from her seat and fall on her knees by the fainting man’s side. My
father lifted up his arms, and with a deep, solemn tremor in his tone
pronounced the Benediction. Then, with his surplice flying round him,
he came swiftly down the aisle between the little crowd of horrified
people. They all fell back at his approach. He sank on one knee by the
side of the prostrate man and looked steadfastly into his face. The
congregation all waited in their places, and Alice, who was only
partly aware of what was going on, commenced to play a soft voluntary.

There was some whispering for a moment or two, then they lifted him up
and carried the lifeless body out into the open air.

My father followed close behind. For a few minutes there was an uneasy
silence. People forgot that the Benediction had been pronounced, and
were uncertain whether to go or stay. Then some one made a start, and
one by one they got up and left the church.

Lady Naselton paused and sat by my side for a moment. She was
trembling all over.

“Do you know who it was?” she whispered.

I shook my head.

“I am not sure. It was a stranger; was it not?”

She shuddered.

“It was either a stranger, or my guest, Mr. Berdenstein. I only caught
a glimpse of his face for a moment, and I could not be sure. He looked
so horrible.”

She paused, and suddenly discovered that I was half fainting. “Come
out into the air,” she whispered. I got up and went out with her just
in time.

They had carried him into a distant corner of the churchyard. My
father, when he saw us standing together in a little group, came
slowly over as though to check our further advance. His face was
haggard and drawn. He seemed to walk with difficulty, and underneath
his surplice I could see that one hand was pressed to his side.

“The man is dead,” he said, quietly. “There must have been an accident
or a fight. No one seems to know where he came from.”

“I wonder,” remarked the Bishop, thoughtfully, “why he should have
dragged himself up to the church in such a plight. One of those
cottages or the Vicarage would have been nearer.”

“Perhaps,” my father answered, gravely, “he was struggling for
sanctuary.”

And the Bishop held up his right hand towards the sky with a solemn
gesture.

“God grant that he may have found it,” he prayed.

CHAPTER X

CANON OF BELCHESTER

There followed for me after these solemn words of the Bishop a
phantasmagoria of human faces, and sky, and tree-tops, and a singing
in my ears, now loud, now soft, in which all other sounds and
movements seemed blended. I have an indistinct recollection of
the walk home, and of finding myself in my own room. Then memory
gradually faded away from me. Blank unconsciousness enveloped me like
a cloud. The next thing I remember is waking up one morning as though
after a terrible dream, a night of nightmares, and finding the room
half full of medicine bottles. I looked around me faintly curious,
inexpressibly bewildered; I suddenly realized that I had been ill.

I was not alone. Alice was standing over me, her round, honest little
face beaming with pleasure and her underlip quivering.

“You are better,” she said, softly. “I am so glad.”

“How long have I been here?” I asked.

She sat down by my side.

“A week to-morrow! Just think of it.”

I closed my eyes. The little scene in the churchyard had suddenly
risen up again before my eyes. My head commenced to swim. I asked no
more questions.

The next morning I was stronger. I sat up in bed and looked
around. The first thing which I noticed was that the room was full of
the most beautiful flowers; I stooped over a vase of roses and smelt
them. The air was almost faint with their delicious perfume.

“Where did they all come from?” I asked Alice.

She laughed in rather an odd manner.

“From whom do you suppose?” she asked.

“How should I know?” I protested, faintly. “I have not an idea.”

“From the _bête noir_,” she exclaimed, plucking off one of the yellow
blossoms and placing it upon my pillow.

I still looked blankly at her. She laughed.

“Can’t you really guess?” she asked.

I shook my head. I really had no idea.

“From Mr. Deville. He has called nearly every day to ask after you.”

It was surprising enough, but I said very little. I suppose I was not
considered strong enough then to hear any news of importance; but
several days later, when I was sitting up, Alice looked up from the
book she was reading aloud to me and told me something which I know
she must have had very hard work to have kept to herself for so long.

“Father is to be made a canon, Kate,” she said, triumphantly. I looked
up at her bewildered. I had forgotten all about Lady Naselton’s plans
on his behalf. The latter part of this terrible Sunday had haunted me
like a nightmare, usurping all my thoughts. There had been little room
for other memories.

“A canon!” I repeated, feebly. “Do you mean it, Alice?”

She nodded.

“The Bishop came here from Lady Naselton’s. He said a lot of nice
things to father about his sermon on--that Sunday night--you
remember.”

“It was a wonderful sermon,” I whispered.

“So the Bishop thinks; so every one thinks,” Alice declared, with
enthusiasm. “I shall never forget how I felt. And he had no notes, or
anything.”

“It was the most realistic sermon I ever heard,” I said, with a little
shudder. “It was like a scene from a play. It was wonderful.”

Alice looked up at me quickly. Doubtless my voice had betrayed some
agitation. She laid her hand upon my arm.

“Don’t think about it this evening,” she begged. “I quite forgot
father especially forbade my speaking of it to you. It must have been
terrible for you to have been so near it all. I can’t imagine what
I should have done. I could see nothing from the organ screen, you
know.”

I leaned over and looked at her.

“Alice, I do not want to talk about it, but I want to know how it
ended. You must tell me that.”

She hesitated for a moment.

“He was quite dead,” she said, slowly. “There was an inquest, and they
decided that he must have been attacked somewhere in the wood between
the downs and Yellow House. There were all the marks of a struggle
within a few hundred yards of the road.”

“Did they bring in a verdict of murder?” I asked.

Alice nodded.

“Yes,” she assented, gravely. “He was murdered. It seems that he was
lately come from abroad. He had been staying at Lady Naselton’s, but
she knew scarcely anything about him. He was kind to her son abroad. I
think they just know his name and that was all. They had no idea where
to send to or if he had any near relatives alive. It was all very
odd.”

“Was he robbed?” I asked.

“No. His watch and money were found in his pocket undisturbed. If
anything was taken from it it must have been papers only. The police
are trying hard to find a clue, but they say that it is a very
difficult case. No one seems to have seen him at all after he left
Naselton Hall.”

I caught at the side of my chair.

“No one at all?” I asked.

“Not a soul.”

I was silent for a moment. The walls of my little chamber had suddenly
opened. I saw again from the edge of the moor that lone figure coming
down the hillside towards us, I saw that strange light flashing in my
father’s face, and I heard the greeting of the two men. A sick dread
was in my heart.

“Was father called as a witness?” I asked.

“No. Why should he be? The man was a stranger to him. He had never
seen him before.”

I closed my eyes and laid back. Alice bent over me anxiously.

“I ought not to have talked about this to you,” she said. “Father
absolutely forbade me to, but you wanted to know the end so
much. Promise not to think of it any more.”

Promise not to think of it any more? Ah! if only I could have made
that promise and kept it. My sister’s protesting words seemed charged
with the subtlest and most bitter of all irony. Already some faint
premonition of the burden which I was to bear seemed dawning upon
me. I remained silent and kept my eyes closed. Alice thought that
I was asleep, but I knew that sleep was very far off. The white,
distorted face of that dying man was before me. I saw the silent
challenge and the silent duel which had passed between those two, the
central figures in that marvellous little drama--one, the challenger,
ghastly pale even to the tremulous lips, wild and dishevelled, my
father looking down upon him with unquailing mien and proud, still
face. One moment more of life, a few beats more of the pulses, and
that sentence--and that sentence--what would it have grown to? I felt
myself shivering as I lay there.

“Did you say that father was away now?” I asked Alice.

She nodded.

“Yes; he is staying with the Bishop for a few days. I should not be
surprised if he came home to-day, though. I have written to him by
every post to let him know how you are, and he was most anxious to
hear directly you were well enough to talk. I have been disobeying him
frightfully.”

Again I closed my eyes and feigned sleep. I had heard what Alice had
not, the sound of wheels below. Suddenly she laid down her work and
started up. It was my father’s voice bidding the cabman “Good night.”

“I must go down to him, Kate,” she declared, springing up; “I won’t
leave you alone for more than a minute or two.”

But when the minute or two had elapsed and there was a knock at my
door, it was not Alice who had returned. I answered in a low voice,
and my father entered.

CHAPTER XI

THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUD

From my low chair I watched my father cross the room. So far as I
could see there was no change in him. He came over to my side and took
my hand with an air of anxious kindliness. Then he stooped down, and
his lips touched my forehead.

“You are better, Kate?” he inquired, quietly.

“Quite well,” I answered.

He looked at me thoughtfully, and asked a few questions about my
illness, touched upon his own visit to the Bishop, and the dignity
which had been offered to him. Then after a short pause, during which
my heart beat fiercely, he came and sat down by my side.

“Kate! You are strong enough to listen to me while I speak just for a
moment or two upon a very painful subject.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Go on.”

“I gather from what Alice tells me that you have already shown a very
wise discretion--in a certain matter. You have already alluded to
it, it seems, and she has told you all that is known. Something, of
course, must have at once occurred to you--I mean the fact that I have
not thought it well to disclose the fact that you and I together met
that unfortunate man on the common, and that he asked me the way to
the Yellow House.”

“I was bewildered when I found that you had not mentioned it,” I
faltered. “I do not understand. Please tell me.”

He looked steadily into my eyes. There was not the slightest
disquietude in his still, stern face. My nervousness did not affect
him at all. He seemed to feel no embarrassment.

“It is a matter,” he said, slowly, “to which I gave a good deal of
thought at the time. I came to the conclusion that for my own sake and
for the sake of another that the fact of that meeting had better not
be known. There are things concerning it which I may not tell you. I
cannot offer you as I would like my whole confidence. Only I can say
this, my disclosure of the fact of our having met the man could have
done not one iota of good. It could not possibly have suggested to any
one either a clue as to the nature of the crime or to the criminal
himself, and bearing in mind other things of which you are happier to
remain ignorant, silence became to me almost a solemn duty. It became
at any rate an absolute necessity. For the sake of others as well as
for my own sake I held my peace. Association direct or indirect with
such a crime would have been harmful alike to me and to the person
whom he desired to visit. So I held my peace, and I require of you,
Kate, that you take my pledged word as to the necessity for this
silence, and that you follow my example. I desire your solemn promise
that no word of that meeting shall ever pass your lips.”

I did not answer. With his eyes fixed upon my face he waited. I laid
my hand upon his arm.

“Father, in the church, did you see his face? Did you hear what he was
saying?”

He did not shrink from me. He looked into my white, eager face without
any sign of fear or displeasure.

“Yes,” he answered, gravely.

“Was it--was it--you to whom he spoke?” I cried.

There was a short silence.

“I cannot answer you that question, Kate,” he said.

I grasped his hand feverishly. There was a red livid mark afterwards
where my nails had dug into his wrist.

“Father, would you have me go mad?” I moaned. “You know that man. You
knew who he was! You knew what he wanted--at the Yellow House.”

“It is true,” he answered.

“In the church I could have touched--could have touched him, he was
so near to me--there was a terrible light in his face, his eyes were
flaming upon you. He was like a man who suddenly understands. He
called ‘Judas,’ and he pointed--at you.”

“He was mad,” my father answered, with a terrible calmness. “Every one
could see that he was mad.”

“Mad!” I caught at the thought. I repeated the word to myself, and
forced my recollection backwards with a little shudder to those few
horrible moments. After all was there any hope that this might be the
interpretation? My father’s voice broke in upon my thoughts.

“I do not wish to harp upon what must be a terribly painful subject
to you, Kate. I only want your promise, you must take my word for
everything else.”

I looked at him long and steadily. If the faces of men are in any
way an index to their lives, my father’s should rank high--high
indeed. His countenance was absolutely unruffled. There was not a
single shadow of fear there, or passion of any sort; only a delicate
thoughtfulness tempered with that quiet dignity which seemed almost
an inseparable characteristic of his. I took his hands in mine and
clasped them fervently.

“Father,” I cried, “give me your whole confidence. I will promise
all that you desire, only let me know everything. I have thought
sometimes--terrible thoughts--I cannot help them. They torment me
now--they will torment me always. I know so much--tell me a little
more. My lips shall be sealed. I mean it! Only----”

He raised his hand softly, but the words died upon my lips.

“I have nothing to tell you, child,” he said, quietly. “Put that
thought away from you forever. The burden which I bear is upon my own
shoulders only. God forbid that even the shadow of it should darken
your young life.”

“I am not afraid of any knowledge,” I cried. “It is ignorance of which
I am afraid. I can bear anything except these horrible, nameless
fears against which I have no power. Why don’t you trust me? I am old
enough. I am wise enough. What you tell me shall be as sacred as God’s
word to me.”

He shook his head without any further response. I choked back the
tears from my eyes.

“There is some mystery, here,” I cried. “We are all enveloped in
it. What does it mean? Why did we come here?”

“We came here by pure accident,” my father answered. “We came here
because the curacy was offered to me; and I was glad to take anything
which relieved me of my duties at Belchester.”

“It was fate!--a cruel fate!” I moaned.

“It was the will of God,” he answered, sternly.

Then there was a silence between us, unbroken for many minutes. My
father waited by my side--waited for my answer. The despair in my
heart grew deeper.

“I cannot live here,” I said, “and remain ignorant.”

“You must give me your promise, child,” he said. “I have no power to
tell you anything. You are young, and for you the terror of this thing
will fade away.”

I answered him then with a sinking heart.

“I promise,” I said, faintly. “Only--I shall have to go away. I cannot
live here. It would drive me mad.”

His cold lips touched mine as he rose.

“You must do,” he said, gravely, “what seems best to you. You are
old enough to be the moulder of your own life. If you would be
happier away, you must go. Only there is this to be remembered--I can
understand that this particular place may have become distasteful to
you. We are not going to live here any longer. You will find life at
Eastminster larger and more absorbing. I shall be able to do more for
you than I have ever done before.”

“It is not that,” I interrupted, wearily. “You know that it is not
that. It is between us two.”

He was silent. A sudden change stole into his face. His lips
quivered. An inexpressible sorrow gleamed for a moment in his dark
eyes. He bent his head. Was that a tear that fell? I fancied so.

I took his hand and soothed it.

“Father, you will tell me, won’t you?” I whispered. “I shall not
mind. I will be brave, whatever dreadful things I may have to
know. Let me share the burden.”

For a moment I thought that he was yielding. He covered his face with
his hands and remained silent. But when he looked up I saw that the
moment of weakness had passed. He rose to his feet.

“Good night, Kate,” he said, quietly. “Thank you for your promise.”

My heart sank. I returned his kiss coldly. He left me without another
word.

CHAPTER XII

MR. BERDENSTEIN’S SISTER

Three days after that memorable conversation with my father a
fly drove up to the door, and from where I was sitting in our
little drawing room I heard a woman’s anxious voice inquiring for
Mr. Ffolliot. A moment or two later the maid knocked at my door.

“There is a young lady here, miss, inquiring for the Vicar. I told her
that Mr. Ffolliot would not be in for an hour or two, and she asked if
she could speak to any other member of the family.”

“Do you know what she wants, Mary?” I asked.

The girl shook her head.

“No, miss. She would not say what her business was. She just wants to
see one of you, she said.”

“You had better tell her that I am at home, and show her in here if
she wishes to see me,” I directed.

She ushered in a young lady, short, dark, and thin. Her eyes were
swollen as though with weeping, and her whole appearance seemed to
indicate that she was in trouble. She sank into the chair to which I
motioned her, and burst into tears.

“You must please forgive me,” she exclaimed, in a voice broken with
sobs. “I have just come from abroad, and I have had a terrible shock.”

Some instinct seemed to tell me the truth.

My heart stood still.

“Are you any relation of the gentleman who was--who died here last
week?” I asked, quickly.

She nodded.

“I have just been to the police station,” she said. “It is his
watch--the one I gave him--and his pocket book, with a half-written
letter to me in it. They have shown me his photograph. It is my
brother, Stephen Berdenstein. He was the only relative I had left in
the world.”

I was really shocked, and I looked at her pitifully. “I am so sorry,”
I said. “It must be terrible for you.”

She commenced to sob again, and I feared she would have hysterics. She
was evidently very nervous, and very much overwrought. I was never
particularly good at administering consolation, and I could think of
nothing better to do than to ring the bell and order some tea.

“He was to have joined me in Paris on Saturday,” she continued after
a minute or two. “He did not come and he sent a message. When Monday
morning came and there was no letter from him, I felt sure that
something had happened. I bought the English papers, and by chance I
read about the murder. It seemed absurd to connect it with Stephen,
especially as he told me he was going to be in London, but the
description was so like him that I could not rest. I telegraphed to
his bankers, and they replied that he had gone down into the country,
but had left no address. So I crossed at once, and when I found that
he had not been heard of at his club in London or anywhere else for
more than ten days, I came down here. I went straight to the police
station, and--and----”

She burst into tears again. I came over to her side and tried
my best to be sympathetic. I am afraid that it was not a very
successful attempt, for my thoughts were wholly engrossed in another
direction. However, I murmured a few platitudes, and presently she
became more coherent. She even accepted some tea, and bathed her face
with some eau de Cologne, which I fetched from my room.

“Have you any idea,” I asked her presently, “why your brother came to
this part of the country at all. He was staying at Lady Naselton’s,
was he not? Was she an old friend?”

She shook her head.

“I never heard him speak of her in my life. He wrote me of a young
Mr. Naselton who had visited him in Rio, but even in his last letter
from Southampton he did not say a word about visiting them. He would
have come straight to me, he said, but for a little urgent business in
London.”

“And yet he seems to have accepted a casual invitation, and came down
here within a day or two of his arrival in England,” I remarked.

“I cannot understand it!” she exclaimed, passionately. “Stephen and
I have not met for many years--he has been living in South America,
and I have been in Paris--but he wrote to me constantly, and in every
letter he repeated how eagerly he was looking forward to seeing me
again. I cannot think that he would have come down here just as an
ordinary visit of civility before coming to me, or sending for me to
come to him. There must be something behind it--something of which I
do not know.”

“You know, of course, that Naselton Hall is shut up and that the
Naseltons have gone to Italy?” I asked her.

“They told me so at the police station,” she answered. “I have sent
Lady Naselton a telegram. It is a long time since I saw Stephen, and
one does not tell everything in letters. He may have formed great
friendships of which I have never heard.”

“Or great enmities,” I suggested, softly.

“Or enmities,” she repeated, thoughtfully. “Yes; he may have made
enemies. That is possible. He was passionate, and he was wilful. He
was the sort of a man who made enemies.”

She was quite calm now, and I had a good look at her. She was
certainly plain. Her face was sharp and thin, and her eyes were a
dull, dark color. She was undersized and ungraceful, in addition
to which she was dressed much too richly for traveling, and in
questionable taste. So far as I could recollect there was not the
slightest resemblance between her and the dead man.

She surprised me in the middle of my scrutiny, but she did not seem to
notice it. She had evidently been thinking something out.

“You have not lived here very long, Miss Ffolliot?” she asked, “have
you?”

I shook my head.

“Only a month or so.”

“I suppose,” she continued, “you know the names of most of the
principal families round here. A good many of them would call upon
you, no doubt?”

“I believe I know most of them, by name at any rate,” I told her.

“Do you know any family of the name of Maltabar?” she
asked--”particularly a man called Philip Maltabar?”

I shook my head at once with a sense of relief which I could not
altogether conceal.

“No, I never heard it in my life,” I answered. “I am quite sure that
there is no family of that name of any consequence around here. I must
have heard it, and it is too uncommon a one to be overlooked.”

The brief light died out of her face. She was evidently disappointed.

“You are quite sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

She sighed.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Philip Maltabar is the one man I know who
hated my brother. There has been a terrible and lifelong enmity
between them. It has lasted since they were boys. I believe that it
was to avoid him that my brother first went to South America. If there
had been a Maltabar living anywhere around here I should have known
where to go for vengeance.”

“Is it well to think of that, and so soon?” I asked, quietly. The
girl’s aspect had changed. I looked away from her with a little
shudder.

“What else is there for me to think of?” she demanded. “Supposing it
were you, it would be different. You have other relatives. I have
none. I am left alone in the world. My brother may have had his
faults, but to me he was everything. Can you wonder that I hate the
person who has deprived me of him?”

“You are not sure--it is not certain that there was not an
accident--that he did not kill himself,” I suggested.

She dismissed the idea with scorn.

“Accident! What accident could there have been? It is not possible. As
to taking his own life, it is ridiculous! Why should he? He was too
fond of it. Other men might have done that, but Stephen--never! No. He
was murdered in that little plantation. I know the exact spot. I have
been there. There was a struggle, and some one, better prepared than
he, killed him. Perhaps he was followed here from London. It may be
so. And yet, what was he doing here at all? That visit to Naselton
Hall was not without some special purpose. I am sure of it. It was
in connection with that purpose that he met with his death. He must
have come to see some one. I want to know who it was. That is what I
am going to find out--whom he came to see. You can blame me if you
like. It may be unchristian, and you are a parson’s daughter. I do not
care. I am going to find out.”

I was silent. In a measure I was sorry for her, but down in my heart
there lurked the seeds of a fear--nameless, but terribly potent--which
put me out of all real sympathy with her. I began to wish that
she would go away. I had answered her questions, and I had done
all--more--than common courtesy demanded. Yet she sat there without
any signs of moving.

“I suppose,” she said at last, finding that I kept silent, “that it
would not be of any use waiting to see your father. He has not been
here any longer than you have. He would not be any more likely to know
anything of the man Maltabar?”

I shook my head decidedly.

“He would be far less likely to know of him than I should,” I assured
her. “He knows a good deal less of the people around here. His
interests are altogether amongst the poorer classes. And he has left
my sister and me to receive and pay all the calls. He is not at all
fond of society.”

“Philip Maltabar may be poor--now,” she said musingly. “He was never
rich.”

“If he were poor, he would not be living here,” I said. “The poor of
whom I speak are the peasantry. It is not like a town, you know. Any
man such as the Mr. Maltabar you speak of would be more than ever a
marked figure living out of his class amongst villagers. In any case
he would not be the sort of man whom my father would be likely to
visit.”

“I suppose you are right,” she answered, doubtfully. “At any
rate--since I am here--there would be no harm in asking your father,
would there?”

“Certainly not,” I answered. “I daresay he will be here in a few
moments.”

Almost as I spoke he passed the window, and I heard his key in the
front door. The girl, who had seen his shadow, looked up quickly.

“Is that he?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Yes. You can ask him for yourself now.”

“I should like to,” she answered. “I am so glad I stayed.”

Some instinct prompted me to rise and leave the room. I went out and
met my father in the hall.

“Father,” I said, “there is a girl here who says she has identified
that man. She is his sister. She is waiting to see you.”

My father had evidently come in tired out; he leaned against the wall
for support. He was out of breath, too, and pale.

“What does she want with me?” he asked, sharply.

“She came to ask if we knew of any family of the name of
Maltabar. Philip Maltabar, it seems, is the name of a man who has been
her brother’s enemy. She thinks that this thing must have been his
doing. She cannot think of any one else with whom he has ever been on
bad terms. I have told her that there is no one of that name in these
parts.”

He cleared his throat. He was very hoarse and ghastly pale.

“Quite right, Kate,” he said. “There is no one of that name around
here. What more does she want? What does she want of me?”

“I told her that I knew of no one, but she came to see you in the
first place. She does not seem quite satisfied. She wants to ask you
herself.”

He drew back a step.

“No! no! I cannot see her. I am tired--ill. I have walked too
far. Tell her from me that there is no one of that name living in
these parts. I am absolutely sure of it. She can take it for granted
from me.”

“Hadn’t you better see her just for one moment, as she has waited for
so long?” I said. “She will be better satisfied.”

He ground his heel down into the floor.

“No! I will not! I have had too much worry and trouble in connection
with this affair already. My nerves are all unstrung. I cannot discuss
it again with any one. Please let her understand that from me as
kindly as possible, but firmly. I am going to my study. Don’t come to
see me again until she has gone.”

He crossed the hall and entered his own room. I heard the key turn in
the lock after him. It was useless to say anything more. I went back
to my visitor.

I entered noiselessly, as I was wearing house shoes, and was surprised
to find her with the contents of my card-plate spread out before
her. She flushed up to the temples when she saw me standing on the
threshold, yet she was not particularly apologetic.

“I am very rude,” she said, brusquely. “I had no right, of course, to
take such a liberty, but I thought--it might be barely possible--that
you had forgotten the name, that some one might have called when you
were not at home, or that, perhaps, your sister might have met them.”

“Oh, pray satisfy yourself,” I said, icily. “You are quite welcome to
look them through.”

She put the card-plate down.

“I have looked at all of them,” she said. “There is no name anything
like it there. Is your father coming in?”

“He is not very well,” I told her, “and is quite tired out. He has
walked a long way this afternoon. He wishes you to excuse him, and to
say that he is quite sure that there is no one of that name, rich or
poor, living anywhere in this neighborhood.”

She seemed by no means satisfied.

“But shall I not be able to see him at all, then?” she exclaimed. “I
had hoped that as he was the clergyman here, and was one of those who
were with my brother when he died, that he would be certain to help
me.”

I shook my head.

“I am afraid that you will think it very selfish,” I said, “but my
father would rather not see you at all. He is in very delicate health,
and this affair has already been a terrible shock to him. He does not
want to have anything more to do with it directly or indirectly. He
wants to forget it if he can. He desires me to offer you his most
sincere sympathy. But you must really excuse him.”

She rose slowly to her feet; her manner was obviously ungracious.

“Oh, very well!” she said. “Of course if he has made up his mind
not to see me, I cannot insist. At the same time, I think it very
strange. Good afternoon.”

I rang the bell, and walked with her to the door.

“Is there anything else which I can do for you?” I asked.

“No, thank you. I think I shall telegraph to London for a detective. I
shall see what they say at the police station. Good afternoon.”

She did not offer to shake hands, nor did I. I think of all the women
I had ever met, I detested her the most.

I watched her walk down the drive with short, mincing steps and get
into a fly. Then I went to the door of my father’s room and knocked.

CHAPTER XIII

FOR VENGEANCE

I knocked at the door twice before there was any answer. Then I heard
my father’s voice from the other end of the room.

“Is that you, Kate?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Can I come in?”

The door was not immediately unlocked.

“Has she gone?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

He opened it then, and I was frightened to see how ill he looked. He
had evidently been lying down, for the cushions on his sofa were
disarranged.

“She has gone away, then,” he repeated, anxiously.

I nodded.

“Yes.”

“Was she annoyed because I did not see her?”

“She was disappointed,” I admitted. “She was very ungracious and very
disagreeable; a most objectionable person altogether. I don’t know how
I managed to be civil with her.”

“You explained that I was not well--that I was not fit to see any
one?”

“I did my best. She was very unreasonable, and she evidently expected
that you would have made an effort to see her. She went away
grumbling.”

He sat down upon the sofa, and I leaned against the table.

“Has she gone back to London?” he asked.

“I do not know, I don’t think so. She said something about going back
to the police station and wiring to London for a detective.”

“Ah!”

He had closed his eyes. I heard him draw in a long, sharp breath.

“She is a very determined young woman,” I continued. “Perhaps
I ought not to say so, but she seemed to feel more angry than
broken-hearted. She is vindictive, I am sure. She will do her best to
find the man who killed her brother, and if she finds him she will
have no mercy.”

My father rose up and walked to his writing table. His back was turned
to me as he commenced to sort out some papers.

“Perhaps,” he said, “that is natural. It is very hard indeed to
remember that vengeance belongs to God, and not to man. It is very
hard indeed. Leave me now, Kate, and see that I am not disturbed for
an hour.”

I closed his door softly, and walked out into the garden, across the
lawn to the edge. Below me was the little plantation, ill-famed and
suddenly notorious as the scene of that terrible tragedy. Every tree
seemed clearly defined and beautiful in that soft autumn twilight. I
looked at it with a curious sense of shuddering fear. That girl’s
face, hungry for vengeance, the code of blood for blood--it was
terrible. But the vengeance of God--more awful, if not so swift as
hers--on whom was that to fall?

A heavy step in the road brought me, with a little sense of relief,
back to the present. The tall form of Mr. Bruce Deville came in
sight. He passed so close to me that I could have touched him.

“Good night, Mr. Deville,” I said, softly, in his ear.

He started almost over to the other side of the road. Then he saw me,
and lifted his cap.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Ffolliot. How you
startled me!”

“I am very sorry,” I said, penitently.

He looked at me and laughed. “You may be,” he said; “but you don’t
look it. I am glad that you are better.”

“I am quite well, thank you,” I answered. “I am glad to see you,
Mr. Deville. I wanted to thank you for those beautiful roses. I could
not believe that they came from you.”

He looked a little embarrassed.

“They are not worth mentioning,” he muttered. “Besides, it was
Adelaide’s idea. She thought that you would like them.”

I felt a little needlessly disappointed. Doubtless I answered him a
little coldly.

“I must thank Mrs. Fortress for them, then! Very well; I will go down
and see her to-morrow.”

“I don’t think,” he said, with a slight twinkle in his eyes, “that you
need go down specially. Mrs. Fortress only answered my question when I
asked her if she thought that you would care for them.”

“Oh, is that all?” I remarked.

“Entirely,” he answered. “At the same time, if you have any time to
spare I daresay Mrs. Fortress would be glad to see you if you went
down.”

“Do you think she would, really?” I asked. “You know the first time I
was there, something a little unpleasant happened in connection with
my father. I took a great fancy to her, and I would like to go and see
her again, but I am not sure whether she wants me. I fancy she was
very surprised at my visit the other night.”

“I am perfectly certain,” he declared, confidently, “that she would be
glad to see you any time you chose to go to her. You may take my word
for that.”

“I think I will go to-morrow, then,” I said. “Mrs. Fortress interests
me very much. There is no one else round here like her.”

“You are very friendly with my godmamma, are you not?” he said, with a
faint smile at the corners of his lips.

“Lady Naselton has been very kind to me,” I answered.

“I am afraid she gives me a dreadful character, doesn’t she?” he
asked.

“If she does you probably deserve it,” I said, severely. “I fancy
that I have heard her say that you are exceedingly shiftless and very
lazy. You could scarcely deny that, could you?”

“Well, I don’t know,” he answered. “I have walked twenty or thirty
miles to-day. That doesn’t sound particularly lazy, does it?”

“On sport or business?” I inquired.

He laughed, and looked down at himself. His clothes were splashed with
mud, and a bramble had torn his coat in a fresh place.

“I maintain that it is immaterial,” he declared. “I’ve been out all
day, and I haven’t sat down for more than an hour. Therefore I deny
the laziness _in toto_.”

“At any rate,” I continued, “there is another charge against you,
which you certainly can’t deny.”

“And that is?”

“Untidiness! We used to have a woman call upon us at Belchester to buy
our old clothes. If ever she comes here I shall certainly send her up
to Deville Court.”

He laughed gruffly.

“I wish you would; I’d sell her the whole lot. Anything else?”

“The other things,” I said, “were too bad to repeat. I have only been
enumerating your minor faults.”

He made me an ironical bow.

“I am exceedingly obliged to my godmother,” he said. “Some day I shall
do myself the pleasure of paying her a visit and suggesting that she
should mind her own business.”

“Your business is her business to the extent of her godmotherhood,” I
reminded him, suavely.

“Hang her godmotherhood!” he uttered under his breath. I think it was
“hang” he said--I was not sure about the expletive.

“I shall go away,” I said. “You are getting profane. You are still as
rude as when I bound your dog’s leg for you, I see.”

He was suddenly grave.

“That seems a long time ago,” he remarked.

“A week or two only,” I reminded him. “It seems longer, because of all
that has happened. That reminds me, Mr. Deville. I wanted to speak to
you--about--that Sunday--the murder!”

He shook his head, and whistled to his dogs.

“Can’t talk about it,” he declared. “You ought not to want to.”

“And why not?” I demanded.

“You are not well enough. I don’t wonder that you’ve been
ill. You must have been within a few yards of the fellow all the
time. Certainly you must not talk about it. Good evening.”

“But there is something I want to ask you,” I continued.

He shook his head. He was already moving away. I called him back.

“Mr. Deville! One moment, please.”

He paused and looked over his shoulder.

“Well!”

“I want to ask you just one thing about that man.”

I was talking to empty space. Bruce Deville was already almost out
of sight, striding along across the short turf, with his broad back
turned to me. Soon he had vanished amongst the shadows. There was
nothing for me to do but to return to the house.

CHAPTER XIV

ADELAIDE FORTRESS’S GUEST

My father did not appear at breakfast time the next morning, and
Alice, who took him up some tea, came down in some concern.

“Father is not getting up until this afternoon, at any rate,” she
announced. “He is very unwell. I wish he would let us send for a
doctor. He has looked so dreadfully ill since he came back from
London.”

Under the circumstances I was perhaps less alarmed than I might have
otherwise been. It was clear to me that he did not wish to see the
girl who had called upon me yesterday. I was strongly inclined to look
upon his present indisposition as somewhat exaggerated with a view
to escaping a meeting with her. But I was soon to be undeceived. I
went up to him after breakfast, and, gaining no answer to my knock at
the door, I entered softly. He was lying quite still upon the bed,
partially dressed, and at first I thought that he was asleep. I moved
to his side on tiptoe, and a sudden shock of fear drove the color from
my face, and set my heart beating wildly. His eyes were closed, his
cheeks were pale as death. Upon his side, underneath his waistcoat,
was a linen bandage, half soaked with blood. Evidently he had fainted
in the act of fastening it.

I got some brandy and forced it between his lips, chafed his hands,
and gradually the life seemed to return to him. He opened his eyes and
looked at me.

“Don’t move!” I whispered. “I will see to the bandage.”

He lay quite still, groaning every now and then until I had
finished. Then I drew the counterpane over him and waited for a moment
or two. He opened his eyes and looked at me.

“I am going to send for a doctor,” I whispered, leaning over him.

He clutched my hand.

“I forbid it,” he answered, hoarsely. “Do not dare to think of it,
Kate! Do you hear?”

“But this is serious!” I cried. “You will be very ill.”

“It is only a flesh wound,” he muttered. “I scarcely feel it; only--I
drew the bandage too tightly.”

“How long have you had it?” I asked.

He looked towards the door; it was closed.

“Since I was in London. It was a cowardly attack--the night before I
returned. I have gone armed ever since. I am safe now--quite safe.”

I was sorely perplexed. He was watching me with bright, feverish eyes.

“Promise, Kate, that you will not send for a doctor, unless I give you
leave,” he whispered, eagerly. “Your solemn promise, Kate; I must have
it.”

“On condition that you let me see to the bandages for you then,” I
answered, reluctantly.

“Very good! You can. They will want changing to-night. I am going to
sleep now.”

He closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. I stole softly
out of the room and down stairs. The sight of Alice’s calm and placid
features as she busied herself about the affairs of the house and the
parish was a constant irritation to me. I could not sit down or settle
to any work. A fit of nervous restlessness came over me. Outside was
a storm of wind and rain but even that I felt at last was better than
inaction; so I put on my coat and hat and walked across the soddened
turf and down the drive with the fresh, stinging rain in my face. I
passed out into the road, and after a moment’s hesitation took the
turn towards the Yellow House.

I do not know what prompted me to go and see Adelaide Fortress. It was
a sudden impulse, and I yielded to it promptly. But I had scarcely
taken half a dozen steps before I found myself face to face with Bruce
Deville. He stopped short, and looked at me with surprise.

“You are not afraid of rough weather, Miss Ffolliot,” he remarked,
raising his cap, with, for him, unusual courtesy.

“I fear many things worse,” I answered, looking down into the
wood. “Are you going to see Mrs. Fortress?”

“Yes, presently,” he assented. “In the meantime, I was rather
thinking--I want a word with your father.”

“What about?” I asked, abruptly.

He looked at me intently. There was a new look upon his face which I
scarcely understood. Was it pity. It was almost like it. He seemed to
be wondering how much I knew--or surmised.

“It is a matter of some importance,” he said, gravely. “I wish I could
tell you. You look sensible, like a girl who might be told.”

His words did not offend me in the least. On the contrary, I think
that I was pleased.

“Mr. Deville,” I said, firmly, “I agree with you. I am a girl who
might be told. I only wish that my father would be open with me. There
is some mystery around, some danger. I can see it all in your faces;
I can feel it in the air. That man’s death”--I pointed into the
wood--”is concerned in it. What does it all mean? I want to know. I
want you to tell me.”

“Tell me who that man was, and who killed him?” I asked, firmly. “I
have a right to know. I am determined to know!”

He was certainly paler underneath the dark tan of his sun and
weather-burned cheeks. Yet he answered me steadily enough.

“Take my advice, Miss Ffolliot, ask no questions about it, have no
thought about it. Put it away from you. I speak for your happiness,
which, perhaps, I am more interested in than you would believe.”

Afterwards I wondered at that moment of embarrassment, and the little
break in his voice. Just then the excitement of the moment made me
almost oblivious of it.

“You are telling me!” I cried.

“I am not telling you; I am not telling you because I do not
know. For God’s sake ask me no more questions! Come and see Adelaide
Fortress. You were going there, were you not?”

“Yes, I was going there,” I admitted.

“We will go together,” he said. “She will be glad to see you, I am
sure. Mind the mud; it’s horribly slippery.”

We descended the footpath together. Just as we reached the gates of
the Yellow House, I turned to him.

He sighed.

“I am not the one to whom you should appeal,” he said. “I have not the
right to tell you anything; you may know very soon. In the meantime,
will you tell me where your father is?”

“He is at home,” I answered, “in bed. He is ill. I do not think that
he will see you. He is not going to get up to-day.”

Mr. Deville did not appear in the least disturbed or disappointed. On
the contrary, his face cleared, and I think that he was relieved.

“I am glad to hear it,” he answered.

“Why?”

“He is better out of the way just for the present. When does he take
up his new appointment?”

“I am not sure that any definite time has been fixed,” I answered. “In
about a month I should think.”

“I heard about it yesterday,” he remarked. “Your stay here has not
been a long one, has it?”

“Would to God that we had never come at all!” I exclaimed,
fervently. “It has been the most miserable time in my life.”

“I don’t know that I can echo that wish,” he said, with a faint
smile. “Yet so far as you are concerned, from your point of view, I
suppose your coming here must have seemed very unfortunate. It is a
pity.”

“Mr. Deville,” I said, drawing close to his side, “I am going to ask
you a question.”

He looked down at me shaking his head.

“I should rather you asked me no question at all,” he answered,
promptly. “Can’t we talk of other things?”

“No, we cannot! Listen!”

I laid my hand upon his arm, and forced him to turn towards me.

“You were speaking of going to see my father this afternoon,” I
said. “Can I give him any message for you?”

“Tell him that I am sorry to hear of his illness, but that I am glad
that he is taking care of himself,” he answered, looking down at
me. “Tell him that the weather is bad, and that he will do well to
take care of himself. He is better in his room just at present.”

We were inside the gates of the Yellow House, and I had not time
to ask him the meaning of this unusual solicitude for my father’s
health. I was still puzzling over it when we were shown into the
drawing room. Then for a moment I forgot it, and everything else
altogether. Adelaide Fortress had a visitor sitting opposite to her
and talking earnestly.

The conversation ceased suddenly, and she looked up as we
entered. There was no mistaking the long, sallow face and anxious
eyes. She looked at me with indifference, but at the sight of my
companion she jumped up and a little cry broke from her lips. Her eyes
seemed to be devouring him.

“At last!” she cried. “At last!”

CHAPTER XV

THE LIKENESS OF PHILIP MALTABAR

We stood looking at them in wonder. Her face had seemed suddenly to
light up in some mysterious way, so that for the moment one quite
forgot that she was plain at all.

“It is really you!” she murmured. “How wonderful!” She held out both
her hands. Bruce Deville took them a little awkwardly. It was easy to
see that her joy at this meeting was not altogether reciprocated. But
she seemed utterly unconscious of that. There was quite a becoming
pink flush on her sallow cheeks, and her dark eyes were wonderfully
soft. Her lips were parted with a smile of welcome, and showed all her
teeth--she had gleaming white teeth, beautifully shaped and regular.

“To think that we should meet again like this,” she continued, parting
with his great brown hand with some evident reluctance.

“We were bound to meet again some day,” he answered,
deprecatingly. “After all, there is nothing very extraordinary about
it. The world is a small place.”

“You never kept your promise,” she reminded him, reproachfully. “You
never came near our hotel. I waited for you a week.”

“I could not; I was leaving Baeren that same afternoon.”

She turned to us at last.

“This is the most delightful meeting in the world, so far as I am
concerned,” she declared, still a little breathlessly. “Mr. Deville
once saved my life.”

He made some sort of a protest, but she took no notice. She was
determined to tell her story.

“I was traveling with a friend through the Italian lakes, and we were
out for a drive near Baeren. We were coming down a terrible hill, with
a precipice on one side and the sheer mountain on the other. The road
was only just wide enough for our carriage, and suddenly a great bird
flew out from a hole in the mountain and startled our horses. The
driver must have been half asleep, and when they plunged he lost his
balance and was thrown off. The horses started galloping down the
hill. It was almost like the side of a house, and just in front was
a sharp turn, with only a little frail palisading, and the precipice
just below. We must have gone straight over. He could not possibly
have turned at the pace they were going. If they had the carriage must
have swung over. We were clinging to one another, and I am afraid we
were dreadful cowards. It was like certain and fearful death, and just
then Mr. Deville came round the corner. He seemed to see it all in a
moment, and ran to meet us. Oh, it was horrible!” she cried, throwing
her hands up with a little shiver. “I shall never forget it until I
die. Never!”

She paused for a moment. Adelaide Fortress and I had been hanging
over her every word. There was something very thrilling about the
way she told her story. Mr. Deville alone seemed uninterested, and a
little impatient. He was turning over the pages of a magazine, with a
restless frown upon his strong, dark face.

“It seemed to me,” she continued, lowering her shaking voice, “that he
was down under the horses, being dragged----”

Bruce Deville closed the magazine he had been reading with a bang. He
had evidently been a passive auditor as long as he was able to endure
it. “Let me finish,” he said, shortly. “I am blessed with strong
arms, and I stopped the horses. It was not a particularly difficult
task. The ladies walked back to the hotel, and I went to look for the
driver, who had broken his leg.”

“And I have never seen him since!” she exclaimed, breathlessly.

“Well, I couldn’t help that,” he continued. “I believe I promised to
come to the hotel and call upon you, but when I thought it over it
really didn’t seem worth while. I was on my way to Geneva, walking
over the hills, and I was rather anxious to get there, and as I
found some men to take the carriage and the driver back, I thought I
might as well continue my journey. I wanted to get to Geneva for my
letters.”

She laughed quietly. Her eyes continually sought his, soft with
admiration and pleasure.

“You are like all the men of your country, who are brave and
noble,” she said. “You will do a great deed, but you do not like
to be thanked. Yet we waited there for days, hoping to see you. I
have looked for you wherever I have been since then, and to think
that now--on this very saddest journey I have ever been forced to
take--that I should call here, by accident, and the door should open,
and you should walk in. Ah!”

“It is quite a romance,” Adelaide Fortress remarked, with a faint
smile upon her lips. “How grateful you must be that you came to see me
this afternoon, Bruce! By the by, do you mind ringing the bell--unless
you prefer stewed tea?”

He got up and rang it with avidity.

“I am glad you recognize the fact that we have come to tea,” he
remarked. “Miss Ffolliot and I met at the gate. You ought to give us
something specially good for venturing out on such a day.”

“I will give you some Buszard’s cake,” she answered, laughing; “some
kind friend sent it to me this morning. Only you mustn’t eat it all
up; it has to last me for a week.”

“How is your father, Miss Ffolliot?” the girl asked, turning to me
abruptly.

“I am sorry to say that he is very unwell,” I answered, “and he is
obliged to keep to his room. And I am afraid that he will not be able
to leave it for several days.”

She did not appear much concerned. I watched her closely, and with
much relief.

“I am sorry,” she remarked, politely. “However, so far as I am
concerned, I suppose after all there would be very little object in my
seeing him. I have been to most of the oldest residents round here,
and they all seem certain that they have never heard of the name
Maltabar.”

I saw Bruce Deville start, and the hand which held his teacup
shook. Adelaide Fortress and he exchanged swift glances. The girl,
whose eyes were scarcely off him for a moment, noticed it too,
although I doubt if she attached the same significance to it.

“You do not know--you have not heard recently of any one of that
name?” she asked him. “Please tell me! I have a reason for being very
much interested.”

He shook his head.

“If I have ever heard the name at all it must have been very long
ago,” he said; “and certainly not in connection with this part of the
world.”

She sighed.

“I suppose you do not know who I am, or why I am here,” she said. “My
name I told you once, although I daresay you have forgotten it. It is
Berdenstein. The man who was found dead, who was killed close to here,
was my brother.”

He murmured a few words of sympathy, but he showed no surprise. I
suspected that he had known who she was and of her presence here
before.

“Of course I came here directly I heard of it,” she continued,
ignoring us altogether, and talking only to him. “It is a terrible
trouble to me, and he was the only relative I had left in the
world. You cannot wonder, can you, that I want to find out all about
it?”

“That is a very hard task,” he said. “It is a task best left, I think,
in the hands of the proper authorities.”

“They do not know as much as I know,” she answered. “He had an enemy.”

“The man Maltabar, of whom you spoke?”

“Yes. It was for him I inquired at once. Yet I suppose I must conclude
that he is not at any rate a resident around here. I thought that he
might have changed his name, and I have described him to a great many
people. Nobody seems to recognize him.”

“Don’t you think,” Adelaide Fortress said, quietly, “that you have
done all that it is possible for any one to do? The police are doing
their utmost to solve the mystery of your brother’s death. If I were
you I should leave it to them.”

She shook her head.

“I am not satisfied to do nothing,” she said. “You cannot imagine what
it feels like to lose some one very dear to you in such a terrible
way. I think of it sometimes until I tremble with passion, and I think
that if I could meet the man who did it face to face, I would stab him
to the heart myself, with my own hands. I am weak, but I feel that I
could do it. I cannot go away from here if I would. Something seems to
tell me that the key to the whole mystery lies here--just at hand. No,
I cannot go away. I must watch and wait. It may come to me at any
moment.”

No one answered her. She was conscious of a certain antagonism to
her, betrayed by our lack of response to that little outburst and our
averted faces. She looked from one to the other of us, and finally at
Bruce Deville.

“At least, you must think that I am right,” she cried,
appealingly. “You are a man, and you would feel like that. I am sure
of it. Isn’t it natural that I should want justice? He was all I had
in the world.”

“He is dead,” Bruce Deville said, gently. “Nothing can bring him back
to life. Besides----”

He hesitated. The girl leaned forward, listening intently.

“Besides what?”

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you,” he said, slowly, “that if a man
hated your brother so much as to follow him down here and kill him,
that so great a hatred must have sprung from some great cause? I know
nothing, of course, of your brother’s life, or of the manner of his
life. But men do not strike one another without provocation. They do
not kill one another without very great provocation.”

“I see what you mean,” she said, slowly. “You mean that my brother
must first have been the sinner.”

“I am not taking that for granted,” he said, hastily; “only one cannot
help thinking sometimes that it might have been so.”

“He was my brother,” she said, simply. “He was all that I had in the
world. My desire for justice may be selfish. Yet I hate the man who
killed him, and I want to see him punished. I do not believe that any
sin of his could ever have deserved so terrible a retribution.”

“Perhaps not,” he said; “yet there is so little that you can do. To
search for any one by the name of Maltabar around here you have proved
a hopeless task; and that is your only clue, is it not?”

“I am sending,” she said, “for a London detective. I shall remain here
until he arrives, at any rate.”

Again we looked at one another questioningly, and our silence was like
a fresh note of antagonism to her avowed purpose. She could not fail
to notice it, and she commenced to talk of other things. I believe but
for Mr. Deville’s presence she would have got up and left us. Open
war with us women could not have troubled her in the least. Already I
could tell that she had contracted a dislike to me. But for his sake
she was evidently anxious--oppressively anxious--to keep friendly.

She tried to draw him into more personal conversation with her, and he
seemed quite ready to humor her. He changed his seat and sat down by
her side. Adelaide Fortress and I talked listlessly of the Bishop’s
visit and our intending removal from the neighborhood. We studiously
avoided all mention of my last visit to her and its sensational
ending. We talked as ordinary acquaintances might have talked, about
trifles. Yet we were both of us equally conscious that to a certain
extent it was a farce. Presently there was a brief silence. The girl
was talking to Mr. Deville, evidently of her brother.

“He was so fond of collecting old furniture,” she was saying. “So am
I. He gave me a little cabinet, the image of this one, only mine was
in black oak.”

She bent over a little piece of furniture by her side, and looked at
it with interest.

“Mine was exactly this shape,” she continued; “only it had a wonderful
secret spring. You pressed it just here and the top flew up, and there
was space enough for a deed or a photograph.”

She touched a portion of the woodwork idly as she spoke, and there was
a sort of click. Then she sprang to her feet with a little tremulous
cry.

A portion of the back of the cabinet had rolled back at the touch of
her fingers. A cabinet photograph was disclosed in the niche. She was
bending over it with pale cheeks and bloodless lips.

“What is it?” I cried, with a sudden pain at my heart. “What have you
found there?”

She turned around and faced Adelaide Fortress. Her eyes were flashing
fire.

“You are all deceiving me,” she cried, passionately. “I was beginning
to suspect it. Now I know.”

“What do you mean?” I cried.

She pointed to the photograph with trembling fingers.

“You have all declared that the name of Maltabar is strange to you. It
is a lie! That is the likeness of the man I seek. It is the likeness
of Philip Maltabar.”

CHAPTER XVI

“IT WAS MY FATHER”

The two women were standing face to face. Bruce Deville and I had
fallen back. There was a moment or two’s breathless silence. Then
Adelaide Fortress, with perfect composure, moved over to the girl’s
side, and glanced over her shoulder.

“That,” she said, quietly, “is the photograph of a man who has been
dead twenty years. His name was not Maltabar.”

“That,” repeated the girl, unshaken, “is the photograph of Philip
Maltabar.”

I stepped forward to look at it, but, as if divining my purpose,
Adelaide Fortress touched the spring and the aperture was hidden.

“That photograph,” she repeated, coldly, “is the likeness of an old
and dear friend of mine who is dead. I do not feel called upon to tell
you his name. It was not Maltabar.”

“I do not believe you,” she said, steadily. “I believe that you are
all in a conspiracy against me. I am sorry I ever told you my story. I
am sorry I ever sat down under your roof. I believe that Philip
Maltabar lives and that he is not far away. We shall see!”

She moved to the door. Mr. Deville stood there ready to open it. She
looked up at him--as a woman can look sometimes.

“You at least are not against me,” she murmured. “Say that you are
not! Say that you will be my friend once more!”

He bent down and said something to her very quietly, which we did
not hear, and when she left the room he followed her. We heard the
hall door slam. Through the window we could see them walking down the
gravel path side by side. She was talking eagerly, flashing quick
little glances up at him, and her fingers lay upon his coat sleeve. He
was listening gravely with downcast head.

Adelaide Fortress looked from them to me with a peculiar smile. What
she said seemed a little irrelevant.

“How she will bore him!”

“Oh! I don’t know,” I answered, with an irritation whose virulence
surprised me. “Men like that sort of thing.”

“Not Mr. Deville,” she said. “He will hate it.”

I was not sure about it. I watched them disappear. He was stooping
down so as to catch every word she said. Obviously he was doing his
best to adapt himself and to be properly sympathetic. I was angry with
myself and ignorant of the cause of my anger.

“Never mind about them,” I said, abruptly. “There is something
else--more important--Mrs. Fortress.”

“Yes.”

“I want to see that photograph--the photograph of the man whom she
called Philip Maltabar.”

She shook her head. Was it my fancy, or was she indeed a shade paler?

“Don’t ask me that,” she said, slowly. “I would rather not show it to
any one.”

“But I have asked you, and I ask again!” I exclaimed. “There are
already too many things around me which I do not understand. I am not
a child, and I am weary of all this mystery. I insist upon seeing that
photograph.”

She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and looked up into my face.

“Child,” she said, slowly, “it were better for you not to see that
photograph. Can’t you believe me when I tell you so. It will be better
for you and better for all of us. Don’t ask me to show it to you.”

“I would take you at your word,” I answered, “only I have already some
idea. I caught a fugitive glimpse of it just now, before you touched
the spring. To know even the worst is better than to be continually
dreading it.”

She crossed the room in silence, and bending over the cabinet touched
the spring. The picture smiled out upon me. It was the likeness of
a young man--gay, supercilious, debonair--yet I knew it--knew it
at once. The forehead and the mouth, even the pose of the head was
unchanged. It was my father.

“He called himself once, then, Philip Maltabar?” I cried, hoarsely.

She nodded.

“It was long ago.”

“It is for him the girl is searching. It is he who was her brother’s
enemy; it is----”

She held my hand and looked around her fearfully.

“Be careful,” she said, softly. “The girl may have returned. It is
not a thing to be even whispered about. Be silent, and keep your own
counsel.”

Then I covered my face with my hands, and my throat was choked
with hard, dry sobs. The thing which I had most feared had come to
pass. The scene in the church rose up again before my eyes. I saw the
fierce gestures of a dying man, the froth on his lips, as he struggled
with the words of denunciation, the partial utterance of which had
killed him. With a little shiver I recognized how narrow had been my
father’s escape. For I could no longer have any real doubts. It was my
father who had killed Stephen Berdenstein.

CHAPTER XVII

A CONFERENCE OR TWO

In the wood half-way between the Yellow House and home I met Bruce
Deville. I should have hurried on, but it was impossible to pass
him. He had a way of standing which took up the whole path.

“Miss Ffolliot,” he said, “may I walk home with you?”

“It is only a few steps,” I answered. “Please don’t trouble.”

“It will be a pleasure,” he said, sturdily.

I looked at him; such a faint, acrimonious smile.

“Haven’t you been almost polite enough for one day?” I asked.

He seemed to be genuinely surprised at my ill-humor.

“You mean, I suppose, because I walked home with that girl,” he
answered. “I did so on your account only. I wanted to know what she
was going to do.”

“I did not require any explanation,” I remarked.

He seemed perplexed. Men are such idiots. In the end he ignored my
speech.

“I wanted to see you,” he began, thoughtfully. “I have been to call at
the Vicarage; your sister would not let me see your father.”

“I am not surprised at that,” I answered; “you do not realize how ill
he is.”

“Have you had a doctor to see him?” he asked.

“No; he will not let me send for one,” I answered. “Yet I know he is
in need of medical advice. It is very hard to know what to do for the
best.”

“If I may advise you,” he said, slowly, “I should strongly recommend
your doing exactly as your father wishes. He knows best what is well
for him. Only tell him this from me. Tell him that change will be his
best medicine. I heard yesterday that the Bishop wished him to go to
Eastminster at once. Let him get an invalid carriage and go there
to-morrow. It will be better for him and safer.”

I stopped short, and laid my hand upon his wrist. I tried to make him
look at me; but he kept his face turned away.

“You are not thinking of his health only,” I said; “there is something
else. I know a good deal, you need not fear. You can speak openly. It
is that girl.”

He did not deny it. He looked down at me, and his strong, harsh face
was softened in a peculiar manner. I knew that he was very sorry for
me, and there was a lump in my throat.

“What is she going to do?” I asked, trembling. “What does she
suspect?”

“Nothing definite,” he answered, quickly. “She is bewildered. She is
going to stay here and watch. I am afraid that she will send for a
detective. It is not that she has any suspicion as to your father. It
is you whom she distrusts--you and Adelaide. She thinks that you are
trying to keep your father from her. She thinks that he could tell
her--what she wants to know. That is all.”

“It is quite enough!” I cried, passionately. “If only we could get her
to go away. I am afraid of her.”

We were standing by the gate, I held out my hand to him; he grasped it
warmly.

“Remember my advice to your father,” he said. “I shall do my utmost
to prevent the girl from taking any extreme measures. Fortunately she
considers herself under some obligation to me.”

“You saved her life,” I remarked, thoughtfully.

“Yes, I am sorry for it,” he added, curtly. “Goodbye.”

He turned away and I hurried into the house. Alice was nowhere
about. I went softly into my father’s room. He was dozing, and as I
stood over him and saw how pale and thin his face was, my heart grew
sick and sorrowful. The tears stood in my eyes. After all, it was a
noble face; I longed to have that barrier broken down between us, to
hear the truth from his own lips, and declare myself boldly on his
side--even if it were the side of the outlaw and the sinner. As I
stood there, he opened his eyes. They were dull and glazed.

“You are ill, father,” I said, softly, “you will get worse if you will
not have advice. Let me go and bring the doctor?”

“You will do no such thing,” he answered, firmly. “I am better--much
better.”

“You do not look it,” I answered, doubtfully.

“Never mind, I am better, I feel stronger. Where is that girl? Has she
gone away?”

I was glad he asked me the question outright. It was one step forward
towards the more complete confidence which I so greatly desired. I
shook my head.

“No, she has not gone away. She seems to have no idea of going. She
has found a friend here.”

“A friend?”

“Yes; she has met Mr. Deville before. He saved her life in
Switzerland.”

He tossed about for a moment or two with closed eyes and frowning
face.

“You have seen her again, then?” he muttered.

“Yes; I met her this afternoon.”

“Where?”

I hesitated. I had not wished to mention my visit to Adelaide
Fortress, at any rate until he was stronger; but he saw my reluctance
and forced me to answer him.

“At the Yellow House,” I said, softly.

He gave a little gasp. At first I was afraid that he was going to be
angry with me. As it chanced, the fact of my disobedience did not seem
to occur to him.

“The Yellow House?” he repeated, quickly. “What was she doing
there? What did she want?”

“I don’t know what excuse she made for calling,” I answered. “She
seems to be going round the neighborhood making inquiries for Philip
Maltabar. She has quite made up her mind that he is the man who killed
her brother. She says----”

“Yes----”

“That she is quite sure that he is here--somewhere--in hiding. She is
like a ferret, she will not rest until she has found him.”

He struck the bedclothes vigorously with his white, clenched hand.

“It is false! She will never find him. Philip Maltabar is dead.”

“I wish that we could make her believe it,” I answered. “But we
cannot. We shall never be able to.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is not true. Philip Maltabar is not dead. She knows it.”

“What do you mean?” he said hoarsely, raising himself from the
pillows. “Who says that he is not dead? Who dares to say that Philip
Maltabar still lives?”

“I do!” I answered, firmly. “It is you who have called yourself
Philip Maltabar in days that have gone by. It is you for whom she is
looking.”

He did not attempt to deny it. I had spoken decisively, with the air
of one who knows. He fell back and half closed his eyes. “Does she
suspect it?” he whispered. “Is that why she waited? Is that why she
came here?”

“I do not think so,” I answered. “Yet she certainly does believe that
Philip Maltabar is somewhere here in hiding. She suspects me more than
any one.”

“You!--how you?”

“She has an idea that he is a friend of mine--that I am shielding him
and trying to keep you away from her, lest she should learn the truth
from you. That is what she thinks at present.”

“Cannot you persuade her that there is no such person round here as
Philip Maltabar?” he murmured. “She can make her own inquiries, she
can consult directories, the police, the residents. It ought not to be
hard to convince her.”

“It is impossible,” I answered, shortly.

“Impossible! Why?”

“Because she has seen the photograph, in Adelaide Fortress’s cabinet.”

“What!”

The exclamation seemed to come from his parched, dry lips like a
pistol shot. His burning eyes were fixed upon me incredulously. I
repeated my words.

“She saw his photograph at the Yellow House. It was in the secret
aperture of a cabinet. She touched the spring unwittingly, and it flew
open.”

My father turned over and groaned.

“When Fate works like this, the end is not far off,” he cried, in a
broken voice. “God help us!”

I fell on my knees by the bedside, and took one of his white hands in
mine.

“Father,” I said, “I have asked you many questions which you have not
answered. This one you must answer. I will not live here any longer in
ignorance of it. I am your daughter, and there are some things which I
have a right to know. Tell me why this woman has your likeness?”

“My likeness!” he said fiercely. “Who dares say that it is my
likeness?”

“It is your likeness, father,” I answered. “I saw it, and there can be
no mistake. She has admitted it, but she will tell me nothing.”

He shook his head.

“It may happen that you will know some day,” he answered, faintly,
“but not from me--never from me.”

I tightened my clasp upon his hands.

“Do not say that,” I continued, firmly. “There is something binding
you three together, yet keeping you all apart. You and Bruce Deville
and Adelaide Fortress. What is it? A secret? Some common knowledge
of an unhappy past? I alone am ignorant of it; I cannot bear it any
longer. If you do not tell me what it is I must go away. I am not a
child--I will know!”

He lay quite still and looked at me sorrowfully.

“There is a secret,” he said, slowly, “but it is not mine to
tell. Have patience, child, and some day you will understand. Only
have patience.”

“I have been patient long enough,” I answered, bitterly. “I cannot be
patient any longer. If I cannot be trusted with this secret now, I
shall go away; Alice can take my place here. I have been at home so
little, that you will not miss me. I will go back to Dresden. I have
made up my mind.”

He caught hold of my hands and held them with burning fingers.

“A little while,” he pleaded, looking at me piteously. “Stay
with me a little while longer. Very soon you may know, but not
yet--not--yet----”

“Why not?”

“The secret is not mine alone. It is not for me to tell. Be patient,
Kate! For God’s sake, be patient!”

“I have been patient long enough,” I murmured. “I shall go away. I can
do no good here. I am not even trusted.”

“A little longer,” he pleaded. “Be patient a little longer. It is a
terrible burden which has been placed on my shoulders. Help me to bear
it. Stay with me.”

“You have Alice----”

“Alice is good, but she is not strong. She is no help--and some day I
may need help.”

“I do not wish to leave you,” I cried, with trembling lips. “I do not
want to go away. I want to do all I can to help you--yet--imagine
yourself in my place! I am groping about in the dark corners, I want
the light.”

He looked up at me with a faint, weary smile.

“Child,” he said, “you are like your mother was. Won’t you believe
that I am helpless? If you really mean that you will leave me if I do
not tell you, well, you must go. Even if you go straight to that woman
and tell her all that you know--even then my lips are sealed. This
secret is not mine to tell. When you do know, it will not be I who
shall tell you. All I can say is, go if you must, but for God’s sake
stay!”

His face was ineffably piteous. I looked at his worn, anxious face,
and my heart grew soft. A lump rose up in my throat, and my eyes were
dim. I stooped down and kissed him.

“I will stay,” I whispered. “I will not ask you any more questions,
and I will not leave whilst you need me--whilst you are ill.”

His lips touched mine, and a little sob was caught in his throat. I
looked into his face through the mist of my blinding tears, and I
wondered. The light on his features was almost spiritual.

CHAPTER XVIII

FRIENDS

When the thought first came to me I flung it away and trampled
it under foot, I could almost have imagined I was going mad. I,
jealous! What an ugly word! I jealous of that sallow-faced and
black-eyed chit, who followed Bruce Deville about like his shadow,
and seemed in a certain way to have laid claim to him as her own
especial property. And above all things there was the man. What
was Bruce Deville to me? What could he be to me? When the thought
first crept into my mind I laughed out aloud; it was a genuine
laugh of derision at first, but when I listened to its echoes I was
frightened. There was something hard and unnatural about it--something
which did not in any way suggest mirth. I turned upon myself with a
certain fierceness. I, whose secret standard of manhood had always
been so lofty, and to whom polish and culture had always seemed so
absolutely essential, to think for a moment of such a man as Bruce
Deville. I thrust the idea steadily and scornfully away from me, it
was ridiculous--humiliating. And, apart from the absurdity of such
thoughts in connection with such a man, the darkness which had fallen
like a sudden cloud upon our lives was surely great and engrossing
enough to outweigh every other consideration. Only last night I had
made that passionate effort to learn the truth from my father and
failed. Scarcely an hour ago I had been with him again renewing his
bandages and secretly burning the old ones--bearing my part in that
little tragedy, in whose shadows I seemed to walk blindfolded.

It was a dark, windy morning, but I was too restless to stay in the
house. I threw a cape over my shoulders and walked down the drive and
out into the road, breathing the fresh air with a curious sense of
relief. After the close atmosphere of the house it was like a strong,
sweet tonic. I clambered up the green bank on the other side of the
way and found myself suddenly face to face with Bruce Deville.

He started when he saw me, and for a moment we looked at one another
in silence. I realized then how completely he had changed in my
thoughts during the last few days. I no longer noticed the untidiness
of his dress, or the superficial roughness of his demeanor. The firm
locking of his fingers around mine in the greeting which passed
between us was somehow grateful to me. His brown eyes seemed soft and
kindly, the harsh, cynical outlines of his features were all relaxed.

In silence he turned round and walked slowly by my side.

“Where is your friend this morning?” I asked.

His face grew moody.

“She has taken some rooms at Grant’s farm,” he answered. “She has gone
over to the station now to get her luggage.”

My heart sank. It was bad news.

“She is going to stay here, then?” I asked.

He nodded gloomily.

“She says so.”

“You ought to feel flattered, at any rate,” I remarked, maliciously.

He flushed an angry glance at me.

“What nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I beg your pardon, I ought not to have
said that. Neither,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “ought you
to have said what you did.”

I had stopped short at his first exclamation. I hesitated and then
walked slowly on again. After all it was my fault.

“Perhaps I ought not,” I answered. “At the same time I am not at all
sure that she might not have given up this quest of hers if only you
had not been here.”

“I don’t agree with you at all,” he answered, firmly. “She would
have given it up, I believe, if she had not seen that photograph in
Adelaide’s cabinet. It is that which makes her to decide to remain
here.”

“Has she any fresh suspicions?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “She believes that you and Adelaide
Fortress are in league together. She believes that you both know where
Philip Maltabar is. She also----” he continued, very slowly.

“Well?” I interrupted.

“She also seems to have an idea that you are keeping your father away
from her so that she may not have an opportunity of asking him about
Philip Maltabar. She has written to him, as you know, and the answer
came back in a lady’s handwriting. She does not believe that your
father had that letter. She believes that you intercepted and answered
it.”

“She is stopping really, then, to see him?” I said.

“Chiefly, I am afraid.”

Our eyes met for a moment, but we said nothing. I looked away through
the trees to the glimmering front of the Yellow House, and asked him a
question softly.

“She has not any further suspicion, then?”

“None, I am sure,” he answered, confidently. “It is you whom she
believes to be shielding the man. She has a strong idea that he is a
friend of yours; strangely enough she seems to have taken a violent
dislike to you too. I believe that the very fact of that dislike
blinds her a little.”

“I agree with you as to the dislike. But why strangely?”

His firm lips parted a little. He looked at me with a smile.

“You do not appear to me,” he said, slowly, “to be a person to be
disliked.”

I made a mental registration of that remark. It was the nearest
approach to a compliment he had ever paid me.

“I am infinitely obliged,” I said. “At the same time I think I can
understand her dislike.”

“You women are so quick at understanding one another,” he remarked.

“And men are so slow,” I replied. “Do you know I have an idea that if
she were to come here now she would dislike me even more.”

He looked at me without embarrassment, with a genuine desire for
information in his face. He was evidently puzzled.

“Why?” he asked.

I laughed outright, and it did me good. He joined in it without the
least idea of what I was laughing at.

“You men are so stupid!” I exclaimed. “You either will not or cannot
see things which are as simple as A B C.”

“I admit it,” he answered, good humoredly. “But must you go in?”

I nodded. We had made a little circuit, and had reached the road again
within a few yards of our gate.

“Yes, I am going to make something for my father. He is really ill,
you know.”

“Why don’t you let your sister do it?” he said. “She looks a great
deal more used to that sort of thing than you do.”

“Thanks,” I answered. “At the same time you are quite wrong. It is I
who am the domestic one of the family.”

He looked distinctly incredulous.

“You don’t give one that idea at all,” he said, forcibly.

“Well, you shall see,” I told him. “Some day we will ask you to
luncheon and cook it between us. I know whose productions you will
prefer.”

“So do I,” he answered, fervently.

“You don’t know my sister,” I remarked.

“I don’t want to,” he answered, bluntly.

I raised my eyebrows.

“You are very rude,” I told him.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be. As a rule I detest women
almost as much as they detest me. I do not think that your sister
would interest me.”

“She does a great deal of good,” I said. “She is managing the whole
parish while my father is ill.”

“I have no doubt she is very useful in her way,” he answered,
indifferently.

“She is much better tempered than I am,” I added.

“I have no doubt about that,” he answered, with a smile.

“But I don’t think that she could have bandaged your dog’s leg as well
as I did,” I said.

He looked at me with a sudden new thoughtfulness.

“That was the first time I spoke to you,” he remarked. “It seems a
long time ago.”

“One measures time by events,” I said.

“And that,” he replied, quickly, “was a great event. I am not likely
to forget it. I shall never forget it.”

I laughed.

“Not such a great event after all as the coming of the heroine of
your romance,” I said. “How interesting it must have been to meet her
again!”

“Rubbish!” he exclaimed, testily.

I shrugged my shoulders and turned towards the house.

“You are very rude,” I declared. “I am going in.”

He looked into my face and was reassured.

“I wish from the bottom of my heart that she had never come here,” he
groaned. “God knows I would send her away if I had the power.”

“I only wish that you could,” I answered, sadly. “She is like a bird
of ill-omen. She looks at me out of those big black eyes as if she
hated me. I believe I am getting to be afraid of her. Do you think
that she will really stay here more than a day or two?”

He nodded his head gloomily.

“I believe so,” he answered.

“You see what responsibility the rescuer of young maidens in distress
incurs,” I remarked, spitefully.

“I wish,” he said, looking at me steadily, “that I had let that
carriage go to the bottom of the precipice.”

“They would have been killed!” I cried.

“Exactly,” he remarked, grimly.

“You are very wicked to think of such a thing,” I said.

“I am only living up to my reputation, then,” he answered. “That is
what my godmamma told you about me, isn’t it?”

“I shall not stay with you a moment longer,” I declared, ignoring the
latter part of his sentence, and laying my hand upon the gate.

“Won’t you--shake hands before you go?” he asked.

I hesitated. His request was gruff and his tone implied rather a
command than a favor. But I looked up at him, and I saw that he was in
earnest.

So I held out my hand and we parted friends.

CHAPTER XIX

A CORNER OF THE CURTAIN

A note was brought in to me at luncheon time, addressed in a bold yet
delicate feminine hand which was already becoming familiar. It was
from Adelaide Fortress, and it consisted of a single line only--

“Will you come to me this afternoon?--A.F.”

I went to see her without any hesitation. She was sitting alone in her
room, and something in her greeting seemed to denote that she was not
altogether at her ease. Yet she was glad to see me.

“Sit down, child,” she said. “I have been thinking about you all
day. I am glad that you came.”

“Not very cheerful thoughts, then, I am afraid,” I remarked, with a
certain half-unconscious sympathy in my tone. For her face was white
and drawn, as though she had spent a sleepless night and an anxious
morning.

“Not very,” she admitted. “I have been thinking about you ever since
you left me yesterday. I am sorry for you. I am sorry for all of
us. It was an evil chance that brought that South American girl here.”

“Was she born in South America?” I asked, with pointless curiosity.

“I do not know,” she answered. “I should think so. She told me that
she had spent most of her life there. A girl who dresses as she does
here, and wears diamonds in the morning, must have come from some
outlandish place. Her toilette is not for our benefit, however.”

I looked up inquiringly. She continued, with a slight frown upon her
face--

“She follows Bruce Deville about everywhere. I never saw anything so
atrociously barefaced. If he were her husband she could not claim more
from him. They have just gone by together now.”

“What! this afternoon?” I asked.

“Not a quarter of an hour ago,” she declared. “She was holding
his arm, and looking up at him with her great black eyes every
moment. Bah! such a woman gives one a bad taste in one’s mouth.”

“I wonder that Mr. Deville is not rude to her,” I remarked. “He does
not seem to be a man likely to be particularly amiable under the
circumstances. I should not think he would be very easily annexed.”

She smiled faintly.

“From his general behavior one would not put him down as a willing
squire of dames,” she said; “but that girl is like a dog fawning for a
bone. She will not let him alone. She waits about for him. She hates
to have him out of her sight.”

“Perhaps--perhaps it is a good thing. It might take her mind off other
things,” I suggested, softly.

“That is what I too am hoping,” she admitted. “That is why I believe
Bruce endures her. There is one thing only of which I am afraid.”

“That is----” I asked.

“That she may send for a detective on her own account. Anything rather
than that! The girl alone I think we might deal with.”

“Mr. Deville must use all his influence. He must persuade her not to,”
I declared.

She assented.

“He will try. Yet for all her folly, so far as Bruce is concerned, she
is not a perfect idiot. She knows that he is my friend--and yours--and
she is desperately jealous. She will suspect his advice. She will not
accept his bidding blindly. She is cunning. She will agree with him,
and yet she will have her own way.”

“He must be very firm,” I said. “There must be no detective come
here. It would be the last straw. As it is, the anxiety is terrible
enough.”

We were silent, and we exchanged quick and furtive glances. Something
in her sad face moved me almost to tears--it was strangely soft,
so full of subtle and deep sympathy. Involuntarily I leaned across
and held out my hands to her. She caught them in hers with a
little passionate gesture. That moment brought us into a new
connection. Henceforth we were on a different footing.

“My child!” she moaned. “My poor child! You have a terrible burden
upon your young shoulders.”

“The burden I could bear,” I answered, “if only I had some knowledge
of its meaning. You know, you could tell me if you would.”

I crossed to her side and fell upon my knees, taking her hand in
mine. She looked away into the fire and her face was as white as
death.

“I cannot,” she faltered, with trembling lips. “I cannot! Don’t ask
me!”

“Oh! but I must!” I cried, passionately. “It cannot hurt me so much
to know as it does not to know. There is a secret between you and my
father. You knew him as Philip Maltabar. Tell me what manner of man
he was. Tell me why he has changed his name. Tell me what there was
between him and----”

She had risen to her feet at my first words. She sat down again, now
trembling in every limb.

“I cannot tell you any of these things,” she moaned. “I am sorry I
asked you to come. Go away! Please go away!”

But my mind was made up now, and the sight of her weakness only nerved
me on. I stood up before her white and determined--brutally reckless
as to her sufferings. I would know now, though I forced the words from
between her white lips. She was a strong woman, but she had broken
down--she was at my mercy.

“I will not go away,” I said, doggedly. “You sent for me, and I am
here. I will not go away until you have told me everything. I have a
right to know, and I will know! You shall tell me!”

She threw her arms out towards me with a gesture half pathetic,
half imploring. But I made no movement--my face was hard, and I had
set my teeth together. Her hands fell into her lap. I did not touch
them. She looked moodily into the fire. She sat there with fixed
eyes, like a woman who sees a little drama in the red coals. My heart
beat fast with excitement. I knew that in the war of our wills I had
conquered. She was at my mercy. I was going to hear.

“Child,” she said, slowly, and her voice seemed to belong to another
woman, and to come from a great distance, “I will tell you a
story. Listen!”

I leaned over towards her holding my breath. Now at last, then, I was
to know. Yet even in those moments of intense excitement the outline
of her face, with its curious white torpor, oppressed me. A chill fear
crept into my blood.

She began.

“There was a girl, well educated, well bred, and clever. She was an
orphan, and early in life it became necessary for her to earn her own
living. There were several things which she could do a little, but
only one well. She could write. So she became a journalist.

“It was an odd life for her, but for a time she was happy. She herself
was possessed of original ideas. She was brought into touch and
sympathy with the modern schools of thought and manners. She was
admitted into a brilliant little coterie of artists and literary
men and women whose views were daringly advanced, and who prided
themselves in living up to all they professed. She herself developed
opinions. I will not dwell upon them; I will only tell you in what
they ended. She set herself against the marriage laws. At first she
was very strong and very bitter. The majority of men she hated for
their cruelty to her sex. The thought of marriage disgusted her. Any
ceremony in connection with it she looked upon as a farce. She had no
religion in the ordinary sense of the word. She was brave and daring
and confident. This was all before she knew what love was.”

There was a silence, but I did not move my eyes from her face. Was
she waiting for a word of encouragement from me, I wondered? If so,
the silence must last forever, for I was tongue-tied. She had created
an atmosphere around her, and I could scarcely breathe. Presently she
went on.

“The man came in time, of course. He was young, ardent, an enthusiast,
fresh from college, with his feet on the threshold of life and eager
for the struggle. He had a little money, and he was hesitating as to
a profession. The girl was utterly free--she was her own mistress in
every sense of the word. There was no constraint upon her movements,
no conventionalities to observe, no one who could exercise over her
even the slightest authority. The young man proposed marriage. The
girl hesitated for a long while. Old ideas do not easily die, and
she saw clearly, although not clearly enough, that if she sacrificed
them to these new opinions of hers she must suffer, as the pioneer of
all great social changes must always suffer. Imperial dynasties and
whole empires have been overthrown in a single day, but generations
go to the changing of a single social law. Yet she told herself that
if she were false to these tenets, which she had openly embraced
and so often avowed, she must lose forever her own self-esteem. The
eyes of that little band of fellow-thinkers were upon her. It was a
glorious opportunity. It was only for her to lead and many others
would follow. She felt herself in a sense the apostle of those new
doctrines in whose truth and purity she was a professed believer. That
was how it all seemed to her.

“She told the man what her decision was. To do him justice, he
combated her resolve fiercely. They parted, but it was only for a
while. In such a struggle victory must rest with the woman. This was
no exception to the general rule. The woman triumphed.

“Their after history is not pleasant telling. The woman and the man
were utterly unsuited for each other. The man was an enthusiast,
almost a fanatic; the woman was cold, calculating, and matter of
fact. The man suddenly determined to enter the Church. The woman was
something between a pantheist and an agnostic with a fixed contempt of
all creeds. The inevitable came to pass. She followed out the logical
sequence of her new principles, and left the man for another.”

I suppose my face expressed a certain horror. How could I help it? I
shrank a little back, and my eyes sought her, doubtfully. She turned
upon me with a shade of fierceness on her white face.

“Oh, you are a swift judge!” she cried. “It is the young always who
are cruel! It is the young always who have no mercy!”

I was shocked at the agony which seemed to have laid hold of her. That
slight instinct of repulsion of which she had been so quick to notice
the external signs in my face, seemed to have cut her like a knife. I
moved swiftly to her side and dropped on my knees by her. I was
ashamed of myself.

“Forgive me!” I pleaded, softly. “I am very ignorant. I believe that
the woman did what seemed right to her. I was wrong to judge.”

She bent her head. I took her fingers softly into mine. “You were that
woman,” I whispered.

She looked at me and half rose from her chair, pushing me away from
her.

“I was that woman,” she moaned. “Your father was the man! You----”

I cried out, but she would not be interrupted.

“You,” she added, wildly, “are my child--and his!”

CHAPTER XX

I AM THE VICTIM

I rose to my feet and stood apart from her. For a moment it was like
the end of the world--like the end of all sensation. I was trembling
in every limb. I believe that I gasped for breath. She sat and looked
at me. When I spoke my voice seemed to come from a long distance. I
did not recognize it. My sense of my own identity seemed confused.

“I am the victim, then--the unhappy victim of your miserable
theories!” I cried.

“And you are--oh! my God!--you are the weak spot in a faith of which I
was once an ardent disciple,” she said, quietly. “You made all the
difference. When you came I knew that I had sinned. All my arguments
seemed suddenly weak and impotent when I strove to bring them to bear
upon the face of your existence.”

“You should have married him--at once,” I cried.

“It was too late,” she answered. “He had separated himself from me
forever by entering a profession which I despised. He had entered the
Church.”

A horrible thought flashed into my mind.

“The other man,” I whispered, with burning cheeks, for she was my
mother.

She pointed out of the window--pointed along that narrow, hateful path
which threaded the plantation.

“He is dead,” she faltered. “He died--there!”

By this time my sense of horror was almost numbed. I could speak
almost calmly. I felt as though I was standing on the world’s edge.
Nothing more mattered. The end had come.

“My father killed him,” I said, almost calmly.

She looked away from me and fixed her eyes upon a particular spot in
the carpet.

“Ask no questions, child,” she said, sadly. “You know enough
now. There were some things which it were wiser for you not to know.”

“It is true,” I cried, bitterly. “I have learned enough for one
afternoon--I have learned enough to make me miserable forever.”

The woman covered her face with her hands. It were as though a spasm
of inward pain had distorted her features. She was suffering terribly.
Yet at that time I had no thoughts of any pity. I was merciless.

“You have learned what has given you pain to hear, and what has given
me much pain to confess,” she said, slowly. “Confess,” she repeated,
slowly, and with unutterable bitterness. “That is a hateful word. I
never foresaw the time when I should have to use it--to my own
daughter! When one is young one is proud.”

“You were short-sighted,” I said, brutally.

Again she bowed her head and suffered. But what did I care? I was no
heroine, and I never laid any claim to gentleness of disposition or
great unselfishness. I was simply an ordinary human being, confronted
with a great humiliation. My heart was closed to hers. The wrong to
myself seemed to loom above everything else. The interruption that was
at hand was perhaps merciful. I might have said things which
afterwards I should have blushed to have remembered. But at that
moment there came a sound of voices in the hall. Bruce Deville was
there and Miss Berdenstein.

We both rose up. Her coming was a surprise to us. She entered by his
side in some embarrassment. Mr. Deville proceeded to explain her
presence.

“I met Miss Berdenstein here, and persuaded her to come in with me,”
he said, in a brusque, matter of fact tone. “I took the liberty of
assuring her that you would be glad to see her.”

“You did quite right,” Adelaide Fortress said, calmly. “I am very glad
to see her.”

She greeted the girl kindly, but in a subdued manner. As for me, I
shook hands with her coldly and under protest. I was very much
surprised that she should have come here, even at the instigation of
Bruce Deville.

“I hope we are not too late for tea,” he remarked, glancing around the
room.

Adelaide Fortress rang the bell. I smiled faintly at a certain irony
in the thought called up by his question. I had shaken hands with the
girl unwillingly. We were to be enemies. I was sure of that, and I
preferred open warfare.

Tea was brought in, and a little general conversation was started, in
which I took no part. Presently he came over to my side. The other
two were talking, the girl was relating some of her South American
experiences to Adelaide Fortress, who was leaning back amongst the
shadows.

“What made you bring her here,” I asked, softly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Why not? It is better to be on friendly terms with her. We know then
what she is going to do.”

“So you appear to think,” I remarked, with some emphasis. “You seem to
be progressing wonderfully. I congratulate you.”

He laughed in my face.

“Oh, she is not at all uninteresting,” he declared. “If you had seen
as much of her as I have the last few days you would find her
enchanting.”

I looked at her contemplatively. Her little person was almost lost in
a huge sealskin coat, and her ungloved hands were blazing with
diamonds. As she talked her white teeth (she had beautiful teeth)
gleamed, and her black eyes flashed in their sallow setting. She was
an odd-looking creature. Every now and then she darted swift, anxious
glances towards us, once she paused and made a strenuous effort to
overhear what we were saying. She need not have troubled herself. I
barely heard what Bruce Deville was saying to me; my answers to him
were purely mechanical. I was scarcely conscious whether it was indeed
I who was sitting there within a few yards of that pale-faced,
composed woman from whose lips only a few minutes ago I had heard that
story which seemed to me yet like a dark, shadowy nightmare. The
echoes of her passionate words seemed still lingering around the dimly
lit room. Once or twice I raised my hand to my temples--my head was
reeling. At last I could bear it no longer. The irony of small talk
was too bitter. A sense of suffocation came over me. I rose to my
feet and made my excuses.

Scarcely a word passed between the woman whom I had learned to know as
Adelaide Fortress and myself. I touched her fingers, and they were as
cold as ice. Then, with a single look at her dark eyes, I left the
room.

Bruce Deville followed me out. The girl too had sprung up, and was
making her hasty adieux. Before she could leave the room, however,
Bruce Deville had reached my side.

“I am coming home with you, Miss Ffolliot,” he said, in my ear.

I did not answer him. We were half-way down the path when Miss
Berdenstein’s shrill voice reached us.

“Mr. Deville!”

He paused. Involuntarily I stopped too.

“You will take me home, Mr. Deville, won’t you?” she said. “I couldn’t
possibly find the way by myself; and, besides, I should be terrified
to death. It is so dark. I should not have dreamed of staying so late
if I had been alone.”

He muttered something profane under his breath. I started to walk on.

“Won’t you be here when I come back,” he inquired, brusquely. “I was
only going a few steps with Miss Ffolliot.”

“I am quite ready to start now,” she answered; “and I have said
goodbye to Mrs. Fortress. I really don’t see how I can stay any
longer; and I dare not go a step alone. It is almost pitch dark. Shall
I walk home with Miss Ffolliot and you first?”

I was almost out of hearing when she had finished, for at the
commencement of her speech I had quickened my pace. When I clambered
up the bank to reach the footpath I looked behind. They were walking
along the road together--an oddly assorted couple. His shoulders were
up--a bad sign--and he was taking long strides, to keep up with which
she had almost to run, holding her skirts in both hands, and picking
her way through the mud. Behind in the doorway of the Yellow House I
saw a woman, pale and motionless, watching me with wistful, sorrowing
eyes. But I turned my head and hurried away.

CHAPTER XXI

OUT OF DANGER

I went straight to my father’s room, with only a very confused sense
of what I wanted to say to him floating in my mind. But to my
amazement, when I had softly opened the door and stood inside the
room, he was not upon the bed, or on the couch. The room was empty. I
passed through into the drawing room with the same result. Then I
retraced my steps down into the hall and saw that his hat was gone
from the stand and also his overcoat.

I called to Alice, and she came out to me from our little drawing
room.

“Where is father?” I cried, breathlessly. “He is not upstairs!”

She drew me into the room. Her round face was very sober, and her eyes
were grave.

“He left for London a quarter of an hour ago,” she declared,
impressively.

“Left for London!” I repeated, bewildered. “Why, he was scarcely well
enough to stand. Did he dress himself?”

“He was very weak, but he seemed perfectly well able to take care of
himself,” she answered. “A telegram came for him about half an hour
ago. I took it up to his room, and he opened and read it without
remark. He asked where you were, but I could only tell him that you
were out. Directly afterwards I heard him getting up, and I went to
the door of his room to see if I could help him. He told me that I was
to order the dog cart, and that he was going away. I was too surprised
to say a word.”

My first impulse was unmistakable. It was a sense of great
relief. Then I began to wonder what this Berdenstein girl would
think. Would she connect it with her presence here? Would she think
that he had gone away to avoid her? There was that risk, but it was
no greater than the risk of her coming here some day and meeting him
face to face. On the whole it was good news. It was a respite at any
rate.

In the morning came a letter from him, dated simply London. He had
been called away, he said, on some business, the details of which
would not interest us, but it was a call which it would not have been
his duty to have neglected. Immediately he had concluded it, he went
on to say, he proposed to take a short vacation by the sea
somewhere. Accordingly he had engaged a _locum tenens_, who was now on
his way down, and he would write us again as soon as he had definitely
decided where to go.

Alice and I laid down the letter with varying thoughts. To her,
ignorant of any reasons for conduct which was on the face of it
somewhat eccentric, it brought some concern. With me it was
different. I was at once relieved and glad. I had arrived at that
acutely nervous and overwrought state when even a respite is
welcome. The explanations between us were for the present necessarily
postponed, and, at any rate, I could meet Olive Berdenstein now
without trembling. It was the truth which I had to tell. My father was
not here. I did not know where he was. She could come and search for
him.

Yet that was a time of fierce disquiet with me. To settle down to any
manner of work seemed impossible. Later in the day I went out into the
garden, and the cool touch of the soft, damp wind upon my face tempted
me past the line of trees which hemmed in our little demesne out into
the muddy road and across to the broad expanse of green common which
was really a part of the Deville home park. As I stood there,
bareheaded, with the wind blowing through my hair and wrapping my
skirts around me, I could see in the distance a man coming on
horseback from the Court. I stood still and watched him. There was no
mistaking man or horse--Bruce Deville on his great chestnut--though
they were half a mile away. Then, as I stood there waiting for him, a
sudden darkness came into the faintly sunlit air, a poisoned
darkness--the poison of a hideous thought. I turned away and plunged
into the plantation on my left, flying along the narrow footpath as
though the thought had taken to itself the shape of some loathsome
beast and was indeed pursuing me, close on my heels. In less than five
minutes I was standing breathless before Adelaide Fortress. She was
looking white and ill. When she came into the room she threw across at
me a glance which was almost supplicatory. Her firm lips trembled a
little. Her eyes were soft and full of invisible tears.

“Is it bad news?” she faltered. “You have been running. Sit down.”

I shook my head.

“No. Another question, that is all. Mr. Deville?”

She looked puzzled for a moment. Then she drew herself up and stood a
little away from me. Her firm, dark eyebrows resolved themselves into
a frown. Some subtle instinct, quick to fly backwards and forwards
between us two, had helped her towards the meaning of my words.

“Mr. Bromley Deville, Mr. Deville’s father, was my father’s oldest
friend,” she said, slowly. “Bruce and I were children together, and
except that I, of course, was five years the elder, we were great
friends. Mr. Bromley Deville was my father’s executor, and since his
death Bruce has taken his place.”

A great relief had suddenly eased my heart. I drew a little breath,
but she looked as if I had struck her a blow.

“How is your father?” she asked. “Is there any news?”

I nodded.

“He is better; he is gone away.”

She started.

“Gone away? Where to?” she added, quickly.

“To London, and from there he is going to the sea,” I told her. “He
does not say where. He is sending a _locum tenens_. I do not think
that he will return here at all. We want him to go straight to
Eastminster.”

She too seemed to share my relief, but my first thoughts were hers
too.

“What will that girl say?”

“I cannot tell,” I answered; “she may be suspicious. At any rate we
have a reprieve.”

“You have not spoken--to him yet.”

“No; he had gone when I returned last night. I was glad of it.”

We stood face to face looking at one another in silence. The faint
color was coming and going in her cheeks, and her hands were nervously
clasping the back of a chair. Where she stood the few days of wintry
sunlight which had found their way into the room were merciless to
her. They showed up the little streaks of grey in her hair and the
hollows in her cheeks. The lines of acute and bitter heartpain were
written into her worn face. My heart grew soft for the first time. She
had suffered. Here was a broken life indeed. Her dark, weary eyes were
raised eagerly to mine, yet I could not offer her what I knew so well
she desired.

I was forced to speak. Her silence was charged with eloquent
questioning.

“Won’t you--give me a little time to realize what you have told me?” I
said, hesitatingly. “I have grown so used to think that Alice’s
mother was mine--that she was dead--that I cannot realize this all at
once. I don’t want to be cruel, but one has instincts and feelings,
and one can’t always control them. I must wait.”

So I went away, and in the Vicarage lane I met Bruce Deville walking
towards me with his horse’s bridle through his arm. He was carrying a
fragrant bunch of violets, which he held out a little awkwardly.

“I don’t know whether you will care for these,” he said; “I don’t know
much about flowers myself. The gardener told me they were very fine,
so I thought you may as well have them as----”

“As let them spoil,” I laughed. “Thank you very much,
Mr. Deville. They are beautiful.”

He frowned for a moment, and then, meeting my eye, laughed.

“I am afraid I am awfully clumsy,” he said, shortly. “Let me tell you
the truth. I went all through the houses to see if I could find
anything fit to bring you, and I knew you preferred violets.”

“It was very nice of you,” I said; “but what about Olive Berdenstein?
Doesn’t she like violets?”

He opened his mouth, but I held up my hand and stopped him; he had so
much the look of a man who is about to make a momentary lapse into
profanity.

“Don’t say anything rude, please. Where is she this morning?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, grimly. “Somewhere about, no doubt.”

“It should be a lesson to you,” I remarked, smiling up at him, “not to
go about indulging in romantic adventures. They generally have a
tiresome ending, you know. Do you always make such easy conquests, I
wonder?”

He stopped short, and looked at me with darkened face.

“Is there any necessity,” he asked, “for you to go out of your way to
irritate and annoy me?”

I ignored him for a moment or two.

“She is very rich,” I remarked. “Have you seen her diamonds?”

He rested his hand upon his horse and sprang into the saddle. From his
great height there he looked down upon me with a dark frown and angry
eyes.

“I will wish you good morning, Miss Ffolliot,” he said. “My company is
evidently distasteful to you.”

I laughed at him, and laid my hand upon his horse’s bridle. “I can
assure you that it isn’t,” I declared. “I was very glad to see you
indeed. Please get down, you have too much an advantage of me up
there.”

He got down at once, but his face had not altogether cleared.

“Look here, Miss Ffolliot,” he said, looking at me steadfastly out of
his keen, grey eyes, “I do not wish to have you talk to me in that way
about that young woman. I do not think it is quite fair. I suppose it
is what girls call chaff, but you will kindly remember that I am too
stupid, if you like, always to know when you are in earnest and when
you are not, so please don’t do it. If I am with Miss Berdenstein at
all please remember that it is for your sake. I hate reminding you of
it, but you make me.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Deville,” I said. “Please do not think that
I am not grateful. Now let me tell you the news. My father has gone
away.”

“Gone away! Where? For how long?” he said, quickly.

“He has gone first to London,” I answered; “where he was going to
afterwards he did not seem absolutely sure himself. He spoke of going
to the sea somewhere for a vacation. We are trying to arrange for him
not to come back here at all. I should like him to go straight to
Eastminster.”

“It is a great relief,” he said, promptly; “it was the very best thing
he could do. He did not even tell you that he was going then?”

“I had no idea of it. He went quite suddenly while I was out. We had a
letter from him this morning. I wonder--what she will say?”

“I do not think that she will trouble to go in search of him,” he
answered. “I do not think that her suspicions are really aroused in
connection with your father. She is an odd, changeable sort of girl. I
daresay she will give up this quest before long.”

“I hope so,” I answered. “It would be a great relief to have her go
away.”

There was a short silence between us. We were standing by the Vicarage
gate, and my hand was upon the latch.

“I wonder,” he said, abruptly, “whether you would not walk a little
way with me. It is such a fine day, and you look a little pale.”

I hesitated.

“But you are riding,” I said.

“That is nothing,” he answered, briskly. “Diana follows me like a
lamb. We will walk along the avenue. I want you to see the elm trees
at the top.”

We started off at once. There was nothing very remarkable about that
walk, and yet I have always thought of it as a very memorable one. It
gave a distinct color to certain new ideas of mine concerning my
companion. We talked all the time, and that morning confirmed my
altering impressions of him. Lady Naselton had spoken of him as rough
and uncultured. He was neither. His lonely life and curious
brusqueness were really only developed from mannerism into something
more marked by a phase of that intellectual tiredness which most men
ape but few feel. He had tried life, and it had disappointed him, but
there was a good deal more of the cosmopolitan than the “yokel” in
him.

For me it was a delightful time. He talked of many books and countries
which had interested me with a perfectly bewildering familiarity. The
minutes flew along. I forgot all these troubles which had come so
thick upon me as we walked side by side over the soft, spongy turf,
sometimes knee deep amongst the bracken, sometimes skirting clumps of
faded heather. But our walk was not to terminate altogether without
incident. As we turned the corner, and came again within sight of the
Vicarage gate, we found ourselves face to face with Olive Berdenstein.

She stopped short when she saw us, and her face grew dark and
angry. She was a strange-looking figure as she stood there in the
middle of the lane waiting for us--a little over-dressed for Sunday
morning parade in the Park. For a country walk her toilette was only
laughable. The white lace of her skirt was soiled, and bedraggled
with mud. One of her little French shoes had been cut through with a
stone, and when we came in sight she was limping painfully. Her black
eyes flashed upon us with a wicked fire. Her lips trembled. The look
she darted upon me was full of malice. She was in a furious temper,
and she had not the wit to hide it. It was to him she spoke first.

“You said that you would call for me--that we would walk together this
morning,” she said to him in a low, furious tone. “I waited for you
one, two hours. Why did you not come?”

He answered her gruffly.

“I think that you must be mistaken,” he said. “There was no
arrangement. You asked me to call; I said I would if I could. As it
happened, I could not; I had something else to do.”

“Something else! Oh, yes! so I see,” she answered, with a short,
hysterical little laugh, and a glance of positive hatred at
me. “Something more pleasant! I understand; we shall see. Miss
Ffolliot, you are on your way home now, I presume. I will, with your
very kind permission, accompany you. I wish to see your father. I will
wait in your house until he can see me. If you deny me permission to
enter, I will wait for the doctor. He shall tell me whether your
father is not strong enough to answer me one single question, and if
the doctor, too, be in your plot, and will not answer me reasonably, I
will go to a magistrate at once. Oh! it will not be difficult. I will
go to a magistrate. You see I am determined. If you would like to
finish your amiable conversation, I will walk behind--or in
front--whichever you like. Better in front, no doubt. Ha! ha! But I
will come; I am determined.”

She ceased breathless, her eyes on fire, her lips curled in a
malicious smile. It was I on whom she had vented her passion. It was I
who answered her.

“You can come with me to the Vicarage if you like,” I said, coldly;
“but you will not find my father. He has gone away.”

“Gone away!” she repeated, incredulously. For a moment she looked
black.

“Gone away! Oh, indeed! That is good; that is very clever! You have
arranged that very well. Yesterday he was too ill to see me--to answer
one little question. To-day he is well enough to travel--he is gone
away. Good! he has gone. I can follow.”

She pursed up her lips and nodded her head at me vigorously. She was
white with rage.

“You are welcome to do anything which seems reasonable to you,” I
answered, with at any rate a show of firmness. “Mr. Deville, I will
say good afternoon. It is time I was at home.”

He kept by my side with the obvious intention of seeing me to the
gate; but as we passed the girl she took hold of his arm.

“No! I say no! You shall not leave me like this! You are treating me
shamefully, Mr. Deville. Am I not right? That girl is hiding her
father from me. She is helping him away that he may not tell me of the
man who killed my brother! You will take my part; you have always said
that you were sorry for me. Is every one to be my enemy? You too! It
is justice that I want! That is all!”?

He threw her delicately gloved hand off roughly.

“What nonsense!” he declared. “I have been sorry for you, I am sorry
for you now; but what on earth is the good of persecuting Miss
Ffolliot in this manner? Her father has been ill, and of course he has
not desired to be bothered by strangers. You say you wanted to ask him
a question. Be reasonable; he has answered it by letter. If you saw
him, he could only repeat his answer. He has only been here for a few
months. I have lived here all my life, and I tell you that there is no
one by the name of Maltabar in the county.”

“There was the photograph in that cabinet,” she persisted--”within a
few yards of the spot where he was killed. I know that Philip Maltabar
hated him. I know that he would have killed him if he could.”

“But what has all this to do with Mr. Ffolliot?” he persisted.

“Well, I begged him to see me,” she urged, doggedly. “He is the
clergyman of the parish, and he certainly ought to have seen me if I
wished it. I don’t understand why he should not. I want advice; and
there are other things I wanted to see him about. I am sure that he
was kept away from me.”

“You are very silly indeed,” Bruce Deville said, emphatically. “Surely
his health was more important than the answering a question for you
which has already been answered by people in a much better position to
know. As to advice, mine has always been at your service. I have been
ready to do anything for you in reason.”

“You have been very good,” she said, with trembling lips, “but----”

“You must excuse me now,” he interrupted, “I have something to say to
Miss Ffolliot.”

“I am going in,” I answered. “Please do not come any
further. Goodbye.”

I nodded to him, the girl I ignored. If a glance could have killed me,
I should have been a dead woman. I left them alone and went on up to
the house. Somehow I did not envy her Mr. Deville’s society for the
next quarter of an hour.

CHAPTER XXII

AN UNHOLY COMPACT

As may easily be imagined I had seen quite enough of Olive Berdenstein
for one day at any rate, if not for a long time to come. But to my
surprise, on that same afternoon, as I sat in our little drawing room
pretending to read a stupid novel, there was a timid ring at the bell,
and she was shown into the room. She entered nervously, as though
uncertain as to how I should receive her. I daresay she would not have
been at all surprised if I had ordered her out again. If I had
followed my first impulse I should certainly have done so. Wiser
counsels prevailed, however, and although I did not offer her my hand,
I suppressed my surprise at her coming, and motioned her to take a
seat.

She was dressed much more quietly than I had yet seen her, in a plain
brown dress, beautifully made. The element of incongruity was still
there, however, for she wore a large Paris hat, and the little lace
scarf at her throat was fastened with a great diamond.

She sat quite still, and I could see that she was very nervous. She
kept her eyes away from my face as much as possible. When she began to
talk she did so rapidly, and in a low tone.

“I suppose you are very surprised to see me, Miss Ffolliot, after this
morning,” she commenced, tentatively.

“Rather,” I answered.

“I only made up my mind to come an hour ago. It was a sudden
impulse. I started at once, or I should have changed my mind. I have
come to make you an offer. It will sound very oddly to you, but you
must not be angry. You must hear all that I have to say. I have
thought it all out; it is very reasonable.”

“You need not be afraid,” I answered. “I shall certainly not mind
listening--so long as you do not talk as you were talking this
morning. I am quite willing to forget that if you do not remind me of
it.”

She fixed her black eyes upon me intently.

“Miss Ffolliot, have you ever loved any one--a man, I mean?”

I could not help starting, the question was so unexpected. She was
watching me very keenly. Perhaps my color was not altogether steady.

“I don’t think so--not in the way you mean,” I answered.

“I will make it clear. I do love some one. I did not think that you
would, you are too cold, you look too proud. Now I want to tell you.
There is some one whom I love desperately--with my whole life. I want
to tell you about it. Do you mind?”

“Certainly not,” I answered, softly. The change in her was
wonderful. Her eyes were as soft as velvet; there was a faint flush in
her cheeks. But for those prominent teeth and the sharp outlines of
her features she was almost beautiful.

“You remember, I have told you of our accident in Switzerland, and of
Mr. Deville, and how gloriously he saved us. Oh, it was wonderful!
Even now when I think of it I feel excited.”

I bowed my head slowly. I began to understand.

“Well, ever since that moment I have loved him,” she said, simply. “I
could not get him out of my mind. Oh! it was magnificent to see him
struggling there for our lives with those fierce, strong horses,
beating them back, mastering them little by little, and all the time
quite cool and silent! But you have heard all about that, you do not
want to hear the story again. Since that day I have never been able to
think of any other man. I have had many offers, for I am rich, but I
only laughed. The idea of marriage when he was in the world seemed
wicked to me. It was because of him that I did not go back to South
America. It was because he was an Englishman that I kept on coming to
England and looking for him in all those places where Englishmen are
mostly to be found. I have never missed a season in London since, and
yet I do not care for London. It was just because of the chance of
finding him there. It is three years ago now, but I have never
despaired. I think that I must be something of a fatalist. I have said
to myself that in the end we must meet again, and now you see although
we have been living in this out-of-the-way spot, the time has
come. There is something wonderful about it. Don’t you think so?”

I bowed my head. The eagerness of her question demanded an
affirmative.

She sighed, softly, with an air of gentle satisfaction.

“That is what I tell myself,” she continued. “It is wonderful. It
must have been fate. I tell myself that, and it seems to me that fate
which has brought us together could not now be so cruel as to
interfere between us. And I love him, I love him so much!”

She paused a moment and looked at me almost with pity.

“You,” she said, thoughtfully--”you will never know the misery of
it--or the happiness!”

I smiled faintly, and without mirth. Poor girl! There was something
terribly pathetic in her little confession. From the bottom of my
heart I pitied her.

“And Mr. Deville?” I asked, softly.

Her face fell a little. The enthusiasm died away. Still she was
hopeful.

“I am not sure,” she said, looking away from me into the fire. “He is
kind to me, and I think that he likes me--a little. He does not care
for me as I do for him, of course,” she added, sadly. “Why should he?
I have done nothing for him, and he has done so much for me. It has
been all on one side. I have had no chance yet; but I could help him a
little. I am rich, very much richer than any one thinks, and they say
that, although he has a great house and lands, that he is very poor,
and that he has heavy debts. I could pay them all off,” she declared,
with a little note of triumph in her tone. “I have what would come in
English money to nearly a million pounds. I should give it all to him,
every penny. It would make him happy to pay off all his mortgages and
old debts. Don’t you think so?” she asked, anxiously.

“I daresay it might,” I answered, gravely. “I should think it
certainly would.”

“And I love him so,” she repeated, softly. “It would be such
happiness to do this for him. Perhaps he would not love me very much
just yet, but when I had him all to myself it would come little by
little. I could make it come; a woman can when she has a man all to
herself. I am sure of it. I should have no fear at all.”

Her eyes were very soft now and very bright. One forgot her sharp
features and sallow cheeks. Poor girl! Then suddenly she looked away
from the fire, and, rising, came over to my side.

“You are wondering why I have come to you to tell you my secret,” she
said. “I will tell you. I am afraid of you. You are so handsome, and I
am plain. Oh! yes, I am--I know it. Never mind, I love him. But he
does not know that, and he admires you. I see him look at you, and
though he is kind to me, he does not look at me like that. And
you--you do not care for him. I have watched you, and I am sure of
it. You do not want him, do you?”

“No, I do not want him,” I answered, but without looking at her.

“I know you don’t. I want to promise you something. I believe that
Philip Maltabar is somewhere in this neighborhood, and I believe--no,
I am sure--that in some way you are interested in him. Your father
knows. That is why you have kept me from him. But never mind, I want
to forget all that if you will just help me a little. I shall go away
from here, presently. If I should come back again, and I should find
Philip Maltabar--well--never mind. I will forgive, and I will
forget. God shall judge between those two--I will bury my desire for
vengeance. This I swear--if you will help me a little.”

“But how?” I asked, blandly. “What can I do?”

“You can help me simply by keeping away from Mr. Deville,” she went
on, hastily, a certain bluntness creeping into the manner of her
expression as she reached the heart of her subject. “If you are not
there, then he will be content with me, I can talk to him. I can make
him understand by degrees. There! I suppose you think this is very
unwomanly of me. It is unwomanly, it is despicable. I should detest
another woman who did it. But I don’t care--I want him so much. I love
him better than life,” she cried, with a little burst of passion. “I
shall die if he does not care for me--not as I care for him, of
course, but just a little--and more afterwards.”

I leaned over and rested my hand upon hers. I felt a sudden kindness
toward her. I don’t know what instinct made me promise--I suppose it
was pity. There was something so pathetic in her intense earnestness.

“Yes, I will do what you wish,” I said, softly; “but----”

“But what? Are you making conditions?”

I shook my head.

“I make no conditions. Only I wanted to say this to you. Do you think
it is wise to let yourself care so much for any one who after all may
not care for you at all? It is like staking one’s whole happiness upon
a chance. It is a terrible risk.”

She smiled at me faintly, and shook her head.

“Ah,” she said, “it is so easy to see that you have never loved--that
you do not know what love is. When you do you will not talk about
letting one’s self care. You might as well talk about letting one’s
self die when one is struggling upon a death bed panting and gasping
for life. It is the inevitable in love as in death. There is no
choice.”

She rose to her feet.

“Goodbye,” she said. “I shall not trouble you any more. I am going to
forget that such a person as Philip Maltabar ever lived.”