He reeled back in horror, but even in that one moment of discovery the necessity of preserving self-control forced itself upon him, and he became calm. The first real step in the mystery was taken, and all his powers of sober reason were needed to consider what would follow, and in what way the dread discovery would affect the beings he held most dear. Fortifying himself with a sip of brandy, and putting into a candlestick the candle he had held in his hand, he turned down the sheets to ascertain how the hard master he had served--the man in whose breast had dwelt no spark of compassion for any living creature--had met his death. There was no blood on the bedclothes, no stab or bullet in the dead man's body. On his face was an expression of suffering, as of one who had died in pain, and his neck was discoloured, as though a hand had tightly pressed it. But this might have been his own act in the agony of the death struggle, and his presence in his bed went far to prove that his end had been a natural one. A closer examination, however, dispelled this theory. The marks on his throat could scarcely have been made by himself, for his arms lay by his side in a natural position. Undoubtedly there had been violence done. By whom?
The first person whose image came to Dick's mind was Abel Death. The image immediately suggested a train of circumstance which, in the heat of the moment, proclaimed the absent man guilty. Abel Death had made his appeal to Samuel Boyd, and had made it in vain. In a paroxysm of fury he had fallen upon his master, and had strangled him. Then, searching for money and finding it, he had fled from the house and taken passage in some outgoing vessel for a foreign land. Presuming that the murder had been committed on the night of the 1st of March there had been ample time to make his escape, but not sufficient time to communicate with his wife. Or, perhaps the man, overwhelmed by terror, was afraid to write.
But upon further reflection this train of circumstance fell apart, and Dick perceived how false it was. It was hardly probable that Samuel Boyd had received Abel Death while he was abed, and still less probable that in his sleeping attire he would open his street door to such a visitor. By no other means than through the door could Abel Death have obtained access to the house. No, it was not he who had committed the crime. But the man was gone, and the mystery of his disappearance was still unexplained.
But if Abel Death could have obtained access to the house only by permission of Samuel Boyd, there was another man who had no need to ask for it. That man was Mr. Reginald Boyd. He possessed a key to the street door, and could obtain admittance at any hour. At any hour? No. Not after Samuel Boyd had chained and bolted the door from within before he went to bed. What was the presumption? That Reginald had quietly entered before the door was fastened, and had secreted himself until his father had retired to rest. Easy to imagine what followed: his appearance in the bedroom when his father was half asleep, his demands for money, the stern refusal and the taunting exchange of angry words, the hot blood roused, the clutching his father by the throat, the murder committed, the disposal of the limbs to make it appear that he had died a natural death, the unbolting and unchaining of the street door, and, finally, the frantic flight. But how to account for the key being upon the mat? As Dick mentally asked this question his eyes fell upon a key hanging by a cord at the head of the bed. Was it Samuel Boyd's own private key to the street door? So much depended upon this that Dick hastened downstairs to settle the point. Yes, it was Samuel Boyd's key. And the second key which Dick had picked up? Dropped by Reginald in his frenzy as he flew out of the house.
Dick's heart sank within him. This plausible chain of circumstance fitted the theory that Reginald was the murderer. Horrible! Most horrible! And Florence loved this guilty man. He it was who was responsible for her flight from her peaceful, happy home; he it was who, for some sinister reason, had imposed secrecy upon her! It seemed to Dick as if he held the fate of Florence's lover in his hands. He returned the second key to its place at the head of the bed, and mechanically--but yet in pursuance of some immature thought--put the key he had found on the mat into his pocket. Then he quitted the room of death, and closing the door, sank into a chair, and rested his head on his hand.
How should he act? What clear line of action did his duty point out to him? His duty! What if in pursuance of this moral obligation he wrecked Florence's life, and brought upon her despair so poignant as to drive her to her grave? No, a thousand times, no! Anything but that.
Why should it be incumbent upon him to proclaim the murder? Let others do it. But even then, would that save Reginald? The finger of suspicion would be pointed at him, and a clever lawyer would wind around him a chain of circumstantial evidence so firm and strong that it would be impossible for him to break through it. What were the links in this chain?
The quarrel between father and son some time since, which ended in Reginald being turned out of the house, with the stern injunction never to enter it again. Proof would surely be discovered to establish this, and it would be vain for Reginald to deny it.
Reginald's first visit to the house in Catchpole Square on the evening of the 1st of March. Abel Death had disappeared, but Mrs. Death was alive to testify to the fact. In this connection the pitiful image of little Gracie presented itself to Dick's mind, and he heard her plaintive appeal, "Youwillfind father, won't you?" He had been anxious to do this, but he recognised now that Abel Death's appearance in court might be fatal to Reginald.
The next link was Reginald's second visit to Catchpole Square an hour or so before midnight, admitting himself to the house on that occasion, as on the first, with his own private latchkey. Who was to prove this? Remote as the Square was from public observation there was little doubt that Reginald had entered unseen. No witness existed, except Reginald himself, who could state what took place on this second visit, but it was a strong link in the chain that he had "come down in the world," and was in need for money.
The murder being made public, Constables Pond and Applebee would be questioned as to whether they had observed any suspicious circumstance in the neighbourhood on the night of the 1st. Applebee would recall the visit to Samuel Boyd of a lady in her carriage. Who was the lady, and what was her business with him? This would be traced. Doubtless the lady herself would come forward. The constables would further recall the appearance of a woman lurking in Catchpole Square on the night of the 5th, her evident alarm on being challenged, and her escape from the clutches of Constable Applebee.
Then came the question of the identity of the woman, in the answering of which Florence's handkerchief would furnish a clue. But if Constable Pond confessed how he had found and concealed the handkerchief it would, in all probability, lead to his dismissal from the force. It was therefore to his interest to say nothing about it. Dick had imposed silence upon him and his wife, and the chances were that secrecy would be preserved.
He carried this point farther. It appeared certain that the murder was committed on the night of the 1st of March. Now, Florence's visit to Catchpole Square--assuming that it was she--was paid on the night of the 5th, five days after. What connection, then, could there be between this visit and the murder? He argued it out. She was in communication with Reginald; since his last visit to Aunt Rob's house, nearly a fortnight ago, letters had passed between them, and there was little doubt that, without the knowledge of her parents, she had seen and conversed with him. Fearful of venturing himself into the Square, had he sent her to ascertain whether there was any appearance of the house having been entered? That would imply her knowledge of the crime. Every pulse and nerve in Dick's body throbbed in revolt against the cruel suggestion.
"No!" he cried aloud, starting to his feet. "No--no--no!"
But earnest as he might be on behalf of Florence he could not deny that the evidence, circumstantial as it was, formed a serious indictment against Reginald. In the midst of his agitation he noticed that in his starting from his chair he had swept off the table the Japanese paperweight and the documents which had lain beneath it. Stooping to pick them up and put them in their original order he saw the name of Reginald on one of the sheets, in Samuel Boyd's writing, with which he was familiar. Re-seating himself he immediately proceeded to read what was written thereon:
"Memoranda for my guidance. March 1st, 9.30 p.m."
"I jot down certain memoranda respecting my unworthy son, Reginald Boyd, to assist my memory in my application to the police to-morrow morning. Things slip my mind sometimes. This shall not. To the police I go early in the morning. I do not consider myself safe. My son and my clerk, Abel Death, whom I discharged from my service this evening, are in a conspiracy to rob me, and I must take measures against them.
"It is two years since I turned my son out of my house in consequence of his misconduct and disobedience. I forbade him ever to darken my door again, or ever to address me.
"In defiance of this command he stole into the house this afternoon during my absence, and though Abel Death endeavoured to keep it from me, I forced the information from him that this scamp of a son of mine intends to come again late to-night.
"Impress strongly upon the police that these men are conspiring to rob me. Reginald has in his possession a key to the street door. It is my property. He stole it from me. If he does not get in through the front door he will find some other way. He is better acquainted with the ins and outs of this house than I am myself. He is an ungrateful, worthless scoundrel. They are a pair of scoundrels.
"To-morrow I will draw out my will. Reginald knows that it is not made yet. If I were to die to-night all that I possess would fall to him as heir at law, and I am determined he shall have not have a shilling of my money. Not a shilling. He is reckoning, I dare say, upon coming into a fortune. He will find out his mistake.
"ShallI see him? I should like to tell him to his face that he will be a beggar all his life, and to tell him, too, that I intend to put the police upon him.
"Notation, 2647. S.B."
The reading of this document filled Dick with consternation. It supplied, not one, but several new links in the chain of circumstantial evidence. Were it to fall into the hands of the police Reginald's doom would be sealed. There would be only one chance for him--his being able to prove that he had not visited his father's house on the night of March 1st. His bare word would not be sufficient; he must produce witnesses, to show how and where he passed his time on that night. Failing this, the evidence, in the murdered man's own handwriting, would be fatal.
It could not be that the murder would remain much longer undiscovered. Mrs. Death's application to the magistrate and the publicity given to the disappearance of her husband, clerk to Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square, in conjunction with the silence and non-appearance of Samuel Boyd himself, would be sure to direct attention to the house, not only on the part of the mystery-mongers who have a passion for such matters, but on the part of the general public. The probability was that in a very short time, perhaps in a few hours, all London would be ringing with this new mystery. He saw, in fancy, the show-bills of the newspapers, and heard the cries of the newsboys as they ran through the streets with successive editions.
Again he had to consider his course of action, and he was not long undecided. He would be silent. It was not Reginald he was championing, it was Florence. Until he saw and spoke with her he would do all that lay in his power to divert suspicion from the man she loved. Animated by this resolve, and with a dogged disregard of consequences, he folded the incriminating document and put it in his pocket. He made no attempt to justify himself; at all hazards he was determined to protect Florence, and, right or wrong, he would do what he had determined to do. The knowledge he had gained he would keep locked in his breast. Let others make the discovery of the murder. He would not move a step towards it.
All this time he had not given a thought to his own safety, to the peril in which he would be placed if his presence in the house of death became known. It was easy enough to devise a train of argument which would cast such suspicion upon himself as to cause most people to believe that he was the guilty man. Having no wish to court this danger he determined to leave the house as quickly as possible, and to postpone further reflection till the morning.
A last look into the death-chamber, a swift glance at the awful form lying there, a hurried examination of the papers to see if there were any other incriminating documents among them--which to his relief there were not--a pause before the wax figure of the Chinaman and a weird fancy that it also had met its death at the hand of a murderer, the careful gathering together of all the articles he had brought with him into the house, and he was ready to go.
He had a thought of leaving the house by the front door, but there was greater risk in that than in going back the way he had come; so he scrambled out of the window at the back, finding it much more difficult to scramble out than to scramble in, and was once more in the yard. He listened for sounds of voices or footsteps in the thoroughfare on the other side of the dead wall, and, hearing none, flung his grapnel up. It caught at the first throw, and climbing the rope he cautiously peeped over the wall to see if any wayfarers were about. No person was in sight. Detaching the grapnel he hung by his hands and dropped to the ground, thinking how foolish he had been in the first instance not to have adopted this means of reaching the inner ground. Tying the rope round his waist, and buttoning his coat over that and the large bottle, half the water in which he had drank during his investigations, he proceeded in the direction of his lodgings, nibbling a biscuit as he walked along.
The faint light of early morn was in the sky. A new day was dawning, to bring joy to some, despair to some, to raise this toiler up, to dash this toiler down. No warning of these issues in the peaceful grey light of morn. Majestic nature rolls its allotted course heedless of the fret of life. The yellow gas in the street lamps had a ghastly glare; at the end of a street a cat with green eyes gleaming like evil jewels stood in the middle of the road, and scampered off at his approach. A wretched man who seemed to start out of the ground cried, "Hi!" and flung a stone after it, and then, with folded arms and head sunk low on his breast, slinked off with a scowl, as though he had struck at the world for its treatment of him; two or three blear-eyed human night-birds, shivering in the grey light which, in its promise of a fair day, brought no solace to them, slouched close to the walls and houses, and cast lowering glances upon Dick as he passed; a forlorn woman, who had better have been in her grave, said, "Good morning, my dear," in a voice so false and hollow in its horrible gaiety that he shuddered as he heard it, and hurried on. But he turned and threw the degraded creature a sixpence. In his state of mind all forms of misery appealed strongly to him.
He reached Paradise Row in safety, and got into the house without disturbing his landlady. Locking the door of his room, he threw off his clothes and went to bed, deeming it wiser to seek three or four hours' rest in a natural way than to sleep with his clothes on. He was wearied and exhausted, but so excited that sleep did not come readily to him. Drowsily courting it he found himself dwelling upon the last words in the document he had stolen--there was no mincing the matter; hehadstolen it: "Notation 2647." What could be the meaning of those words? Notation 2647--notation 2647. He repeated it dozens of times, and dreamt that the wax figure of the Chinaman was pursuing him over mountain and field, through fire and water, shouting after him, "Notation 2647!" Youth and a healthy physique, however, triumphed over these disordered fancies, and after awhile he sank into a dreamless sleep, and arose, refreshed and full of vigour, at half past eight. He heard the snoring of Constable Pond, and the soft footsteps of Mrs. Pond outside his door. He stepped into the passage, and it was like the breath of spring to his senses to meet her smiling face.
"Good morning, sir," she said. "I hope you slept well."
"Capitally," he replied. "The bed is very comfortable. Did I disturb you at all last night?" He waited in anxiety for her answer.
"Oh, no, sir. I'm asleep the minute I put my head on the pillow. Pond says I should be a blessing to burglars. Can I get you anything for breakfast?"
"Nothing, thank you," he said. "I take my meals out."
The next moment he was on his way to Aunt Rob. She was expecting his arrival, and ran to open the door for him.
"I've been waiting for you, Dick. Have you had breakfast?"
"Wouldn't stop for it, Aunt Rob," he answered, "I thought you would give me a bite."
"It's ready laid for you, my dear. I had a letter from Florence this morning, and one has come for you."
"From Florence?" he cried.
"No, it's not her writing." She gave him both letters, and said that Uncle Rob had gone out early in the morning to seek for her. "We haven't had a wink of sleep all night," she said.
He read Florence's letter first. It was to the same effect as her letters of yesterday. She was quite well and safe, and begged them not to be anxious about her. Her dear love to darling mother and father, and to Dick. She would write twice every day, and hoped with all her heart that everything would soon be all right.
"It is a happiness to know that she is safe and well," said Dick. "We must have patience, Aunt Rob."
"But what does she mean by her 'duty,' Dick?"
"We shall hear that from her own lips by-and-by," he replied.
"And isn't it strange," said the anxious mother, "that she doesn't say a word of Mr. Reginald?"
"Yes, itisstrange." But in his heart he did not think so. He believed he knew why the name was not mentioned.
"What is your letter about, Dick?"
He opened it, read it hurriedly, and did not betray the agitation it caused him. "A private letter, aunt, from an old friend. Has Uncle Bob got another day's leave of absence from the office?"
"No; he must go back to his duty to-night. He wanted to see you badly, but he couldn't stop at home, he's that restless. I wish you'd have a talk with him."
"I'll manage it. If I don't catch him here, I'll drop in at the station."
He was itching to read his letter more carefully, but he would not arouse her suspicions by running away too suddenly, so he remained with her a few minutes longer, and then, saying he would see her again in the course of the day, took his leave.
"Are you going anywhere particular, Dick?" she asked, accompanying him to the door.
"I am going to look for Florence," he replied, kissing her. "It will be hard if we don't soon get some good news. Keep up your heart, dear aunt."
He did not take the letter from his pocket till he was in a quiet street.
"My Dear Dick" (it ran), "The reason that I have had the address on the envelope written in a strange hand is that I do not want mother to know I am writing to you. You must not tell her. I feel sure you will get my letter this morning, because you will have heard of my going away, and will go to mother's to get some news of me. I need your help, dear Dick. I am at 16, Park Street, Islington, first floor. Come at 2 o'clock; I shall be looking out for you; and let it be a secret between us. I know how true and faithful you are, and I have no fear that you will betray me. With constant love, my dear Dick,
"Your affectionate Cousin,
"Florence."
"At last!" said Dick. "At last a ray of light! What's the time?" He looked at a clock in a baker's shop. "Five minutes past ten. Ought I to go to her at once? No, I think not. Had she wanted me earlier she would have said, 'Come to me the moment you get this letter.' Four long hours to wait. What am I to do with myself till two o'clock?"
With the idea of making time fly faster he began to count his steps-- ten, twenty, thirty, one hundred, two hundred, three hundred. He made a calculation. A step a second, three hundred steps three hundred seconds, five minutes, and five minutes more employed in thought and calculation. Ten minutes gone, ten minutes nearer to Florence. He came to another shop with a clock in it; it marked eight minutes past ten. He had done all this in three minutes. He had walked too quickly, and was fast working himself up to fever heat. "Keep cool, my lad," he muttered; "you'll mar instead of mend if you don't keep cool."
But the events of the last few hours, with their tragic issues, pressed so heavily upon him that he found it no easy matter to keep cool. Much easier was it to conjure up the feelings of a murderer, who, oppressed with the weight of his undiscovered crime, fancies he discerns in every face the knowledge of his guilt--turning his head over his shoulder every minute to see if he was being dogged--starting at familiar sounds, especially at the sound of bells and clocks striking the hour, every peal proclaiming to all the world that a Murderer was passing that way--tortured by the devilish temptation to leap into the middle of the road, and flinging up his arms to scream aloud, "Stop, you grinning fools!I did it!" Then running to a bridge, with a mob at his heels, and flinging himself into the river.
For some minutes Dick was under a spell of this nature. He looked nervously at the head-lines on the newspaper bills, and listened for the shouting of the newsboys, "Murder! Murder! Frightful Murder in Catchpole Square!" But no such words reached his ears. Passing the shop in which he had purchased the rope and grapnel, he was almost prepared to see the dirty-faced old man, in his list slippers and greasy skull cap, run out and cry, "Stop that man! Ask him what he did with the rope he bought of me last night. Stop him--stop him!"
"I am losing my senses," said Dick, "indulging in these fancies. I shall be deluding myself presently into the belief that it was I who murdered Samuel Boyd. I'll go and see little Gracie. I may get some news of Abel Death."
Gracie was in bed, and Mrs. Death was in the adjoining room, preparing a linseed poultice for her. She looked into Dick's face, and dropped her eyes.
"You've heard nothing, sir?"
"Nothing," he replied. "I have come to see Gracie. Is she any better?"
"She's no worse, sir," said Mrs. Death, with a sigh, "but I can hardly keep her in bed, and the trouble I have to put a poultice on her is beyond description; I have almost to go on my bended knees. She's the dearest child, sir; she never thinks of herself."
Upon Dick's entrance Gracie sat up in bed and put out her hand; it was hot and clammy, and Dick patted it kindly, and held it in his. The faces of the other children, who were all sitting on the floor, playing shop with stones and broken pieces of crockery, became illumined at sight of Dick.
"It's good of you to come," said Gracie. "I thought you would. You mustn't mind my coughing a bit. I'm ever so much better, but motherwillworry about me. I want to whisper to you. Do you think father's dead?"
"No, Gracie," he said, to comfort her. "I don't think that."
"Then what's keeping him away? Is he afraid of somebody? Father never did anything wrong. We'll look for him together when I'm well. Shall we?"
"Yes, Gracie; and so that you may get well soon and find him, you mustn't sit up in bed." He put her head gently on the hard pillow, and arranged the scanty coverings over her. She made no resistance, but kept her eyes upon him, gravely and steadily.
"I've been dreaming of you all night long," she said.
"Now, what doyouwant?" said Dick to Connie, who was standing at his knee.
"Here's two ounces of tea," said Connie, giving him a stone, "and some scrag of mutton" (giving him another), "and a silk dress" (giving him another), "and a pound of sugar, and a penn'orth of brandy balls, and a pair of boots, and four pounds of potatoes, and a pint of beer"--all represented by stones, which Dick accepted with an air of great enjoyment. "If you haven't got any money we'll trust you." Having effected which sale upon these unbusinesslike conditions, the child trotted back to her brothers and sisters, who put their heads together and whispered.
Mrs. Death entered with the poultice, and was about to put it on, when a soft tapping was heard on the passage door. Before any one could answer it the handle was turned and Dr. Vinsen presented himself.
Gracie lay back in bed, and clutched Dick's hand tight.
As Dr. Vinsen glanced around the room, Dick thought his eyes were smaller and sleepier than on the first occasion they had met; his heavy white lids hung low, and partially veiled them; but this aspect of languor was more than counterbalanced by the fringe of yellow hair round his bald head, which gave him a luminous, not to say a saint-like appearance.
"Ah, Mr. Dick Remington," he said, in the pleasantest of voices, "good morning,goodmorning. Are you also here on a mission of kindness to our little patient--our lit-tle pa-tient? Permit me." He disengaged the clammy hand which clasped Dick's, and timed Gracie's pulse by his large gold watch, at which the children stared in awe. "Rather feverish, but an improvement. What do you say? It's nothing to worry about? Then we'll not worry about it. Why should we? Life brings a peck of worries in its train--why should we make the peck overflow--o-ver-flow?" With his head on one side, like a large yellow-fringed bird, he smilingly invited an opinion from Dick.
"Why, indeed?" said Dick.
"True--true. Why?" As though not he, but Dick, had made the inquiry. "We are getting along nicely, Mrs. Death, I am happy to say. In a short time we shall have our little patient running about again, playing with her companions, as well as ever. The troubles of children, eh, Mr. Remington?"
"Yes," said Dick, vaguely.
"A private word in your ear. Have we heard from our missing friend?"
"I believe not," replied Dick.
"Sad--sad--sad! But there is time--there is always time; and hope--there is always hope. She bears up."
"What else can she do? Knocking your head against a stone wall is not an agreeable diversion."
"Yourhead, my young friend,yourhead," said Dr. Vinsen, jocosely. Then turning to Mrs. Death, "What is this? A linseed poultice? Very proper. Let it be very hot. Our little patient makes a face. If she never has a worse trouble than a linseed poultice she is to be envied. Here is a bottle of medicine--a tablespoonful every four hours. I will call again to-morrow. You will not shut your door against me, eh?"
"No, indeed, sir. We don't shut the door against our best friends."
"So kind of you to say so." He paused to contemplate the group of children on the floor. "This"--with a comprehensive wave of his hand, so as to take in the whole of the room--"is a scene for an artist, and on the walls of the Academy would attract attention, even from the aristocracy."
"That wouldn't help them much," observed Dick.
"I don't know--I really don't know. It enlarges the scope, widens the sympathies--wi-dens the sym-pa-thies. Be happy, children, be happy." He went through the ceremony of shaking hands with Dick and Mrs. Death, and with an amiable smile, in which his halo seemed to take part, left the room.
"Dick," whispered Gracie. He bent towards her. "May I call you Dick?"
"Yes, Gracie."
"Wait a bit till my cough's over." She almost choked herself in her effort to finish the sentence before the cough commenced. It lasted a long time, but Dick, supporting her in his arms, was glad to hear that it was looser. Then she whispered to him again, "Don't let 'em hear us, Dick. Say Damn!
"Damn!" said Dick, without the least hesitation.
She sank back and smiled. It was the first time Dick had seen her smile, and it brought a wonderful light into her sallow face. Whatever may have been the reason for the singular request, she was evidently much relieved.
The hands of all the clocks in Islington that kept correct time marked the hour of two as Dick stood before the door of 16, Park Street. His hand was on the knocker, when the door was opened, and Florence drew him into the house.
"Come upstairs, Dick," she said, panting as if she had been running. "I saw you from the window, and ran down. Oh, Dick, I am so glad to see you--so glad, so glad!"
On the landing of the first floor she stopped and kissed him. "Come in, Dick, come in."
They entered a comfortably furnished room, and by the aid of the better light he saw that she was struggling to keep back her tears.
"Are you well, Florence?" he asked anxiously.
"In health? Oh, yes," she answered. "But I am in trouble. That is why I sent for you."
"You did right. I am here to help you. You may rely upon me, Florence."
"I do, dear. Tell me first. How is my dear mother--and my dear father--how are they, Dick?"
"You know how they must be, Florence, loving you as they do. They are in the most terrible trouble about you. Uncle Rob has been hunting all over London for you. I don't wish to distress you, but they have not had a moment's rest. It is right that I should tell you this."
"You are quite right, dear. Poor mother and father! It cuts me to the heart, but I could not act in any other way. You shall judge, Dick--you shall judge--and if you condemn me----"
"Don't give way, Florence."
"I won't. I will be brave. I have been brave to do what I have done. Such a cruel thing, such a cruel, cruel thing!--but it was my duty--my duty! Oh, Dick, if you knew what love was, you would know of what it was capable. I may speak to you, dear, as a sister to a brother, may I not?"
"Yes, Florence, as a sister to a brother," he said, quietly.
"I can understand now so many things to which I was blind a year ago--what love will lead a woman to do, how it can harden the heart----"
"Harden the heart!" he cried.
"Was my heart not hardened," she said, piteously, "when I stole away like a thief from the parents who loved and cherished me, knowing, as I knew, that I was bringing misery upon them? Was my heart not hardened when, at the call of love, I trod love under my feet? My prayer was that my separation would not be long, and that, when I was free to speak, they would forgive me and take me to their hearts again. But what can repay them for the suffering I have inflicted upon them--how shall I atone for the wound my own hand has dealt?"
"They will not think of it, Florence, if all is well with you, if, when you are free to speak, they approve of what you have done."
"Do you doubt it, Dick?" she asked, her hand at her heart.
"No--on my soul, no!" he cried. "I could never doubt it--I----" He came to a sudden stop as his eyes fell upon the hand that lay at her breast. She saw the earnest gaze, but did not remove her hand. "That ring, Florence!"
"My wedding ring, Dick," she said, and pressed her lips upon it.
"You are married!"
"I am married, dear."
"To Mr. Reginald?"
"Yes; but that is not the name I bear."
He covered his face with his hands. He had long known that she was lost to him, but only at this moment did he fully realise it. And not alone that. He was overwhelmed by the thought of the damning evidence in his pocket, a virtual accusation of murder made by the murdered man himself against his son, against Florence's husband! An ashen face confronted her as he took his hands from his eyes.
"Dick!" she cried.
"It is nothing, dear, nothing." His eyes wandered around the room. "You are not living here alone?"
"No, Dick. My husband is in that room. Come and see him. Tread softly, softly!"
She opened the door, and he followed her into the room, and there, in bed, lay the son of Samuel Boyd, the man lying dead in his house in Catchpole Square.
"The doctor has given him a sleeping draught," said Florence, in a low tone. "He has been very ill, and no one to nurse him but I." With tender care she smoothed the pillow, and drew the counterpane over his shoulders, then stooped and kissed him. When she raised her face it was illumined. Love shone there, and a divine pity. There are memories which dwell in the mind till the hour of death, and this revelation of devoted love would dwell in Dick's mind till his life was ended.
"Is he changed much?" she asked.
"He is worn and thin," Dick replied. "Has he been ill long?"
"A good many days, but thank God! the doctor says he will get well. If he sleeps till eight or nine o'clock it will help his recovery greatly."
They re-entered the sitting room. Dick took a chair with its back to the light, and each looked at the other in silence awhile. Florence was the first to speak.
"Where shall I commence, Dick?"
"At the beginning," he replied. "Hide nothing from me if you are sure you can trust me."
"Iamsure. There is no shame in an honest love, dear."
"None, Florence.
"It is eighteen months ago that Reginald and I first met. Mother and I were spending an evening with a friend when he came in and was introduced to us as Mr. Reginald, A few days afterwards we met him in the street, and he walked a little way with us, and asked if he might call and see us; and soon he became a regular visitor. How does love come, Dick? It is a mystery, but I know I used to think a great deal of him when he was away, and once or twice when we expected him and he did not come I felt unhappy. When I heard his voice I was happy again, and then I knew I loved him. One day he spoke to me, and my heart was filled with happiness when he told me he loved me. He said he feared he was wrong in speaking to me of love, for there was a secret in his life which he did not wish to disclose for a time; and he asked, if we entered into an engagement, that I should say nothing of it to my parents without his consent. I loved him, Dick, and trusted him, and I consented to everything he proposed. So I had a lover, and no one at home knew anything of it. Do not misjudge Reginald; he is the soul of honour, and I would as soon doubt the goodness of God as I would doubt the good faith and honour of the man I love. Do I hear him moving?"
She rose, and stepped softly to the bedroom. Returning, she said,
"No, he is sleeping peacefully. Oh, Dick, dear, you would pity him if you knew how he has suffered, and how little he deserves it. It is two months to-day that he spoke very seriously to me, in consequence of something you said. You will remember it, Dick. You were in a situation as clerk, and one night you told us that you were acting as clerk to Mr. Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square, and that you intended to give up your situation because of the bad character he bore. He was a money-lender, you said, and had brought ruin on a number of poor people. Mother didn't like the idea of your throwing up your situation, but when you asked her if she would advise you to stop with such a man she said, no, she wouldn't, and that Mr. Samuel Boyd was a rascal. I didn't think anything of it at the time except that I was sorry for you. Reginald recalled that conversation, and warned me to prepare for a disclosure that might cause me to shrink from him. He had kept his name concealed, he said, because he was ashamed of his father, who was no other than the Mr. Samuel Boyd of whom such hard words were spoken at home. He told me of his life; how during his boyhood he was kept at school, and then sent abroad to learn languages; how he knew nothing of his father's doings, who described himself as a financier; how, his education being completed, his father summoned him home, and how, while he lived in Catchpole Square, he was shocked at the discovery of the kind of business his father was engaged in. It was so revolting to Reginald that he spoke his mind freely; they had quarrels, and the end of it was that he left his father's house, determined to get his own living in a more honest way. Wasn't it noble of him, Dick?"
"It was what an honourable man would do."
"When Reginald had told me all this, he said he was sure that if it came to the knowledge of mother and father that he was Mr. Samuel Boyd's son they would forbid him the house; and he begged me to give him a proof of my love by consenting to a marriage at a registrar's office, and to keep it a secret till he was in a position to furnish a home for me. I loved him so that I consented, and I promised, too, to keep it secret till he gave me permission to speak to mother and father. So we went one morning to a registrar's office, and were married. I wasn't absent from home more than two hours, and no one suspected the step we had taken. I can't say I was happy; keeping a secret of that kind from parents so kind and dear made me appear in my own eyes very ungrateful, but Reginald was so hopeful that I bore up, and prayed for the day to arrive when we could ask forgiveness. Do you condemn me, Dick? Do you condemn Reginald? Put yourself in his place, and say whether, if you loved a girl as he loves me, you could bear the idea of losing her?"
"I would lose my heart's blood first," said Dick. "But it was hard for Uncle and Aunt Rob."
"Yes, it was hard, and it often made me very wretched, but I couldn't break my promise to Reginald; that would have been a bad commencement for a young wife. The worst of it was that he wasn't getting along very well. 'I shall be getting desperate presently,' he said, 'unless things take a turn for the better. Our little home seems farther off than ever.' I cheered him up, and said there was plenty of time before us, and that I was sure there was some good luck in store for him. So things went on till a fortnight ago, when he said he was afraid he had done wrong in persuading me to a secret marriage. 'But I've an idea,' he said, 'and whatever comes of it I'll carry it out. Don't ask me what it is; it's something I must keep to myself.' Dick," said Florence, breaking off, "that night at home when you and mother were speaking against Mr. Samuel Boyd, did you do so purposely because Reginald was with us?"
"Yes, I spoke purposely," he answered.
"Reginald said you did, and that you looked as if you had a suspicion of him. But you didn't know he was Mr. Boyd's son?"
"I did know it," said Dick.
"Why did you keep it to yourself?" she asked, with a troubled look.
"It was for your sake, Florence," he answered quietly. "It wasn't for me to pry into your secrets."
"Thank you, dear," said Florence, putting her hand into his with a tender smile, "it was like you."
"Did Reginald carry out his idea, Florence?"
"I can't tell you; he said nothing more about it to me. Last Saturday I received a letter from him saying he wasn't very well, and couldn't come to mother's on Sunday, and asking me not to call and see him till I heard from him again. What day of the month is this, Dick?"
"The 7th. Last Saturday was the 2nd," said Dick, and thought, "The day after he went to his father's house late at night, the day after Abel Death went there in the night in the hope that Samuel Boyd would take him back again,the day after the murder!"
"Yes, Dick, the 7th. I didn't go to Reginald either on that day or on Sunday. You can imagine how miserable I was. On Monday morning I received another short letter, in which he asked me again not to come and see him. The next letter came on Tuesday night when mother and I were sitting together."
"That was the night of the great fog. Aunt Rob told me you went out in the afternoon in the thick of it. What did you go out for?"
"I came here to inquire after Reginald. The landlady said he wasn't well, and that she had just posted a letter to me from him. 'May I go up and see him?' I asked, and she answered, calling me 'miss,' that he had given orders that no one was to be allowed up, and that when I had read the letter I might know what to do. I was far from happy, Dick, as I walked home through the fog, and a great deal unhappier when the night postman brought the letter, for there was something in it--I hardly know what--that made me feel I ought to go to him. I couldn't ask advice of mother because of my promise to Reginald, which I wouldn't break; and even if anyone had advised me against what I believed was right I shouldn't have listened to it. I went to my bedroom early, and so did mother, and I got out of the house at ten o'clock and came straight here. In the streets I put on my wedding ring, which I had not worn at home, of course, only putting it on and looking at it when I was alone in my room, and I took care that the landlady should see it when I told her I was a relation of Reginald's and had come to nurse him. It was time I did, for he was wandering in his mind, and hadn't called in a doctor because he couldn't afford to pay for one. Thank God I had a little money in my purse, and I've got thirty pounds in the Post Office Savings Bank which I've given notice to take out. Reginald didn't know me, and I was in the most dreadful trouble about him. All his wandering thoughts were about me and his father, and I thought what a shocking thing it would be if he were to die without seeing him. Oh, Dick, my heart was breaking, but I wanted to do what was right, and I thought it likely, if Mr. Boyd saw Reginald in the state he was, that his heart would soften towards the poor boy. I tried to get at his wishes. Bending over him I said, 'Do you want to see your father?' I said it three or four times, and then he said, 'Yes, yes, my father, Catchpole Square. The end house in Catchpole Square. My father--my father!' I called the landlady in, and asked her if she would stop up with Reginald while I went to fetch some one he wanted to see. She consented, and I went out. It was very late when I got to the house in Catchpole Square, and I knocked and knocked without anyone answering me. 'He can't be there,' I thought, and I was creeping out of the Square when two men came into it. One of them had a bull's eye lamp in his hand, and I saw they were policemen. My anxiety then was to get away from them, but they saw me and called out to me to stop, and laid hands on me. How I escaped I don't know, but I tore myself away and ran for my life, and in a minute or two I was alone and free. Then I managed to find my way back here, and sent the good landlady to bed, telling her that the person I had gone to fetch was out of town. Yesterday morning early I sent for a doctor, and he said that Reginald would have died if he hadn't been called in, but that there were hopes for him. Oh, how I thanked God for the good news! and how grateful I was when Reginald last night opened his eyes and recognised me! He didn't blame me, poor boy, but spoke so sweetly of everybody! I told him how I had run away from home, and I begged him to allow me to end this mystery and to make things right with father and mother. He thought a little, and said, 'Send for your cousin Dick, and do what he advises.' I cried for joy, and I sat down at once and wrote to you. Now you know all, dear. Will you go and tell them everything, and ask them to forgive poor Reginald and me?"
"I will, Florence," said Dick, "the moment I go from here. It will be a happiness to me to relieve their suspense. But I want to ask you a question or two first."
"Yes, Dick."
"How long has Reginald been ill?"
"Since Saturday."
"Has he been in bed all the time?"
"Yes."
"May I go into his room?"
"What for? If he's asleep"--she opened the door and peeped in--"yes, he's asleep. You won't disturb him, Dick?"
"No, I will not speak to him. I've got my reasons, Florence."
"Very well, dear," she said, her eyes following him as he stepped softly to the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.
His purpose was to examine Reginald's boots, and he saw them the moment he entered the room. Reginald having been in bed since Saturday they could not have been worn since his visit to Catchpole Square on Friday night. Dick took them up, and discerned on the soles traces of the waxed paper which Samuel Boyd had set as a trap. With his penknife he carefully scraped off these tell-tale evidences of the visit, and returned to Florence.
"Do you know," he asked, "when Reginald saw his father last?"
"No," she answered, "it must have been a long time ago."
He did not disabuse her. "He is sleeping quite calmly," he said. "Did the doctor say when he would be able to get up?"
"In two or three days, he told me, if the opiate he gave him had the desired effect. Itishaving it, Dick."
"No doubt of that. By the way, Florence, in your haste to escape from the policemen in Catchpole Square did you lose or drop anything?"
"How clever you are to think of it, Dick! I lost a handkerchief."
"With your name on it?"
"Yes. All my handkerchiefs are marked. I think I had it in my hand when I was in the Square, but I can't be sure. It is of no consequence. There are plenty of girls named Florence. How did you cut your hand?"
"With some broken glass.That'sof no consequence. It is only a scratch." The exertion and haste he had made in scraping the wax off Reginald's boots had started the blood.
"Let me bind it up. Oh, Dick, you are our good angel! Dear Dick! Reginald likes you so much! But he had an idea that you didn't care for him."
"I care for him very much, Florence."
"And do you know," she said, almost gaily, so happy was she in the prospect of Reginald's speedy recovery, and of removing the cloud of misery she had brought upon her parents, "he had another idea--but I won't mention that."
"Yes, do, dear. Remember, you are to hide nothing from me."
"Well, he had an idea that you were fond of me."
"He is right. I am very fond of you, Florence."
"I know that, dear. But in another way, he meant. You understand."
"Yes, dear cousin, I understand."
"I told him that we had been brought up together, and that he wasn't to be jealous of my dear cousin Dick. Foolish of him, wasn't it?"
"Very foolish. How could such an idea have got into his head?"
"Well--perhaps--it--was--natural," she said, with an arch pause between each word. Ah, if she could have read his heart at that moment! But he did not betray himself. "There! I am sure your hand must feel more comfortable. I hope your feelings won't change towards me now that I'm a married woman."
"My feelings will never change, Florence, dear."
"A married woman! How strange and beautiful it sounds! To think of the time when we were playing together as little children! Such changes, Dick, such changes! It is almost as if we were not ourselves. My dear cousin! Do you think dear mother and father will come to me?"
"I will answer for them. Now, I must go. Every moment saved is a moment of happiness gained to them."
"Go, Dick, go quickly."
They kissed, and he was gone. When he was in the street he looked up at the window, and saw her standing there, looking out after him. She threw the window open, and kissed her hand to him. He returned the fond sign and hurried on.
"Steady, Dick, steady," he said.