CHAPTER VII
A FRUITLESS APPEAL
Friday passed without any sign of my father's return, and when onSaturday morning we found no letter from him upon the breakfast table,the vague disquiet of the day before assumed a definite shape. Welooked into one another's faces, and we were seriously alarmed.
"We shall be sure to hear from him in an hour or two," Alice said,holding her cup to her lips with shaking hands. "He must have missedthe post. We shall have a telegram."
"I hope so," I answered, fervently. "Nothing can have happened tohim, of course. It is absurd to feel nervous. But it is too bad ofhim. He ought to have written. However busy he is, he could have founda minute or two."
"I will never let him go away again without leaving us an address ofsome sort," Alice declared. "No doubt he will telegraph soon. Still,one cannot help feeling uneasy."
But no telegram arrived. Luncheon time came and passed without aword. The afternoon dragged on. The last train from London was dueat the nearest railway station--three miles away--at six o'clock. Ateight o'clock he had not returned. More than an hour ago a fly withluggage from the train had passed our gate and gone on to the YellowHouse. Alice was as white as a sheet, and commenced to cry softly toherself.
"There is a service to-morrow morning, and no one to help," shemoaned. "He must be very ill. What had we better do, Kate?"
Do! How was I to know? Action of any sort would have been a relief,but it was like groping in the dark. He had left no address towhich we could write, and, so far as we knew, he did not belongto any club nor had he any friends in London. There was no meansof tracing him, not a clue as to the nature of the business whichhad called him so suddenly to town. Even granting that he had goneto see Mr. Berdenstein, to meet him on his arrival in London, itwas hopeless to try and imagine where he might be prosecuting hissearch. Mr. Berdenstein had denied that he had met him. Without adoubt he would deny it again if I went to him. As he had told meplainly that we were on opposite sides, to look for help from himwas utterly futile. We girls were helpless. Alice, whose instinctswere largely conventional, was feeling chiefly the scandal whichmust accrue when his place in the pulpit to-morrow remained emptyand service had to be abandoned. For my part, my anxieties weredeeper. Chance had placed in my hands the threads of a mystery whoseunravelment was threatened with terrible possibilities. I could nottell what the end of it might be. I scarcely dared to let my minddwell upon it at all. I concentrated my thoughts upon the presentdilemma. The first thing to be done was to find my father. There wasonly one possible shadow of a clue as to his whereabouts. One man knewthe secret of that letter which had called him up to London. To thisman I resolved that I would go.
But as dusk came on, and I was preparing to start for the Court, Isaw his tall figure crossing the park towards the Yellow House. I didnot hesitate then any more. To see him there would be easier than toconfront him alone at the Court. I threw a cloak over my shoulders andwent bareheaded down the drive. The thing which I was proposing tomyself to do was simple enough in effect, although with my overwroughtnerves it presented itself to me at the time as a somewhat formidableundertaking. I was going to confront them together. I was going topray for their help.
I walked swiftly across the park and through the plantation to theYellow House, and after pausing for a moment to regain my breath, Irang the bell. There was no immediate answer, and save that I couldsee through a chink in the drawn curtains a rose-shaded lamp burningin the drawing room, I should have feared that after all AdelaideFortress had not returned. But in a few minutes the trim littlemaid-servant opened the door, letting out a flood of light. Shestarted with surprise to see me standing there, looking no doubt alittle ghost-like with my white, anxious face and uncovered head.
"I want to speak to Mrs. Fortress," I said. "Is she in?"
The girl hesitated, but I took her assent for granted, and steppedinto the hall. She moved towards the drawing room door. I kept closeby her side, and when she opened it I crossed the threshold.
Bruce Deville was there, sitting in a low chair. To my surprise hewas wearing evening dress, and he had a book in his hand, from whichhe appeared to have been reading aloud. At my entrance he rose to hisfeet at once with a little exclamation of surprise. Adelaide Fortress,whose back had been turned to the door, turned sharply round. She toorose to her feet. A swift look passed between them, which did notescape me.
"Miss Ffolliot!" she exclaimed. "Why, is anything the matter?" Thelittle maid had retreated, and closed the door. I advanced a fewsteps further into the room. Somehow I became dimly conscious thattheir attitude towards me, or my mission, if they had surmised itspurport, was in a certain sense hostile. I looked into the woman'seyes, and I was perplexed. Something had come between us. Perhaps itwas my father's stern words to her, perhaps it was some shadow fromthose former days concerning which they certainly had some commonknowledge. But from whatever cause it arose there was certainly achange. The frank sympathy which seemed to have sprung up betweenus on that delightful afternoon was altogether a thing of the past,almost as though it had never been. She faced me coldly, withindrawn lips and unfriendly face. I was confused and perplexed;yet even in that same moment a thought flashed in upon me. She waswearing a mask. For some reason or other she was putting away herfriendliness. Surely it was the memory of my father's words.
"It was Mr. Deville I wanted to see," I said. "I saw him cross thepark on his way here, so I followed. I am in trouble. I wanted to askhim a question."
He stood leaning against the broad mantelpiece, his brows contracted,his face cold and forbidding.
"I am afraid that I cannot help you, Miss Ffolliot," he said. "Icannot conceive any way in which I could be of service to you, I amafraid."
"You can help me if you will, by answering a single question," Iinterrupted. "You dropped a letter from your pocket on Wednesdaymorning, and I returned it to you. Tell me whose handwriting it was!"
There was a little crash upon the floor, and the sound of ahalf-uttered exclamation. Adelaide Fortress had dropped a small chinaornament with which she had been playing. She did not even glancetowards the pieces at her feet. She was bending slightly towards me,her lips half parted, her cheeks pale. Her appearance fascinated me; Iforgot Mr. Deville altogether until the sound of his clear, deep voicebroke the silence.
"I had several letters in my pocket, Miss Ffolliot," he said,slowly. "I am not sure that I remember which one it was that you weregood enough to restore to me. In any case, how are you interestedin the writer of any of them? What has it to do with your presenttrouble--whatever that may be?"
"I will tell you," I answered, readily. "On Tuesday morning my fatherreceived a letter, and whatever its contents were, they summoned himto London. He was to have returned yesterday. He did not come, and hesent no message. All to-day we have had no word from him. The lasttrain from London to-night is in, and he has not come. We do notknow where he is, or what has become of him. There are the servicesto-morrow, and no one to take them. He must be ill, or in trouble ofsome sort, or he would have returned, that is certain. It has made usterribly anxious."
"I am very sorry to hear this, Miss Ffolliot," he said. "If Icould help you I would be glad, but I am afraid I do not quitesee--exactly--"
I raised my eyes to his and looked him in the face. The words seemedto die away upon his lips. He was not actor enough for his part.
"I will tell you why I came to you for help, Mr. Deville," Iexclaimed. "The handwriting upon the letter which you dropped was thesame handwriting which summoned my father to London."
Then, for the first time, some glimmering of the mystery in whichthese persons and my father were alike concerned dawned upon me. Theman and the women looked at one another; Bruce Deville walked over tothe window without answering or addressing me. I had, indeed, asked nodirect question. Yet they knew what I wanted. It was the whole truthwhich I desired.
I stamped my foot upon the floor. Did they know what my sufferingswere, those two persons
, with their pale, puzzled faces and coldwords? I felt myself growing angry.
"Answer me!" I cried. "Who wrote you that letter?"
Still neither the man nor the woman spoke. Their silence maddenedme. I forgot my promise to the man at Naselton Hall. I forgoteverything except my desire to sting them out of that merciless,unsympathetic silence. So I cried out to them--
"I will tell you who wrote it; it was a man from South America,and his name is Berdenstein. He is at Naselton Hall. I will go tohim. Perhaps he will tell me what you will not."
The man stepped forward with outstretched hand. His face was dark withpassionate anger, almost I thought he would have struck me. But thewoman's was pale as death, and a drop of red blood marked the placewhere her teeth met her under lip. Then I saw that the man had known,but the woman had not.
"If you know so much," he said, brutally, "you had better go to himand discover the rest. You will find him very sympathetic. Without adoubt he will help you!"
"No! No!"
The woman's negative rang out with a sudden sharp and crispdistinctness. She rose and came over to my side. She laid her handssoftly upon my shoulders. Her face amazed me, it was so full ofsympathy, and yet so sorrowful. She, too, had received a blow.
"Child," she said, softly, "you must not be impatient. I believe thatyour father is well. I believe that somehow or other he will contriveto be here in time to take up his duties to-morrow. We could not tellyou--either Mr. Deville or I--where he is, but we know perhaps alittle more than you do. He is in London somewhere seeking for thatperson whom you have just mentioned. He will not find him, but hewill not give up searching for him till the last moment. But, child,whatever you do, avoid that man Berdenstein like a pestilence. Yourfather and he are bitter and terrible enemies. Do not dream of goingto him. Do not let your father know that he is near. If fate must haveit so, they will meet. But God forbid!--but God forbid!"
"Who is he, then, this man, this Berdenstein?" I asked her under mybreath. Her words had had a powerful effect upon me. She was terriblyin earnest. I knew that she was speaking for my good. I trusted her. Icould not help it.
She shook her head. Her eyes were full of horror.
"It is not for me to tell you, child. It is one of those things whichGod forbid that you may ever know."
Then there was a silence between us. After all this mystery whoseshadows seemed to surround me was like a far away thing. Mypresent trouble weighed heaviest upon me. The other was vague,even though it was terrible. My father's disappearance was a realand terrible calamity staring me in the face. It engrossed all mythoughts. They would tell me nothing, those two. I dared not go toBerdenstein. Already I was afraid of him. I remembered his smilewhen I spoke of my father, and I shuddered. Supposing they hadmet. Supposing they had come together face to face in some lonelyhouse. Perhaps his letter had been a decoy. The man's face, with itscruel mouth and sardonic smile, suddenly loomed large in my memory. Isprang to my feet with a cry of fear. I was terrified with my ownthoughts. Bruce Deville came over to me, and I found him studying myface with a new expression, the meaning of which I could not fathom.
"If you will come to the window, Miss Ffolliot," he said, "I think youwill see something which will relieve some part of your anxiety at anyrate."
I hastened eagerly to his side. Only a few yards away, walkingsteadily in the middle of the hard, white road, was a figure in sombreblack. His shoulders were bent, and his pale face downcast. His wholeappearance was that of a weary and dejected wanderer. These things Irealized more completely afterwards; for the present a sense of almostintolerable relief drowned every other motion. It was my father--hehad returned.
I should have rushed out to him, but Bruce Deville laid his hand verysoftly upon my shoulder. I could not have believed that any touch ofhis could be so gentle.
"I wish you would take my advice, Miss Ffolliot," he said. "Take thepath through the plantation home, and don't let your father see youleaving here. It would be better, would it not, Adelaide?" he added.
She looked at me.
"Yes, it would be better," she said. "Do you mind? You will be at homeas soon as he is."
I could not but admit that the advice was good, bearing in mind myfather's words when he found me there only a few days before. Yetit galled me that it should have been offered. What was this secretshared between these three of which I was ignorant? I declared tomyself that I would know as soon as my father and I were alonetogether. I would insist upon all these things being made clear tome. I would bear it no longer, I was resolved on that. But in themeantime I was helpless.
"Very well," I answered; "perhaps you are right, I will go by thefootpath."
I left the room abruptly. Mr. Deville opened the front door for me,and hesitated with his cap in his hand. I waved him away.
"I will go alone," I said. "It is quite light."
"As you will," he answered, shortly. "Good-night."
He turned on his heel and re-entered the room. I crossed the road withsoft footsteps. At the opening of the plantation I paused. My fatherwas in the road below walking wearily and leaning upon his stick. Atmy sudden standstill a twig beneath my feet snapped short. A suddenchange seemed to transform his face. He stopped short and turnedround with the swift, eager movement of a young man. His hand fumbledfor a moment in the pocket of his long clerical coat, and reappearedclutching something which flashed like steel in the dull light. Heheld it at arm's length, looking eagerly around, peering forward in mydirection, but unable to see me owing to the dark shadows of the treesbeneath which I stood. But I on the other hand could see his everymovement; in the half-light his figure stood out in such marvellousdistinctness against the white road and the low, grey line of skybeyond. I could see him, and I could see what it was he carried in hishand. It was a small, shining revolver.
He stood quite still like a man expecting a sudden attack. Whennone came and the stillness remained unbroken, the strained, eagerlight died slowly out of his face. He appeared rather disappointedthan relieved. Reluctantly he turned around, and with the revolverstill in his hand but hidden beneath the skirts of his coat, madehis way up the white hill towards the Vicarage. He must have walkedquickly, for although I hurried, and my way back was the shorter, hewas already at our gate when I emerged from the plantation. As hestooped to adjust the fastening I heard him groan, and bending forwardI caught a glimpse of his face. I must have cried out, only my lipsseemed palsied as though I were but a sleeping figure in some terriblenightmare. His face was like the face of a dead man. He seemed to haveaged by at least a dozen years. As he hastened up the little drive,his walk, usually so dignified and elastic, became a shamble. Itseemed to me that this was but the wreck of the man who had left usonly a few days before.
The Yellow House; Master of Men Page 7
