Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  During that long hour Kate had remained in the breakfast-room, still nursing her injured companion, and very busy with her own thoughts. She was as convinced now that Tom had been true to her as if she had had the assurance from his own lips. Still there was much that was unaccountable — much which she was unable to fathom. A vague sense of the wickedness around her depressed and weighed her down. What deep scheme could these men have invented to keep him away from her during these long weeks? Was he, too, under some delusion, or the victim of some conspiracy? Whatever had been done was certainly connived at by her guardian. For the first time a true estimate of the character of the elder Girdlestone broke upon her, and she dimly realised that the pious, soft-spoken merchant was more to be dreaded than his brutal son. A shudder ran through her whole frame as, looking up, she saw him standing before her.

  His appearance was far from reassuring. His hands were clasped behind his back, his head bent forward, and he surveyed her with a most malignant expression upon his face.

  “Well done!” he said, with a bitter smile. “Well done! This is a good morning’s work, Miss Harston. You have repaid your father’s friend for the care he has bestowed upon you.”

  “My only wish is to leave your house,” cried Kate, with an angry flash in her deep blue eyes. “You are a cruel, wicked, hypocritical old man. You have deceived me about Mr. Dimsdale. I read it in your son’s face, and now I read it in your own. How could you do it — oh, how could you have the heart?”

  John Girdlestone was fairly staggered by this blaze of feminine anger in his demure and obedient ward. “God knows,” he said, “whatever my faults may have been, neglect of you has not been among them. I am not immaculate. Even the just man falleth. If I have endeavoured to wean you from this foolish love affair of yours, it has been entirely because I saw that it was against your own interests.”

  “You have told lies in order to turn me away from the only man who ever loved me. You and your odious son have conspired to ruin my happiness and break my heart. What have you told him that keeps him away? I shall see him and learn the truth.” Kate’s face was unnaturally calm and rigid as she faced her guardian’s angry gaze.

  “Silence!” the old man cried hoarsely. “You forget your position in this house. You are presuming too much upon my kindness. As to this girl’s fancy of yours, you may put all thought of it out of your head. I am still your guardian, and I should be culpably remiss if I ever allowed you to see this man again. This afternoon you shall come with me to Hampshire.”

  “To Hampshire?”

  “Yes. I have taken a small country seat there, where we intend to spend some months of the winter. You shall leave it when you have reconciled yourself to forget these romantic ideas of yours — but not till then.”

  “Then I shall never leave it,” said Kate, with a sigh.

  “That will depend upon yourself. You shall at least be guarded there from the advances of designing persons. When you come of age you may follow your own fancies. Until then my conscience demands, and the law allows, that I should spare no pains to protect you from your own folly. We start from Waterloo at four.” Girdlestone turned for the door, but looked round as he was leaving the room. “May God forgive you,” he said solemnly, raising his lean hands towards the ceiling, “for what you have done this day!”

  Poor Kate, left to herself, was much concerned by this fresh misfortune. She knew that her guardian had power to carry out his plan, and that there was no appeal from his decision. What could she do? She had not a friend in the wide world to whom she could turn for advice or assistance. It occurred to her to fly to the Dimsdales at Kensington, and throw herself upon their compassion. It was only the thought of Tom which prevented her. In her heart she had fully exonerated him, yet there was much to be explained before they could be to each other as of old. She might write to Mrs. Dimsdale, but then her guardian had not told her what part of Hampshire they were going to. She finally came to the conclusion that it would be better to wait, and to write when she had reached her destination. In the meantime, she went drearily to her room and began packing, aided by the ruddy-cheeked maid, Rebecca.

  At half-past three a cab drove up to the door, and the old merchant stepped out of it. The boxes were thrown upon the top, and the young lady curtly ordered to get in. Girdlestone took his seat beside her, and gave a sign to the cabman to drive on. As they rattled out of the square, Kate looked back at the great gloomy mansion in which she had spent the last three years of her life. Had she known what the future was to bring, it is possible that she would have clung even to that sombre and melancholy old house as to an ark of safety.

  Another cab passed through Eccleston Square that evening — a cab which bore a pale-faced and wild-eyed young man, who looked ever and anon impatiently out of the window to see if he were nearing his destination. Long before reaching No. 69 he had opened the door, and was standing upon the step. The instant that the cab pulled up he sprang off, and rang loudly at the great brass bell which flanked the heavy door.

  “Is Mr. Girdlestone in?” he asked, as Rebecca appeared at the door.

  “No, sir.”

  “Miss Harston, is she at home?” he said excitedly.

  “No, sir. They have both gone away.”

  “Gone away!”

  “Yes. Gone into the country, sir. And Mr. Ezra, too, sir.”

  “And when are they coming back?” he asked, in bewilderment.

  “They are not coming back.”

  “Impossible!” Tom cried in despair. “What is their address, then?”

  “They have left no address. I am sorry I can’t help you. Good night, sir.” Rebecca closed the door, laughing maliciously at the visitor’s bewildered looks. She knew the facts of the case well, and having long been jealous of her young mistress, she was not sorry to find things going wrong with her.

  Tom Dimsdale stood upon the doorstep looking blankly into the night. He felt dazed and bewildered. What fresh villainy was this? Was it a confirmation of the German’s report, or was it a contradiction of it? Cold beads stood upon his forehead as he thought of the possibility of such a thing. “I must find her,” he cried, with clenched hands, and turned away heartsick into the turmoil and bustle of the London streets.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  A CONVERSATION IN THE ECCLESTON SQUARE LIBRARY.

  Rebecca, the fresh-complexioned waiting-maid, was still standing behind the ponderous hall door, listening, with a smile upon her face, to young Dimsdale’s retreating footsteps, when another and a brisker tread caught her ear coming from the opposite direction. The smile died away as she heard it, and her features assumed a peculiar expression, in which it would be hard to say whether fear or pleasure predominated. She passed her hands up over her face and smoothed her hair with a quick nervous gesture, glancing down at the same time at her snowy apron and the bright ribbons which set it off. Whatever her intentions may have been, she had no time to improve upon her toilet before a key turned in the door and Ezra Girdlestone stepped into the hall. As he saw her shadowy figure, for the gas was low, he uttered a hoarse cry of surprise and fear, and staggered backwards against the door-post.

  “Don’t be afeared, Mister Ezra,” she said in a whisper; “it’s only me.”

  “The devil take you!” cried Ezra furiously. “What makes you stand about like that? You gave me quite a turn.”

  “I didn’t mean for to do it. I’ve only just been answering of the door. Why, surely you’ve come in before now and found me in the hall without making much account of it.”

  “Ah, lass,” answered Ezra, “my nerves have had a shake of late.

  I’ve felt queer all day. Look how my hand shakes.”

  “Well, I’m blessed!” said the girl, with a titter, turning up the gas. “I never thought to see you afeared of anything. Why, you looks as white as a sheet!”

  “There, that’s enough!” he answered roughly. “Where are the others?”

  “Jane is out. Cook and William
and the boy are downstairs.”

  “Come into the library here. They will think that you are up in the bedrooms. I want to have a quiet word or two with you. Turn up that reading lamp. Well, are they gone?”

  “Yes, they are gone,” she answered, standing by the side of the couch on which he had thrown himself. “Your father came about three with a cab, and took her away.”

  “She didn’t make a fuss?”

  “Make a fuss? No; why should she? There’s fuss enough made about her, in all conscience. Oh, Ezra, before she got between us you was kind to me at times. I could stand harsh words from you six days a week, if there was a chance of a kind one on the seventh. But now — now what notice do you take of me?” She began to whimper and to wipe her eyes with a little discoloured pocket-handkerchief.

  “Drop it, woman, drop it!” cried her companion testily. “I want information, not snivelling. She seemed reconciled to go?”

  “Yes, she went quiet enough,” the girl said, with a furtive sob.

  “Just give me a drop of brandy out of that bottle over there — the one with the cork half out. I’ve not got over my start yet. Did you hear my father say anything as to where they were going?”

  “I heard him tell the cabman to drive to Waterloo Station.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if he won’t tell you, I will. They have gone down to Hampshire, my lass. Bedsworth is the name of the place, and it is a pleasant little corner near the sea. I want you to go down there as well to-morrow.”

  “Want me to go?”

  “Yes; they need some one who is smart and handy to keep house for them.

  There is some old woman already, I believe, but she is old and useless.

  I’ll warrant you wouldn’t take long getting things shipshape. My father

  intends to stay down there some little time with Miss Harston.”

  “And how about you?” the girl asked, with a quick flash of suspicion in her dark eyes.

  “Don’t trouble about me. I shall stay behind and mind the business. Some one must be on the spot. I think cook and Jane and William ought to be able to look after me among them.”

  “And I won’t see you at all?” the girl cried, with a quiver in her voice.

  “Oh yes, you shall. I’ll be down from Saturday to Monday every week, and perhaps oftener. If business goes well I may come down and stay for some time. Whether I do or not may depend upon you.”

  Rebecca Taylforth started and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

  “How can it depend upon me?” she asked eagerly.

  “Well,” said Ezra, in a hesitating way, “it may depend upon whether you are a good girl, and do what you are told or not. I am sure that you would do anything to serve me, would you not?”

  “You know very well that I would, Mister Ezra. When you want anything done you remember it, but if you have no use for me, then there is never a kind look on your face or a kind word from your lips. If I was a dog you could not use me worse. I could stand your harshness. I could stand the blow you gave me, and forgive you for it, from my heart; but, oh! it cut me to the very soul to be standing by and waiting while you were making up to another woman. It was more than I can bear.”

  “Never mind, my girl,” said Ezra in a soothing voice; “that’s all over and done with. See what I’ve brought you.” He rummaged in his pocket and produced a little parcel of tissue paper, which he handed to her.

  It was only a small silver anchor, with Scotch pebbles inlaid in it. The woman’s eyes, however, flashed as she looked at it, and she raised it to her lips and kissed it passionately.

  “God bless it and you too!” she said. “I’ve heard tell as the anchor’s the emblem of hope, and so it shall be with me. Oh, Ezra, you may travel far and meet them as can play and can sing and do many a thing as I can’t do, but you’ll never get one who will love you as dearly and well.”

  “I know it, my lass, I know it,” said Ezra, smoothing down her dark hair, for she had dropped upon her knees beside the couch. “I’ve never met your equal yet. That’s why I want you down at Bedsworth. I must have some one there that I can trust.

  “What am I to do down at Bedsworth?” she asked.

  “I want you to be Miss Harston’s companion. She’ll be lonely, and will need some other woman in the house to look after her.”

  “Curse her!” cried Rebecca, springing to her feet with flashing eyes. “You are still thinking of her, then! She must have this; she must have that! Everything else is as dirt before her. I’ll not serve her — so there! You can knock me down if you like.”

  “Rebecca,” said Ezra slowly, “do you hate Kate Harston?”

  “From the bottom of my soul,” she answered.

  “Well, if you hate her, I tell you that I hate her a thousand times more. You thought that I was fond of her. All that is over now, and you may set your mind at ease.”

  “Why do you want her so well cared for, then?” asked the girl suspiciously.

  “I want some one who feels towards her as I do to be by her side. If she were never to come back from Bedsworth it would be nothing to me.”

  “What makes you look at me so strangely?” she said, shrinking away from his intense gaze.

  “Never mind. You go. You will understand many things in time which seem strange to you now. At present if you will do what I ask you will oblige me greatly. Will you go?”

  “Yes, I will go.”

  “There’s a good lass. Give us a kiss, my girl. You have the right spirit in you. I’ll let you know when the train goes to-morrow, and I will write to my father to expect you. Now, off with you, or you’ll have them gossiping downstairs. Good night.”

  “Good night, Mister Ezra,” said the girl, with her hand upon the handle of the library door. “You’ve made my heart glad this night. I live in hope — ever in hope.”

  “I wonder what the deuce she hopes about,” the young merchant said to himself as she closed the door behind her. “Hopes I’ll marry her, I suppose. She must be of a very sanguine disposition. A girl like that might be invaluable down at Bedsworth. If we had no other need for her, she would be an excellent spy.” He lay for some little time on the couch with bent brow and pursed lips, musing over the possibilities of the future.

  While this dialogue had been going on in the library of Eccleston Square, Tom Dimsdale was still wending his way homewards with a feeling of weight in his mind and a presentiment of misfortune which overshadowed his whole soul. In vain he assured himself that this disappearance of Kate’s was but temporary, and that the rumour of an engagement between her and Ezra was too ridiculous to be believed for a moment. Argue it as he would, the same dread, horrible feeling of impending trouble weighed upon him. Impossible as it was to imagine that Kate was false to him, it was strange that on the very day that this rumour reached his ears she should disappear from London. How bitterly he regretted now that he had allowed himself to be persuaded by John Girdlestone into ceasing to communicate with her. He began to realise that he had been duped, and that all these specious promises as to a future consent to their union had been so many baits to amuse him while the valuable present was slipping away. What could he do now to repair the past? His only course was to wait for the morrow and see whether the senior partner would appear at the offices. If he did so, the young man was determined that he should have an understanding with him.

  So downcast was Tom that, on arriving at Phillimore Gardens, he would have slipped off to his room at once had he not met his burly father upon the stairs. “Bed!” roared the old man upon hearing his son’s proposition. “Nothing of the sort, sir. Come down into the parlour and smoke a pipe with me. Your mother has been waiting for you all the evening.”

  “I am sorry to be late, mother,” the lad said, kissing the old lady.

  “I have been down at the docks all day and have been busy and worried.”

  Mrs. Dimsdale was sitting in her chair beside the fire, knittin
g, when her son came in. At the sound of his voice she glanced anxiously up at his face, with all her motherly instincts on the alert.

  “What is it, my boy?” she said. “You don’t look yourself. Something has gone wrong with you. Surely you’re not keeping anything secret from your old mother?”

  “Don’t be so foolish as that, my boy,” said the doctor earnestly. “If you have anything on your mind, out with it. There’s nothing so far wrong but that it can’t be set right, I’ll be bound.”

  Thus pressed, their son told them all that had happened, the rumour which he had heard from Von Baumser at the Cock and Cowslip, and the subsequent visit to Eccleston Square. “I can hardly realise it all yet,” he said in conclusion. “My head seems to be in a whirl, and I can’t reason about it.”

  The old couple listened very attentively to his narrative, and were silent some little time after he had finished. His mother first broke the silence. “I was always sure,” she said, “that we were wrong to stop our correspondence at the request of Mr. Girdlestone.”