The Lock and Key Library: Classic Mystery and Detective Stories: Modern English
"My father! How do you know that?" she cried.
"I saw you together when you landed," was my answer; and I do not know
why, but it seemed satisfactory to both of us, as indeed it was truth.
"But," I continued, "you need have no fear from me. I see you have some
reason to be secret, and, you may believe me, your secret is as safe with
me as if I were in Graden Floe. I have scarce spoken to anyone for years;
my horse is my only companion, and even he, poor beast, is not beside me.
You see, then, you may count on me for silence. So tell me the truth, my
dear young lady, are you not in danger?"
"Mr. Northmour says you are an honorable man," she returned, "and I
believe it when I see you. I will tell you so much; you are right: we are
in dreadful, dreadful danger, and you share it by remaining where you
are."
"Ah!" said I; "you have heard of me from Northmour? And he gives me a good
character?"
"I asked him about you last night," was her reply. "I pretended," she
hesitated, "I pretended to have met you long ago, and spoken to you of
him. It was not true; but I could not help myself without betraying you,
and you had put me in a difficulty. He praised you highly."
"And--you may permit me one question--does this danger come from
Northmour?" I asked.
"From Mr. Northmour?" she cried. "Oh, no, he stays with us to share it."
"While you propose that I should run away?" I said. "You do not rate me
very high."
"Why should you stay?" she asked. "You are no friend of ours."
I know not what came over me, for I had not been conscious of a similar
weakness since I was a child, but I was so mortified by this retort that
my eyes pricked and filled with tears, as I continued to gaze upon her
face.
"No, no," she said, in a changed voice; "I did not mean the words
unkindly."
"It was I who offended," I said; and I held out my hand with a look of
appeal that somehow touched her, for she gave me hers at once, and even
eagerly. I held it for awhile in mine, and gazed into her eyes. It was she
who first tore her hand away, and, forgetting all about her request and
the promise she had sought to extort, ran at the top of her speed, and
without turning, till she was out of sight. And then I knew that I loved
her, and thought in my glad heart that she--she herself--was not
indifferent to my suit. Many a time she has denied it in after days, but
it was with a smiling and not a serious denial. For my part, I am sure our
hands would not have lain so closely in each other if she had not begun to
melt to me already. And, when all is said, it is no great contention,
since, by her own avowal, she began to love me on the morrow.
And yet on the morrow very little took place. She came and called me down
as on the day before, upbraided me for lingering at Graden, and, when she
found I was still obdurate, began to ask me more particularly as to my
arrival. I told her by what series of accidents I had come to witness
their disembarkation, and how I had determined to remain, partly from the
interest which had been awakened in me by Northmour's guests, and partly
because of his own murderous attack. As to the former, I fear I was
disingenuous, and led her to regard herself as having been an attraction
to me from the first moment that I saw her on the links. It relieves my
heart to make this confession even now, when my wife is with God, and
already knows all things, and the honesty of my purpose even in this; for
while she lived, although it often pricked my conscience, I had never the
hardihood to undeceive her. Even a little secret, in such a married life
as ours, is like the rose leaf which kept the princess from her sleep.
From this the talk branched into other subjects, and I told her much about
my lonely and wandering existence; she, for her part, giving ear, and
saying little. Although we spoke very naturally, and latterly on topics
that might seem indifferent, we were both sweetly agitated. Too soon it
was time for her to go; and we separated, as if by mutual consent, without
shaking hands, for both knew that, between us, it was no idle ceremony.
The next, and that was the fourth day of our acquaintance, we met in the
same spot, but early in the morning, with much familiarity and yet much
timidity on either side. While she had once more spoken about my
danger--and that, I understood, was her excuse for coming--I, who had
prepared a great deal of talk during the night, began to tell her how
highly I valued her kind interest, and how no one had ever cared to hear
about my life, nor had I ever cared to relate it, before yesterday.
Suddenly she interrupted me, saying with vehemence--
"And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not so much as speak to me!"
I told her such a thought was madness, and, little as we had met, I
counted her already a dear friend; but my protestations seemed only to
make her more desperate.
"My father is in hiding!" she cried.
"My dear," I said, forgetting for the first time to add "young lady,"
"what do I care? If I were in hiding twenty times over, would it make one
thought of change in you?"
"Ah, but the cause!" she cried, "the cause! It is"--she faltered for a
second--"it is disgraceful to us!"
IV
This was my wife's story, as I drew it from her among tears and sobs. Her
name was Clara Huddlestone: it sounded very beautiful in my ears; but not
so beautiful as that other name of Clara Cassilis, which she wore during
the longer and, I thank God, the happier portion of her life. Her father,
Bernard Huddlestone, had been a private banker in a very large way of
business. Many years before, his affairs becoming disordered, he had been
led to try dangerous, and at last criminal, expedients to retrieve himself
from ruin. All was in vain; he became more and more cruelly involved, and
found his honor lost at the same moment with his fortune. About this
period, Northmour had been courting his daughter with great assiduity,
though with small encouragement; and to him, knowing him thus disposed in
his favor, Bernard Huddlestone turned for help in his extremity. It was
not merely ruin and dishonor, nor merely a legal condemnation, that the
unhappy man had brought upon his head. It seems he could have gone to
prison with a light heart. What he feared, what kept him awake at night or
recalled him from slumber into frenzy, was some secret, sudden, and
unlawful attempt upon his life. Hence, he desired to bury his existence
and escape to one of the islands in the South Pacific, and it was in
Northmour's yacht, the "Red Earl," that he designed to go. The yacht
picked them up clandestinely upon the coast of Wales, and had once more
deposited them at Graden, till she could be refitted and provisioned for
the longer voyage. Nor could Clara doubt that her hand had been stipulated
as the price of passage. For, although Northmour was neither unkind, nor
even discourteous, he had shown himself in several instances somewhat
overbold in speech and manner.
I listened, I need not say, with fixed attention, and put many questions
as to the more mysterious part. It was in vain. She had no clear idea of
what the blow was, nor of how it was expected to fall. Her father's alarm
was unfeigned and physically prostrating, and he had thought more than
once of making an unconditional surrender to the police. But the scheme
was finally abandoned, for he was convinced that not even the strength of
our English prisons could shelter him from his pursuers. He had had many
affairs in Italy, and with Italians resident in London, in the latter
years of his business; and these last, as Clara fancied, were somehow
connected with the doom that threatened him. He had shown great terror at
the presence of an Italian seaman on board the "Red Earl," and had
bitterly and repeatedly accused Northmour in consequence. The latter had
protested that Beppo (that was the seaman's name) was a capital fellow,
and could be trusted to the death; but Mr. Huddlestone had continued ever
since to declare that all was lost, that it was only a question of days,
and that Beppo would be the ruin of him yet.
I regarded the whole story as the hallucination of a mind shaken by
calamity. He had suffered heavy loss by his Italian transactions; and
hence the sight of an Italian was hateful to him, and the principal part
in his nightmare would naturally enough be played by one of that nation.
"What your father wants," I said, "is a good doctor and some calming
medicine."
"But Mr. Northmour?" objected Clara. "He is untroubled by losses, and yet
he shares in this terror."
I could not help laughing at what I considered her simplicity.
"My dear," said I, "you have told me yourself what reward he has to look
for. All is fair in love, you must remember; and if Northmour foments your
father's terrors, it is not at all because he is afraid of any Italian
man, but simply because he is infatuated with a charming English woman."
She reminded me of his attack upon myself on the night of the
disembarkation, and this I was unable to explain. In short, and from one
thing to another, it was agreed between us that I should set out at once
for the fisher village, Graden Wester, as it was called, look up all the
newspapers I could find, and see for myself if there seemed any basis of
fact for these continued alarms. The next morning, at the same hour and
place, I was to make my report to Clara. She said no more on that occasion
about my departure; nor, indeed, did she make it a secret that she clung
to the thought of my proximity as something helpful and pleasant; and, for
my part, I could not have left her, if she had gone upon her knees to ask
it.
I reached Graden Wester before ten in the forenoon; for in those days I
was an excellent pedestrian, and the distance, as I think I have said, was
little over seven miles; fine walking all the way upon the springy turf.
The village is one of the bleakest on that coast, which is saying much:
there is a church in the hollow; a miserable haven in the rocks, where
many boats have been lost as they returned from fishing; two or three
score of stone houses arranged along the beach and in two streets, one
leading from the harbor, and another striking out from it at right angles;
and, at the corner of these two, a very dark and cheerless tavern, by way
of principal hotel.
I had dressed myself somewhat more suitably to my station in life, and at
once called upon the minister in his little manse beside the graveyard. He
knew me, although it was more than nine years since we had met; and when I
told him that I had been long upon a walking tour, and was behind with the
news, readily lent me an armful of newspapers, dating from a month back to
the day before. With these I sought the tavern, and, ordering some
breakfast, sat down to study the "Huddlestone Failure."
It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case. Thousands of persons were
reduced to poverty; and one in particular had blown out his brains as soon
as payment was suspended. It was strange to myself that, while I read
these details, I continued rather to sympathize with Mr. Huddlestone than
with his victims; so complete already was the empire of my love for my
wife. A price was naturally set upon the banker's head; and, as the case
was inexcusable and the public indignation thoroughly aroused, the unusual
figure of £750 was offered for his capture. He was reported to have large
sums of money in his possession. One day, he had been heard of in Spain;
the next, there was sure intelligence that he was still lurking between
Manchester and Liverpool, or along the border of Wales; and the day after,
a telegram would announce his arrival in Cuba or Yucatan. But in all this
there was no word of an Italian, nor any sign of mystery.