The rest of that day we spent chatting very amicably in our Pullman arm-chairs. I couldn’t understand it myself—when I had a moment to think, I was shocked and horrified at it. I was so terribly at home with them. These were friends of Dr. Ivor’s—friends of my father’s murderer! I had come out to Canada to track him, to deliver him over, if I could, to the strong hand of Justice. And yet, there I was talking away with his neighbours and friends as if I had known them all my life, and loved them dearly. Nay, what was more, I couldn’t in my heart of hearts help liking them. They were really sweet people—so kind and sympathetic, so perceptive of my sensitiveness. They asked no questions that could hurt me in any way. They showed no curiosity about the object of my visit or my relation to Dr. Ivor. They were kindness and courtesy itself. I could see Mr. Cheriton was a gentleman in fibre, and Elsie was as sweet as any woman on earth could be.
By-and-by, the time came for the Pullman saloon to be transformed for the night into a regular sleeping-car. All this was new to me, and I watched it with interest. As soon as the beds were made up, I crept into my berth, and my new friend Elsie took her place on the sofa below me. I lay awake long and thought over the situation. The more I thought of it, the stranger it all seemed. I tried hard to persuade myself I was running some great danger in accepting the Cheritons’ invitation. Certainly, I had behaved with consummate imprudence. Canada is a country, I said to myself, where they kidnap and murder well-to-do young Englishmen. How much easier, then, to kidnap and murder a poor weak stray English girl! I was entirely at the mercy of the Cheritons, that was clear: and the Cheritons were Dr. Ivor’s friends. As I thought all the circumstances over, the full folly of my own conduct came home to me more and more. I had let these people suppose I was travelling under an assumed name. I had let them know my ticket was not for Palmyra but for Kingston, where I didn’t mean to go. I had told them I meant to change it at Sharbot Lake. So they were aware that no one on earth but themselves had any idea where I had gone. And I had further divulged to them the important fact that I had plenty of ready money in Bank of England notes! I stood aghast at my own silliness. But still, I did NOT distrust them.
No, I did NOT distrust them. I felt I ought to be distrustful. I felt it might be expected of me. But they were so gentle-mannered and so sweet-natured, that I couldn’t distrust them. I tried very hard, but distrust wouldn’t come to me. That kind fellow Jack—I thought of him, just so, as Jack already—couldn’t hurt a fly, much less kill a woman. It grieved me to think I would have to hurt his feelings.
For now that I came to look things squarely in the face in my berth by myself, I began to see how utterly impossible it would be for me after all to go and stop with the Cheritons. How I could ever have dreamt it feasible I could hardly conceive. I ought to have refused at once. I ought to have been braver. I ought to have said outright, “I’ll have nothing to do or say with anyone who is a friend or an acquaintance of Courtenay Ivor’s.” And yet, to have said so would have been to give up the game for lost. It would have been to proclaim that I had come out to Canada as Courtenay Ivor’s enemy.
I wasn’t fit, that was the fact, for my self-imposed task of private detective.
A good part of that night I lay awake in my berth, bitterly reproaching myself for having come on this wild-goose chase without the aid of a man—an experienced officer. Next morning, I rose and breakfasted in the car. The Cheritons breakfasted with me, and, sad to say, seemed more charming than ever. That good fellow Jack was so attentive and kind, I almost felt ashamed to have to refuse his hospitality; and as for Elsie, she couldn’t have treated me more nicely or cordially if she’d been my own sister. It wasn’t what they said that touched my heart: it was what they didn’t say or do—their sweet, generous reticence.
After breakfast, I steeled myself for the task, and broke it to them gently that, thinking it over in the night, I’d come to the conclusion I couldn’t consistently accept their proffered welcome.
“I don’t know how to say NO to you,” I cried, “after you’ve been so wonderfully kind and nice; but reasons which I can’t fully explain just now make me feel it would be wrong of me to think of stopping with you. It would hamper my independence of action to be in anybody else’s house. I must shift for myself, and try if I can’t find board and lodging somewhere.”
“Find it with us then!” Elsie put in eagerly. “If that’s all that’s the matter, I’m sure we’re not proud—are we, Jack?—not a bit. Sooner than you should go elsewhere and be uncomfortable in your rooms, I’d take you in myself, and board you and look after you. You could pay what you like; and then you’d retain your independence, you see, as much as ever you wanted.”
But her brother interrupted her with a somewhat graver air:
“It goes deeper than that, I’m afraid, Elsie,” he said, turning his eye full upon her. “If Miss Callingham feels she couldn’t be happy in stopping with us, she’d better try elsewhere. Though where on earth we can put her, I haven’t just now the very slightest idea. But we’ll turn it over in our own minds before we reach Adolphus Town.”
There was a sweet reasonableness about Jack that attracted me greatly. I could see he entered vaguely into the real nature of my feelings. But he wouldn’t cross-question me: he was too much of a gentleman.
“Miss Callingham knows her own motives best,” he said more than once, when Elsie tried to return to the charge. “If she feels she can’t come to us, we must be content to do the best we can for her with our neighbours. Perhaps Mrs. Walters would take her in: she’s our clergyman’s wife, Miss Callingham, and you mightn’t feel the same awkwardness with her as with my sister.”
“Does she know—Dr. Ivor?” I faltered out, unable to conceal my real reasons entirely.
“Not so intimately as we do,” Jack answered, with a quick glance at his sister. “We might ask her at any rate. There are so few houses in Palmyra or the neighbourhood where you could live as you’re accustomed, that we mustn’t be particular. But at least you’ll spend one night with us, and then we can arrange all the other things afterward.”
My mind was made up.
“No, not even one night,” I said. I couldn’t accept hospitality from Dr. Ivor’s friends. Between his faction and mine there could be nothing now but the bitterest enmity. How dare I even parley with people who were friends of my father’s murderer?
Yet I was sorry to disappoint that good fellow, Jack, all the same. Did he want me to sleep one night at his house on purpose to rob me and murder me? Girl as I was, and rendered timorous in some ways by the terrible shocks I had received, I couldn’t for one moment believe it. I KNEW he was good: I KNEW he was honourable, gentle, a gentleman.
So, journeying on all morning, we reached Sharbot Lake, still with nothing decided. At the little junction station, Jack got me my ticket. That was the turning point in my career. The die was cast. There I lost my identity. A crowd lounged around the platform, and surged about the Pullman car, calling to see “Una Callingham.” But no Una Callingham appeared on the scene. I went, on in the same train, without a word to anyone, all unknown save to the two Cheritons, and as an unrecognised unit of common humanity. I had cast that horrid identity clean behind me.
The afternoon was pleasant. In spite of my uncertainty, it gave me a sense of pleased confidence to be in the Cheritons’ company. I had taken to them at once: and the more I talked with them, the better I liked them. Especially Jack, that nice brotherly Jack, who seemed almost like an old friend to me. You get to know people so well on a long railway journey. I was quite sorry to think that by five o’clock that afternoon we should reach Adolphus Town, and so part company.
About ten minutes to five, we were collecting our scattered things, and putting our front-hair straight by the mirror in the ladies’ compartment.
“Well, Miss Cheriton,” I said warmly, longing to kiss her as I spoke, “I shall never forget how kind you two have been to me. I do wish so much I hadn’t to leave you like this. But it’s quite inevitable. I don’t see really how I could ever endure—”
I said no more, for just at that moment, as the words trembled on my lips, a terrible jar thrilled suddenly through the length and breadth of the carriage. Something in front seemed to rush into us with a deep thud. There was a crash, a fierce grating, a dull hiss, a clatter. Broken glass was flying about. The very earth beneath the wheels seemed to give way under us. Next instant, all was blank. I just knew I was lying, bruised and stunned and bleeding, on a bare dry bank, with my limbs aching painfully.
I guessed what it all meant. A collision, no doubt. But I lay faint and ill, and knew nothing for the moment as to what had become of my fellow-passengers.
Gradually I was aware of somebody moistening my temples. A soft palm held my hand. Elsie was leaning over me. I opened my eyes with a start.
“Oh, Elsie,” I cried, “how kind of you!”
It seemed to me quite natural to call her Elsie.
Even as I spoke, somebody else raised my head and poured something down my throat. I swallowed it with a gulp. Then I opened my eyes again.
“And Jack, too,” I murmured.
It seemed as if he’d been “Jack” to me for years and years already.
“She knows us!” Elsie cried, clasping her hands. “She’s much better—much better. Quick, Jack, more brandy! And make haste there—a stretcher!”
There was a noise close by. Unseen hands lifted me up, and Jack laid me on the stretcher. Half-an-hour at least must have elapsed, I felt since the first shock of the accident. I had been unconscious meanwhile. The actual crash came and went like lightning. And my memory of all else was blotted out for the moment.
Next, as I lay still, two men took the stretcher and carried me off at a slow pace, under Jack’s direction. They walked single-file along the line, and turned down a rough road that led off near a river. I didn’t ask where they were going: I was too weak and feeble. At last they came to a house, a small white wooden cottage, very colonial and simple, but neat and pretty. There was a garden in front, full of old-fashioned flowering shrubs; and a verandah ran round the house, about whose posts clambered sweet English creepers.
They carried me in, and laid me down on a bed, in a sweet little room, very plain but dainty. It was panelled with polished pitchpine, and roses peeped in at the open window. Everything about the cottage bore the impress of native good taste. I knew it was Jack’s home. It was just such a room as I should have expected from Elsie.
The bed on which they placed me was neat and soft. I lay there dozing with pain. Elsie sat by my side, her own arm in a sling. By-and-by, an Irish maid came in and undressed me carefully under Elsie’s direction. Then Elsie said to me, half shrinking:
“Now you must see the doctor.”
“Not Dr. Ivor!” I cried, waking up to a full sense of this new threatened horror. “Whatever I do, dear, I WON’T see Dr. Ivor!”
Jack had come in while she spoke, and was standing by the bed, I saw now. The servant had gone out. He lifted my arm, and held my wrist in his hand.
“I’m a doctor myself, Miss Callingham,” he said softly, with that quiet, reassuring voice of his. “Don’t be alarmed at that; nobody but myself and Elsie need come near you in any way.”
I smiled at his words, well pleased.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re a doctor!” I cried, much relieved at the news; “for I’m not the least little bit in the world afraid of YOU. I don’t mind your attending me. I like to have you with me.” For I had always a great fancy for doctors, somehow.
“That’s well,” he said, smiling at me such a sweet sympathetic smile as he felt my pulse with his finger. “Confidence is the first great requisite in a patient: it’s half the battle. You’re not seriously hurt, I hope, but you’re very much shaken. Whether you like it or not, you’ll have to stop here now for some days at least, till you’re thoroughly recovered.”
I’m ashamed to write it down; but I was really pleased to hear it. Nothing would have induced me to go voluntarily to their house with the intention of stopping there—for they were friends of Dr. Ivor’s. But when you’re carried on a stretcher to the nearest convenient house, you’re not responsible for your own actions. And they were both so nice and kind, it was a pleasure to be near them. So I was almost thankful for that horrid accident, which had cut the Gordian knot of my perplexity as to a house to lodge in.
It was a fortnight before I was well enough to get out of bed and lie comfortably on the sofa. All that time Jack and Elsie tended me with unsparing devotion. Elsie had a little bed made up in my room; and Jack came to see me two or three times a day, and sat for whole hours with me. It was so nice he was a doctor! A doctor, you know, isn’t a man—in some ways. And it soothed me so to have him sitting there with Elsie by my bedside.
They were “Jack” and “Elsie” to me, to their faces, before three days were out; and I was plain “Una” to them: it sounded so sweet and sisterly. Elsie slipped it out the second morning as naturally as could be.
“Una’d like a cup of tea, Jack;” then as red as fire all at once, she corrected herself, and added, “I mean, Miss Callingham.”
“Oh, do call me Una!” I cried; “it’s so much nicer and more natural.... But how did you come to know my name was Una at all?” For she slipped it out as glibly as if she’d always called me so.
“Why, everybody knows that.” Elsie answered, amused. “The whole world speaks of you always as Una Callingham. You forget you’re a celebrity. Doctors have read memoirs about you at Medical Congresses. You’ve been discussed in every paper in Europe and America.”
I paused and sighed. This was very humiliating. It was unpleasant to rank in the public mind somewhere between Constance Kent and Laura Bridgman. But I had to put up with it.
“Very well,” I said, with a deep breath, “if those I don’t care for call me so behind my back, let me at least have the pleasure of hearing myself called so by those I love, like you, Elsie.”
She leant over me and kissed my forehead with a burst of genuine delight.
“Then you love me, Una!” she exclaimed.
“How can I help it?” I answered. “I love you dearly already.” And I might have added with truth, “And your brother also.”
For Jack was really, without any exception, the most lovable man I ever met in my life—at once so strong and manly, and yet so womanly and so gentle. Every day I stopped there, I liked him better and better. I was glad when he came into my room, and sorry when he went away again to work on the farm: for he worked very hard; his hand was all horny with common agricultural labour. It was sad to think of such a man having to do such work. And yet he was so clever, and such a capital doctor. I wondered he hadn’t done well and stayed in England. But Elsie told me he’d had great disappointments, and failed in his profession through no fault of his own. I could never understand that: he had such a delightful manner. Though, perhaps I was prejudiced; for, in point of fact, I began to feel I was really in love with Jack Cheriton.
And Jack was in love with me too. This was a curious result of my voyage to Canada in search of Dr. Ivor! Instead of hunting up the criminal, I had stopped to fall in love with one of his friends and neighbours. And I found it so delicious: I won’t pretend to deny it. I was absolutely happy when Jack sat by my bedside and held my hand in his. I didn’t know what it would lead to, or whether it would ever lead to anything at all; but I was happy meanwhile just to love and be loved by him. I think when you’re really in love, that’s quite enough. Jack never proposed to me: he never asked me to marry him. He just sat by my bedside and held my hand; and once, when Elsie went out to fetch my beef-tea, he stooped hastily down and kissed, me, oh, so tenderly! I don’t know why, but I wasn’t the least surprised. It seemed to me quite natural that Jack should kiss me.
So I went idly on for a fortnight, in a sort of lazy lotus-land, never thinking of the future, but as happy and as much at home as if I’d lived all my life with Jack and Elsie. I hated even to think I would soon be well; for then I’d have to go and look out for Courtenay Ivor.
At last one afternoon I was sufficiently strong to be lifted out of bed, and dressed in a morning robe, and laid out on the sofa in the little drawing-room. It looked out upon the verandah, which was high above the ground; and Jack came in and sat with me, alone without Elsie. My heart throbbed high at that: I liked to be alone for half-an-hour with Jack. Perhaps... But who knows? Well, at any rate, even if he didn’t, it was nice to have the chance of a good long, quiet chat with him. I loved Elsie dearly; but at a moment like this, why, I liked to have Jack all to myself without even Elsie.
So I was pleased when Jack told me Elsie was going into Palmyra with the buggy to get the English letters. Then she’d be gone a good long time! Oh, how lovely! How beautiful!
“Is there anything you’d like from the town?” he asked, as Elsie drove past the window. “Anything Elsie could get for you? If so, please say so.”
I hesitated a moment.
“Do you think,” I asked at last, for I didn’t want to be troublesome, “she could get me a lemon?”
“Oh, certainly,” Jack answered; “there she goes in the buggy! Here, wait a moment, Una! I’ll run after her to the gate this minute and tell her.”
He sprang lightly on to the parapet of the verandah. Then, with one hand held behind him to poise himself, palm open backward, he leapt with a bound to the road, and darted after her hurriedly.
My heart stood still within me. That action revealed him. The back, the open hand, the gesture, the bend—I would have known them anywhere. With a horrible revulsion I recognised the truth. This was my father’s murderer! This was Courtenay Ivor!
He was gone but for three minutes. Meanwhile, I buried my face in my burning hands, and cried to myself in unspeakable misery.
For, horrible as it sounds to say so, I knew perfectly well now that Jack was Dr. Ivor: yet, in spite of that knowledge, I loved him still. He was my father’s murderer; and I couldn’t help loving him!
It was that that filled up the cup of my misery to overflowing. I loved the man well: and I must turn to denounce him.
He came back, flushed and hot, expecting thanks for his pains.
“Well, she’ll get you the lemon, Una,” he said, panting. “I overtook her by the big tulip-tree.”
I gazed at him fixedly, taking my hands from my face, with the tears still wet on my burning cheek.
“You’ve deceived me!” I cried sternly. “Jack, you’ve given me a false name. I know who you are, now. You’re no Jack at all. You’re Courtenay Ivor!”
He drew back, quite amazed. Yet he didn’t seem thunderstruck. Not fear but surprise was the leading note on his features.
“So you’ve found that out at last, Una!” he exclaimed, staring hard at me. “Then you remember me after all, darling! You know who I am. You haven’t quite forgotten me. And you recall what has gone, do you?”
I rose from the sofa, ill as I was, in my horror.
“You dare to speak to me like that, sir!” I cried. “You, whom I’ve tracked out to your hiding-place and discovered! You, whom I’ve come across the ocean to hunt down! You, whom I mean to give up this very day to Justice! Let me go from your house at once! How dare you ever bring me here? How dare you stand unabashed before the daughter of the man you so cruelly murdered?”
He drew back like one stung.
“The daughter of the man I murdered!” he faltered out slowly, as in a turmoil of astonishment. “The manImurdered! Oh, Una, is it possible you’ve forgotten so much, and yet remember me myself? I can’t believe it, darling. Sit down, my child, and think. Surely, surely the rest will come back to you gradually.”
His calmness unnerved me. What could he mean by these words? No actor on earth could dissemble like this. His whole manner was utterly unlike the manner of a man just detected in a terrible crime. He seemed rather to reproach me, indeed, than to crouch; to be shocked and indignant.
“Explain yourself,” I said coldly, in a very chilly voice. “Courtenay Ivor, I give you three minutes to explain. At the end of that time, if you can’t exonerate yourself, I walk out of this house to give you up, as I ought, to the arm of Justice!”
He looked at me, all pity, yet inexpressibly reproachful.
“Oh, Una,” he cried, clasping his hands—those small white hands of his—Aunt Emma’s hands—the murderer’s hands—how had I never before noticed them?—“and I, who have suffered so much for you! I, who have wrecked my whole life for you, ungrudgingly, willingly! I, who have sacrificed even Elsie’s happiness and Elsie’s future for you! This is too, too hard! Una, Una, spare me!”
A strange trembling seized me. It was in my heart to rush forward and clasp him to my breast. Murderer or no murderer, his look, his voice, cut me sharply to the heart. Words trembled on the tip of my tongue: “Oh, Jack, I love you!” But with a violent effort, I repressed them sternly. This horrible revulsion seemed to tear me in two. I loved him so much. Though till the moment of the discovery, I never quite realised how deeply I loved him.
“Courtenay Ivor,” I said slowly, steeling myself once more for a hard effort, “I knew who you were at once when I saw you poise yourself on the parapet. Once before in my life I saw you like that, and the picture it produced has burned itself into the very fibre and marrow of my being. As long as I live, I can never get rid of it. It was when you leapt from the window at The Grange, at Woodbury, after murdering my father!”
He started once more.
“Una,” he said solemnly, in a very clear voice, “there’s some terrible error somewhere. You’re utterly mistaken about what took place that night. But oh, great heavens! how am I ever to explain the misconception to YOU? If you still think thus, it would be cruel to undeceive you. I daren’t tell you the whole truth. It would kill you! It would kill you!”
I drew myself up like a pillar of ice.
“Go on,” I said, in a hard voice; for I saw he had something to say. “Don’t mind for my heart. Tell me the truth. I can stand it.”
He hesitated for a minute or two.
“I can’t!” he cried huskily. “Dear Una, don’t ask me! Won’t you trust me, without? Won’t you believe me when I tell you, I never did it?”
“No, I can’t,” I answered with sullen resolution, though my eyes belied my words. “I can’t disbelieve the evidence of my own senses. I SAW you escape that night. I see you still. I’ve seen you for years. I KNOW it was you, and you only, who did it!”
He flung himself down in a chair, and let his arms drop listlessly.
“Oh! what can I ever do to disillusion you?” he cried in despair. “Oh! what can I ever do? This is too, too terrible!”
I moved towards the door.
“I’m going,” I said, with a gulp. “You’ve deceived me, Jack. You’ve lied to me. You have given me feigned names. You have decoyed me to your house under false pretences. And I recognise you now. I know you in all your baseness. You’re my father’s murderer! Don’t hope to escape by playing on my feelings. I’d deserve to be murdered myself, if I could act like that! I’m on my way to the police-office, to give you in custody on the charge of murdering Vivian Callingham at Woodbury!”
He jumped up again, all anxiety.
“Oh, no, you mustn’t walk!” he cried, laying his hand upon my arm. “Give me up, if you like; but wait till the buggy comes back, and Elsie’ll drive you round with me. You’re not fit to go a step as you are at present... Oh! what shall I ever do, though. You’re so weak and ill. Elsie’ll never allow it.”
“Elsie’ll never allow WHAT?” I asked; though I felt it was rather more grotesque than undignified and inconsistent thus to parley and make terms with my father’s murderer. Though, to be sure, it was Jack, and I couldn’t bear to refuse him.
He kept his hand on my arm with an air of authority.
“Una, my child,” he said, thrusting me back—and even at that moment of supreme horror, a thrill ran all through my body at his touch and his words—“you MUSTN’T go out of this house as you are this minute. I refuse to allow it. I’m your doctor, and I forbid it. You’re under my charge, and I won’t let you stir. If I did, I’d be responsible.”
He pushed me gently into a chair.
“I gave you but one false name,” he said slowly—“the name of Cheriton. To be sure I, was never christened John, but I’m Jack to my intimates. It was my nickname from a baby. Jack’s what I’ve always been called at home—Jack’s what, in the dear old days at Torquay, you always called me. But I saw if I let you know who I was at once, there’d be no chance of recalling the past, and so saving you from yourself. To save you, I consented to that one mild deception. It succeeded in bringing you here, and in keeping you here till Elsie and I were once more what we’d always been to you. I meant to tell you all in the end, when the right time came. Now, you’ve forced my hand, and I don’t know how I can any longer refrain from telling you.”
“Telling me WHAT?” I said icily. “What do you mean by your words? Why all these dark hints? If you’ve anything to say, why not say it like a man?”
For I loved him so much that in my heart of hearts, I half hoped there might still be some excuse, some explanation.
He looked at me solemnly. Then he leant back in his chair and drew his hand across his brow. I could see now why I hadn’t recognised that delicate hand before: white as it was by nature, hard work on the farm had long bronzed and distorted it. But I saw also, for the first time, that the palm was scarred with cuts and rents—exactly like Minnie Moore’s, exactly like Aunt Emma’s.
“Una,” he began slowly, in a very puzzled tone, “if I could, I’d give myself up and be tried, and be found guilty and executed for your sake, sooner than cause you any further distress, or expose you to the shock of any more disclosures. But I can’t do that, on Elsie’s account. Even if I decided to put Elsie to that shame and disgrace—which would hardly be just, which would hardly be manly of me—Elsie knows all, and Elsie’d never consent to it. She’d never let her brother be hanged for a crime of which (as she knows) he’s entirely innocent. And she’d tell out all in full court—every fact, every detail—which would be worse for you ten thousand times in the end than learning it here quietly.”
“Tell me all,” I said, growing stony, yet trembling from head to foot. “Oh, Jack,”—I seized his hand,—“I don’t know what you mean! But I somehow trust you. I want to know all. I can bear anything—anything—better than this suspense. You MUST tell me! You MUST explain to me!”
“I will,” he said slowly, looking hard into my eyes, and feeling my pulse half unconsciously with his finger as he spoke. “Una darling, you must make up your mind now for a terrible shock. I won’t tell you in words, for you’d never believe it. I’ll SHOW you who it was that fired the shot at Mr. Callingham.”
He moved over to the other side of the room, and unlocking drawer after drawer, took a bundle of photographs from the inmost secret cabinet of a desk in the corner.
“There, Una,” he said, selecting one of them and holding it up before my eyes. “Prepare yourself, darling. That’s the person who pulled the trigger that night in the library!”
I looked at it and fell back with a deadly shriek of horror. It was an instantaneous photograph. It represented a scene just before the one the Inspector gave me. And there, in its midst, I saw myself as a girl, with a pistol in my hand. The muzzle flashed and smoked. I knew the whole truth. It was I myself who held the pistol and fired at my father!
For some seconds I sat there, leaning back in my chair and gazing close at that incredible, that accusing document. I knew it couldn’t lie: I knew it must be the very handiwork of unerring Nature. Then slowly a recollection began to grow up in my mind. I knew of my own memory it was really true. I remembered it so, now, as in a glass, darkly. I remembered having stood, with the pistol in my hand, pointing it straight at the breast of the man with the long white beard whom they called my father. A new mental picture rose up before me like a vision. I remembered it all as something that once really occurred to me.
Yet I remembered it, as I had long remembered the next scene in the series, merely as so much isolated and unrelated fact, without connection of any sort to link it to the events that preceded or followed it. It wasIwho shot my father! I realised that now with a horrid gulp. But what on earth did I ever shoot him for?
And I had hunted down Jack for the crime I had committed myself! I had threatened to give him up for my own dreadful parricide!
After a minute, I rose, and staggered feebly to the door. I saw the path of duty clear as daylight before me.
“Where are you going?” Jack faltered out, watching me close with anxious eyes, lest I should stumble or faint.
And I answered aloud, in a hollow voice:
“To the police-station, of course,—to give myself into custody for the murder of my father.”
When I thought it was Jack, though I loved him better than I loved my own life, I would have given him up to justice as a sacred duty. Now I knew it was myself, how could I possibly do otherwise? How could I love my own life better than I loved dear Jack’s, who had given up everything to save me and protect me?
With a wild bound of horror, Jack sprang upon me at once. He seized me bodily in his arms. He carried me back into the room with irresistible strength. I fought against him in vain. He laid me on the sofa. He bent over me like a whirlwind and smothered me with hot kisses.
“My darling,” he cried, “my darling, then this shock hasn’t killed you! It hasn’t stunned you like the last! You’re still your own dear self! You’ve still strength to think and plan exactly what one would expect from you. Oh! Una, my Una, you must wait and hear all. When you’ve learned HOW it happened, you won’t wish to act so rashly.”
I struggled to free myself, though his arms were hard and close like a strong man’s around me.
“Let me go, Jack!” I cried feebly, trying to tear myself from his grasp. “I love you better than I love my own life. If I would have given YOU up, how much more must I give up myself, now I know it was I who really did it!”
He held me down by main force. He pinned me to the sofa. I suppose it’s because I’m a woman, and weak, and all that—but I liked even then to feel how strong and how big he was, and how feeble I was myself, like a child in his arms. And I resisted on purpose, just to feel him hold me. Somehow, I couldn’t realize, after all, that I was indeed a murderess. It didn’t seem possible. I couldn’t believe it was in me.
“Jack,” I said slowly, giving way at last, and letting him hold me down with his small strong hands and slender iron wrist, “tell me, if you will, how I came to do it. I’ll sit here quite still, if only you’ll tell me. Am I really a murderess?”
Jack recoiled like one shot.
“YOU a murderess, my spotless Una!” he exclaimed, all aghast. “If anyone else on earth but you had just asked such a thing in my presence, I’d have leapt at the fellow’s throat, and held him down till I choked him!”
“But I did it!” I cried wildly. “I remember now, I did it. It all comes back to me at last. I fired at him, just so. I aimed the loaded pistol point-blank at his heart, I can hear the din in my ears. I can see the flash at the muzzle. And then I flung down the pistol—like this—at my feet: and darkness came on; and I forgot everything. Why, Dr. Marten knew that much! I remember now, he told me he’d formed a very strong impression, from the nature of the wound and the position of the various objects on the floor of the room, who it was that did it! He must have seen it wasIwho flung down the pistol.”
Jack gazed at me in suspense.
“He’s a very good friend of yours, then,” he murmured, “that Dr. Marten. For he never said a word of all that at the inquest.”
“But I must give myself up!” I cried, in a fever of penitence for what that other woman who once was ME had done. “Oh, Jack, do let me! It’s hateful to know I’m a murderess and to go unpunished. It’s hateful to draw back from the fate I’d have imposed on another. I’d like to be hanged for it. I want to be hanged. It’s the only possible way to appease one’s conscience.”
And yet, though I said it, I felt all the time it wasn’t really I, but that other strange girl who once lived at The Grange and looked exactly like me. I remember it, to be sure; but it was in my Other State: and, so far as my moral responsibility was concerned, my Other State and I were two different people.
For I knew in my heart I couldn’t commit a murder.
Jack rose without a word, and fetched me in some brandy.
“Drink this,” he said calmly, in his authoritative medical tone; “drink this before you say another sentence.”
And, obedient to his order, I took it up and drank it.
Then he sat down beside me, and took my hand in his, and with very gentle words began to reason and argue with me.
He was glad I’d struggled, he said, because that broke the first force of the terrible shock for me. Action was always good for one in any great crisis. It gave an outlet for the pent-up emotions, too suddenly let loose with explosive force, and kept them from turning inward and doing serious harm, as mine had done on that horrible night of the accident. He called it always the accident, I noticed, and never the murder. That gave me fresh hope. Could I really after all have fired unintentionally? But no; when I came to look inward,—to look backward on my past state,—I was conscious all the time of some strong and fierce resentment smouldering deep in my heart at the exact moment of firing. However it might have happened, I was angry with the man with the long white beard: I fired at him hastily, it is true, but with malice prepense and deliberate intent to wound and hurt him.
Jack went on, however, undeterred, in a low and quiet voice, soothing my hand with his as he spoke, and very kind and gentle. My spirit rebelled at the thought that I could ever for one moment have imagined him a murderer. I said so in one wild burst. Jack held my hand, and still reasoned with me. I like a man’s reasoning; it’s so calm and impartial. It seems to overcome one by its mere display of strength. If I’d changed my mind once, Jack said, I might change it again, when further evidence on the point was again forthcoming. I mustn’t give myself up to the police till I understood much more. If I did, I would commit a very grave mistake. There were reasons that had led to the firing of the shot. Very grave reasons too. Couldn’t I restore and reconstruct them, now I knew the last stage of the terrible history? If possible, he’d rather I should arrive at them by myself than that he should tell me.
I cast my mind back all in vain.
“No, Jack,” I said trustfully. “I can’t remember anything one bit like that. I can remember forward, sometimes, but never backwards. I can remember now how I flung down the pistol, and how the servants burst in. But not a word, not an item, of what went before. That’s all a pure blank to me.”
And then I went on to tell him in very brief outline how the first thing I could recollect in all my life was the Australian scene with the big blue-gum-trees; and how that had been recalled to me by the picture at Jane’s; and how one scene in that way had gradually suggested another; and how I could often think ahead from a given fact but never go back behind it and discover what led up to it.
Jack drew his hand over his chin and reflected silently.
“That’s odd,” he said, after a pause. “Yet very comprehensible. I might almost have thought of that before: might have arrived at it on general principles. Psychologically and physiologically it’s exactly what one would have expected from the nature of memory. And yet it never occurred to me. Set up the train of thought in the order in which it originally presented itself, and the links may readily restore themselves in successive series. Try to trace it backward in the inverse order, and the process is very much more difficult and involved.—Well, we’ll try things just so with you, Una. We’ll begin by reconstructing your first life as far as we can from the very outset, with the aid of these stray hints of yours; and then we’ll see whether we can get you to remember all your past up to the day of the accident more easily.”
I gazed up at him with gratitude.
“Oh, Jack,” I said, trembling, “in spite of this shock, I believe I can do it now. I believe I can remember. The scales are falling from my eyes. I’m becoming myself again. What you’ve said and what you’ve shown me seems to have broken down a veil. I feel as if I could reconstruct all now, when once the key’s suggested to me.”
He smiled at me encouragingly. Oh, how could I ever have doubted him?
“That’s right, darling,” he answered. “I should have expected as much, indeed. For now for the very first time since the accident you’ve got really at the other side of the great blank in your memory.”
I felt so happy, though I knew I was a murderess. I didn’t mind now whether I was hanged or not. To love Jack and be loved by him was quite enough for me. When he called me “darling,” I was in the seventh heavens. It sounded so familiar. I knew he must have called me so, often and often before, in the dim dead past that was just beginning to recur to me.