DR. HAYWARD’S report of Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health was far from
satisfactory. “The lady,” he said, in reply to Lord Hardcastle’s
enquiries, was undoubtedly suffering from small-pox, which in her weak
state of health, had taken strong hold of her. As to Mr. Warden, he
could not be sure; he feared some disease was latent in his system; he
was altogether below par, and the anxiety and grief he had gone through
had completely undermined his constitution—
“Do what you can for them, while you can, my dear, young friend,” he
added (he had known Hardcastle from his boyhood), “and spare them,
as far as possible, the details of this sad business.”
So Lord Hardcastle had sent for his portmanteau, and a few favourite
books, and begged of Mrs. Nesbitt a room in some quiet corner of the
house, “A room, if you please, with cool, quiet colouring, no reds, or
blues, or yellows, to flash out from the walls, and some soft thick
carpet on the floor,” he had said, his wonted fastidiousness once more
asserting itself. But he was more than repaid for any temporary
inconvenience he might suffer, by the look of grateful thanks which
crossed Mr. Warden’s careworn face, and his warm pressure of the hand,
as he thanked his young friend for his kind unselfishness in thus
voluntarily sharing the dreariness and desolation of their home.
Dreary it was, indeed, to one who had known it in the old days. No
light footsteps on the stairs, or sudden opening of doors, and a bright
young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, and exclamation
in a breath; no croquet, nor tennis balls here and there on the lawn,
nor galloping of pony’s feet up the long steep avenue. A silence as of
death appeared to have fallen upon the house, and the father and
mother, stricken and weary, looked in each other’s pale faces and
wondered “could this be the home of a month ago?”
And as Lord Hardcastle began to grow accustomed to the routine and
family life of the household, two thoughts gradually forced themselves
into his mind, which he felt would lead him somewhere, although utterly
at a loss to imagine where.
Thrown as he was daily into close and intimate relations with Mr. and
Mrs. Warden, he could not help reflecting on the strangeness of the
fact, that neither in appearance, disposition, nor manner, did Amy in
the slightest degree resemble either parent. The more closely he
observed them, the more the dissimilarity became apparent.
The second fact which forced itself upon his notice, related solely to
Mrs. Warden. Sincere as her grief for her daughter’s loss undoubtedly
was, it soon became apparent to Lord Hardcastle, that it was
nevertheless simply a reflected sorrow, that is to say, it struck her
through her husband; she grieved for his loss, more than for her own,
and was broken-hearted because she saw that grief was slowly killing
him day by day. No one but a very close observer would have noted these
things, and Lord Hardcastle was a very close observer, and more than
that, a logical one. He did not believe in the possibility of sudden
and disconnected facts occurring in the human world any more than in
the world of nature. “There is a reason for these things, although at
present it eludes me,” he would say to himself time after time. Long
after midnight might the shaded lamp be seen burning from his bedroom
window, and could any one have lifted the curtain, they would have seen
Hardcastle, with head resting on his hands, and elbows on the table, no
books before him, nor any pretence of writing materials, but a whole
world of thought evidently passing and repassing through his brain.
Meantime enquiries were set on foot on all sides as to the girl
Williams. Frank Varley had ascertained from the station master at
Dunwich, that a young girl, veiled and exceedingly well dressed, had
left by the first train on that morning—
“I should not have noticed any number of ladies at any other time,
sir,” said the man, “but it is quite the exception for any but work
people or business men to travel up by the 5.9 a.m. train.”
Varley had farther ascertained from the guard, that the lady had
travelled first class, and had seemed very faint and tired. Arriving at
the Midland Station, his work suddenly and unexpectedly became very
easy to him. The officials there at once informed him of a lady having
been taken alarmingly ill on alighting from the early morning train.
The porter who told him, said that he himself had fetched a cab for
her, and, scarcely conscious, she had given some address at Hackney,
where she wished to be driven, but the name of the street had entirely
slipped his memory.
Frank did not waste time in further enquiries. He at once telegraphed
to Detective Hill fullest particulars of Lucy’s flight, and where he
expected to find her, requesting him to follow him there as soon as
possible. Then he sprang into a cab, and gave the man orders to drive
to Gresham Street, Hackney.
An hour’s drive brought him to the farther side of that northern
suburb—a _terra incognita_ to Frank, whose knowledge of London was
limited to the club quarters, and west-end-squares and parks. Two or
three busy roads were crossed, with flaring gas jets and goods very
freely distributed on the pavement in front of the comparatively empty
shops. Then a sudden turn brought him into a quiet street of some
twenty or thirty two-storied houses, inhabited mostly by dressmakers,
machinists, and journeymen of all kinds. Although poor, there was an
air of quiet industry about the place, which gave Frank the hope that
Lucy Williams’s friends might prove respectable, honest people.
Dismissing his cab, he knocked at the door of No. 15; a few minutes
elapsed, and it was opened by a tall, thin, pale woman of about thirty
years of age, very neatly dressed, and with a look of settled anxiety
and grief upon a face plain, but still frank and honest.
“Ah! I expected you, sir,” she said, quietly, “or at least some one in
pursuit to-night. If you have come in search of Lucy Williams, I
beseech you take these, and let the girl die in peace.”
She opened her hand, and held out something glittering; there was no
light in the narrow doorway, but the glimmer of a gas-lamp lower down
the street fell upon a small heap of splendidly cut diamonds, and was
flashed back in a thousand brilliant hues. These Frank readily
identified as the brooch and earrings Miss Warden had worn at the
county ball the last night he had seen her. He took them from the
woman’s hand—
“Yes, I want these,” he said, “but I also want your friend, and
must and will see her. Don’t attempt to hinder me, but take me at once
to where she is.”
“Have mercy, sir,” pleaded the woman, “the poor girl cannot live very
long, she is standing on the verge of the dark river. Do not! oh do
not, I implore you, turn her thoughts from the only One who can carry
her over! I have read to her, I have prayed—”
“Be quiet!” interrupted Frank, for he began to fear there might be some
trickery behind all this; lest she might be delaying his entrance in
this way, in order to give the girl time to escape. “Be quiet,” he
repeated, “and take me at once to the girl, or I shall find my way by
myself.” Then the woman yielded, and once more pleading for mercy
for her friend, opened a door on her left hand, and Frank found himself
in a small, hot room, only lighted by a low fire flickering in the
grate.
A faint moaning from the bed denoted it was occupied. “Can you not
bring me a light?” said Frank, “I can’t see which way to turn.” At the
sound of a man’s voice, a figure started up in the square old-fashioned
bed, exclaiming in a high-pitched, feverish voice—
“Have they come for me? Let me die in peace, I entreat you! Oh, sir, I
will tell you everything, everything; only let me stay here.” Then,
clasping her hands, and swaying herself to and fro she exclaimed—
“Tom knows all about it; I did it for him, only for him!” Then she fell
back exhausted, evidently in a high state of delirium, muttering again
and again, “Tom, only for Tom.”
Frank readily recognised Lucy’s voice, but it was too dark to see her
face. The woman came forward and endeavoured to soothe her; “Hush,
Lucy,” she said, “don’t think about Tom now, although God knows I would
lay down my life for him. Turn your thoughts to One able to save both
you and Tom if you will repent and believe. Hear what He said to the
dying thief on the cross.” Then she commenced reciting the Scripture
story from memory. But again Frank interrupted her—
“See here,” he said, “I am not a heathen, nor an infidel, but I want to
know what you have done towards bringing the girl round. Have you had a
doctor in?”
“A doctor, sir,” replied the woman, “since Lucy came into the house I
have not ceased reading and praying with her for one five minutes; if
it is the Lord’s will she will recover, and live to repent of her sins;
but if she must die, why should I waste precious time trying to cure
her poor body, while Satan is striving to steal her soul.”
“Hush! my good woman,” said Frank, “I will stay here with your friend,
and do my best to fight the devil for you; you must go at once and get
a doctor in. Here, take my card, get the best and nearest doctor; tell
him I will be answerable for all charges.”
“I go, sir,” replied the woman; then, once more bending over the bed,
she murmured, “Lucy, Lucy, while there is yet time, turn to the Lord;
do not forget what He has said to all who go to Him in tears and
penitence.” Then Frank took her by the arm, and led her out of the
room, reminding her that there still might be a chance of saving her
friend’s life.
Left thus unexpectedly alone with the girl, Frank determined to make
one more effort to get at the truth. How ill she was, he scarcely knew,
but getting more accustomed to the dim light of the room, he could see
that her face was crimson with fever, and her eyes wild and staring. He
approached the bed quietly, and bending over her, said in a low tone—
“Lucy Williams, do you know me? I have come a long way to ask you a
question, will you try to answer it?”
The girl started up in bed with a loud cry. “Tom, Tom!” she exclaimed,
evidently mistaking Varley for her brother; “Why do you stay here? I
thought you were at Liverpool; you will never, never get off!” Then she
sank back on her pillows, and recommenced breathing heavily.
Frank waited a few minutes and thought he would try once more. This
time he began differently. “Lucy,” he said, in a kind, soothing tone,
“I have no doubt your brother is safe somewhere by this time, it is
about your young mistress I wish to speak, your dear Miss Amy. Can you
tell me where she is or do you know what led her to leave her home?”
But now the girl’s terror redoubled; she clasped her hands and hid her
face in the pillows. “Do not take me away, sir,” she implored, “let me
die here in peace! I did it for Tom—he knows, he will tell you—only
leave me here till the morning?” Then her mutterings became incoherent,
and she tossed wildly from side to side.
It was evidently useless; nothing more could then be attempted, and
Varley drew away from the bed and leant against the window ledge. Had
he been of an imaginative temperament, the scene in which he was
playing a part would have excited his nerves horribly. Not a sound in
the house save the tick, tick, of a large Dutch clock fixed in a corner
near the window. Now and then a feeble flame would spring up in the
half-filled grate and cast a gaunt shadow across the ceiling. A badly
silvered oval mirror hung over the mantle-piece and seemed to reflect
all sorts of weird shapes; and every now and then, from the poor worn
out bed in the darkest corner of the room, came a sob or moan, or the
girl’s half-muttered delirous fancies.
“I shall be glad when this is over,” said Frank to himself. “How long
that woman is. The girl may be dead before morning and we none the
wiser for what she knows!” He tried to catch a sentence here and there
of her wanderings, but it told him nothing beyond the fact that her
brother was somehow mixed up in the affair, and her one anxiety was for
his safety.
At length, after what seemed to Frank an hour’s waiting, but which in
reality was but half the time, footsteps stopped outside in the silent
street. In a few moments two figures entered the room and a brisk sharp
voice exclaimed, “A light, Miss Kempe, and quickly; do you suppose I
can attend a patient in the dark?” Then Miss Kempe groped in the depths
of a corner cupboard, and presently produced a small end of a small
candle ensconced in a large flat candlestick; this Frank quickly
lighted with one of his cigar matches, and exchanging greetings with
the doctor, turned with him towards the bed.
The doctor held the candle low, throwing the light on the girl’s face,
then he shook his head. “Are you afraid of infection?” he said, turning
to Frank, “if so you had better go home at once.”
“Afraid!” repeated Varley, “No, I am not afraid of anything under
heaven when I have an object in view. But what is it? What is she
suffering from?”
“Suppressed small-pox. A very bad case; something on her mind, too, I
should say,” this with a keen glance at Frank, “Twenty-four hours will
see the end of it.” Then he turned to Miss Kempe and proceeded to give
her some necessary directions.
And twenty-four hours did see the end of it. About an hour before
midnight, Frank was joined in his watch by Detective Hill, who at once
offered to take sole charge of the case. “No,” said Frank decisively,
“as long as there is the shadow of a chance of the shadow of a clue
being given I shall remain. Your ears are sharpened by your practice
and profession, but mine, Mr. Hill, by something with which your
profession has nothing to do.”
“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, as the grey dawn began to struggle
through the narrow panes, and light up the poorly furnished room. “It
is perfectly useless for either of you to remain. The delirium has
ceased, and the girl has fallen into a state of stupor from which she
will never waken. She will never speak again.”
Still they stayed on. The Detective, as the day wore away, went in and
out for his meals or a breath of fresh air, for the small room had
become stifling. But Frank never stirred. “She may die at any moment,”
he thought, “and it’s just possible that at the very last her energies
may re-kindle, and she may make some sign that will need
interpretation.”
So he waited and waited. The doctor came in and out, attending
neighbouring patients and returning at intervals. The old clock went
tick, tick, in the corner, and Miss Kempe, on her knees at the bedside,
prayed audibly for the poor dying one. “Will you not join me, sir,” she
had said to Frank, “in wrestling for this poor sinner’s soul?”
“I won’t say I won’t join you, Miss Kempe,” Frank had replied, “but you
must let me stay here by the window.”
And thus towards evening the girl passed away in her sleep; she made no
sign, she did not even lift her hand, and Frank, with a sigh and a
pitiful look at the once bright-faced Lucy Williams, thankfully made
his escape into the fresh air.
He was soon joined by Detective Hill. “So sir,” he said, “it is all
over, and there is little more we can do beyond setting a watch on the
house and the woman there.”
“How so,” exclaimed Frank, “do you suspect she is mixed up in the
affair? To me she seemed an honest sort of person, although somewhat of
a fanatic.”
“So she is, sir, a really good woman I believe, a sort of a mission
woman, I think they call her, connected with the Plymouth Brethren. I
have, however, made a few enquiries about her, and I find that she was
at one time engaged to be married to Tom Williams, but gave him up on
account of the dissolute life he was leading. For his sake I suspect
she has shown all this kindness to Lucy, and I think it more than
probable that the fellow not hearing from his sister will endeavour to
communicate with her through this woman.”
“Then it has not been altogether time wasted in following the girl
here? I was beginning to lose heart again, and to imagine that once
more the clue had slipped through our fingers. You mean to have this
woman watched, Mr. Hill. Very good. May I ask you to allot this task to
me? I cannot rest, I must be doing something, you know.”
“Pardon me, sir, the man has already been chosen for the work. Your
presence in this neighbourhood is unwise, and arouses suspicion, and
instead of being the watcher, you would be the one watched. A man of
their own class must do the work. The man I have chosen is the postman
on this beat. He is an old ally and friend of mine, and has taken a
room opposite No. 15 for the purpose. We must pay him well, sir, that’s
all, and we may count on a minute report of Miss Kempe’s daily doings;
including, as a matter of course, the first foreign or country letter
she receives.”
“Very well, you must do things your own way, I suppose. But what about
the Liverpool police, are they on the watch for the man? Is there
nothing I can do there? I dare say,” added Frank, apologetically, “you
think me a confounded fool, but I must be doing something. I think I
must start off for Chicago, Australia, or somewhere! If you can’t find
work for me, I must find it for myself.”
“But why go so far, sir? You may be of more use nearer home. Only one
thing I must beg of you, leave this neighbourhood at once. If these
people get it into their heads that they are watched, our difficulties
will be increased tenfold. I can’t say for certain,” the Detective
added, reflectively, “but it’s just possible you might be of use at
Liverpool. I can give you the names of one or two chums of Tom
Williams, and if you can contrive to get it known among them that Lucy
has died, and left her brother her clothes and savings, it will, no
doubt, reach the fellow’s ears, and the bait may draw. You see, these
people are sharp enough to know the difference between a detective and
a gentleman, and would be more likely to attach faith to a report
coming through you, than from Scotland Yard.”
“Very well, then, I start for Liverpool at once. I have given orders
for the girl’s funeral, and arranged that Miss Warden’s walking dress
and diamonds shall be sent back to her parents. I have only kept this,
Hill,” and Frank took from his pocket-book a small bow of lace and
ribbon. “You see, I remember her wearing it, and if it’s missed, you’ll
know I have it,” and he replaced it reverently in his breast-pocket.
“And now, before we part, Mr. Hill,” continued Frank, “I want you
honestly and candidly to give me your own private opinion on this
matter. How, and in what way, do you consider Lucy Williams to be
concerned in Miss Warden’s disappearance?”
“Well, sir, it’s a difficult question to answer,” replied Mr. Hill,
looking sideways at Frank. “I only feel sure of one thing in this
affair, and that is that Miss Warden is alive and well somewhere. All
else must be conjecture. My own impression is that she left her home
voluntarily, and that she is staying away voluntarily. In such cases
the maid generally possesses, to some extent, the confidence of her
mistress, and acts according to some pre-arranged plan. Even the
diamonds for instance—”
“Stop,” shouted Frank, in a voice that made the detective start, “I
can’t stand this. Say another word, and I shall knock you down! No
power in Heaven or earth shall make me believe such a story as that.
No, no, it implies too much! Could a girl with her mouth and eyes have
deliberately set herself to deceive her parents and friends? Could
she—no, no, I will not hear it. Tell me anything but such a black story
as that, Hill.”
“Well, sir, I have no wish to give offence. You asked for my opinion,
but it is extremely difficult in such a case as this to have one.” This
with a respectful glance at Frank’s Herculean arm and well-developed
muscles.
Two hours after this Frank was well on his way to Liverpool. Anxious,
worried, disappointed as he was at the unforeseen ending to his
journey, he could not help feeling at heart more hopeful than he had
hitherto been. “Alive and well somewhere,” he kept repeating to himself
over and over again, not as an incentive to his work, for he needed
none, but for the ring of comfort the words brought.
“Nothing can ever shake my faith in that girl, nothing can ever make me
doubt her truth and purity,” he said, as he entered one or two facts in
his note-book for future experience and guidance. “But how the mystery
deepens and thickens, supposing her to be alive and well somewhere!”