It was the next day, and evening was far advanced. The idiot was sitting in the garden outside mumbling to himself, and stupidly turning and twisting a sort of white rag between his fingers. Through the dense mist in which his soul ever sat, one spark of light had penetrated. The white rag was the medium. Whenever he looked at the crumpled bit of cambric he held, the idiot seemed to feel, or to see, or to be conscious of—something. And that something—vague and wild as it was—meant hatred—blind, unfathomable hatred!
It had taken the place of his idolatry of his mother. She was gone; he did not know where—it was impossible for him to grasp that—but she was gone. She had been taken from him. And he knew by whom! Yes, he knew that, at all events. He could not have explained it to himself, but he knew his father had taken his mother away from him, and hatred—that "madness of the heart" —tore at his breast, crying aloud for vengeance.
He sat there, in the dying sunshine, and twisted the white rag. Whenever he looked at it, a queer vision rose within his blighted brain. His mother's room, and the big bed, and her hand hanging over the side of it. And over there his father.... He used to grow confused at that point. It was impossible for him to follow it out to the end, the poor brain got so obscured; but after a few minutes or so he could see again his father rising, with something white in his hand, and then—then—his mother's face was under it, and—and—that was all—except his father's hand pressing—pressing—pressing down!
The poor boy had stolen into his mother's sick-chamber during that eventful evening, and had hidden himself behind the large bed-curtains. He had, indeed, squeezed himself between the bed and the wall, fearful lest the nurses should send him away. They had been a little rough with him in the beginning of the day, and he distrusted them, believing, foolishly, that they meant to harm "Sho." He had been there off and on for hours—ever since his mad effort, indeed, to bring Agatha to his mother's help— crouching, waiting, beyond the knowledge of things. To be near her was all he asked: the adoration he had for her was only the blind, wild affection of an unreasoning animal, but it carried him far.
He saw him go back again to his chair, and again rise and approach the bed, this time with a handkerchief in his hand.
The poor boy had watched eagerly. Into his dull mind the sure conviction grew that with the wet handkerchief his father was going to do something to his mother that would enable her to talk again to him, to caress, to fondle him. He almost betrayed himself in his delight. He did not like his father, but many things had taught him that Darkham was clever. The idiot, watching and waiting, was firmly convinced that a miracle was going to be performed with the handkerchief, that it would make the dull, dead figure on the bed talk and smile again.
After that it was always blurred—his picture. He could not remember anything more. But there lived with him, like a shadow, a mad longing to kill his father!
He sat out there playing with the white cloth he held in his hand. The day was dying down, and it grew a little chilly, as days will in September. He crept from the garden-chair to the stone steps that led to the library above, where his father always sat.
The father was sitting there now, lying back in his lounging-chair and thinking. Oddly enough, in spite of himself, his thoughts ran to his dead wife. As a rule he did not permit himself to think of her, and it seemed absurd to do it now—now when he was thinking of taking a second wife.
He had come in from his round of daily visits a little fatigued. He was careful now to fatigue himself as much as possible during the daytime, it was so difficult to drop to sleep at night. He had seen Agatha for a moment, and had come home full of her—of the sweet beauty of her gentle face—of her superior air—of the extreme coldness of the salute she gave him.
The evening was wonderfully quiet. He lay back, and tried to bring up Agatha's face before him. But somehow she eluded him. He almost laughed aloud. It seemed so absurd. Her face, that was ever before him. No! he could not bring it up now—not so much as a feature. He laid his hands over his eyes, leaning back in his chair, to compel the vision. In the complete darkness he might find her.
But he did not—Instead, another face arose—pale, cold, ghastly! Once again he was staring at his unlovely dead! That hideous face! Great heavens! and lying there—there, sprawling on the floor with the mouth half open!
He dashed his hands from his eyes, and stood up, and stared before him, and then a yell broke from him!
....
Over there!.... Whatwasthat over there, in the shadow? That frightful face with a white cloth laid across it. Was it she come back to torment him?
Again he felt his hand pressing the wet handkerchief upon her nose, her mouth, and the faint struggle beneath his fingers. Such a sickening struggle! Again he pressed, andpressed, until he had pressed the very life out of her!
He clutched the chimney-piece and glared at that awful apparition. Had she come back? Was he never to be rid of her? Would she be always at his side, showing herself when—he grew almost frantic here—when his young bride was at his side?
His horror compelled movement. He loosed his desperate grasp upon the mantelpiece, and, like a drunken man, staggered forward. As he did so, the apparition stirred, and a terrible cry sounded through the room.
"Sho!"
It was like a battle-cry. As it reached his ear, Darkham stood still. All at once he knew—knew everything; the boy had been in the room that night, and had seen, and in a strange way understood.
He laughed aloud. It was quite safe, that secret. The boy could neither speak nor write, and as forher—what a fool he was! —why, she was toodullto find her way back to earth. He laughed again at this conceit, so glad he was at the solution of this ridiculous affair. He must be out of order, in want of a tonic, to have such absurd fancies.
In the meantime, he advanced upon his son. Sitting out there on the veranda, the idiot had conceived a splendid plan. He would lay this white thing over his face and go in and see his father; perhaps if he did his father would understand, and be frightened, and give "Sho" back to him. He had certainly taken her away. Heaven knows how this hope arose! But he crept in noiselessly, and sat crouching in the comer waiting for his father to see him, with the handkerchief laid across his mouth and nose exactly as he had seen it lying across hers. He sat there a long time, waiting for his plan to work, before Darkham turned and saw him.
Hatred, too, was in the heart of Darkham—a very madness of rage. He seized the boy and held him as in a vice, and leant over him, breathing hard, as if thinking what he should do with him. The devil of murder once more rose within him. He loosened one hand and laid it on his son's throat. He tightened his grasp!
In another moment he found himself dashed backwards against the wall. His head had come against it with astounding force, and for a second he was half stunned. He stood there panting. That creature, half his size, was stronger than he! His first thought was amazement. And the most curious thing of all was that he felt no resentment. The boy was strong! After all, Edwy could do something. He could conquer—he could kill!
The idiot had disappeared, but near where he had stood a white object could be seen. Darkham knew it at once. It was the handkerchief with which he had helped is wife to heaven. He stooped and picked it up. In spite of his hardihood, he felt a sense of strong repulsion as he touched it. Her life-blood seemed do be frozen into it. He compelled himself to open it, however, and look at it. Her name was in the corner, coarsely worked with red thread. It was just like any other of her handkerchiefs, yet he could have sworn it wastheone. The boy must have picked it up that night. It must have fallen from his breast-pocket as he bent over the dead form upon the floor.
Well, there was nothing in it to incriminate him; still, it would be as well to get rid of it. The fire had been laid in the grate, but not lighted. He dropped the handkerchief on the table, and went to find some matches on the mantelpiece. With these he stooped and lit the dry kindling, and soon the fire began to roar up the chimney.
He turned to the table to get the handkerchief. Once burned, he told himself, he would forget it—and so, too, would the boy. But apparently the boy had not forgotten it, even for a few minutes. When Darkham looked for the handkerchief it was gone. The idiot had come back for his relic.
Darkham stood and thought for a moment. No, there was no danger; and it might only excite that fool the more to compel him to restore it.
Still, he felt disturbed. He went to the window. The evening was divinely fair. It would rest him and arrange his thoughts to go for a stroll. He would walk down toward Rickton Villa—nottoit, exactly. Her aunt was away this evening at the Monteiths'; but Agatha was sometimes in her garden at this hour, tending her flowers. There, or through the windows, he might, perhaps, get a glimpse of her.
The evening was now merging into night. Far up above in the darkening sky a pale star or two were shining. Night falls early in September, and already the flowers in the small garden at the villa were shutting up their pretty eyes.
It was a charming evening, soft, cool, melodious. The purling of the brook below was delightful in itself, but other music blended with it. The wind sighed so sweetly that the grasses in the meadows beyond bowed to it, in compliment, no doubt, and thus made a music of their own.
A clock somewhere struck the hour.
Agatha started to her feet. The tiny summer-house was so small that her charming head almost touched its roof as she rose.
"Who could have thought it was so late?" said she. "Eight o'clock! You must go!"
The surprise in her tone was surely complimentary; but Dillwyn looked aggrieved.
"I believe you want to get rid of me," said he.
"Do you?" She stood and laughed at him. She had always been charming; but Love, when he came to her, had lent her many cosmetics, and now she was lovely. "You believe that?" She held out her hands to him. "What a story!"
"My darling! my life!" said Dillwyn in a low tone fraught with love. "Must I go now? When shall I see you again?"
"Why, to-morrow at the Poynter's. Now, do try to be there in time. Get over your cases as quickly as you can. Oh no!don't. Poor things! Of course your patients want you more than I do."
"Still, tell me that you want me too—just as much as they do."
"I needn't!" said she, tears rising in her eyes. She smiled tremulously. "You know it!"
They had come out of the little summer-house and were strolling towards the gate where they were to part. The night had fallen a little lower, and everything lay in a soft dusk.
It was not so dark, however, but that a figure standing just outside the gate, and hidden by a thick laurel bush, could see and hear all that was going on in this small garden.
"What a beautiful sky!" said Agatha, stopping to look up at the exquisite dome above her.
Dillwyn looked up too. Yes, it was exquisite—the glittering small stars, shining like silver on that pale breast of blue! Some old lines came to him. He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"'Look'st thou at the stars? If I were Heaven, With all the eyes of Heaven would I look down on thee.'
I don't know what made me think of that. Perhaps because I wish I had more eyes with which to look at you."
"Would you be the giant of old who had an eye in the back of his head?" said she. "And after all, I think your verse a little rude. To look down on me!" She stood back from him, and glanced at him in the prettiest way. Happiness was developing in her a tender and joyous coquetry. "Onme!"
"Do you know," said Dillwyn, a little sadly, "I have often thought what presumption it was on my part to dream of gaining you."
"Oh now, now!" cried she, in a little expostulatory way. She ran back to him and held out her hands. Her face expressed the greatest penitence. "Presumption—what a word! Do you know, Jack, I shall be thankful to my dying hour that you loved me. Oh, you must go!" said she, raising her head. As she did so she started.
"What was that? Jack, didn't you hear something?"
"Hear something? No," said Dillwyn. He looked towards the house.
"No, no! In there"—pointing to the bushes behind them. She spoke in a low whisper, and he could feel that she was trembling.
"In there? Who could be there?"
"I don't know—perhaps—-"
"One of the servants? Well, what matters—to-morrow I shall tell Mrs. Greatorex all about it."
"I wasn't thinking of the servants; I was thinking—I suppose it was foolish—but—I almost felt that Dr. Darkham was there!"
"Nonsense, darling! Though, certainly"—with sudden wrath— "it would be like the skulking scoundrel to be eavesdropping." He spoke loudly—angrily. If Darkham was there he could hear.
"Still," said Agatha nervously, "go now. Do go. I am sure I oughtn't to have let you come here at all this evening. If Aunt Hilda hears of it, she—-"
"Your Aunt Hilda will hear more than that to-morrow."
"Oh, Jack, must you tell her?"
"My dearest heart! Why not? You know that—-"
"Yes, yes, I know. But we are going to the Poynters's to-morrow, Jack, and we might have a happy day there, if—- Don't tell her until after that."
"It shall be as you wish, of course. But, Agatha, is it wise? However—well, then, the day after to-morrow I shall speak to her. Now are you satisfied, you lovely tyrant?"
They laughed.
"Well, well, good-bye," said she regretfully. She raised her face to his, and he caught her to his heart.
"To-morrow will never come," said he.
"Oh yes, it will—it will! And it will bring you!"
They clung to each other, and kissed and kissed again. Then he left her, and she stood waving her hand to him until the scented twilight hid him from her sight.
She turned back then from the rustic gate, and took a step or two towards the house. Presently she paused, smiling—thinking hopefully of all that he had said. He loved her, as she loved him. Her face was beautiful in its delight, as she so stood thinking on her love.
Suddenly she turned, as if hearing something, and the smile faded from her lips. A shadow lay across her path. She knew quite well who it was, even before Darkham's hand was laid upon her arm!
Agatha remained quite still. Her heart was beating wildly, but she showed no outward sign of fear, and it was too dark now for him to see that her face was as white a death.
"Take away your hand," she said, presently, in a tone that startled even herself, it was so calm, and with a touch of dignity in it not to be withstood. Truly, "courage mounteth with occasion."
Darkham let her go instinctively, but he still stood facing her, and through the deepening of the night she felt that his eyes were on her. At last he spoke.
"You think you will marry him," he said. His voice was low, not at all violent; but it frightened Agatha the more perhaps for that. At all events it rang in her ears for days afterwards.
His hopes were at fever height when he reached the villa. He had entered the tiny avenue and come cautiously up, hidden by the rhododendrons, to that small gate inside which the girl so often at this hour ministered to her flowers.
And then he had seen her—in Dillwyn's arms.
The evening was not so far advanced, and the delicate light of a first love that lay on her beautiful face was quite clear to him. He saw her lift her arms, and let Dillwyn take her into his. They kissed each other.
He went a little mad then. He lost consciousness for a moment or two, and clung to a tree close to him. So much had been dared and done, and now was it all to be in vain?
He recovered himself presently, remembering everything, and a great oath broke from him. He swore to himself that the one terrible deed of his life should not lie fallow. Something should come of it. It should bear fruit.
He withdrew into the denser shadow, and waited, and watched, and listened. He was not naturally a man of base understandings. There was nothing small about him, and probably under happier circumstance he would have disdained to lie there in ambush watching and listening; but now passion mastered him, and his love for Agatha—the one pure sentiment of his life—was unhappily the undoing of him. Itshouldhave ennobled him; it only debased him.
Everything seemed to be falling from him. This girl on whom his soul was set would not so much as look at him, and Dillwyn— that affair of General Montgomery's had touched him. In time the wedge, that now had got in its thin edge, would work deeper and take from him his practice. A hatred against Dillwyn had always been in his breast ever since those earliest days when he first came to Rickton, and now it blazed and grew to monstrous dimensions.
What! was Dillwyn to "supplant him these two times?" Never! His courage came back to him. His indomitable will grew strong again. As Dillwyn passed him on his way home he raised is hand as if to strike him to the earth, but paused.
"You think you will marry him," said he again. "You think it possible to escape me." He was quite beside himself, or he would hardly have dared so to speak to her.
"I don't understand you," said Agatha coldly. "It is late. I wish to go in."
"Not too late, however, for you to see your lover!"
"Dr. Darkham! This is not the first time you have spoken to me like this. I must ask you to let it be the last. For you to dictate to me on any subject is impertinence," she said haughtily. "I am sure you must see it. I am nothing to you, and you are, if possible, less to me."
"You are wrong there!" He took a step nearer to her, and the girl set her teeth hard. If he were totouch her!At this moment the moon came out from behind a cloud and showed her his face— dark, determined, passionate. "You are all the world to me. Life itself! Do you hear? Do you understand? You are my very life! And a man fights hard for his life. I shall fight hard," he said.
"It is bad to fight for failure," said she. Her hands were icy cold now, but her face was impassive. "I hope you will go away now. My aunt, as you know, is not in, and—-"
"Did Dillwyn know that too—that your aunt was not in? Do you think he would have come here if he had not known it?"
"I am sure he would," said the girl. There was a change in her voice as she spoke of him, a sudden tenderness, a glad delight. The man listening noticed it, and it maddened him the more.
"You—-" He stopped short, as if to complete the sentence was beyond him. His voice was thick, uncertain. "You will tell me next," said he, leaning forward and gazing at her threateningly, "that you love him!"
"Yes; I love him!"
Darkham burst into a wild laugh.
"Him! Love him! A man who courts you clandestinely, who has not the courage or the desire to do so openly. Has he spoken to your aunt? Come, what has he done? Has he asked your hand in marriage of your only guardian? Or is he playing fast and loose with you? It would not be the first time he had played that game. Why, there are tales of him in the village."
Agatha made a gesture of contempt.
"There are no tales of Dr. Dillwyn in this village or any other," she said. "As for his speaking to Mrs. Greatorex, he would have spoken to her to-day but that I forbade him. He will speak to her to-morrow."
"So he says, no doubt. But even if he does speak—what then? Will Mrs. Greatorex listen to the proposals of a pauper?"
"She will, I am sure, listen to the proposals of a gentleman."
She had not meant this as a cut to him, but it went home. He writhed under it.
"She will listen to me," said he. "To me only—though I may not be what you in your arrogance class as a gentleman."
"Dr. Darkham. I assure you—I—" She was shocked at his reading of her words. Her face, pale and beautiful, turned to him full of contrition. It seemed terrible to her, to have even inadvertently hurt the feelings of any one. "I did not mean that."
This sudden change on her part, from extreme coldness to a faint kindness, came as the dew from heaven to Darkham. This little touch of sweetness, what might it not lead to if he pleaded with her? Pleaded with all his soul—forhis soul!
"Agatha!" cried he, "hear me. I beseech you to hear me. Everything is against me; I know that; but you—if you could only understand what you are to me!"
"I do not wish to understand." She broke into his stammering speech with a certain courage, but a courage that she felt was failing her. For the first time real fear seized upon her.
"Youshallunderstand," said he. "When I tell you that my very soul is in your keeping—-"
He broke off and tried to take her hand, but she pushed him from her. She felt terrified.
"Your soul!Yours!" she said. "Oh, no, no, no!"
There was such horror, such open shrinking, in her whole air that he stood and looked at her. Had she heard anything? Was there a suspicion in her mind? Impossible! He dismissed that thought, but another rose. He felt now that his case was hopeless, so far as she was concerned. He was abhorrent to her. She loathed him, and —strongest lever of all against him—she loved another. Had she been free he might have won her, but he knew her well enough —and it was this knowledge that had drawn him to her—to understand that when once steadfastly determined she would be hard to move.
"You have decided?" said he.
She made a little movement to signify acquiescence.
"You deliberately choose a life of want?"
"I choose the life I wish to lead."
"And Mrs. Greatorex? She has been good to you. You will go against her? yet you owe her something."
"I owe her more than I can ever repay," said Agatha with emotion.
"But not the selling of my soul."
"You have made up your mind?" said Darkham again. His tone was a question, and the question conveyed a threat. "You absolutely refuse me? Think—think again, Agatha—think!"
"I have thought."
He broke out then,—
"You defy me?"
She faced him bravely even at this moment, when her heart was dying within her.
"Yes, I defy you!"
He drew nearer to her, and caught her arm. His face was close to hers.Sucha face!
"To defyme"—he spoke below his breath—"you must be mad to defy me. Now, hear me! You will never marry that fool of yours. Ishallprevent that, even though"—he paused ominously—"I have to destroy him."
The word "destroy" might have had reference to Dillwyn's profession, but to the girl's over-wrought imagination it sounded like a death-knell. Oh, to get away! To think!
She would have tried to pass him, but something warned her that such a movement would be unwise. To show cowardice of any sort in his present excited state would be madness. She held her ground bravely, and prayed to Heaven for deliverance of some sort.
And Heaven sent it.
"That you Agatha?"
A cheerful voice came to her over the gate. It was the voice of Mr. Browne. Now, Dicky's voice, though good enough of its kind, had never up to this been likened to music; to Agatha, however at this moment it sounded like sweet harmony. She drew her breath quickly; with difficulty, indeed, she suppressed a sob. She held out her hand to him.
"Dicky, is it you? Come—come here. Come quickly!"
She did her best to suppress her agitation, but it mastered her; and Mr. Browne lifted the latch of the small gate, and in a seemingly leisurely manner was at her side almost immediately. He took her hand and held it in a good firm clasp. He was very fond of Agatha, and she was very fond of him, too. Agatha, however, never said that after that night.
Of course, he saw at a glance that something was wrong. He nodded to Darkham, who was in the shadow.
"Heavenly night, isn't it?" Mr. Browne raised his eyes ecstatically to the sky above, now literally besprinkled with the lamps of heaven. "But there's a dew falling. Mrs. Greatorex not ill again, I hope?"
He looked directly at Darkham, compelling an answer.
"No," said Darkham.
"So glad!" said Dicky. "Then you came—-"
His manner was delightful; not a suspicion in it; yet Darkham felt he must answer.
"I was merely passing by here, and saw Miss Nesbitt, and came to ask her a question," said he doggedly. He was quite master of himself again, and spoke naturally.
"Which Miss Nesbitt, of course, didn't answer," said Dicky airily. "I never answer questions myself. You always get let in if you do. Agatha, I hope you stood firm. Always resist the questioner."
He was making light of the situation. The babe unborn could not have seemed more innocent than Dicky at this moment. Yet Darkham, listening, cursed him in his heart.
"Miss Nesbitt, I am afraid, does not follow your lines," said he, in a suave tone. "She—you came a little late you see—shedidanswer."
"More shame for you!" said Dicky to Agatha. "See now how you encourage Darkham."
He laughed.
There were times when Mr. Browne thoroughly enjoyed himself, and this was one of them. He could see that Agatha did not understand him, but that Darkham did. He thought Darkham a common sort of fellow, with a slight veneer, and he didn't like him.
"Iencourage him!" said Agatha.
"Why, of course. To answer the questioner is to lead him to worse mischief in the future. He will continue his persecution." He laughed quite gaily here, and brought down his hand with a resounding slap on Darkham's shoulder. It seemed the friendliest slap, but Darkham didn't seem to care about it. "Look here, Darkham, I sympathise with you. I do, indeed. People who ask questions are bores. Yet a doctor must ask them. About one's tongue, for example, or one's—better not go into it. What were you asking Miss Nesbitt about? Nothertongue, I hope. Agatha! You know I often warned you about it. The tongue is an unruly member—who have you been abusing now?"
"Ask Dr. Darkham," said Agatha, who had recovered all her courage on the advent of Dicky.
"My dear girl, I think I should rather ask the rector. He would be the true physician in this case. An unruly tongue, you know. You have nothing to do with those, have you, Dr. Darkham? Don't you think Miss Nesbitt had better see the rector? Come now, your advice.... Advice is what one wants from you!"
"Miss Nesbitt, I am sure, does not want it," said Darkham slowly, as his eyes met Agatha's. "She knows all I can tell her. I have given her my advice."
"Did it include the fact that the dew is falling? Agatha, my dear girl, you ought to go in, or else get a hat or a shawl or something. You ought to have warned her"—to Darkham.
"Ihavewarned her!" said the latter, in a strange meaning tone.
He went towards her and held out his hand. "Good-night!" He so stood between her and Dicky that the latter could not see that she refused to give her hand in return. "Remember," said Darkham in a low tone, "the warning!"
He stepped quietly past Dicky, who nodded to him cheerfully, and went out of the gate and down the small avenue, and into the road that led him homewards.
"Now, what on earth is it all about?" asked Mr. Browne, as the last sound of his footsteps died away.
"Oh, Dicky!" said Agatha. She had a kind of theory that a woman ought to be above surprises or fears, but lately she had begun to doubt the truth of it. She enlarged her doubts at this moment by covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears. Mr. Browne waited a moment.
"That's right," said he. "It will do you good. Nothing like tears. But look here: why waste 'em? The weather has been awfully dry of late; just stand over those asters, will you, and give them a shower."
It was horrid of him, Agatha told herself, but in spite of that she began to laugh, and when Mr. Browne had gone into the house and brought her out a little sherry-and-soda she felt almost herself again. She was still frightened, however—though not forherself.
"You're awfully done," said Mr. Browne presently. "You ought to be in your bed instead of out here."
"I couldn't sleep," said she. "I am too miserable. Oh, Dicky, I am so frightened; and I haven't a single person to speak to."
"That's what a woman always says when she has the person near her," said Mr. Browne. "Go on"—resignedly. "I'm the person on this occasion. Start fair, and tell me all about it."
She did. She told him everything.
"Fancy his wanting to marry me, when his poor wife is only three months dead! Fancy his forgetting her so soon!"
"I feel it brings me within the pale of crime," said Mr. Browne mournfully. "But I feel sure that I could have forgotten her a good deal sooner."
"Oh, but, Dicky, you weren't married to her."
"True," said Dicky thoughtfully. "That's a point. There are things one should be thankful for, after all." He sighed. "And was it to-night that he laid his charms at your feet?"
"No—the day before yesterday. At least, I think it was the day before yesterday, but"—dejectedly—"it seems like a century ago. I've gone through so much since."
"And in the meantime?"
"Jack has asked me to marry him." She glanced up at Dicky and smiled. He thought he had never seen her look so pretty. Love had gilded her beauty. There was quite an air of triumph about her.
"If you expect me to be surprised," said he, "you're out of it. To ask you to marry him is the sort of thing that any fellow would want to do in a second. I may as well tell you, now that hope is at an end for ever, that I myself often had a desire to ask you that great question myself."
"I wish, Dicky, you would try to be sensible for even a little while," said she impatiently. "I'msounhappy. I've told you that Aunt Hilda has set her heart on my accepting Dr. Darkham."
"I shouldn't do that if I were you," said Mr. Browne.
"No, no, of course not! Nothing would induce me. Not now, when Jack has told me that he—he—-"
"I know," said Mr. Browne confidentially. "You needn't go into it. I've done it myself. Usual taradiddle. Told you you were the 'only woman in the world.' It's extraordinary how a lie like that takes, when one has only to look round and see a lot more women than one wants. But it never fails."
"He never said anything likethatto me," said Agatha indignantly. "Do you think he is so stupid as that?"
"I never thought him stupid till this moment," said Mr. Browne unabashed. "What on earthdidhe say to you?"
"Just that he loved me—and enough, too. But, oh! Dicky, I told you I was frightened, and I am. That dreadful man said that, rather than see me married to Jack, he would destroy him!" Her voice began to tremble. "He'll do it, too; I feel he will."
"Nonsense, my good child! People can't go about destroying people nowadays. There is always the convenient hangman. And besides, though I can't exactly say I dote on Darkham, still, he seems to me a most respectable person."
"To me," said Agatha in a low tone, "he seems a murderer! Yes; Imeanit. I am afraid of him, and I really do think, Dicky"— bursting into tears—"that he will try to kill Jack. His face was frightful when he said it. Oh, perhaps he is devising some scheme now—now, this moment! I could not be deceived; there was meaning in his eyes. Dicky"—turning to him with a touch of passion—"I want to see Jack—to warn him."
"To-morrow?"
"Oh no! Now—now! Can't I see him now? I shall go mad with thinking if I have to pass this night without giving him a word of warning."
"Look here, Agatha! It's late, you know, and Mrs. Greatorex will be home shortly, and—-"
He paused. The girl knew well what he meant. Of course it was unconventional to go to her—to Dr. Dillywn's house now; but for the sake of conventionality was she to let the man she loved be murdered? She was a little unstrung, and at this moment she firmly believed that Darkham was bent on a swift destruction of her lover. In the slow, solemn passing of the light to darkness fears grow thick, and Agatha's became unbearable.
Jack was there, in his lonely house, and unwarned! What fitter time to take a person unawares? The poor child was weakened by the events of the past few days, and could see nothing but her one sole possession cruelly done to death. That man—Darkham— had looked murderous. Oh, to go to Jack for a second only—totellhim! What could it matter what the world said, if he still lived!
"I don't carewhenshe is home—" She spoke vehemently, but then checked herself. "No, no; she won't be—can't be at home for a long time. It is only half-past eight now, and she will not be home till ten."
"But Dillywn's house is half a mile away."
"But if I ran through the wood no one would see me—and—you onlywould know of it. I want just to tell him to be on his guard. It wouldn't take me a moment. Don't you think"— feverishly—"that I might go?"
"Not alone, certainly. If youmustsee him, I'll go with you."
"Oh, Dicky, how good of you! Will you, really? Then come—come!"
"Without a hat?"
"Yes. What does a hat matter? And we haven't a moment to lose."
"Well, here goes!" said Dicky. He pulled her arm through his and together they went out of the gate, and, turning, ran down a slope that led to the wood on their left. Through this they went at full speed, the path being well defined, and Agatha's agitation giving her the speed of an Atalanta.
As they pulled up at the gate of Dillywn's cottage, a tiny establishment, standing by itself about a quarter of a mile from the village, Dicky pulled out his watch.
"We've beaten the record," said he; "I don't believe any one ever did the distance in so short a time. But, talking of time, Agatha —it's flying. I shall stay here, and give you just five minutes by this"—tapping his watch—"to rejoin me."
"Five minutes! I shan't beone," said Agatha.
"You had better tell him that I brought you here, and that I shall take you back. Though"—resignedly—"he will no doubt shoot me when you do so."
"Dicky! He will be so grateful."
"That"—gloomily—"is not the way of lovers. And I have two to contend with. Darkham is probably sitting in a tree at this moment taking aim."
"Oh, Dicky,don't!."
"And even if I escape these two, there is still Mrs. Greatorex to slay me with her tongue. There, go on, dear Agatha. If not here on your return, I trust you to put up a fitting monument to my many virtues."
Agatha turned towards the house—he was really too frivolous for anything.
"I say!" called Mr. Browne after her. "Five minutes, you know— not a second more."
She ran noiselessly across the grass to the lighted window where she fancied Dillwyn must be sitting, and knocked gently at the window-pane. In a moment the blind was drawn up; there was a sharp ejaculation; then the window was thrown up.
"Agatha? You!"
"Yes, yes. I have only a moment—but Imustspeak to you. After you went, Dr. Darkham came; he had seen you, and—-"
"Wait a moment!" His voice was stern. "Give me your hands. You must come in and tell me all." The window was very close to the ground, and she sprang to his side easily.
She was now in the room, but so great was her nervous agitation that she never once glanced round her to see what kind it was. Her lover's room. And yet she never looked at it. She thought only of him.
"Jack! I could not help coming. I felt Ishouldtell you."
"My darling girl! But what—-"
With her head upon his breast, she told him all—her hatred, her suspicions, her fears.
Dillwyn, holding her close to his heart, laughed a little. Her fears—her sweet,sweetfears!—that were all forhim.
"You may laugh," said she; "and I am glad you do. Somehow it makes me feel less frightened. But, still, be on your guard.Do, Jack. I dread that man."
"Say you hate him. That will satisfy me more," said Dillwyn, "though I don't think even Mrs. Greatorex could make you be false to me now. My poor, poor little heart! Fancy your coming all this way to tell me to take care of myself!"
"To keep yourself alive for my sake." He drew her to him, and for a moment they clung to each other, heart to heart. Then again he laughed.
"Well, I'll do my best," said he.
Agatha glanced past him. She was now rewarding herself for her virtuous abstinence on her entrance. She was examining the room.
"What a lovely little room!" said she.
Dillwyn coloured.
"No, no, you must not look at it," said he, taking her face between both his hands and hiding her eyes against his breast.
"But I must—I must indeed." She drew herself free from him and looked round. It was a small room, very barely furnished, but there were touches about it here and there—little remnants brought from his late home: a picture or two, a tiny statuette, a large bowl of flowers, a small bookcase, crowded from top to bottom with favourite writers—that redeemed it from the actual vulgarity of poverty. A poor man lived here, no doubt, but the poor man was a gentleman.
A little fire was burning on the hearth, and she went up to it and looked down at a large arm-chair close to it.
"This is where you sit?" said she. There was delight and love and humour in her eyes.
He went to her and caught her hands and pressed their palms to his lips.
"Sometimes," said he, "I have dreamt of you as sitting there— inthatchair, close tothatfire. A presumptuous dream!"
He regarded her anxiously.
"A lovely one," said she.
"But the room must not be like this," said he. "No—a better one—larger—with a bow window, and a little garden outside, and—You know that house of the Beckets, at the other side of the village?"
"Too big!" said she. "What I like is this—just this." She glanced at the wall near her. "What a charming picture!"
"You like it? My father gave it to me a year ago. You think you could be happy here—even here? You would be content with me?"
"Content!" Her tone was answer enough. "Do not have a doubt," said she eagerly. "Do not spoil one single moment of ours."
At this moment a whistle loud and long came to them through the open window.
Agatha started.
"I must go," said she. "Though I'm certain it can't be five minutes yet."
"Who's whistling?" asked he.
"Dicky Browne. He brought me here."
"Browne!"
"Yes." She smiled at him. "He said he knew you would shoot him for it. But he has been so kind. I couldn't have come but for him. I do so like Dicky, don't you?"
"Yes. Butyoumustn't like him too much."
"There is only one person in the world I like too much. But you must confess that Dicky was very good to me to-night."
"I know. But"—impatiently—"I wish there was no need for any one to be good to you except me. However, I am grateful to him. And so long as you love me—you do love me, Agatha?"
"You know it."
"Still, it is so good to hear. Forgive me. I'm a jealous fool. I wish we had never to part again. And soon," said he quickly, eagerly, "you will be my very own. I shall succeed. I shall conquer fortune. I know it. I feel strong." Indeed he looked strong as he stood before her with his hands on her shoulders, and his dark, brilliant eyes full of life and hope. "Before I met you I hardly cared for success. My work was sufficient for me. But now—-" He swayed her softly, tenderly, to and fro and laughed aloud. "What fool said that love ruined genius? I tell you, you have given me genius—you that are the soul of me—I shallwin."
He insisted on taking her out—solely against her will—to where Dicky was waiting for her. That worthy had retreated behind a laburnum-tree, and it was only when she called his name carefully that he consented to show the tip of his nose.
"No blunderbusses, I trust," said he, in a quavering tone. "I'm an orphan boy, guv'nor. Spare! oh, spare me!"
"Come, Dicky, come," cried Agatha, in a low voice. "Oh, I hope we shall be home before Aunt Hilda."
"I'm glad you thought of it!" said Mr. Browne wrathfully. "We've got just twenty minutes to do it in, and I'm not so young as I used to be. When next you take your walks abroad, I'd be thankful to you if you'd give yourself decent time to do them in. Twice I whistled. I am sure I need hardly say, Dillywn, that you did not try to detain her. On the contrary, I feel certain you did your utmost to hasten her departure. I hope you gave her a piece of your mind on the subject of unpunctuality. You ought, you know! You—as her lord and master."
"Dicky, are you coming?" said Agatha severely. She turned impetuously, and moved quickly into the shadow of the trees. Really, Dicky wastooprovoking! Mr. Browne, after a silent but most effective farewell to Dillwyn, followed her.
Just as they once more reached the little inside gate of the villa, the sound of wheels in the small avenue outside told them of Mrs. Greatorex's return.
"Cut for your life!" cried Mr. Browne in a tragic whisper, and without waiting for another word from her, he took his own advice, and bolting through the few shrubs, found himself presently safe but breathless on the public road, and almost in the arms of Dillwyn.
"So you followed the dear departed, after all," said Dicky. "What a thing is love! To tread in the footsteps ofheris rapture. Or"—Mr. Browne paused and drew himself proudly up—"or else am I to understand, sir, that you distrusted me?"
Dillwyn drew his arm within his.
"You know all about it," said he. "Come back with me and have a pipe and a whisky-and-soda."
We all know what that meant! But Mr. Browne was of a high courage. He accepted the invitation.