away from the desolate spot and made haste to
reach Shingle End.
But a change had come over this place also. To begin with, the storms
of the winter had dealt harshly with the old house. Some slates had
been carried away and had not been replaced, and a tree, blown down
by a southwesterly gale, now blocked the little bit of ground which
formed the front garden. It had injured the corner of the house in its
fall, had carried away one of the outside shutters of the drawing-room
front window and smashed half a dozen of the small panes of glass,
which had been left broken. Sheets of brown paper had been pasted on
the inner side of the window, completing the desolate appearance of the
old house. Clifford, as he approached the gate, found that the tree
had fallen in such a manner that it was impossible to get in. Looking
up doubtfully at the windows, he caught sight of a little, withered
face, gray, haunting, peeping out at him from behind the meager muslin
curtain.
Was it or was it not Miss Bostal’s? For a moment he stood undecided
with his hand upon the gate. Had some terrible calamity--the death of
the Colonel, the illness of his daughter--fallen upon the place like
a blight? Should he go back and make inquiries at the nearest cottage
before he ventured to intrude upon what might be some great grief?
There was an ancient cottage close by which had once been a toll-house.
He thought he would knock at the door and try to find out something,
and was retreating for that purpose, when a hurried tapping on the
glass of the upper window made him look round again. Miss Bostal--if it
was indeed she--made a sign to him to go round to the back of the house.
Obeying her mute direction, he found his way back to the little
side-gate in the paling, passed through into the garden and presented
himself at the back door. He noticed with surprise, as he passed the
two lower windows, the one at the side and the other at the back of the
house, that the blinds were drawn down. Surely, then, the Colonel was
dead, he thought. He had not time to speculate as to why, in that case,
the upper front rooms had had their blinds up, when he heard the sound
of some one within drawing back a bolt and then another and another.
Then the door was opened by Miss Bostal, who put out her head to throw
one frightened glance round the garden, and then, seizing his proffered
hand, drew him hastily inside, and began immediately to replace the
bolts.
Clifford could not help feeling amused, although he took care not to
show it. It seemed to him clear that the recent occurrences in the
neighborhood had got on the poor little woman’s brain, and made her
absurdly nervous about the safety of her own little person and not very
valuable property.
“You are well secured against burglars, I see,” said he, as he insisted
upon doing the work of bolting the door for her, and was surprised to
find how solid and strong the protection was.
The little woman started, almost jumped.
“Oh, Mr. King!” gasped she, in a tone of acute terror. “Don’t make
jokes about it. It’s too dreadful! I never feel safe! Last night--Oh!”
she paused, closing her eyes as if on the point of fainting. And
Clifford saw, by the light that came through the dusty panes above the
front and the back door, that her little, pinched face had grown livid
at some terrible thought.
“Well, what happened last night--Oh?” said Clifford, speaking in as
cheerful a tone as he could, in the hope of soothing her nerves. But
instead of answering at once, little Miss Bostal, suddenly opening
again her faded light eyes and staring at him with solemn intentness,
led him to the door of the drawing-room, which she unlocked and threw
open with a tragic gesture.
“Look in there!” whispered she.
Clifford obeyed, and saw nothing whatever; for it was dark. When,
after a few minutes spent in rather uncanny silence on the part of the
lady, his eyes got used to the gloom, he saw that the windows had been
barricaded from the inside in the most thorough and ingenious manner
with furniture and with planks nailed across from side to side.
“Why,” said he, in astonishment, “you seem to be preparing to stand a
siege.”
He had already made up his mind that the eccentric little lady had gone
out of her mind.
“We _are_ besieged,” she whispered, with a look which confirmed
Clifford’s hypothesis. “I can see that you don’t believe me, that you
think it is only my fancy. But ask my father.”
And before Clifford could make any answer, she had quickly crossed the
stone-flagged passage, had thrown open the door of the dining-room, and
with a gesture invited Clifford to enter.
As the young man did so, rather fearing what sort of conversation he
should have to hold with her, he was much relieved to find that the
Colonel was there, sitting by the fire, with his spectacles on, reading
a weekly paper. But to Clifford’s astonishment and alarm, the change in
the old man was as great as in his daughter.
Colonel Bostal, although his clothes were always shabby and
old-fashioned, had always retained an air of soldierly trimness,
had always kept his hair closely cut and his snow-white mustache
well trimmed, so that he had borne a certain air of smartness and
distinction. Now he had lost every trace of it. His shoulders were
bent. His hair had been allowed to grow long. His mustache hung ragged
and untrimmed over a rough and straggling beard. More than this, there
was in his eyes a look as pitiful in its restlessness as the haunting
expression which Clifford had noticed in Miss Theodora’s.
The old man started when he saw the visitor, rose and held out his hand
with mechanical, old-fashioned courtesy; but it was doubtful whether he
recognized him.
Miss Bostal went softly round his chair with her quick, bird-like
little steps, and put her hand gently on his shoulder.
“Dear papa,” she said in a whisper, “don’t you remember Mr. King? He
was here in the summer. You do remember, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, certainly I do; of course I do, Theodora,” responded the
Colonel, with a slight frown at the implication that he was losing
his memory. “Sit down, Mr. King, and tell us what the great world is
doing.”
Then Clifford saw that in a moment the old man had become quite
himself, and it was the weight of some care which had given him his
changed appearance. The young man was sorry when Miss Theodora at once
recalled her father to the anxiety which was pressing upon both of them.
“I want you to tell Mr. King, papa,” she said, as Clifford took the
chair offered him, “about the terrible persecution we have been
subjected to lately since the Blue Lion has been shut up.”
“It’s not a very lively subject,” objected her father, whose face fell
at his daughter’s words. “However, I will tell you, if the story is
worth telling.”
Clifford, although he was indeed curious to hear the narrative,
protested that he did not wish to do so, as he saw that his host was by
no means anxious to relate it. But Miss Theodora insisted.
“Well, then,” said the old gentleman, “it is simply this: At least
half a dozen times since the Blue Lion has been deserted we have been
annoyed by knocks and blows on our doors and windows at night. And
although we have done our best to find out who it is that annoys us in
this manner, we have been unable to do so.”
“And have you no idea, no suspicion?”
The Colonel shook his head in a troubled and anxious manner, but Miss
Theodora pursed her lips and looked shrewd.
“_I_ have a theory,” she said. And she waited to be asked what the
theory was.
Clifford expressed the wished-for curiosity.
“I believe,” she went on, with conviction, “that it is the person who
was at the bottom of the mysteries we have been suffering from here
lately.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” interrupted her father, quickly, and not without
nervousness. “What on earth should such a person want with us? We have
nothing in the house worth stealing; and if we had, do you suppose that
the person who was so very skillful in getting away and in evading
justice, would try to batter our doors in? You are talking nonsense,
Theodora.”
But Theodora looked stubborn. Then Clifford made a suggestion.
“If you think that, why don’t you inform the police? They would lay an
ambush for this person, and would certainly free you from the annoyance
of his visits, in any case.”
To the young man’s surprise, Colonel Bostal’s face assumed an
expression of alarm which he tried in vain to hide; but Miss Theodora
broke in triumphantly:
“That is just what I tell him, Mr. King, but he won’t hear of it.
Perhaps you will be better able to persuade him than I.”
The Colonel, for answer, leaned back in his chair and drew his
daughter’s little thin hands round his shoulders.
“I always think,” he said, after a long silence, during which strange
suspicions rushed through Clifford’s mind, “that it is better not
to stir up scandals that are past and done with. I may have my own
suspicions that the annoyance we suffer from is connected with the
uncanny stories we have heard so much about. But still I will not
interfere, and I refuse to call in the aid of the police. We must not
forget that in delivering up this unknown person who annoys us, we
might be exposing others to danger.”
“What others, papa?” asked Miss Theodora quickly.
But the Colonel would not answer. He turned the conversation to another
subject, and the interesting topic was not again touched upon until
Clifford, having taken leave of the Colonel, stood in the hall with
Miss Theodora.
“Do you know why I came down here to-day?” he then asked.
“Not to see us?” asked Miss Theodora. “We could hardly have hoped for
that.”
“It was to see you and to thank you for your trust in Nell. I met Miss
Lansdowne in town one evening, and she told me you were the one person
who still believed in her innocence.”
But, to his chagrin, the little lady sighed and looked down. At last
she said:
“I did hold out as long as I could against the thought of her guilt,
Mr. King; but I must confess that I, too, have had to give way to
overwhelming evidence. In face of some fresh circumstances which have
now come to my knowledge, I don’t see how I can escape the conclusion
that she did commit these crimes.”
Clifford drew himself up with a great shock of disappointment. Here,
where he expected a fortress, he found a quagmire.
“In fact, it is because my father feels sure that the person who comes
here to annoy us is the very same creature who instigated the girl to
commit these crimes, that he refuses to give information to the police.”
“And who is the person?” asked Clifford, quickly.
“A young man who has obtained a great influence over her, and who has
probably by this time become her husband,” replied Miss Bostal.
Clifford could not repress a movement of anxiety at these words. Miss
Bostal tried to persuade him to come back into the dining-room with
her and to stay to tea. But he excused himself and, with a rather
colder leave-taking than he had expected, he left the house by the back
door, and heard Miss Theodora draw the bolts before he reached the end
of the garden.
This visit had left an extraordinary impression upon him.
There had flashed through his mind, as he noted the effect which
Theodora’s prattle made upon her father, an uneasy suspicion whether
the Colonel himself was not in some way implicated in the murder of Jem
Stickels and the robberies at the Blue Lion. It was quite clear that
poor Miss Theodora had no inkling of this, for she had chattered away
without even noticing her father’s uneasiness. It was in vain, however,
that Clifford tried to imagine any series of circumstances by which
the old Colonel could have been implicated in the crimes. On the other
hand, they remained just as inexplicable at the hands of any other
person.
It was with a great sinking of the heart that Clifford began to feel
his own belief in Nell’s complete innocence giving way. He was forced
again to take refuge in the belief that, if she had been an agent in
these criminal acts, she had been an unconscious one. And the thought
which was uppermost in his mind was: What steps should he take to find
her? The feeling which was strongest in his heart was the desire to
shelter her from the consequences of those acts.
But the question was: How to find her? Clifford had been down to Stroan
already to make inquiries, but had been unable to obtain any tidings of
the uncle or the niece more definite than the vague rumor that George
Claris was “shut up somewhere.”
Clifford paused for a few moments outside the garden gate of Shingle
End, wondering whether he would apply for information to the police at
Stroan. It was a step he dreaded to take, although he began to think it
was the only one likely to lead to his obtaining the details he wanted.
As he stood looking vaguely along the road, he suddenly perceived that
an old woman, who was standing at the door of the ancient turnpike
cottage, was blinking and nodding at him in a mysterious manner. He
took a few steps in her direction, and she came out in the road to meet
him.
“So, you’ve been a-visiting, have you, sir?” she said, in a deep, gruff
whisper, glancing up at the gloomy windows of Shingle End. “Aye, they
want a few lively folk to come and see ’em and cheer ’em up, for sure!”
And she gave him a series of nods and shakes of the head, all of which
were meant to carry weighty meaning.
“Well, this isn’t the best place in the world for people who are fond
of ‘company,’ is it?” said Clifford. “I dare say you feel lonely
yourself sometimes, don’t you?”
“Well, I get some I don’t expect sometimes, sir,” she answered, with
mystery. “Two nights ago, now, I had a young lady in ’ere--a young
lady you may know, sir, who was very much talked about last year, poor
dear--”
Clifford’s sudden start into vivid interest made her break off and look
at him attentively. She smiled knowingly.
“Maybe you know who I mean, sir?”
“Miss Claris?” asked he, with as much apparent indifference as he could.
“Aye, sir. She was in my cottage over an hour, and sorry enough I felt
for her, I must say, whatever people think.”
And the old woman, who probably knew more than she affected to do about
Clifford and his feeling toward Miss Claris, gave a sigh, and again
found relief in her feelings in a shake of the head.
“Where is she now? Do you know?” asked Clifford, no longer disguising
his interest. “If it’s a secret,” he went on, as the old lady said
nothing, “I think you will not do wrong in confiding it to me, as I
wish her all the good in the world.”
“It’s well there’s some as do, sir,” said she, with a suddenly lowered
voice. “And I don’t know as I’m doing harm in telling you she is
staying at Courtstairs, up Paradise Hill, Number 45, sir. And you can
tell her if you see her as I wouldn’t have told nobody but you.”
Clifford was overwhelmed with joy at this unexpected piece of good
fortune, and he promised at once to give her message.
“By the bye,” he said, just as he was about to start off in the
direction of Courtstairs, “are you at liberty to tell me what she was
doing here? Was she visiting the Bostals?”
“You mustn’t ask me any more,” she said. “There’s things one mustn’t so
much as guess at,” she added, enigmatically, as she retreated to her
own doorway.
Clifford did not trouble his head about these hints. It was enough for
him that Nell was now within his reach. And he set off for Courtstairs
with a set purpose in his mind.
The walk along the straight marsh road, with the wind in his face,
and the sea a misty blue line on his right hand, seemed never-ending.
Clifford had no eyes for the effect of sunset on the chalk cliff to
his right, for the picturesque little farm perched up high above the
water’s edge, as he drew near to Beach Bay.
Past the Shooter’s Arms, the wayside inn which happily forms the limit
of the explorations of the devastating hordes from the East End of
London with which benevolent railway companies have ruined one of the
pleasantest spots in England. Past the tiny village of Beach, with its
picturesque, steep miniature street, and its hideous new Convalescent
Home and waste of brand-new tea-garden. Up on the Beach road, in full
sight of the sea and of the fishing fleet coming in upon the breast of
the tide. Clifford saw nothing, thought of nothing but how to save a
yard, a minute, so that he might lose no time in reaching his darling.
He had to inquire for Paradise Hill, which proved to be one of the
innumerable back streets of mean houses of which the town chiefly
consists. He found No. 45 easily enough. It was one of a row of small,
yellow brick houses, with bay-windows on the ground floor, which would
formerly have been called cottages, but which, since the School Board
brought in pretension, have become “villas.”
Clifford’s heart sank a little as he asked for “Miss Claris.” This
stuffy little dwelling, after the fresh air of the rambling inn by the
shore, must be a torture to the girl.
The woman who opened the door looked at him sulkily.
“I’ll see if she’s in,” she said, as if the proffered service was a
great condescension.
And then she disappeared into the front room. When she came out again
she was followed by Nell herself.
Or was it Nell? This thin-faced, white girl, with the dull, frightened
eyes? For the first moment Clifford was hardly sure.
But she started violently, and the expression of her face changed. The
look of alarm gave place to one of such joy, such comfort and radiant
delight that Clifford was too much moved to speak.
They both stood silent until the woman had reluctantly disappeared
into the back room of the house. Then Nell went into the front room,
inviting him, still without a word, to follow her.
He did so, shut the door, and seized her in his arms. He could scarcely
see her face for the mist before his eyes.
“I didn’t know you, Nell.”
“Didn’t you? Ah, well, it doesn’t matter.”
She spoke hopelessly, her first impulse of joy at the sight of him
seeming to have died within her already.
“No, of course it doesn’t matter, for I mean you to look your own self
again immediately. Do you know why I have come here, Nell?”
She was silent.
“I have come to marry you.”
Nell shook her head, but she drew a long sigh of satisfaction.
“I like to hear you say so. It is good of you,” she said, in a gentle,
timid voice, “although it is impossible.”
“Why?”
“Oh, you don’t want me to go over the old ground again. Can’t you be
satisfied that it is impossible?”
“No, I can’t, unfortunately. My darling, you can’t hold out any longer.
It was dignified to refuse before; now it would only be foolish. Who is
going to take care of you now, Nell, if you won’t have me?”
But he had touched a tender spot, and she began to cry softly.
“Poor uncle!” sobbed she. “It nearly broke my heart when he did not
know even me. And then when they took him away--”
“Was he harmless?” asked Clifford, interrupting.
“Yes; he was quite harmless, and would let me manage him always. And
the police came and--and took him away.”
“The police? Do you mean that?”
“Yes. They have haunted us both ever since we left the Blue Lion,”
whispered she, earnestly. “And I know they are trying to find out the
mystery--you know what--through him. Isn’t it dreadful!”
Clifford did not answer at once. It seemed to him that the chances of
his being able to save the girl were growing small indeed. Her own
utter hopelessness, her nervous dread, had affected him during the
short silences between their questions and answers to each other;
she seemed to be always listening, straining her ears for any sound
outside. The cry of a street urchin made her start, a cart passing
quickly at the corner of the street sent the blood to her forehead. Her
nerves, poor child, were altogether shaken.
Clifford looked at her in dismay. Even the strong love which had stood
every test was apparently powerless to give her more than momentary
comfort.
“My darling,” he whispered, “let me take you up to town to-night.
I will take you straight to your aunt’s, and in the shortest time
possible I will marry you, and take you out of England altogether.”
Nell drew back and stared at him.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “This case is really coming on now.
The police don’t disguise that they know enough to go upon now. I have
the strongest reason, the very strongest, for believing that they will
come for me to-day.”
“To arrest you?” cried Clifford, hoarsely. She began to tremble and to
look at him askance.
“No, not to arrest me,” and she shuddered. Then a look of terror, more
acute than ever, came into her eyes. “Perhaps that is it. Perhaps that
is really what they mean to do,” she whispered doubtfully. “They _said_
it was only my evidence they wanted, but--but--”
She hesitated--stopped. Clifford’s heart was wrung. Surely no jury that
ever sat could convict this poor, helpless, gentle girl of anything
but unconscious crime. He would have staked his life that she was as
innocent of these mysterious crimes in intent as he was himself of them
in deed.
“My darling!--my poor darling!--of course they only want your evidence.”
But his own voice shook and his eyes were dim. He tried to cheer her,
to encourage her, to say words which he could hardly feel, but the girl
scarcely seemed to hear him. Suddenly, in the midst of his vain efforts
at consolation, she stood up.
“They are come,” said she.
Clifford started up. He had heard nothing. But Nell’s patient ears were
keener than his. In another moment there was a knock at the outer door.
And then a knock at the door of the room. He looked round wildly, and,
seizing her arm, would have had her hide herself behind the little
sofa, but she smiled sadly and shook her head.
“Come in!” she said.
And as the girl had foretold with uncannily correct prophecy, a
sergeant of police from Stroan, very civil, very apologetic and humane,
presented himself.
“Very sorry, Miss, to have to intrude,” said he. “But I must ask you
to come along with me as far as Stroan, just to tell the magistrate
something that will help us on a bit.”
“This is not an arrest?” said Clifford, trying to hide his anxiety.
“No, sir.”
But Nell’s white face seemed to betray the belief that it was.