A silent witness
playful impertinence had suddenly brought home to her the void that
was in her life; the lack of intimate affection at which she had
seemed to hint. And, instantly, all that was masculine in me had risen
up with the immemorial instinct of the male in defence of the female;
for, whatever her faults may have been, Mrs. Samway was feminine to
the finger-tips.
She pressed my hand for a moment and impatiently brushed the tears
from her eyes.
“I do hope, Dr. Jardine,” she said, looking up at me with a smile,
“that your wife will be a good woman. You’ll be a dreadful victim if
she isn’t, with your quick sympathy and your endless patience with
feminine silliness. And now I won’t plague you any more with my
tantrums. I hope I am not bringing you a great deal out of your way.
You do live in this direction, don’t you?”
“Yes; and I have been assuming that my direction was yours, too. Is
that right? Are you going back to Hampstead Road?”
“Not at once. I’m going to make a call at Highgate first.”
“Then you’ll want to go up Highgate Rise or Swain’s Lane; and I will
walk up with you if you’ll let me.”
“I think my nearest way will be up the little path that leads out of
Swain’s Lane. You know it, I expect?”
“Yes. It is locally known as Love Lane: it leads to the crest of the
hill.”
“That is right. You shall see me to the top of it and then I’ll take
myself off and leave you in peace.”
We had by this time crossed Parliament Hill Fields and passed the end
of the Highgate Ponds. A few paces more brought us out at the top of
the Grove and a few more to the entrance of the rather steep and very
narrow lane. For some time Mrs. Samway walked by my side in silence,
and, by the reflective way in which she looked at the ground before
her, seemed to be wrapped in meditation, which I did not disturb. As
we entered the lane, however, she looked up at me thoughtfully and
said:
“I wonder what you think of me, Dr. Jardine.”
It was a fine opening for a compliment, but somehow, compliments
seemed out of place, after what had passed between us. I accordingly
evaded the question with another.
“What do you suppose I think of you?”
“I don’t know. I hardly know what I think of myself. You would be
quite justified in thinking me rather forward, to waylay you in this
deliberate fashion.”
“Well, I don’t. Your curiosity about that Folkestone affair seems most
natural and reasonable.”
“I’m glad you don’t think me forward,” she said; “but, as to my
curiosity, I am beginning to doubt whether it was that alone that
determined me of a sudden to come here and talk to you. I half suspect
that I was feeling a little more solitary than usual, and that some
instinct told me that you would be kind to me and say nice things and
pet me just a little--as you have done.”
I was deeply touched by her pathetic little confession; so deeply that
I could find nothing to say in return.
“You don’t think any the worse of me,” she continued, “for coming to
you and begging a little sympathy and friendship?”
As she spoke, she looked up very wistfully and earnestly in my face,
and rested her hand for a moment on my arm. I took it in mine and drew
her arm under my own as I replied:
“Of course I don’t. Only I think it a wonder and a shame that my poor
friendship and sympathy should be worth the consideration of a woman
like you.”
She pressed my arm slightly, and, after a little interval, said in a
low voice with just the suspicion of a tremor in it:
“You have been very kind to me, Dr. Jardine; more kind than you know.
I am very, very grateful to you for taking what was really an
intrusion so nicely.”
“It was not in the least an intrusion,” I protested; “and as to
gratitude, a good many men would be very delighted to earn it on the
same terms. You don’t seem to set much value on your own exceedingly
agreeable society.”
She smiled very prettily at this, and again we walked on for a while
up the slope without speaking. Once she turned her head as if
listening for some sound from behind us, but our feet were making so
much noise on the loose gravel, and the sound reverberated so much in
the narrow space between the wooden fences that I, at least, heard
nothing. Presently we turned a slight bend and came in sight of the
opening at the top of the hill, guarded by a couple of posts. Within a
few yards of the latter she halted, and withdrawing her hand from my
arm, turned round and faced me.
“We must say ‘Good-bye’ here,” said she. “I wonder if I shall ever see
you again.”
For a moment I felt a strong impulse to propose some future meeting at
a definite date, but, fortunately some glimmering of discretion--and
perhaps some thought of Sylvia--restrained me.
“Why shouldn’t you?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But mine is rather a vagabond existence, and I suppose
you will be travelling about soon. I hope we shall meet again; but if
we do not, I shall always think of you as my friend, and you will have
a kind thought for me sometimes, won’t you?”
“I shall indeed. I shall think of you very often and hope that your
life is brighter than it seems to be now.”
“Thank you,” she said earnestly; “and now ‘Good-bye!’”
She held out her hand, and, as I grasped it, she looked in my face
with the wistful, yearning expression that I had noticed before, and
which so touched me to the heart that, yielding to a sudden impulse, I
drew her to me and kissed her. Dim as was the light of the fading
winter’s day, I could see that she had, in an instant, turned scarlet.
But she was not angry; for, as she drew away from me, shyly and almost
reluctantly, she gave me one of her prettiest smiles and whispered
“Good-bye” again. Then she ran out between the posts, and, turning
once again--and still as red as a peony--waved me a last farewell.
I stood in the narrow entrance looking out after her with a strange
mixture of emotions; pity, wonder and admiration and a little doubt as
to my own part in the late transaction. For I had never before kissed
a married woman, and cooling judgment did not altogether approve the
new departure; for if Mr. Samway was not all that he might be, still
he was Mr. Samway and I wasn’t. Nevertheless, I stood and watched my
late companion with very warm interest until she faded into the dusk;
and even then I continued to stand by the posts, gazing out into the
waning twilight and cogitating on our rather strange interview.
Suddenly my ear caught a sound from behind me, down the lane; a sound
which, while it set my suspicion on the alert, brought a broad grin to
my face. It was what I suppose I must call a stealthy footstep, but
the stealthiness might have stood for the very type and essence of
futility, for, as I have said, the ground sloped pretty steeply and
was covered with loose pebbles, whereby every movement of the foot was
rendered as audible as a thunderclap. However, absurd as the situation
seemed--if the unseen person was really trying to approach by
stealth--it was necessary to be on my guard. Moreover, if this should
chance to be the person with the nystagmus, the present seemed to be
an excellent opportunity for coming to some sort of understanding with
him.
Accordingly I wheeled about and began to walk back down the lane.
Instantly, the steps--no longer stealthy--began to retire. I quickened
my pace; the unknown and invisible eavesdropper quickened his. Then I
broke into a run, and so did he, notwithstanding which, I think I
should have had him but for an untoward accident. The ground was not
only sloping, but, under the loose gravel, was as hard as stone.
Consequently, the foothold was none of the best, as I presently
discovered, for, as I raced down one of the steepest slopes, the
pebbles suddenly rolled away under my foot and I lost my balance. But
I did not fall instantly. Half recovering, I flew forward, clawing the
air, stamping, staggering, kicking up the gravel, and making the most
infernal hubbub and clatter, before I finally subsided into a sitting
posture on the pebbles. When I rose, the footsteps were no longer
audible, though the lower end of the lane was still some distance
away.
I resumed my progress at a more sedate pace and kept a sharp look-out
for a possible ambush, though the lane was too narrow, even in the
darkness that now pervaded it, to furnish much cover to an enemy. Some
distance down, I came to an opening in the fence, where one or two
boards had become loose, and was half disposed to squeeze through and
explore. But I did not, for, on reflection, it occurred to me that if
the man was not there it would be useless for me to go, while if he
should be hiding behind the fence it would be simply insane of me to
put my head through the hole.
When I emerged into the road at the bottom, I looked about vaguely,
but, of course there was no sign of the fugitive--nor, indeed, could I
have identified him if I had met him. I loitered about undecidedly for
a minute or two, and then, realizing the futility of keeping a watch
on the entrance of the lane for a man whom I could not recognize, and
becoming conscious of a ravenous desire for food I made my way down
the Grove in the direction of my lodgings.
CHAPTER XV.
EXIT DR. JARDINE
My second visit to “The Hawthorns,” to which I had looked forward
with some eagerness, had, after all, to be postponed indefinitely. I
say “had,” since, under the circumstances, it appeared to be so unsafe
that I could not fairly take the risk that it involved. I had made the
engagement thoughtlessly, and, in my preoccupation with Mrs. Samway,
had not realized the indiscretion to which I had committed myself
until I was brought back sharply to the actual conditions by the
incident in Love Lane which I have mentioned. But, after that, I saw
that it would be the wildest folly to show myself in the vicinity of
Sylvia’s house. Evidently the spy, after we had given him the slip so
neatly, had made direct for my lodgings and lurked in the
neighbourhood, and there it must have been that he had picked me up
again as I passed with Mrs. Samway. Of course it was possible that the
unseen person in the lane was not really shadowing me at all; but his
stealthy approach, his hasty retreat and his mysterious disappearance,
left me in very little doubt on the subject.
I was not very nervous about this enigmatical person on my own
account. In spite of my alarming experiences, I found it difficult to
take him as seriously as I should have done, and still felt a quite
unjustifiable confidence in my capability of taking care of myself.
But on Sylvia’s account I was exceedingly uneasy. The interest that
this man had shown in the unlucky little ornament that she wore,
associated itself in my mind most disagreeably with her mysterious and
terrifying adventure in Millfield Lane, and made me feel that it would
be sheer insanity for me to go from my house to hers and so possibly
give this unknown villain the clue to her whereabouts.
This conclusion, at which I had arrived over-night, was confirmed on
the following morning, for, having taken a brisk walk out in the
direction of Harrow, and having kept a very sharp look-out, I was
distinctly conscious of the fact that there always appeared to be a
man in sight. I never got near him and was not able to recognize him,
but at intervals throughout the morning he continually reappeared in
the distance, even on the comparatively solitary country roads and the
hedge-divided meadows.
It was excessively irritating. Yet what could I do? Even if I could
have identified him with the man who had apparently shadowed me
before, I really had nothing against him. And cogitating on the
matter, with no little annoyance, I determined to take counsel with
Thorndyke, and meanwhile to avoid the neighbourhood of “The
Hawthorns.”