In solitude I reviewed with amazement the occurrences of the last few
moments. It seemed to me that I had been impelled to do what I had
done by an occult agency outside myself. Not that I did not approve of
it. It was in accordance with my intense wish and desire--which had
lain dormant in the sweet society of Lauretta--to be alone, in order
that I might, without interruption, think over the story I had heard
from Doctor Louis's lips. And now that this wish and desire were
gratified, the one figure which still rose vividly before me was the
figure of Kristel. As I walked onward I followed the hapless man
mentally in his just pursuit of the brother who had snatched the cup
of happiness from his lips. Yes, it was just and right, and what he
did I would have done under similar circumstances. Of all who had
taken part in the tragic drama he, and he alone, commanded my
sympathy.
The distance from Doctor Louis's house to mine was under two miles,
but I prolonged it by a _d├Ętour_ which brought me, without
premeditation, to the inn known as the Three Black Crows. I had no
intention of going there or of entering the inn, and yet, finding
myself at the door, I pushed it open, and walked into the room in
which the customers took their wine. This room was furnished with
rough tables and benches, and I seated myself, and in response to the
landlord's inquiry, ordered a bottle of his best, and invited him to
share it with me. He, nothing loth, accepted the invitation, and sat
at the table, emptying his glass, which I continued to fill for him,
while my own remained untasted. I had been inside the Three Black
Crows on only one occasion, in the company of Doctor Louis, and the
landlord now expressed his gratitude for the honour I did him by
paying him another visit. It was only the sense of his words which
reached my ears, my attention being almost entirely drawn to two men
who were seated at a table at the end of the room, drinking bad wine
and whispering to each other. Observing my eyes upon them, the
landlord said in a low tone, "Strangers."
"You do not know them?" I asked.
"Never saw them before," he replied.
Their backs were towards me, and I could not see their faces, but I
noticed that one was humpbacked, and that, to judge from their attire,
they were poor peasants.
"I asked them," said the landlord, "whether they wanted a bed, and
they answered no, that they were going further. If they had stopped
here the night I should have kept watch on them!"
"Why?"
"I don't like their looks, and my wife's a timorous creature. Then
there's the children--you've seen my little ones, I think, sir?"
"Yes, I have seen them. Surely those men would do them no harm!"
"Perhaps not, sir; but a man, loving those near to him, thinks of the
possibilities of things. I've got a bit of money in the house, to pay
my rent that's due to-morrow, and one or two other accounts. They may
have got scent of it."
"Do you think they have come to Nerac on a robbing expedition?"
"There's no telling. Roguery has a plain face, and the signs are in
theirs, or my name's not what it is. When they said they were going
further on I asked them where, and they said it was no business of
mine. They gave me the same answer when I asked them where they came
from. They're up to no good, that's certain, and the sooner they're
out of the village the better for all of us."
The more the worthy landlord talked the more settled became his
instinctive conviction that the strangers were rogues.
"If robbery is their errand," I said thoughtfully, "there are houses
in Nerac which would yield them a better harvest than yours."
"Of course there is," was his response. "Doctor Louis's, for one. He
has generally some money about him, and his silver plate would be a
prize. Are you going back there to-night, sir?"
"No; I am on my road to my own house, and I came out of the way a
little for the sake of the walk."
"That's my profit, sir," said the landlord cheerfully. "I would offer
to keep you company if it were not that I don't like to leave my
place."
"There's nothing to fear," I said; "if they molest me I shall be a
match for them."
"Still," urged the landlord, "I should leave before they do. It's as
well to avoid a difficulty when we have the opportunity."
I took the hint, and paid my score. To all appearance there was no
reason for alarm on my part; during the time the landlord and I were
conversing the strangers had not turned in our direction, and as we
spoke in low tones they could not have heard what we said. They
remained in the same position, with their backs towards us, now
drinking in silence, now speaking in whispers to each other.
Outside the Three Black Crows I walked slowly on, but I had not gone
fifty yards before I stopped. What was in my mind was the reference
made by the landlord to Doctor Louis's house and to its being worth
the plundering. The doctor's house contained what was dearer to me
than life or fortune. Lauretta was there. Should I leave her at the
mercy of these scoundrels who might possibly have planned a robbery of
the doctor's money and plate? In that case Lauretta would be in
danger. My mind was instantly made up. I would return to the Three
Black Crows, and look through the window of the room in which I had
left the men, to ascertain whether they were still there. If they
were, I would wait for them till they left the inn, and then would set
a watch upon their movements. If they were gone I would hasten to the
doctor's house, to render assistance, should any be needed. I had no
weapon, with the exception of a small knife; could I not provide
myself with something more formidable? A few paces from where I stood
were some trees with stout branches. I detached one of these branches,
and with my small knife fashioned it into a weapon which would serve
my purpose. It was about four feet in length, thick at the striking
end and tapering towards the other, so that it could be held with ease
and used to good purpose. I tried it on the air, swinging it round and
bringing it down with sufficient force to kill a man, or with
certainty to knock the senses out of him in one blow. Then I returned
to the inn, and looked through the window. In the settlement of my
proceedings I had remembered there was a red blind over the window
which did not entirely cover it, and through the uncovered space I now
saw the strangers sitting at the table as I had left them.
Taking care to make no noise I stepped away from the window, and took
up a position from which I could see the door of the inn, which was
closed. I myself was in complete darkness, and there was no moon to
betray me; all that was needed from me was caution.
I watched fully half an hour before the door of the inn was opened. No
person had entered during my watch, the inhabitants of Nerac being
early folk for rest and work. The two strangers lingered for a moment
upon the threshold, peering out into the night; behind them was the
landlord, with a candle in his hand. I did not observe that any words
passed between them and the landlord; they stepped into the road, and
the door was closed upon them. Then came the sounds of locking and
bolting doors and windows. Then, silence.
I saw the faces of the men as they stood upon the threshold; they were
evil-looking fellows enough, and their clothes were of the commonest.
For two or three minutes they did not stir; there had been nothing in
their manner to arouse suspicion, and the fact of their lingering on
the roadway seemed to denote that they were uncertain of the route
they should take. That they raised their faces to the sky was not
against them; it was a natural seeking for light to guide them.
To the left lay the little nest of buildings amongst which were Father
Daniel's chapel and modest house, and the more pretentious dwelling of
Doctor Louis; to the right were the woods, at the entrance of which my
own house was situated. Which road would the strangers take? The left,
and it was part evidence of a guilty design. The right, and it would
be part proof that the landlord's suspicions were baseless.
They exchanged a few words which did not reach my ears. Then they
moved onwards to the left. I grasped my weapon, and crept after them.
But they walked only a dozen steps, and paused. I, also. In my mind
was the thought, "Continue the route you have commenced, and you are
dead men. Turn from it, and you are safe."
The direction of the village was the more tempting to men who
had no roof to shelter them, for the reason that in Father Daniel's
chapel--which, built on an eminence, overlooked the village--lights
were visible from the spot upon which I and they were standing. There
was the chance of a straw bed and charity's helping hand, never
withheld by the good priest from the poor and wretched. On their right
was dense darkness; not a glimmer of light.
Nevertheless, after the exchange of a few more words which, like the
others, were unheard by me, they seemed to resolve to seek the
gloomier way. They turned from the village, and facing me, walked past
me in the direction of the woods.
I breathed more freely, and fell into a curious mental consideration
of the relief I experienced. Was it because, walking as they were from
the village in which Lauretta was sleeping, I was spared the taking of
these men's lives? No. It was because of the indication they afforded
me that Lauretta was not in peril. In her defence I could have
justified the taking of a hundred lives. No feeling of guilt would
have haunted me; there would have been not only no remorse but no pity
in my soul. The violation of the most sacred of human laws would be
justified where Lauretta was concerned. She was mine, to cherish, to
protect, to love--mine, inalienably. She belonged to no other man, and
none should step between her and me--neither he whose ruffianly design
threatened her with possible harm, nor he, in a higher and more
polished grade, who strove to win her affections and wrest them from
me. In an equal way both were equally my enemies, and I should be
justified in acting by them as Kristel had acted to Silvain.
Ah, but he had left it too late. Not so would I. Let but the faintest
breath of certainty wait upon suspicion, and I would scotch it
effectually for once and all. Had Kristel possessed the strange power
in his hours of dreaming which Silvain possessed, he would not have
been robbed of the happiness which was his by right. He would have
been forewarned, and Avicia would have been his wife. In every step in
life he took there would have been the fragrance of flowers around
him, and a heavenly light. Thus, with me, and for me.
Did I, then, admit that there was any resemblance in the characters of
Avicia and Lauretta? No; one was a weed, the other a rose. Here
coarseness, there refinement. Here low desire and cunning; there
angelic purity and goodness. But immeasurably beneath Lauretta as
Avicia was, Kristel's love for the girl would have made her radiant
and spotless.
All this time I was stealthily following the strangers to the woods.
Once I tripped. The sound arrested them; they clutched each other in
fear.
"What was that?" one said hoarsely. "Are we being followed?"
I stood motionless, and they stood without movement for many moments.
Then they simultaneously emitted a deep-drawn sigh.
"It was the wind," said the man who had already spoken.
I smiled in contempt; not a breath of wind was stirring; there was not
the flutter of a leaf, not the waving of the lightest branch. All was
still and quiet.
They resumed their course, and I crept after them noiselessly. They
entered the wood; the trees grew more thickly clustered.
"This will do," I heard one say; and upon the words they threw
themselves to the ground, and fell into slumber.
Sleep came to them instantaneously. I bent over them and was
satisfied. The landlord of the Three Black Crows was mistaken. I moved
softly away, and when I was at a safe distance from them I lit a match
and looked at my watch; it was twenty minutes to eleven, and before
the minute-hand had passed the hour I arrived at my house. The door
was fast, but I saw a light in the lower room of the gardener's
cottage, which I had given to Martin Hartog as a residence for him and
his daughter.
"Hartog is awake," I thought; "expecting me perhaps."
I knocked at the door of the cottage, and received no answer; I
knocked again with the same result.
"Hartog! Hartog!" I called; and still no answer came.
The door had fastenings of lock and latch. I put my hand to the latch,
and finding that the key had not been turned in the lock, opened the
door and entered. Martin Hartog was not there.
The room, however, was not without an occupant. At the table sat a
young girl, the gardener's daughter, asleep. She lay back in her
chair, and the light shone upon her face. I had seen her when she was
awake, and knew that she was beautiful, but as I gazed now upon her
sleeping form I was surprised to discover that she was even fairer
than I had supposed. She had hair of dark brown, which curled most
gracefully about her brow and head; her face, in its repose, was sweet
to look upon; she was not dressed as the daughter of a labouring man,
but with a certain daintiness and taste which deepened my surprise;
there was lace at her sleeves and around her white neck. Had I not
known her station I should have taken her for a lady. She was young,
not more than eighteen or nineteen I judged, and life's springtime lay
sweetly upon her. There was a smile of wistful tenderness on her lips.
Her left arm was extended over the table, and her hand rested upon the
portrait of a man, almost concealing the features. Her right hand,
which was on her lap, enfolded a letter, and that and the
portrait--which, without curious prying, I saw was not that of her
father--doubtless were the motive of a pleasant dream.
I took in all this in a momentary glance, and quickly left the room,
closing the door behind me. Then I knocked loudly and roughly, and
heard the hurried movements of a sudden awaking. She came to the door
and cried softly, "Is that you, father? The door is unlocked."
"It is I," I said. "Is your father not at home then?"
She opened the door, and fell back a step in confusion.
"I should have let your father know," I said, "that I intended to
sleep here to-night--but indeed it was a hasty decision. I hope I have
not alarmed you."
"Oh, no, sir," she said. "We did not expect you. Father is away on
business; I expected him home earlier, and waiting for him I fell
asleep. The servants are not coming till to-morrow morning."
"I know. Have you the keys?"
She gave them to me, and asked if she could do anything for me. I
answered no, that there was nothing required. As I wished her
good-night a man's firm steps were heard, and Martin Hartog appeared.
He cast swift glances at his daughter and me, and it struck me that
they were not devoid of suspicion. I explained matters, and he
appeared contented with my explanation; then bidding his daughter go
indoors he accompanied me to the house.
There was a fire in my bedroom, almost burnt out, and the handiwork of
an affectionate and capable housewife was everywhere apparent. Martin
Hartog showed an inclination then and there to enter into particulars
of the work he had done in the grounds during my absence, but I told
him I was tired, and dismissed him. I listened to his retreating
footsteps, and when I heard the front door closed I blew out the
candle and sat before the dying embers in the grate. Darkness was best
suited to my mood, and I sat and mused upon the events of the last
forty-eight hours. Gradually my thoughts became fixed upon the figures
of the two strangers I had left sleeping in the woods, in connection
with the suspicion of their designs which the landlord had imparted to
me. So concentrated was my attention that I re-enacted all the
incidents of which they were the inspirers--the fashioning of the
branch into a weapon, the watch I had set upon them, their issuing
from the inn, the landlord standing behind with the candle in his
hand, their lingering in the road, the first steps they took towards
the village, their turning back, and my stealthy pursuit after
them--not the smallest detail was omitted. I do not remember
undressing and going to bed. Encompassed by silence and darkness I was
only spiritually awake.