“Now you are more like yourself. Business responsibilities are as hard to shake off as a critical case in medicine.”
“Yes,” was the muttered reply, as Frank rose from the table, and took the cigar his friend offered him. “And business with me just now is particularly perplexing. I cannot get any clue to Harriet Smith or her heirs, nor can the police or the presumably sharp detective I have put upon the search.”
“That must please Huckins.”
“Yes, confound him! such a villain as he is! I sometimes wonder if he killed his sister.”
“That you can certainly find out.”
“No, for she had a mortal complaint, and that satisfies the physicians. But there are ways of hastening a death, and those I dare avow he would not be above using. The greed in his eyes would do anything; it even suffices to make him my very good friend, now that he sees that he might lose everything by opposing me.”
“I am glad you see through his friendship.”
“See through a sieve?”
“He plays his part badly, then?”
“He cannot help it, with that face of his; and then he gave himself away in the beginning. No attitude he could take now would make me forget the sneak I saw in him then.”
This topic was interesting, but Edgar knew it was no matter of business which had caused the fitful changes he had been observing in Frank’s tell-tale countenance. Yet he did not broach any other theme, and it was Frank who finally remarked:
“I suppose you think me a fool to fix my heart on a woman with a secret.”
“Fool is a strong word,” answered Edgar, somewhat bitterly, “but that you were unfortunate to have been attracted by Hermione Cavanagh, I think any man would acknowledge. You would acknowledge it yourself, if you stopped to weigh the consequences of indulging a passion for a woman so eccentric.”
“Perhaps I should, if my interest would allow me to stop. But it won’t, Edgar; it has got too strong a hold upon me; everything else sinks in importance before it. I love her, and am willing to sacrifice something for her sake.”
“Something, perhaps; but in this case it would be everything.”
“I do not think so.”
“You do not think so now; but you would soon.”
“Perhaps I should, but it is hard to realize it. Besides, she would drop her eccentricities if her affections once became engaged.”
“Oh, if you have assurance of that.”
“Do I need assurance? Doesn’t it stand to reason? A woman loved is so different from a woman—” scorned, he was going to say, but, remembering himself, added softly, “from a woman who has no one to think of but herself.”
“This woman has a sister,” observed Edgar.
Frank faltered. “Yes, and that sister is involved in her fate,” thought he, but he said, quietly: “Emma Cavanagh does not complain of Hermione; on the contrary, she expresses the greatest affection for her.”
“They are both mysteries,” exclaimed Edgar, and dropped the subject, though it was not half talked out.
Frank was quite willing to accept his silence, for he was out of sorts with his friend and with himself. He knew his passion was a mad one, and yet he felt that it had made giant strides that day, and had really been augmented instead of diminished by the refusal he had received from Hermione, and the encouragement to persistence which he had received from her usually shy sister. As the evening wore on and the night approached, his thoughts not only grew in intensity, but deepened into tenderness. It was undoubtedly a passion that had smitten him, but that passion was hallowed by the unselfish feelings of a profound affection. He did not want her to engage herself to him if it would not be for her happiness. That it would be, every throb of his heart assured him, but he might be mistaken, and if so, better her dreams of the past than a future he could not make bright. He was so moved at the turmoil which his thoughts made in his usually quiet breast, that he could not think of sleep, but sat in his room for hours indulging in dreams which his practical nature would have greatly scorned a few short weeks before. He saw her again in fancy in every attitude in which his eyes had ever beheld her, and sanctified thus by distance, her beauty seemed both wonderful and touching. And that was not all. Some chord between them seemed to have been struck, and he felt himself drawn towards her as if (it was a strange fancy) she stood by that garden gate, and was looking in his direction with rapt, appealing eyes. So strong became that fancy at last, that he actually rose to his feet and went to the window which opened towards the south.
“Hermione! Hermione!” broke in longing from his lips, and then annoyed at what he could not but consider a display of weakness on his part, he withdrew himself from the window, determined to forget for the moment that there lived for him such a cause for love and sorrow. But what man can forget by a mere effort of will, or what lover shut his eyes to the haunting vision which projects itself upon the inner consciousness. In fancy he saw her still, and this time she seemed to be pacing up and down the poplar walk, wringing her hands and wildly calling his name. It was more than he could bear. He must know if this was only an hallucination, and in a feverish impulse he rushed from his room with the intention of going to her at once.
But he no sooner stood in the hall than he realized he was not alone in the house, and that he should have to pass Edgar’s door. He naturally felt some hesitation at this and was inclined to give up his purpose. But the fever urging him on said no; so stealing warily down the hall he stepped softly by the threshold of his friend’s room, when to his surprise he perceived that the door was ajar.
Pushing it gently open he found the room brilliant with moonlight but empty. Greatly relieved and considering that the doctor had been sent for by some suffering patient, he passed at once out of the house.
He went directly to that of Hermione, walking where the shadows were thickest as if he were afraid of being recognized. But no one was in the streets, and when he reached the point where the tall poplar-trees made a wall against the moonbeams, he slid into the deep obscurity he found there with a feeling of relief such as the heart experiences when it is suddenly released from some great strain.
Was she in the poplar walk? He did not mean to accost her if she were, nor to show himself or pass beyond the boundary of the wall, but he must know if her restless spirit drove her to pace these moonlit walks, and if it were true or not that she was murmuring his name.
The gate which opened in the wall at the side of the house was in a direct line with the window he had long ago fixed upon as hers. He accordingly took up his station at that spot and as he did so he was sure that he saw the flitting of some dark form amid the alternate bands of moonlight and shadow that lay across the weird pathway before him. Holding his breath he listened. Oh, the stillness of the night! How awesome and yet how sweet it was! But is there no break in the universal silence? Above his head the ever restless leaves make a low murmuring, and far away in the dim distances rises a faint sound that he cannot mistake; it is the light footfall of a dainty woman.
He can see her now. She is coming towards him, her shadow gliding before her. Seeing it he quails. From the rush of emotion seizing him, he knows that he should not be upon this spot, and panting with the effort, he turns and flees just as the sudden sound of a lifted window comes from the house.
That arrests him. Pausing, he looks up. It is her window that is open, and in the dark square thus made he sees her face bright with the moonlight streaming over it. Instantly he recovers himself. It is Emma’s step, not Hermione’s, he hears upon the walk. Hermione is above and in an anxious mood, for she is looking eagerly out and calling her sister by name.
“I am coming,” answers back the clear, low voice of Emma from below.
“It is late,” cries Hermione, “and very cold. Come in, Emma.”
“I am coming,” repeated the young girl. And in another moment he heard her step draw nearer, saw her flitting figure halt for a moment on the door-step before him and then disappea
r just as the window closed above. He had not been observed.
Relieved, he drew a long breath and leaned his head against the garden wall. Ah, how fair had been the vision of his beloved one’s face in the moonlight. It filled him with indescribable thoughts; it made his spirit reel and his heart burn; it made him ten times her lover. Yet because he was her lover he felt that he ought not to linger there any longer; that the place was hallowed even from his presence, and that he should return at once to the doctor’s house. But when he lifted his head he heard steps, this time not within the wall but on the roadside behind him, and alert at once to the mischievous surmises which might be aroused by the discovery of his presence there, he remained perfectly still in the hope that his form would be so lost in the deep shadows where he had withdrawn himself, that he would not be seen.
But the person, whoever it was, had evidently already detected him, for the footsteps turned the corner and advanced rapidly to where he stood. Should he step forward and meet the intruder, or remain still and await the words of surprise he had every reason to expect? He decided to remain where he was, and in another moment realized his wisdom in doing so, for the footsteps passed on and did not halt till they had reached the gate. But they paused there and at once he felt himself seized by a sudden jealousy and took a step forward, eager to see what this man would do.
He did not do much; he cast a look up at the house, and a heavy sigh broke from his lips; then he leaned forward and plucked a rose that grew inside the wall and kissed it there in the moonlight, and put it inside his breast-pocket; then he turned again towards the highway, and started back in surprise to see Frank Etheridge standing before him.
“Edgar!” cried the one.
“Frank!” exclaimed the other.
“You have misled me,” accused Frank; “you do love her, or you would not be here.”
“Love whom?” asked Edgar, bitterly.
“Hermione.”
“Does Hermione tend the flowers?”
“Ah!” ejaculated Frank, understanding his friend for the first time; “it is Emma you are attached to. I see! I see! Forgive me, Edgar; passion is so blind to everything but its own object. Of course it is Emma; why shouldn’t it be!”
Yet for all its assurance his voice had strange tones in it, and Edgar, already annoyed at his own self-betrayal, looked at him suspiciously as they drew away together towards the main street.
“I am glad to find this out,” said Frank, with a hilarity slightly forced, or so thought his friend, who could not know what thoughts and hopes this discovery had awakened in the other’s breast. “You have kept your secret well, but now that I know it you cannot refuse to make me your confidant, when there is so much to tell involving my happiness as well as your own.”
“I have no happiness, Frank.”
“Nor I; but I mean to have.”
“Mean to marry Miss Cavanagh?”
“Of course, if I can induce her to marry me.”
“I do not mean to marry Emma.”
“You do not? Because she has a secret? because she is involved in a mystery?”
“Partly; that would be enough, Frank; but I have another good reason. Miss Emma Cavanagh does not care for me.”
“You know that? You have asked her?”
“A year ago; this is no sudden passion with me; I have loved her all my life.”
“Edgar! And you mean to give her up?”
“Give her up?”
“If I were you, nothing would induce me to resign my hopes, not even her own coldness. I would win her. Have you tried again since your return?”
“Frank, she is a recluse now; I could not marry a recluse; my wife must play her part in the world, and be my helpmate abroad as well as at home.”
“Yes, yes; but as I said in my own case, win her love and that will all right itself. No woman’s resolve will hold out against a true passion.”
“But you forget, she has no true passion for me.”
Frank did not answer; he was musing over the subject. He had had an opportunity for seeing into the hearts of these girls which had been denied to Edgar. Had he seen love there? Yes, but in Hermione’s breast, not Emma’s. And yet Emma was deeply sad, and it was Emma whom he had just seen walking her restlessness off under the trees at midnight.
“Edgar,” he suddenly exclaimed, “you may not understand this girl. Their whole existence is a mystery, and so may their hearts be. Won’t you tell me how it was she refused you? It may serve to throw some light upon the facts.”
“What light? She refused me as all coquettish women refuse the men whom they have led to believe in their affection.”
“Ah! you once believed, then, in her affection.”
“Should I have offered myself if I had not?”
“I don’t know; I only know I didn’t wait for any such belief on the part of Hermione.”
“You are impulsive, Frank, I am not; I weigh well what I do, fortunately for myself.”
“Yet you did not prosper in this affair.”
“No, because I did not take a woman’s waywardness into consideration. I thought I had a right to count upon her regard, and I found myself mistaken.”
“Explain yourself,” entreated Frank.
“Will not tomorrow do? Here we are at home, and it must be one o’clock at least.”
“I should sleep better if I knew it all now,” Frank intimated.
“Well, then, come to my room; but there is nothing in the story to specially interest you. I loved her—”
“Edgar, you must be explicit. I am half lawyer in listening to this tale; I want to understand these girls.”
“Girls? It is of Emma only that I have to speak.”
“I know, but tell the story with some details; tell me where you first met her.”
“Oh, if I must,” sighed Edgar, who hated all talk about himself, “let’s be comfortable.” And throwing himself into a chair, he pointed out another to Frank.
“This is more like it,” acknowledged the latter.
Edgar lit a cigar; perhaps he felt that he could hide all emotion behind its fumes. Frank did not take one.
“I have known Emma Cavanagh ever since we were children,” began Edgar. “As a school-boy I thought her the merriest-eyed witch in town.— Is she merry now?”
Frank shook his head.
“Well, I suppose she has grown older, but then she was as full of laughter and fun as any blue-eyed Mischief could well be, and I, who have a cynical turn of mind, liked the brightness of hers as I shall never like her sadness—if she is sad. But that was in my adolescence, and being as shy as I was inclined to be cynical, I never showed her my preference, or even joined the mirthful company of which she was the head. I preferred to stand back and hear her laughter, or talk to Hermione while watching her sister.”
“Ah!” thought Frank.
“When I went to college she went to school, and when I graduated as a doctor she was about graduating also. But she did not come home at that time for more than a fleeting visit. Friends wished her company on a trip abroad, and she went away from Marston just as I settled here for my first year of practice. I was disappointed at this, but I made what amends to myself I could by cultivating the acquaintance of her father, and making myself necessary to him by my interest in his studies. I spent much of my spare time at the house, and though I never asked after Emma, I used to get continual news of her from her sister.”
“Ah!” again ejaculated Frank to himself.
“At last she returned, and—I do not know how she looks now, but she was pretty then, wonderfully pretty, and more animated in her manner than any other woman I have ever seen. I saw her first at a picnic, and though I lacked courage to betray the full force of my feeling, I imagined she understood me, for her smiles became dazzling, and she joked with everybody but me. At last I had her for a few minutes to myself, and then the pent up passion of months had its way, and I asked her to be my wife. Frank, you may find it easy to tal
k about these things, but I do not. I can only say she seemed to listen to me with modest delight, and when I asked her for her answer she gave me a look I shall never forget, and would have spoken but that her father called her just then, and we were obliged to separate. I saw her for just another moment that day, but there were others about, and I could only whisper, ‘If you love me, come to the ball next week’; to which she gave me no other reply than an arch look and a smile which, as I have said before, appeared to promise me all I could desire. Appeared, but did not; for when I called at the house the next day I was told that Mr. Cavanagh was engaged in an experiment that could not be interrupted, and when I asked to see the ladies received word that they were very busy preparing for the ball and could see no one. Relieved at this, for the ball was near at hand, I went home, and being anxious to do the honorable thing, I wrote to Mr. Cavanagh, and, telling him that I loved his daughter, formally asked for the honor of her hand. This note I sent by a messenger.
“I did not receive an immediate reply (why do you want all these particulars, Frank?); but I did not worry, for her look was still warm in my memory. But when two days passed and no message arrived I became uneasy, and had it not been for the well-known indifference of Mr. Cavanagh to all affairs of life outside of his laboratory, I should have given up in despair. But as it was, I kept my courage up till the night of the ball, when it suddenly fell, never to rise again. For will you believe it, Frank, she was not there, nor any of her family, though all had engaged to go, and had made many preparations for the affair, as I knew.”
“And did no letter come? Did you never see Miss Cavanagh again, or any of her family?”
“I received a note, but it was very short, though it was in Emma’s handwriting. She had not been well, was her excuse, and so could not be present at the ball. As for the offer I had been kind enough to make her, it was far above her deserts, and so must be gratefully declined. Then came a burst of something like contrition, and the prayer that I would not seek to make her alter her mind, as her decision was irrevocable. Added to this was one line from her father, to the effect that interesting as our studies were, he felt compelled to tell me he should have no further time to give to them at present, and so bade me a kindly adieu. Was there ever a more complete dismissal? I felt as if I had been thrust out of the house.”
The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack Page 170
