The Coward Behind the Curtain

"That you did, 'Gustus, I saw you do it; and that hundred pounds is mine-fairly earned!"

"Now, Eliza, I'm talking; you mind your own business, and leave that hundred pounds alone. I also arrested the chap who was with her; only, just as I was going to put the handcuffs on the pair of them, he chucked me into the river and that's how it is, sergeant."

Still a third voice joined in the conference; in spite of its easy suavity it was obviously one which was used to command.

"Policemen here? What is the meaning of this?"

The speaker came up the steps, on to the lawn.

"Is this the man," inquired Mr Batters of Mr Carter, "whom you arrested and who assaulted you?"

Mr Carter shook his head.

"No, sergeant, that's not the man; nothing like him."

The new-comer approached.

"Are you a sergeant of police? As Mr Vernon is a relative of mine, I should like to know what you, and your men, are doing on his grounds. I am the Earl of Strathmoira."

"Beg pardon, my lord, but I've come here to arrest the young woman who's wanted for the Newcaster murder, of which perhaps your lordship may have heard."

"Gracious! Are you looking for a person of that description on Mr Vernon's premises?"

"Fact is, my lord, I'm given to understand that she's a friend of the people here, and that she was here hardly two minutes ago. This man says he arrested her, together with a person who appears to have been in collusion with her; whereupon her accomplice threw this man into the river, and got off with her in a boat. If your lordship came by the river they may have passed you; you may have noticed them."

"My good sir, do you suppose that, on a night like this, when a big storm is evidently very close at hand, and one's sole aim is to reach shelter before it comes, that one has nothing better to do than notice strangers who may happen to pass you on the river? There's a flash for you! Why, if it's not my cousin, Miss Vernon. My dear Frances, I was wondering who you were when that flash of lightning kindly showed me; it has grown so dark that I doubt if I ever should have known you without its aid. Pray tell me what these persons are doing here."

Advancing to Frances, he took her hand in his, with a warmth of greeting which she seemed scarcely inclined to reciprocate. She seemed to find his presence not only unexpected, but something else as well; as if in his calm, easy bearing, and soft, plausible speech, she saw something which half-puzzled, half-frightened her. As, as if tongue-tied, she stood before him as he continued to hold her hand, the woman West said, speaking in tones which suggested that she was possessed by an inward excitement which rendered her almost inarticulate:

"'Gustus-sergeant-he's diddling you-sure as you're standing there, he's diddling you! Pretending that he don't know anything about Dorothy Gilbert, or what you're here for! Why, he's her special friend! – it was he who brought her here last night. I saw him with her-with my own eyes I saw him! And I tell you something else about him, sergeant: although it's true enough that he's the Earl of Strathmoira, all the same for that his private name is Eric Frazer, and he's wanted as well as her. There's a warrant out against him-I see it in the paper-for half killing that young gipsy on Newcaster Heath, who wanted to give her away to you chaps; and it's through him that she got clean off, and it was he who brought her straight from Newcaster here. So you take him prisoner, sergeant, before he does a bolt like she's done; but, whether you do or whether you don't, I call everyone to witness that I've given you the information, and that hundred pounds is fairly mine-yes, and it's fairly mine twice over! – twice over it's mine!"

By the time she had finished, the woman had raised her voice to a hysteric screech. Plainly the sergeant did not know what to make of her.

"What is the woman talking about? Carter, you seem to understand her better than I do; what's she mean?"

Mr Carter addressed the lady who loved him.

"If you take my tip, Eliza, you won't let us hear so much about the hundred pounds; it's all you can talk about."

"Well! – what else have I got to talk about? If it hadn't been for the hundred pounds, do you think I'd have said a word? – not me! And now, because you policemen are such blockheads, it looks as likely as not that I'm going to be done out of it after all; first you let the girl go, and now you won't take the man who's hand and glove with her; all the lot of you will let him fool you if he likes! – a pack of idiots you policemen are! – you're all the same!"

There was a diversion from the constable who had put his hand on Frances Vernon's shoulder.

"Excuse me, sergeant, but I think I know what she means; I saw about it in the paper, what she says; it's right enough that there is a warrant out for Eric Frazer, according to the paper."

"But I can't act on a mere statement which you say you saw in a paper, which may or may not be true. In the absence of official instructions I can't accept responsibility for what a newspaper says."

The Earl of Strathmoira applauded this explanation of the speaker's point of view.

"Precisely, sergeant; I am glad to find that there is one sensible person present. This woman, who, I fancy, is one of Mr Vernon's servants, is probably not quite right in her head; she is certainly not worthy either of your attention or mine. Come, Frances, this unpleasant scene has upset you; never mind! Let's go up to the house; possibly they'll be able to tell us there what all this pother is about."

West laid her hand on Mr Carter's arm.

"'Gustus, don't you let him fool you; don't you let him go-don't you let him! If Mr Batters won't arrest him, you arrest him on your own; you'll be blamed if you don't! You know I'm no fool-what I tell you's gospel truth; he's wanted as much as she is-take him on your own."

The faithful Carter hesitated. Drawing the woman close to him, he looked her steadily in the face; apparently on the strength of what he saw there he made the plunge, moving towards the object of the discussion with the simple statement:

"You're my prisoner, my lord."

The earl eyed him; then laughed.

"Your prisoner, my good man-are you joking?"

"No, my lord, I am not joking, I must ask you to consider yourself under arrest."

"On what charge?"

The woman cried out:

"I charge him, if it comes to that! I charge him with aiding and abetting Dorothy Gilbert to escape, and also with being her accomplice-if you take him to the station, 'Gustus, you'll find that you've done right."

The earl turned to Mr Batters.

"Sergeant, will you be so good as to recommend this man to be careful what he say and does, before he has cause for serious regret."

Instead, however, of doing as he was requested, the sergeant threw in his lot with his subordinate.

"I am sorry, my lord, to subject you to any inconvenience; but I am afraid I must ask you to accompany us to the station till this matter has been cleared up."

"Accompany you to the station! But suppose I decline?"

"I regret, my lord, that I cannot allow you to decline. This matter is more serious than you appear to think. I myself say nothing either one way or the other; but I notice that you have not attempted to deny the statements which have been made against you; and I have no option but to request you to come with me to the station to permit of their being properly gone into."

The earl addressed Mr Carter.

"My man! take care! Let me strongly advise you not to presume to touch me!"

The sergeant interposed.

"If your lordship will give me your word that you will accompany us quietly to the station I, on my side, will undertake that you shall be subjected to no personal indignity; only in so grave a matter we can't take any risks; you must give me your word, my lord. Do you do so?"

"Does he! No, he doesn't. Look out, 'Gustus-he's going to give you the slip."

This was West, in whom the instinct of the huntress seemed to be preternaturally keen. The sergeant exclaimed:

"None of that, my lord! Hold him, Carter!" But the sergeant's warning came too late-to hold his prisoner was more that Carter could do, since, before the warning came, he was already out of his sight. A second time that evening he was to be disappointed of his prey. West was right; his lordship gave him the slip. Running down the bank, he had leapt into the water before they could stop him-indeed, so far were they from stopping him it was all the sergeant and Mr Carter could do to keep themselves from-quite unintentionally-going after him.

CHAPTER XX

THE HOUSEBOAT

The boat hugged the shore as closely as Eric Frazer had advised; being propelled with a skill, and swiftness, considering the difficulties with which he had to contend, which at least showed that the person who had stated that his name was Arnecliffe was engaged in a task with which he was familiar. Presently its progress become slower; the sculler was endeavouring, as best he could, to make out his surroundings.

"Curious how deceptive this light-if you can call it light-is; and the lightning makes it worse. Have you any knowledge of this country?"

"None; I saw it for the first time this morning."

"There seems to be an opening here, which might be a cut, or backwater-I believe it is. We'll try it. Look out! The trees hang over the water, and the branches are low. What is that over there? It's a houseboat; I wonder if it's the one to which your mysterious friend referred. It's dark enough. Do you know what the name of Vernon's houseboat is?" Dorothy knew nothing, and said so. "Anyhow we'll pay a call. If it's the wrong one we can only apologise." He brought the skiff alongside the sombre craft, which seemed to soar above them into the darkness. The girl landed first. "Try that door," he said. "That's it-right in front of you."

She turned the handle.

"It's open," she announced.

"Good! Gross carelessness on somebody's part, to leave a houseboat's front door unlocked, but good for us." Tying up the skiff, he landed also. "Wait a minute: let me go in first, in case there's anyone inside." He passed through the door which she had opened. "Hollo! Anyone here?" None answered. "Seems empty; I think you may come in without running much risk of intruding on somebody's privacy." She went in after him. "I'll strike a match, so that we can see what sort of place it is we're in." He held the flickering flame above his head. "Seems to be a decent sort of apartment-living-room, I presume. If this is his property it strikes me that Mr Vernon is a gentleman who is possessed both of taste and money."

The match went out.

"Hollo! this won't do; we must have some light upon the subject. I can't say to you what I want to say unless I see your face-not comfortably, I can't; and I should like you to see mine as I'm saying it."

"I should like to see it too."

"Should you? Then you shall; there's a hanging lamp in the centre here; we'll see each other by its light. Now we'll pull down the blinds-capital blinds these are; well fitting. If there should be any suspicious characters about, they won't see us through these blinds; they're pretty nearly as good as shutters. Now, Miss Gilbert, with your very kind permission, I should like to see what you look like." By the lamp's glow the man and the girl surveyed each other; she standing very straight, and he stooping a little forward. He smiled; the smile giving his mouth an odd effect of being twisted. "You're like your father."

"Am I? Am I like my mother?"

"No; I don't think you are; not as I remember her."

"Did you know her well?"

"Very; once. But your resemblance to your father's weird. It isn't only features; it's the altogether-the way you have of looking at me-they might be your father's eyes; the way you have of holding yourself-just a little stiffly; the way your head's poised on your neck-as if it wouldn't bend; why, you've even got your father's hands-I noticed it as you pulled down the blind. You're his feminine replica."

"I'm glad of that."

"If he could only have heard you say that, before it was too late, what a difference it would have made! What-what a curious chap he was. If he could only come and see you now, he would see himself in you; he could not help it; and any lingering doubts he had would have gone for ever."

"Why do you say that? What doubts had he?"

He hesitated; as if he searched for words; then again came that wry smile of his.

"Miss Gilbert, it's not a pretty story I have to tell you; and it may sound uglier than it might be made because, circumstanced as we are, I am hardly in a position to pick and choose my phrases. Time is short; I must get to the end of my tale by the shortest way. I don't know who your mysterious friend who sent us here may be; but if, as he said he was, he is coming here, he may come soon. And since, when he does come, circumstances may arise which will render it difficult for me to communicate with you on confidential matters, it would be well if what I have to say to you were said quickly. So, if my story sounds even less pleasant than it need do, will you forgive me-since time presses?"

"Of course I will forgive you-you know I will."

"Thank you; I believe I do know it. I wondered what sort of person I should find you; but now, I think that, if the Fates had been more propitious, I might have been your friend, as I was your father's." She said nothing, but her lips quivered; something flashed from her eyes to his. "Won't you sit down? Compress it as I may, my story will take some minutes; as I said, it's not a very pretty one; and-you look tired."

"I would rather stand; I couldn't sit still; I find it so hard to sit still. Tell me about my mother."

"Your mother? I'm afraid I haven't much to tell you about your mother; my story is chiefly about your father. You see, there's disappointment number one. I take it that your knowledge of this funny world is not a very wide one; I fancy you don't see much of it in a convent; so what I'm going to tell you may sound very strange-to you; but it isn't: it's quite commonplace. It's a story which will be told over and over again, with variations-and even the variations are not new-until the crack of doom. Your mother and father were very much in love with each other, before they were married, and when they married; but soon after they were married they quarrelled. Not long before you were born they separated, never to meet again."

"Poor mother!"

"Yes; you may well say it-Fortune used her ill. She died in giving you birth."

"Mother!" This time there was no prefix; the superlative was expressed without it. Then she added: "What father must have felt!"

Again the wry smile.

"No doubt, when he heard of your mother's death, he felt many things; but if among them were any feelings of sorrow he kept them hid. He wouldn't go to you mother's funeral; he refused to see you."

"What a wicked man he must have been; I am sorry I am like him."

"There's the tragedy; because, you see, he doubted if you were his child." The girl said nothing; but there came into her face an eloquence which was beyond any form of words. The sight of it seemed to occasion him pain; he went hurrying on: "You were brought up by nurses. So far as I know the only time you ever saw him was when he took you to that Brittany convent, where he left you till the other day."

"And you say he was my father?"

"There again's the tragedy: he was. Your mother wasn't the wisest of women-few people are altogether wise-but she was not the kind of person he, in his haste, thought she was; in that sense, she was a true wife to him. In very truth, and very deed, if ever a child was her father's child, you are his. I never doubted it; not once; and now it is as if the finger of God had written the truth all over you. If he had only seen you, he would have seen God's finger-have known what a foolish man he'd been."

"But why did he never come to see me-or write to me-once?"

"He was, as I have said, a curious man; and having made up his mind finally, though on the most imperfect premises; he would have died rather than unmake it; indeed, he did die. But although, as I have told you, when your mother died he made no pretence at sorrow, her death, the whole tragedy of his marriage, changed the whole aspect of the world for him: he was never the same man again; his whole life was spoiled. He did many foolish things, and very few wise ones-he did nearly all the foolish things a man could do. He lost money; he made it; he lost it again. There were times when he had scarcely a shilling; there were others when he had thousands of pounds. Did he ever send you money?"

"Never; not so much as a franc. I believe that often he didn't pay my bills at the convent; I think that sometimes the Sisters were afraid that he never would pay."

"Those, I apprehend, were the times when he was without a shilling. As years went on, I have a theory that he began to be haunted-haunted by thoughts of what might have been. I believe that he grew to love your mother more and more."

"Love her! When he had treated her like that! What did he understand by love?"

"This is a curious world, and men contain, in themselves, the most singular contradictions. I doubt if he had ever ceased to love her, even when he was most bitter against her; more, I believe that it was because he loved her so much that he was so bitter. Can't you understand how that might be?"

"I think-I think I can."

"It was for love of her he died."

"How-how can that be?"

"It was so. He was an old man before his time. Each year his constitution failed more and more. During one of his periodic attacks of bad health, when his strength was at its lowest ebb, he came upon some papers, of whose very existence, by one of those diabolical mischances which Fortune loves to deal us, he had been ignorant, through all those years. They were some letters of your mother's; and they proved, even to him, what an injustice he had done her. The shock killed him. They found him dead, with her letters in his hand. Had he cared nothing for her he would have been little moved by the discovery of her written words; but his heart had been breaking for years; the revelation of how unjust he had been to her broke it altogether. That is why I say that, for love of her, he died."

"Poor father!"

"Yes; you may well say that also; it was 'poor father' as well as 'poor mother'-life's little ironies! His history was one of the strangest with which I have been personally acquainted. Not the least strange part of it is the fact that, not long before he died, he would persist in embarking in what seemed to me to be some wild-cat speculations, which, by an astounding series of accidents, turned out amazingly well; with the result that, though he had been a needy man for years, at the moment of his death he was actually rich. His will was found written on one side of a sheet of notepaper. It was dated only a few weeks before the end; so that he must have drawn it up as soon as he learnt that a turn of Fortune's wheel had brought him wealth. By it he left every farthing he possessed to you, absolutely, to do with it what you choose. So that-you're an heiress."

The girl's glance had never once left his face; it was as if she had been trying to read on it more than his words conveyed. Now she stared at him with amazement in her eyes.

"But-I don't understand. When Mr Emmett came to the convent he said that my father had not left a penny; that he had died owing him a large sum of money, and that it was only out of charity he paid what the Sisters were owed."

Once more his lips were twisted by that wry smile.

"Mr Emmett? Oh yes, I'm coming to Mr Emmett now; and-there's the rub."

CHAPTER XXI

WHY HE KILLED HIM

Something in the speaker's face, in his voice, his air, prompted the girl to make a suggestion.

"You are tired. Won't you act on the advice which you gave me. Won't you sit down and rest?"

He shook his head.

"I admit I'm tired; I've been tired for quite a while, yet, I can manage to keep on, and, like you, I doubt if I'd be rested by trying to sit still. How the storm has come up; we were lucky to get here in time. I'm afraid it's spoilt the procession of boats; they were forming just as I was starting in search of you. What with the noise the rain makes clattering on the roof-I hope there's nothing on it to spoil; and the wind among the trees, and the rending thunder-claps, I shall soon have to speak louder if I want you to hear me."

"You need not. I shall hear every word you say, even though the noise grows greater."

Throughout they had been standing by the table, which occupied the centre of the cabin, almost within a foot of each other. Her girlish figure erect, and, as he put it, a little stiff; her hands at her sides, her head erect upon her pretty neck, her eyes fixed on his face. He, with his broad shoulders, and a trick of stooping which detracted from his unusual height; his right hand resting on the table, his left used now and then to point his words; his queer face, with its suggestion of whimsical humour blended with what she now saw was a look of pain. The man had appealed to her when, from behind the sheltering draperies, she had seen him first; now he appealed to her still more. Although he was so much the elder, she had an odd feeling that she would like to comfort him. At the moment he appeared to be unconscious of her gaze, but held his head a little on one side, as if he were listening for something, in the hurly-burly of the storm. Then, with a gesture which suggested weariness more than ever, he turned and looked her again in the face, drawing himself, with what seemed to be an effort, a little straighter.

"George Emmett? Oh yes, I was coming to George Emmett." He did not seem to be in any hurry to go on with him; she waiting in silence with what seemed understanding of his mood. When he went on it was more slowly than before; as if his thoughts were hardly in sympathy with his words; as if, indeed, he were deliberately trying to find words which only gave imperfect expression to his thoughts. "George Emmett was not a person whom one would care to offer as a fair example of humanity. It's easy to say that we should speak no ill of the dead; but it's not easy to speak well of George Emmett; and I have to speak of him. His lines ran more or less parallel with mine for a good many years; and I never knew him forget himself sufficiently to do anything of which he had any cause to be proud. Miss Gilbert, he was not a nice man."

"I know he wasn't."

"Then you did know him?"

"Of course I knew him; you know I did."

"Do I? I'm not sure what I know on that point; later, I may come to you for information. At least, it seems, you knew him well enough to be aware that he was not, in all respects, a nice man."

"Indeed! He was like a nightmare to me from the first moment I saw him. As I grew to know him better I don't know if I hated or feared him more."

"You seem to have reproduced your mother's feelings towards George Emmett."

"Did my mother know him?"

"To her sorrow. He chose to think himself in love with her-he did choose, now and then, to think himself in love." Dorothy recalled the fashion of his wooing her; and shuddered. "Because she preferred your father-who, compared to him, was as Hyperion to a satyr-he chose to consider himself aggrieved; and when George Emmett had a grievance he invested it, and drew the interest, and waited for a time when he could realise at a thumping profit. He was a bad friend; but a worse enemy. When your mother declined his advances he promised her that he would make her smart for it; she herself told me of his promise. He kept his word. He spoilt her life, and your father's also."

"But how? You told me just now it was because they quarrelled."

"He was the provocative influence. When your father was a young man he owed George Emmett money; nearly everyone who came in contact with Emmett did owe him money; even your mother. He used his influence with your father to breed in his mind suspicion of your mother; which would not have been an easy thing to do had not your mother, in her hatred of the man, actually gone out of her way to help him. It was a case of two simpletons and a blackguard-they were like putty in his hands. It's a long and a tangled tale; but the end was as I've told you. Emmett's grievance against your mother didn't die with her. It lived on. For years, financially, your father was always more or less in his toils; and Emmett never lost an opportunity of fostering in him the feeling of resentment at what he supposed was your mother's treachery; it was as if someone had been continually dropping an irritant on an open sore; the result was a festering horror. At last, even your father realised that the thing had become past bearing. He did what, if he had been another man, he might have done years before: he strained every nerve-such nerves as he had left-to rid himself of the incubus. And he succeeded. And though, when all was done, he was practically a beggar, his freedom was cheap even at the price which he had paid. The odd thing was that, scarcely was he beggared, when Fortune, in one of her most fantastic moods, tossed wealth into his hands-so that he was a rich man when he died. I was abroad at the time of his death; but, as soon as I heard the news, I hurried home. I found his will; I found his fortune; I found that he had left the whole conduct of affairs in my hands; and, also, for the first time I learned your address. I had never known it before; he was the only person who had known it. I believe it was the only secret he ever kept; and, for keeping it, I find it hard to forgive him even now. Had I only been acquainted with your whereabouts I should have communicated with you, both at regular and irregular intervals. I should have asked you to regard me as a deputy father."