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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/5832-h.zip b/5832-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..afb34f2 --- /dev/null +++ b/5832-h.zip diff --git a/5832-h/5832-h.htm b/5832-h/5832-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e2be99b --- /dev/null +++ b/5832-h/5832-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7193 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Recalled to Life, by Grant Allen + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Recalled to Life, by Grant Allen + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Recalled to Life + +Author: Grant Allen + +Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5832] +First Posted: September 10, 2002 +Last Updated: September 10, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECALLED TO LIFE *** + + +Etext produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + RECALLED TO LIFE + </h1> + <h2> + By Grant Allen + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. — UNA CALLINGHAM’S FIRST + RECOLLECTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. — BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. — AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. — THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. — I BECOME A WOMAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. — RELIVING MY LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. — THE GRANGE AT WOODBURY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. — A VISION OF DEAD YEARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. — HATEFUL SUSPICIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. — YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. — THE VISION RECURS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. — THE MOORES OF TORQUAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. — DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. — MY WELCOME TO CANADA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. — MY PLANS ALTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. — A STRANGE RECOGNITION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. — MURDER WILL OUT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. — THE REAL MURDERER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. — THE STRANGER FROM THE SEA + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. — THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. — MY MEMORY RETURNS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. — THE FATAL SHOT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. — ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS + WELL </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. — UNA CALLINGHAM’S FIRST RECOLLECTION + </h2> + <p> + It may sound odd to say so, but the very earliest fact that impressed + itself on my memory was a scene that took place—so I was told—when + I was eighteen years old, in my father’s house, The Grange, at + Woodbury. + </p> + <p> + My babyhood, my childhood, my girlhood, my school-days were all utterly + blotted out by that one strange shock of horror. My past life became + exactly as though it had never been. I forgot my own name. I forgot my + mother-tongue. I forgot everything I had ever done or known or thought + about. Except for the power to walk and stand and perform simple actions + of every-day use, I became a baby in arms again, with a nurse to take care + of me. The doctors told me, later, I had fallen into what they were + pleased to call “a Second State.” I was examined and reported + upon as a Psychological Curiosity. But at the time, I knew nothing of all + this. A thunderbolt, as it were, destroyed at one blow every relic, every + trace of my previous existence; and I began life all over again, with that + terrible scene of blood as my first birthday and practical starting point. + </p> + <p> + I remember it all even now with horrible distinctness. Each item in it + photographed itself vividly on my mind’s eye. I saw it as in a + picture—just as clearly, just as visually. And the effect, now I + look back upon it with a maturer judgment, was precisely like a photograph + in another way too. It was wholly unrelated in time and space: it stood + alone by itself, lighted up by a single spark, without rational connection + before or after it. What led up to it all, I hadn’t the very + faintest idea. I only knew the Event itself took place; and I, like a + statue, stood rooted in the midst of it. + </p> + <p> + And this was the Picture as, for many long months, it presented itself + incessantly to my startled brain, by day and by night, awake or asleep, in + colours more distinct than words can possibly paint them. + </p> + <p> + I saw myself standing in a large, square room—a very handsome old + room, filled with bookshelves like a library. On one side stood a table, + and on the table a box. A flash of light rendered the whole scene visible. + But it wasn’t light that came in through the window. It was rather + like lightning, so quick it was, and clear, and short-lived, and terrible. + Half-way to the door, I stood and looked in horror at the sight revealed + before my eyes by that sudden flash. A man lay dead in a little pool of + blood that gurgled by short jets from a wound on his left breast. I didn’t + even know at the moment the man was my father; though slowly, afterward, + by the concurrent testimony of others, I learnt to call him so. But his + relationship wasn’t part of the Picture to me. There, he was only in + my eyes a man—a man well past middle age, with a long white beard, + now dabbled with the thick blood that kept gurgling so hatefully from the + red spot in his waistcoat. He lay on his back, half-curled round toward + one arm, exactly as he fell. And the revolver he had been shot with lay on + the ground not far from him. + </p> + <p> + But that wasn’t all the Picture. The murderer was there as well as + the victim. Besides the table, and the box, and the wounded man, and the + pistol, I saw another figure behind, getting out of the window. It was the + figure of a man, I should say about twenty-five or thirty: he had just + raised himself to the ledge, and was poising to leap; for the room, as I + afterwards learned, though on the ground floor, stood raised on a basement + above the garden behind. I couldn’t see the man’s face, or any + part of him, indeed, except his stooping back, and his feet, and his neck, + and his elbows. But what little I saw was printed indelibly on the very + fibre of my nature. I could have recognised that man anywhere if I saw him + in the same attitude. I could have sworn to him in any court of justice on + the strength of his back alone, so vividly did I picture it. + </p> + <p> + He was tall and thin, but he stooped like a hunchback. + </p> + <p> + There were other points worth notice in that strange mental photograph. + The man was well-dressed, and had the bearing of a gentleman. Looking back + upon the scene long after, when I had learned once more what words and + things meant, I could feel instinctively this was no common burglar, no + vulgar murderer. Whatever might have been the man’s object in + shooting my father, I was certain from the very first it was not mere + robbery. But at the time, I’m confident, I never reasoned about his + motives or his actions in any way. I merely took in the scene, as it were, + passively, in a great access of horror, which rendered me incapable of + sense or thought or speech or motion. I saw the table, the box, the + apparatus by its side, the murdered man on the floor, the pistol lying + pointed with its muzzle towards his body, the pool of blood that soaked + deep into the Turkey carpet beneath, the ledge of the window, the young + man’s rounded back as he paused and hesitated. And I also saw, like + an instantaneous flash, one hand pushed behind him, waving me off, I + almost thought, with the gesture of one warning. + </p> + <p> + Why didn’t I remember the murderer’s face? That puzzled me + long after. I must have seen him before: I must surely have been there + when the crime was committed. I must have known at the moment everything + about it. But the blank that came over my memory, came over it with the + fatal shot. All that went before, was to me as though it were not. I + recollect vaguely, as the first point in my life, that my eyes were shut + hard, and darkness came over me. While they were so shut, I heard an + explosion. Next moment, I believe, I opened them, and saw this Picture. No + sensitive-plate could have photographed it more instantaneously, as by an + electric spark, than did my retina that evening, as for months after I saw + it all. In another moment, I shut my lids again, and all was over. There + was darkness once more, and I was alone with my Horror. + </p> + <p> + In years then to come, I puzzled my head much as to the meaning of the + Picture. Gradually, step by step, I worked some of it out, with the aid of + my friends, and of the evidence tendered at the coroner’s inquest. + But for the moment I knew nothing of all that. I was a newborn baby again. + Only with this important difference. They say our minds at birth are like + a sheet of white paper, ready to take whatever impressions may fall upon + them. Mine was like a sheet all covered and obscured by one hateful + picture. It was weeks, I fancy, before I knew or was conscious of anything + else but that. The Picture and a great Horror divided my life between + them. + </p> + <p> + Recollect, I didn’t even remember the murdered man was my father. I + didn’t recognise the room as one in our own old house at Woodbury. I + didn’t know anything at all except what I tell you here. I saw the + corpse, the blood, the box on the table, the wires by the side, the + bottles and baths and plates of an amateur photographer’s kit, + without knowing what they all meant. I saw even the books not as books but + as visible points of colour. It had something the effect on me that it + might have upon anyone else to be dropped suddenly on the stage of a + theatre at the very moment when a hideous crime was being committed, and + to believe it real, or rather, to know it by some vague sense as hateful + and actual. + </p> + <p> + Here my history began. I date from that Picture. My second babyhood was + passed in the shadow of the abiding Horror. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. — BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN + </h2> + <p> + What happened after is far more vague to me. Compared with the vividness + of that one initial Picture, the events of the next few months have only + the blurred indistinctness of all childish memories. For I was a child + once more, in all save stature, and had to learn to remember things just + like other children. + </p> + <p> + I will try to tell the whole tale over again exactly as it then struck me. + </p> + <p> + After the Picture, I told you, I shut my eyes in alarm for a second. When + I opened them once more there was a noise, a very great noise, and my + recollection is that people had burst wildly into the room, and were + lifting the dead body, and bending over it in astonishment, and speaking + loud to me, and staring at me. I believe they broke the door open, though + that’s rather inference than memory; I learnt it afterwards. Soon + some of them rushed to the open window and looked out into the garden. + Then, suddenly, a man gave a shout, and leaping on to the sill, jumped + down in pursuit, as I thought, of the murderer. As time went on, more + people flocked in; and some of them looked at the body and the pool of + blood; and some of them turned round and spoke to me. But what they said + or what they meant I hadn’t the slightest idea. The noise of the + pistol-shot still rang loud in my ears: the ineffable Horror still drowned + all my senses. + </p> + <p> + After a while, another man came in, with an air of authority, and felt my + pulse and my brow, and lifted me on to a sofa. But I didn’t even + remember there was such a thing as a doctor. I lay there for a while, + quite dazed; and the man, who was kindly-looking and close-shaven and + fatherly, gave me something in a glass: after which he turned round and + examined the body. He looked hard at the revolver, too, and chalked its + place on the ground. Then I saw no more, for two women lifted me in their + arms and took me up to bed; and with that, the first scene of my childhood + seemed to end entirely. + </p> + <p> + I lay in bed for a day or two, during which time I was dimly aware of much + commotion going on here and there in the house; and the doctor came night + and morning, and tended me carefully. I suppose I may call him the doctor + now, though at the time I didn’t call him so—I knew him merely + as a visible figure. I don’t believe I THOUGHT at all during those + earliest days, or gave things names in any known language. They rather + passed before me dreamily in long procession, like a vague panorama. When + people spoke to me, it was like the sound of a foreign tongue. I attached + no more importance to anything they said than to the cawing of the rooks + in the trees by the rectory. + </p> + <p> + At the end of five days, the doctor came once more, and watched me a great + deal, and spoke in a low voice with a woman in a white cap and a clean + white apron who waited on me daily. As soon as he was gone, my nurse, as I + learned afterwards to call her,—it’s so hard not to drop into + the language of everyday life when one has to describe things to other + people,—my nurse got me up, with much ado and solemnity, and dressed + me in a new black frock, very dismal and ugly, and put on me a black hat, + with a dreary-looking veil; and took me downstairs, with the aid of a man + who wore a suit of blue clothes and a queer kind of helmet. The man was of + the sort I now call a policeman. These pictures are far less definite in + my mind than the one that begins my second life; but still, in a vague + kind of way, I pretty well remember them. + </p> + <p> + On the ground floor, nurse made me walk; and I walked out to the door, + where a cab was in waiting, drawn slowly by a pair of horses. People were + looking on, on either side, between the door and the cab—great + crowds of people, peering eagerly forward; and two more men in blue suits + were holding them off by main force from surging against me and + incommoding me. I don’t think they wanted to hurt me: it was rather + curiosity than anger I saw in their faces. But I was afraid, and shrank + back. They were eager to see me, however, and pressed forward with loud + cries, so that the men in blue suits had hard work to prevent them. + </p> + <p> + I know now there were two reasons why they wanted to see me. I was the + murdered man’s daughter, and I was a Psychological Phenomenon. + </p> + <p> + We drove away, through green lanes, in the cab, nurse and I; and in spite + of the Horror, which surrounded me always, and the Picture, which recurred + every time I shut my eyes to think, I enjoyed that drive very much, with + all the fresh vividness of childish pleasure. Though I learnt later I was + eighteen years old at least, I was in my inner self just like a baby of + ten months, going ta-ta. At the end of the drive, we drew up sharp at a + house, where some more men stood about, with red bands on their caps, and + took boxes from the cab and put them into a van, while nurse and I got + into a different carriage, drawn quickly by a thing that went puff-puff, + puff-puff. I didn’t know it was a railway, and yet in a way I did. I + half forgot, half remembered it. Things that I’d seen in my previous + state seemed to come back to me, in fact, as soon as I saw them; or at + least to be more familiar to me than things I’d never seen before. + Especially afterwards. But while things were remembered, persons, I found + by-and-by, were completely forgotten. Or rather, while I remembered after + a while generalities, such as houses and men, recognising them in the + abstract as a house, or a man, or a horse, or a baby, I forgot entirely + particulars, such as the names of people and the places I had lived in. + Words soon came back to me: names and facts were lost: I knew the world as + a whole, not my own old part in it. + </p> + <p> + Well, not to make my story too long in these early childish stages, we + went on the train, as it seemed to me, a long way across fields to Aunt + Emma’s. I didn’t know she was Aunt Emma then for, indeed, I + had never seen her before; but I remember arriving there at her pretty + little cottage, and seeing a sweet old lady—barely sixty, I should + say, but with smooth white hair,—who stood on the steps of the house + and cried like a child, and held out her hands to me, and hugged me and + kissed me. And it was there that I learned my first word. A great many + times over, she spoke about “Una.” She said it so often, I + caught vaguely at the sound. And nurse, when she answered her, said + “Una” also. Then, when Aunt Emma called me, she always said + “Una.” So it came to me dimly that Una meant ME. But I didn’t + exactly recollect it had been my name before, though I learned in due time + afterwards that I’d always been called so. However, just at first, I + picked up the word as a child might pick it up; and when, some months + later, I began to talk easily, I spoke of myself always in the third + person as Una. I can remember with a smile now how I went one day to Aunt + Emma—I, a great girl of eighteen—and held up my skirt, that I’d + muddied in the street, and said to her, with great gravity: + </p> + <p> + “Una naughty girl: Una got her frock wet. Aunt Emma going to scold + poor Una for being so naughty!” + </p> + <p> + Not that I often smiled, in those days; for, in spite of Aunt Emma’s + kindness, my second girlhood, like my first, was a very unhappy one. The + Horror and the Picture pursued me too close. It was months and months + before I could get rid for a moment of that persistent nightmare. And yet + I had everything else on earth to make me happy. Aunt Emma lived in a + pretty east-coast town, with high bracken-clad downs, and breezy common + beyond; while in front stretched great sands, where I loved to race about + and to play cricket and tennis. It was the loveliest town that ever you + saw in your life, with a broken chancel to the grand old church, and a + lighthouse on a hill, with delicious views to seaward. The doctor had sent + me there (I know now) as soon as I was well enough to move, in order to + get me away from the terrible associations of The Grange at Woodbury. As + long as I lived in the midst of scenes which would remind me of poor + father, he said, and of his tragical death, there was no hope of my + recovery. The only chance for me to regain what I had lost in that moment + of shock was complete change of air, of life, of surroundings. Aunt Emma, + for her part, was only too glad to take me in: and as poor papa had died + intestate, Aunt Emma was now, of course, my legal guardian. + </p> + <p> + She was my mother’s sister, I learned as time went on; and there had + been feud while he lived between her and my father. Why, I couldn’t + imagine. She was the sweetest old soul I ever knew, indeed, and what on + earth he could have quarrelled with her about I never could fathom. She + tended me so carefully that as months went by, the Horror began to + decrease and my soul to become calm again. I grew gradually able to remain + in a room alone for a few minutes at a time, and to sleep at night in a + bed by myself, if only there was a candle, and nurse was in another bed in + the same room close by me. + </p> + <p> + Yet every now and again a fresh shivering fit came on. At such times I + would cover my head with the bedclothes and cower, and see the Picture + even so floating visibly in mid-air like a vision before me. + </p> + <p> + My second education must have been almost as much of a business as my + first had been, only rather less longsome. I had first to relearn the + English language, which came back to me by degrees, much quicker, of + course, than I had picked it up in my childhood. Then I had to begin again + with reading, writing, and arithmetic—all new to me in a way, and + all old in another. Whatever I learned and whatever I read seemed novel + while I learned it, but familiar the moment I had thoroughly grasped it. + To put it shortly, I could remember nothing of myself, but I could recall + many things, after a time, as soon as they were told me clearly. The + process was rather a process of reminding than of teaching, properly so + called. But it took some years for me to recall things, even when I was + reminded of them. + </p> + <p> + I spent four years at Aunt Emma’s, growing gradually to my own age + again. At the end of that time I was counted a girl of twenty-two, much + like any other. But I was older than my age; and the shadow of the Horror + pursued me incessantly. + </p> + <p> + All that time I knew, too, from what I heard said in the house that my + father’s murderer had never been caught, and that nobody even knew + who he was, or anything definite about him. The police gave him up as an + uncaught criminal. He was still at large, and might always be so. I knew + this from vague hints and from vague hints alone; for whenever I tried to + ask, I was hushed up at once with an air of authority. + </p> + <p> + “Una, dearest,” Aunt Emma would say, in her quiet fashion, + “you mustn’t talk about that night. I have Dr. Wade’s + strict orders that nothing must be said to you about it, and above all + nothing that could in any way excite or arouse you.” + </p> + <p> + So I was fain to keep my peace; for though Aunt Emma was kind, she ruled + me still in all things like a little girl, as I was when I came to her. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. — AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR + </h2> + <p> + One morning, after I’d been four whole years at Aunt Emma’s, I + heard a ring at the bell, and, looking over the stairs, saw a tall and + handsome man in a semi-military coat, who asked in a most audible voice + for Miss Callingham. + </p> + <p> + Maria, the housemaid, hesitated a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Callingham’s in, sir,” she answered in a somewhat + dubious tone; “but I don’t know whether I ought to let you see + her or not. My mistress is out; and I’ve strict orders that no + strangers are to call on Miss Callingham when her aunt’s not here.” + </p> + <p> + And she held the door ajar in her hand undecidedly. + </p> + <p> + The tall man smiled, and seemed to me to slip a coin quietly into Maria’s + palm. + </p> + <p> + “So much the better,” he answered, with unobtrusive + persistence; “I thought Miss Moore was out. That’s just why I’ve + come. I’m an officer from Scotland Yard, and I want to see Miss + Callingham—alone—most particularly.” + </p> + <p> + Maria drew herself up and paused. + </p> + <p> + My heart stood still within me at this chance of enlightenment. I guessed + what he meant; so I called over the stairs to her, in a tremor of + excitement: + </p> + <p> + “Show the gentleman into the drawing-room, Maria. I ‘ll come + down to him at once.” + </p> + <p> + For I was dying to know the explanation of the Picture that haunted me so + persistently; and as nobody at home would ever tell me anything worth + knowing about it, I thought this was as good an opportunity as I could get + for making a beginning towards the solution of the mystery. + </p> + <p> + Well, I ran into my own room as quick as quick could be, and set my front + hair straight, and slipped on a hat and jacket (for I was in my morning + dress), and then went down to the drawing-room to see the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + He rose as I entered. He was a gentleman, I felt at once. His manner was + as deferential, as kind, and as considerate to my sensitiveness, as + anything it’s possible for you to imagine in anyone. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry to have to trouble you, Miss Callingham,” he + said, with a very gentle smile; “but I daresay you can understand + yourself the object of my visit. I could have wished to come in a more + authorised way; but I’ve been in correspondence with Miss Moore for + some time past as to the desirability of reopening the inquiry with regard + to your father’s unfortunate death; and I thought the time might now + have arrived when it would be possible to put a few questions to you + personally upon that unhappy subject. Miss Moore objected to my plan. She + thought it would still perhaps be prejudicial to your health—a point + in which Dr. Wade, I must say, entirely agrees with her. Nevertheless, in + the interests of Justice, as the murderer is still at large, I’ve + ventured to ask you for this interview; because what I read in the + newspapers about the state of your health—.” + </p> + <p> + I interrupted him, astonished. + </p> + <p> + “What you read in the newspapers about the state of my health!” + I repeated, thunderstruck. “Why, surely they don’t put the + state of MY health in the newspapers!” + </p> + <p> + For I didn’t know then I was a Psychological Phenomenon. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector smiled blandly, and pulling out his pocket-book, selected a + cutting from a pile that apparently all referred to me. + </p> + <p> + “You’re mistaken,” he said, briefly. “The + newspapers, on the contrary, have treated your case at great length. See, + here’s the latest report. That’s clipped from last Wednesday’s + Telegraph.” + </p> + <p> + I remembered then that a paragraph of just that size had been carefully + cut out of Wednesday’s paper before I was allowed by Aunt Emma to + read it. Aunt Emma always glanced over the paper first, indeed, and often + cut out such offending paragraphs. But I never attached much importance to + their absence before, because I thought it was merely a little fussy + result of auntie’s good old English sense of maidenly modesty. I + supposed she merely meant to spare my blushes. I knew girls were often + prevented on particular days from reading the papers. + </p> + <p> + But now I seized the paragraph he handed me, and read it with deep + interest. It was the very first time I had seen my own name in a printed + newspaper. I didn’t know then how often it had figured there. + </p> + <p> + The paragraph was headed, “THE WOODBURY MURDER,” and it ran + something like this, as well as I can remember it: + </p> + <p> + “There are still hopes that the miscreant who shot Mr. Vivian + Callingham at The Grange, at Woodbury, some four years since, may be + tracked down and punished at last for his cowardly crime. It will be fresh + in everyone’s memory, as one of the most romantic episodes in that + extraordinary tragedy, that at the precise moment of her father’s + death, Miss Callingham, who was present in the room during the attack, and + who alone might have been a witness capable of recognising or describing + the wretched assailant, lost her reason on the spot, owing to the + appalling shock to her nervous system, and remained for some months in an + imbecile condition. Gradually, as we have informed our readers from time + to time, Miss Callingham’s intellect has become stronger and + stronger; and though she is still totally unable to remember spontaneously + any events that occurred before her father’s death, it is hoped it + may be possible, by describing vividly certain trains of previous + incidents, to recall them in some small degree to her imperfect memory. + Dr. Thornton, of Welbeck Street, who has visited her from time to time on + behalf of the Treasury, in conjunction with Dr. Wade, her own medical + attendant, went down to Barton-on-the-Sea on Monday, and once more + examined Miss Callingham’s intellect. Though the Doctor is + judiciously reticent as to the result of his visit, it is generally + believed at Barton that he thinks the young lady sufficiently recovered to + undergo a regular interrogatory; and in spite of the fact that Dr. Wade is + opposed to any such proceeding at present, as prejudicial to the lady’s + health, it is not unlikely that the Treasury may act upon their own + medical official’s opinion, and send down an Inspector from Scotland + Yard to make inquiries direct on the subject from Miss Callingham in + person.” + </p> + <p> + My head swam round. It was all like a dream to me. I held my forehead with + my hands, and gazed blankly at the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “You understand what all this means?” he said interrogatively, + leaning forward as he spoke. “You remember the murder?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” I answered him, trembling all over. “I + remember every detail of it. I could describe you exactly all the objects + in the room. The Picture it left behind has burned itself into my brain + like a flash of lightning!” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector drew his chair nearer. “Now, Miss Callingham,” + he said in a very serious voice, “that’s a remarkable + expression—like a flash of lightning.’ Bear in mind, this is a + matter of life and death to somebody somewhere. Somebody’s neck may + depend upon your answers. Will you tell me exactly how much you remember?” + </p> + <p> + I told him in a few words precisely how the scene had imprinted itself on + my memory. I recalled the room, the box, the green wires, the carpet; the + man who lay dead in his blood on the floor; the man who stood poised ready + to leap from the window. He let me go on unchecked till I’d finished + everything I had to say spontaneously. Then he took a photograph from his + pocket, which he didn’t show me. Looking at it attentively, he asked + me questions, one by one, about the different things in the room at the + time in very minute detail: Where exactly was the box? How did it stand + relatively to the unlighted lamp? What was the position of the pistol on + the floor? In which direction was my father’s head lying? Though it + brought back the Horror to me in a fuller and more terrible form than + ever, I answered all his questions to the very best of my ability. I could + picture the whole scene like a photograph to myself; and I didn’t + doubt the object he held in his hand was a photograph of the room as it + appeared after the murder. He checked my statements, one by one as I went + on, by reference to the photograph, murmuring half to himself now and + again: “Yes, yes, exactly so”; “That’s right”; + “That was so,” at each item I mentioned. + </p> + <p> + At the end of these inquiries, he paused and looked hard at me. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Miss Callingham,” he said again, peering deep into my + eyes, “I want you to concentrate your mind very much, not on this + Picture you carry so vividly in your own brain, but on the events that + went immediately before and after it. Pause long and think. Try hard to + remember. And first, you say there was a great flash of light. Now, answer + me this: was it one flash alone, or had there been several?” + </p> + <p> + I stopped and racked my brain. Blank, blank, as usual. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t remember,” I faltered out, longing terribly to + cry. “I can recall just that one scene, and nothing else in the + world before it.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me fixedly, jotting down a few words in his note-book as he + looked. Then he spoke again, still more slowly: + </p> + <p> + “Now, try once more,” he said, with an encouraging air. + “You saw this man’s back as he was getting out of the window. + But can’t you remember having seen his face before? Had he a beard? + a moustache? what eyes? what nose? Did you see the shot fired? And if so, + what sort of person was the man who fired it?” + </p> + <p> + Again I searched the pigeon-holes of my memory in vain, as I had done a + hundred times before by myself. + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use,” I cried helplessly, letting my hands drop + by my side. “I can’t remember a thing, except the Picture. I + don’t know whether I saw the shot fired or not. I don’t know + what the murderer looked like in the face. I’ve told you all I know. + I can recall nothing else. It’s all a great blank to me.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector hesitated a moment, as if in doubt what step to take next. + Then he drew himself up and said, still more gravely: + </p> + <p> + “This inability to assist us is really very singular. I had hoped, + after Dr. Thornton’s report, that we might at last count with some + certainty upon arriving at fresh results as to the actual murder. I can + see from what you tell me you’re a young lady of intelligence—much + above the average—and great strength of mind. It’s curious + your memory should fail you so pointedly just where we stand most in need + of its aid. Recollect, nobody else but you ever saw the murderer’s + face. Now, I’m going to presume you’re answering me honestly, + and try a bold means to arouse your dormant memory. Look hard, and hark + back.—Is that the room you recollect? Is that the picture that still + haunts and pursues you?” + </p> + <p> + He handed me the photograph he held in his fingers. I took it, all on + fire. The sight almost made me turn sick with horror. To my awe and + amazement, it was indeed the very scene I remembered so well. Only, of + course, it was taken from another point of view, and represented things in + rather different relative positions to those I figured them in. But it + showed my father’s body lying dead upon the floor; it showed his + poor corpse weltering helpless in its blood; it showed myself, as a girl + of eighteen, standing awestruck, gazing on in blank horror at the sight; + and in the background, half blurred by the summer evening light, it showed + the vague outline of a man’s back, getting out of the window. On one + side was the door: that formed no part of my mental picture, because it + was at my back; but in the photograph it too was indistinct, as if in the + very act of being burst open. The details were vague, in part—probably + the picture had never been properly focussed;—but the main figures + stood out with perfect clearness, and everything in the room was, allowing + for the changed point of view, exactly as I remembered it in my persistent + mental photograph. + </p> + <p> + I drew a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “That’s my Picture,” I said, slowly. “But it + recalls to me nothing new. I—I don’t understand it.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector stared at me hard once more. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” he asked, “how that photograph was + produced, and how it came into our possession?” + </p> + <p> + I trembled violently. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t,” I answered, reddening. “But—I + think it had something to do with the flash like lightning.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector jumped at those words like a cat upon a mouse. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right,” he cried briskly, as one who at last, after + long search, finds a hopeful clue where all seemed hopeless. “It had + to do with the flash. The flash produced it. This is a photograph taken by + your father’s process.... Of course you recollect your father’s + process?” + </p> + <p> + He eyed me close. The words, as he spoke them, seemed to call up dimly + some faint memory of my pre-natal days—of my First State, as I had + learned from the doctors to call it. But his scrutiny made me shrink. I + shut my eyes and looked back. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” I said slowly, rummaging my memory half in vain, + “I remember something about it. It had something to do with + photography, hadn’t it?...No, no, with the electric light....I can’t + exactly remember which. Will you tell me all about it?” + </p> + <p> + He leaned back in his chair, and, eyeing me all the time with that same + watchful glance, began to describe to me in some detail an apparatus which + he said my father had devised, for taking instantaneous photographs by the + electric light, with a clockwork mechanism. It was an apparatus that let + sensitive-plates revolve one after another opposite the lens of a camera; + and as each was exposed, the clockwork that moved it produced an electric + spark, so as to represent such a series of effects as the successive + positions of a horse in trotting. My father, it seemed, was of a scientific + turn, and had just perfected this new automatic machine before his sudden + death. I listened with breathless interest; for up to that time I had + never been allowed to hear anything about my father—anything about + the great tragedy with which my second life began. It was wonderful to me + even now to be allowed to speak and ask questions on it with anybody. So + hedged about had I been all my days with mystery. + </p> + <p> + As I listened, I saw the Inspector could tell by the answering flash in my + eye that his words recalled SOMETHING to me, however vaguely. As he + finished, I leant forward, and with a very flushed face, that I could feel + myself, I cried, in a burst of recollection: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes. I remember. And the box on the table—the box that’s + in my mental picture, and is not in the photograph—THAT was the + apparatus you’ve just been describing.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector turned upon me with a rapidity that fairly took my breath + away. + </p> + <p> + “Well, where are the other ones?” he asked, pouncing down upon + me quite fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “The other WHAT?” I repeated, amazed; for I didn’t + really understand him. + </p> + <p> + “Why, the other photographs!” he replied, as if trying to + surprise me. “There must have been more, you know. It held six + plates. Except for this one, the apparatus, when we found it, was empty.” + </p> + <p> + His manner seemed to crush out the faint spark of recollection that just + flickered within me. I collapsed at once. I couldn’t stand such + brusqueness. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean,” I answered in despair. + “I never saw the plates. I know nothing about them.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. — THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS + </h2> + <p> + The Inspector scanned me close for a few minutes in silence. He seemed + doubtful, suspicious. At last he made a new move. “I believe you, + Miss Callingham,” he said, more gently. “I can see this train + of thought distresses you too much. But I can see, too, our best chance + lies in supplying you with independent clues which you may work out for + yourself. You must re-educate your memory. You want to know all about this + murder, of course. Well, now, look over these papers. They’ll tell + you in brief what little we know about it. And they may succeed in + striking afresh some resonant chord in your memory.” + </p> + <p> + He handed me a book of pasted newspaper paragraphs, interspersed here and + there in red ink with little manuscript notes and comments. I began to + read it with profound interest. It was so strange for me thus to learn for + the first time the history of my own life; for I was quite ignorant as yet + of almost everything about my First State, and my father and mother. + </p> + <p> + The paragraphs told me the whole story of the crime, as far as it was + known to the world, from the very beginning. First of all, in the papers, + came the bald announcement that a murder had been committed in a country + town in Staffordshire; and that the victim was Mr. Vivian Callingham, a + gentleman of means, residing in his own house, The Grange, at Woodbury. + Mr. Callingham was the inventor of the acmegraphic process. The servants, + said the telegram to the London papers, had heard the sound of a + pistol-shot, about half-past eight at night, coming from the direction of + Mr. Callingham’s library. Aroused by the report, they rushed hastily + to the spot, and broke open the door, which was locked from within. As + they did so, a horrible sight met their astonished eyes. Mr. Callingham’s + dead body lay extended on the ground, shot right through the heart, and + weltering in its life-blood. Miss Callingham stood by his side, transfixed + with horror, and mute in her agony. On the floor lay the pistol that had + fired the fatal shot. And just as the servants entered, for one second of + time, the murderer who was otherwise wholly unknown, was seen to leap from + the window into the shrubbery below. The gardener rushed after him, and + jumped down at the same spot. But the murderer had disappeared as if by + magic. It was conjectured he must have darted down the road at full speed, + vaulted the gate, which was usually locked, and made off at a rapid run + for the open country. Up to date of going to press, the Telegraph said, he + was still at large and had not been apprehended. + </p> + <p> + That was the earliest account—bald, simple, unvarnished. Then came + mysterious messages from the Central Press about the absence of any clue + to identify the stranger. He hadn’t entered the house by any regular + way, it seemed; unless, indeed, Mr. Callingham had brought him home + himself and let him in with the latchkey. None of the servants had opened + the door that evening to any suspicious character; not a soul had they + seen, nor did any of them know a man was with their master in the library. + They heard voices, to be sure—voices, loud at times and angry,—but + they supposed it was Mr. Callingham talking with his daughter. Till roused + by the fatal pistol-shot, the gardener said, they had no cause for alarm. + Even the footmarks the stranger might have left as he leaped from the + window were obliterated by the prints of the gardener’s boots as he + jumped hastily after him. The only person who could cast any light upon + the mystery at all was clearly Miss Callingham, who was in the room at the + moment. But Miss Callingham’s mind was completely unhinged for the + present by the nervous shock she had received as her father fell dead + before her. They must wait a few days till she recovered consciousness, + and then they might confidently hope that the murderer would be + identified, or at least so described that the police could track him. + </p> + <p> + After that, I read the report of the coroner’s inquest. The facts + there elicited added nothing very new to the general view of the case. + Only, the servants remarked on examination, there was a strange smell of + chemicals in the room when they entered; and the doctors seemed to suggest + that the smell might be that of chloroform, mixed with another very + powerful drug known to affect the memory. Miss Callingham’s present + state, they thought, might thus perhaps in part be accounted for. + </p> + <p> + You can’t imagine how curious it was for me to see myself thus + impersonally discussed at such a distance of time, or to learn so long + after that for ten days or more I had been the central object of interest + to all reading England. My name was bandied about without the slightest + reserve. I trembled to see how cavalierly the press had treated me. + </p> + <p> + As I went on, I began to learn more and more about my father. He had made + money in Australia, it was said, and had come to live at Woodbury some + fourteen years earlier, where my mother had died when I was a child of + four; and some accounts said she was a widow of fortune. My father had + been interested in chemistry and photography, it seemed, and had lately + completed a new invention, the acmegraph, for taking successive + photographs at measured intervals of so many seconds by electric light. He + was a grave, stern man, the papers said, more feared than loved by his + servants and neighbours; but nobody about was known to have a personal + grudge against him. On the contrary, he lived at peace with all men. The + motive for the murder remained to the end a complete mystery. + </p> + <p> + On the second morning of the inquest, however, a curious thing happened. + The police, it appeared, had sealed up the room where the murder took + place, and allowed nobody to enter it till the inquiry was over. But after + the jury came round to view the room, the policeman in charge found the + window at the back of the house had been recently opened, and the box with + the photographic apparatus had been stolen from the library. Till that + moment nobody had attached any importance to the presence of this camera. + It hadn’t even been opened and examined by the police, who had + carefully noted everything else in the library. But as soon as the box was + missed strange questions began to be asked and conjecturally answered. The + police for the first time then observed that though it was half-past eight + at night when the murder occurred, and the lamp was not lighted, the + witnesses who burst first into the room described all they saw as if they + had seen it clearly. They spoke of things as they would be seen in a very + bright light, with absolute definiteness. This set up inquiry, and the + result of the inquiry was to bring out the fact, which in the excitement + of the moment had escaped the notice of all the servants, that as they + entered the room and stared about at the murder, the electric flash of the + apparatus was actually in operation. But the scene itself had diverted + their attention from the minor matter of the light that showed it. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector had been watching me narrowly as I read these extracts. When + I reached that point, he broke in with a word of explanation. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that put me on the track, you see,” he said, leaning + forward once more. “I thought to myself, if the light was acting, + then the whole apparatus must necessarily have been at work, and the scene + as it took place must have been photographed, act by act and step by step, + exactly as it happened. At the time the murderer, whoever he was, can’t + have known the meaning of the flashes. But later, he must have come to + learn in some way what the electric light meant, and must have realised, + sooner than we did, that therein the box, in the form of six successive + negatives of the stages in the crime, was the evidence that would + infallibly convict him of this murder.” He stroked his moustache + thoughtfully. “And to think, too,” he went on with a somewhat + sheepish air, “we should have had those photographs there in our + power all those days and nights, and have let them in the end slip like + that through our fingers! To think he should have found it out sooner than + we! To think that an amateur like the murderer should have outwitted us!” + </p> + <p> + “But how do you know,” I cried, “there was ever more + than one photograph? How do you know this wasn’t the only negative?” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” the Inspector answered quickly, pointing to a + figure in the corner of the proof, “do you see that six? Well, that + tells the tale. Each plate of the series was numbered so in the apparatus. + Number six could only fall into focus after numbers one, and two, and + three, and four, and five, had first been photographed. We’ve only + got the last—and least useful for our purpose. There must have been + five earlier ones, showing every stage of the crime, if only we’d + known it.” + </p> + <p> + I was worked up now to a strange pitch of excitement. + </p> + <p> + “And how did this one come into your possession?” I asked, all + breathless. “If you managed to lay your hands on one, why not on all + six of them?” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s the trouble!” he replied, still gazing at me + hard. “You see, it was this way. As soon as we found the camera was + missing, we came to the conclusion the murderer must have returned to The + Grange to fetch it. But it was a large and heavy box, and the only one of + its kind as yet manufactured; so, to carry it away in his hands would no + doubt have led to instant detection. I concluded, therefore, the man would + take off the box entire, so as to prevent the danger of removing the + plates on the spot; and as soon as he reached a place of safety in the + shrubbery, he’d fling away the camera, either destroying the + incriminating negatives then and there or carrying them off with him. The + details of the invention had already been explained to me by your father’s + instrument-maker, who set up the clockwork for him from his own designs; + and I knew that the removal of the plates from the box was a delicate, and + to some extent a difficult, operation. So I felt sure they could only have + been taken out in a place of comparative safety, not far from the house; + and I searched the shrubbery carefully, to find the camera.” + </p> + <p> + “And you found it at last?” I asked, unable to restrain my + agitation. + </p> + <p> + “I found it at last,” he answered, “near the far end of + the grounds, just flung into the deep grass, behind a clump of lilacs. The + camera was there intact, but five plates were missing. The sixth, from + which the positive you hold in your hand was taken, had got jammed in the + mechanism in the effort to remove it. Evidently the murderer had tried to + take out the plates in a very great hurry and with trembling hands, as was + not unnatural. He had succeeded with five, when the sixth stuck fast in + the groove of the clockwork. Just at that moment, as we judged, either an + alarm was raised in the rear, or some panic fear seized on him. Probably + the fellow judged right that the most incriminating pictures of all had by + that time been removed, and that the last would only show his back, if it + included him at all, or if he came into focus. Perhaps he had even been + able unconsciously to count the flashes at the moment, and knew that + before the sixth flash arrived he was on the ledge of the window. At any + rate, he clearly gave up the attempt to remove the sixth, and flung the + whole apparatus away from him in a sudden access of horror. We guessed as + much both from the appearance of the spot where the grass was trampled + down, and the way the angle of the camera was imbedded forcibly in the + soft ground of the shrubbery.” + </p> + <p> + “And he got away with the rest!” I exclaimed, following it up + like a story, but a story in which I was myself an unconscious character. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt,” the Inspector answered, stroking his chin + regretfully. “And what’s most annoying of all, we’ve + every reason to suppose the fellow stole the things only a few minutes + before we actually missed them. For we saw grounds for supposing he jumped + away from the spot, and climbed over the wall at the back, cutting his + hands as he went with the bottle-glass on the top to prevent intruders. + And what makes us think only a very short time must have elapsed between + the removal of the plates and the moment we came upon his tracks is this—the + blood from his cut hands was still fresh and wet upon the wall when we + found it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you only just missed him!” I exclaimed. “He got + off by the skin of his teeth. It’s wonderful, when you were so near, + you shouldn’t have managed to overtake him! One would have thought + you must have been able to track him to earth somehow!” + </p> + <p> + “One would have thought so,” the Inspector answered, rather + crestfallen. “But policemen, after all, are human like the rest of + us. We missed the one chance that might have led to an arrest. And now, + what I want to ask you once more is this: Reflecting over what you’ve + heard and read to-day, do you think you can recollect—a very small + matter—whether or not there were SEVERAL distinct flashes?” + </p> + <p> + I shut my eyes once more, and looked hard into the past. Slowly, as I + looked, a sort of dream seemed to come over me. I saw it vaguely now, or + thought I saw it. Flash, flash, flash, flash. Then the sound of the + pistol. Then the Picture, and the Horror, and the awful blank. I opened my + eyes again, and told the Inspector so. + </p> + <p> + “And once more,” he went on, in a very insinuating voice. + “Shut your eyes again, and look back upon that day. Can’t you + remember whether or not, just a moment before, you saw the murderer’s + face by the light of the flashes?” + </p> + <p> + I shut my eyes and thought. Again the flashes seemed to stand out clear + and distinct. But no detail supervened—no face came back to me. I + felt it was useless. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” I said shortly. “It only makes my head + swim. I can remember no further.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” the Inspector answered. “It’s just as Dr. + Wade said. Suggest a fact in your past history, and you may possibly + remember it; but ask you to recall anything not suggested or already + known, and all seems a mere blank to you! You haven’t the faintest + idea, then, who the murderer was or what he looked like?” + </p> + <p> + I rose up before him solemnly, and stared him full in the face. I was + wrought up by that time to a perfect pitch of excitement and interest. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the faintest idea,” I answered, feeling + myself a woman at last, and realising my freedom; “I know and + remember no more of it than you do. But from this moment forth, I shall + not rest until I’ve found him out and tracked him down, and punished + him. I shall never let my head rest in peace on my pillow until I’ve + discovered my father’s murderer!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s well,” the Inspector said sharply, shutting his + notes up to go. “If you persevere in that mind, and do as you say, + we shall soon get to the bottom of the Woodbury Mystery!” + </p> + <p> + And even as he spoke a key turned in the front door. I knew it was Aunt + Emma, come in from her marketing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. — I BECOME A WOMAN + </h2> + <p> + Aunt Emma burst into the room, all horror and astonishment. She looked at + the Inspector for a few seconds in breathless indignation; then she broke + out in a tone of fiery remonstrance which fairly surprised me: + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by this intrusion, sir? How dare you force your + way into my house in my absence? How dare you encourage my servants to + disobey my orders? How dare you imperil this young lady’s health by + coming here to talk with her?” + </p> + <p> + She turned round to me anxiously. I suppose I was very flushed with + excitement and surprise. + </p> + <p> + “My darling child,” she cried, growing pale all at once, + “Maria should never have allowed him to come inside the door! You + should have stopped upstairs! You should have refused to see him! I shall + have you ill again on my hands, as before, after this. He’ll have + undone all the good the last four years have done for you!” + </p> + <p> + But I was another woman now. I felt it in a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie dearest,” I answered, moving across to her, and laying + my hand on her shoulder to soothe her poor ruffled nerves, “don’t + be the least alarmed. It’s I who’m to blame, and not Maria. I + told her to let this gentleman in. He’s done me good, not harm. I’m + so glad to have been allowed at last to speak freely about it!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma shook all over, visibly to the naked eye. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have a relapse, my child!” she exclaimed, half + crying, and clinging to me in her terror. “You’ll forget all + you’ve learned: you’ll go back these four years again!—Leave + my house at once, sir! You should never have entered it!” + </p> + <p> + I stood between them like a statue. + </p> + <p> + “No, stop here a little longer,” I said, waving my hand + towards him imperiously. “I haven’t yet heard all it’s + right for me to hear.... Auntie, you mistake. I’m a woman at last. I + see what everything means. I’m beginning to remember again. For four + years that hateful Picture has haunted me night and day. I could never + shut my eyes for a minute without seeing it. I’ve longed to know + what it all meant; but whenever I’ve asked, I’ve been + repressed like a baby. I’m a baby no longer: I feel myself a woman. + What the Inspector here has told me already, half opens my eyes: I must + have them opened altogether now. I can’t stop at this point. I’m + going back to Woodbury.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma clung to me still harder in a perfect agony of passionate + terror. + </p> + <p> + “To Woodbury, my darling!” she cried. “Going back! Oh, + Una, it’ll kill you!” + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” the Inspector answered, with a very quiet + smile. “Miss Callingham has recovered, I venture to say, far more + profoundly than you imagine. This repression, our medical adviser tells + us, has been bad for her. If she’s allowed to visit freely the + places connected with her earlier life, it may all return again to her; + and the ends of Justice may thus at last be served for us. I notice + already one hopeful symptom: Miss Callingham speaks of going back to + Woodbury.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma looked up at him, horrified. All her firmness was gone now. + </p> + <p> + “It’s YOU who’ve put this into her head!” she + exclaimed, in a ferment of horror. “She’d never thought of it + herself. You’ve made her do it!” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, auntie,” I answered, feeling my ground grow + surer under me every moment as I spoke, “this gentleman has never + even by the merest hint suggested such an idea to my mind. It occurred to + me quite spontaneously. I MUST find out now who was my father’s + murderer! All the Inspector has told me seems to arouse in my brain some + vague, forgotten chords. It brings back to me faint shadows. I feel sure + if I went to Woodbury I should remember much more. And then, you must see + for yourself, there’s another reason, dear, that ought to make me + go. Nobody but I ever saw the murderer’s face. It’s a duty + imposed upon me from without, as it were, never to rest again in peace + till I’ve recognised him.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma collapsed into an easy-chair. Her face was deadly pale. Her + ringers trembled. + </p> + <p> + “If you go, Una,” she cried, playing nervously with her + gloves, “I must go with you too! I must take care of you: I must + watch over you!” + </p> + <p> + I took her quivering hand in mine and stroked it gently. It was a soft and + delicate white little hand, all marked inside with curious ragged scars + that I’d known and observed ever since I first knew her. I held it + in silence for a minute. Somehow I felt our positions were reversed + to-day. This interview had suddenly brought out what I know now to be my + own natural and inherent character—self-reliant, active, abounding + in initiative. For four years I had been as a child in her hands, through + mere force of circumstances. My true self came out now and asserted its + supremacy. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear,” I said, soothing her cheek; “I shall go + alone. I shall try what I can discover and remember myself without any + suggestion or explanation from others. I want to find out how things + really stand. I shall set to work on my own account to unravel this + mystery.” + </p> + <p> + “But how can you manage things by yourself?” Aunt Emma + exclaimed, wringing her hands despondently. “A girl of your age! + without even a maid! and all alone in the world! I shall be afraid to let + you go. Dr. Wade won’t allow it.” + </p> + <p> + I drew myself up very straight, and realised the position. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Emma,” I said plainly, in a decided voice, “I’m + a full-grown woman, over twenty-one years of age, mistress of my own acts, + and no longer a ward of yours. I can do as I like, and neither Dr. Wade + nor anybody else can prevent me. He may ADVICE me not to go: he has no + power to ORDER me. I’m my father’s heiress, and a person of + independent means. I’ve been a cipher too long. From to-day I take + my affairs wholly into my own hands. I ‘ll go round at once and see + your lawyer, your banker, your agent, your tradesmen, and tell them that + henceforth I draw my own rents, I receive my own dividends, I pay my own + bills, I keep my own banking account. And to-morrow or the next day I set + out for Woodbury.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector turned to Aunt Emma with a demonstrative smile. + </p> + <p> + “There, you see for yourself,” he said, well pleased, “what + this interview has done for her!” + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Emma only drew back, wrung her hands again in impotent despair, + and stared at him blankly like a wounded creature. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector took up his hat to leave. I followed him out to the door, + and shook hands with him cordially. The burden felt lighter on my + shoulders already. For four long years that mystery had haunted me day and + night, as a thing impenetrable, incomprehensible, not even to be inquired + about. The mere sense that I might now begin to ask what it meant seemed + to make it immediately less awful and less burdensome to me. + </p> + <p> + When I returned to the drawing-room, Aunt Emma sat there on the sofa, + crying silently, the very picture of misery. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” she said, without even raising her eyes to mine, + “the man may have done as he says: he may have restored you your + mind again; but what’s that to me? He’s lost me my child, my + darling, my daughter!” + </p> + <p> + I stooped down and kissed her. Dear, tender-hearted auntie! she had always + been very good to me. But I knew I was right, for all that, in becoming a + woman,—in asserting my years, my independence, my freedom, my duty. + To have shirked it any longer would have been sheer cowardice. So I just + kissed her silently, and went up to my own room—to put on my brown + hat, and go out to the banker’s. + </p> + <p> + From that moment forth, one fierce desire in life alone possessed me. The + brooding mystery that enveloped my life ceased to be passive, and became + an active goad, as it were, to push me forward incessantly on my search + for the runaway I was the creature of a fixed idea. A fiery energy spurred + me on all my time. I was determined now to find out my father’s + murderer. I was determined to shake off the atmosphere of doubt and + forgetfulness. I was determined to recall those first scenes of my life + that so eluded my memory. + </p> + <p> + Yet, strange to say, it was rather a burning curiosity and a deep sense of + duty that urged me on, than anything I could properly call affection—still + less, revenge or malice. I didn’t remember my father as alive at + all: the one thing I could recollect about him was the ghastly look of + that dead body, stretched at full length on the library floor, with its + white beard all dabbled in the red blood that clotted it. It was abstract + zeal for the discovery of the truth that alone pushed me on. This search + became to me henceforth an end and aim in itself. It stood out, as it + were, visibly in the imperative mood: “go here;” “go + there;” “do this;” “try that;” “leave + no stone unturned anywhere till you’ve tracked down the murderer!” + Those were the voices that now incessantly though inaudibly pursued me. + </p> + <p> + Next day I spent in preparations for my departure. I would hunt up + Woodbury now, though fifty Aunt Emma’s held their gentle old faces + up in solemn warning against me. The day after that again, I set out on my + task. The pull was hard. I had taken my own affairs entirely into my own + hands by that time, and had provided myself with money for a long stay at + Woodbury. But it was the very first railway journey I could ever remember + to have made alone; and I confess, when I found myself seated all by + myself in a first-class carriage, with no friend beside me, my resolution + for a moment almost broke down again. It was so terrible to feel oneself + boxed up there for an hour or two alone, with that awful Picture staring + one in the face all the time from every fence and field and wall and + hoarding. It obliterated Fry’s Cocoa; it fixed itself on the yellow + face of Colman’s Mustard. + </p> + <p> + I went by Liverpool Street, and drove across to Paddington. I had never, + to my knowledge, been in London before: and it was all so new to me. But + Liverpool Street was even newer to me than Paddington, I noticed. A faint + sense of familiarity seemed to hang about the Great Western line. And that + was not surprising, I thought, as I turned it over; for, of course, in the + old days, when we lived at Woodbury, I must often have come down from town + that way with my father. Yet I remembered nothing of it all definitely; + the most I could say was that I seemed dimly to recollect having been + there before—though when or where or how, I hadn’t the + faintest notion. + </p> + <p> + I was early at Paddington. The refreshment room somehow failed to attract + me. I walked up and down the platform, waiting for my train. As I did so, + a boy pasted a poster on a board: it was the contents-sheet of one of the + baser little Society papers. Something strange in it caught my eye. I + looked again in amazement. Oh, great heavens! what was this in big flaring + letters? + </p> + <p> + “MISS UNA CALLINGHAM AND THE WOODBURY MYSTERY! Is SHE SCREENING THE + MURDERER? A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION!” + </p> + <p> + The words took my breath away. They were too horrible to realise. I + positively couldn’t speak. I went up to the bookstall, laid down my + penny without moving my lips, and took the paper in my hand in tremulous + silence. + </p> + <p> + I dared not open it there and then, I confess. I waited till I was in the + train, and on my way to Woodbury. + </p> + <p> + When I did so, it was worse, even worse than my fears. The article was + short, but it was very hateful. It said nothing straight out—the + writer had evidently the fear of the law of libel before his eyes as he + wrote,—but it hinted and insinuated in a detestable undertone the + most vile innuendoes. A Treasury Doctor and a Police Inspector, it said, + had lately examined Miss Callingham again, and found her intellect in + every respect perfectly normal, except that she couldn’t remember + the face of her father’s murderer. Now, this was odd, because, you + see, Miss Callingham was in the room at the moment the shot was fired; + and, alone in the world, Miss Callingham had seen the face of the man who + fired it. Who was that man? and why was he there, unknown to the servants, + in a room with nobody but Mr. Callingham and his daughter? A correspondent + (who preferred to guard his incognito) had suggested in this matter some + very searching questions: Could the young man—for it was allowed he + was young—have been there with Miss Callingham when Mr. Callingham + entered? Could he have been on terms of close intimacy with the heroine of + The Grange Mystery, who was a young lady—as all the world knew from + her photographs—of great personal attractiveness, and who was also + the heiress to a considerable property? Could he have been there, then, by + appointment, without the father’s knowledge? Was this the common + case of a clandestine assignation? Could the father have returned to the + house unexpectedly, at an inopportune moment, and found his daughter + there, closeted with a stranger—perhaps with a man who had already, + for sufficient grounds, been forbidden the premises? Such things might be, + in this world that we live in: he would be a bold man who would deny them + categorically. Could an altercation have arisen on the father’s + return, and the fatal shot have been fired in the ensuing scuffle? And + could the young lady then have feigned this curious relapse into that + Second State we had all heard so much about, for no other reason than to + avoid giving evidence at a trial for murder against her guilty lover? + </p> + <p> + These were suggestions that deserved the closest consideration of the + Authorities charged with the repression of crime. Was it not high time + that the inquest on Mr. Callingham’s body should be formally + reopened, and that the young lady, now restored (as we gathered) to her + own seven senses, should be closely interrogated by trained legal + cross-examiners? + </p> + <p> + I laid down the paper with a burning face. I learned now, for the first + time, how closely my case had been watched, how eagerly my every act and + word had been canvassed. It was hateful to think of my photograph having + been exposed in every London shop-window, and of anonymous slanderers + being permitted to indite such scandal as this about an innocent woman. + But, at any rate, it had the effect of sealing my fate. If I meant even + before to probe this mystery to the bottom, I felt now no other course was + possibly open to me. For the sake of my own credit, for the sake of my own + good fame, I must find out and punish my father’s murderer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. — RELIVING MY LIFE + </h2> + <p> + Often, as you walk down a street, a man or woman passes you by. You look + up at them and say to yourself, “I seem to know that face”; + but you can put no name to it, attach to it no definite idea, no + associations of any sort. That was just how Woodbury struck me when I + first came back to it. The houses, the streets, the people, were in a way + familiar; yet I could no more have found my way alone from the station to + The Grange than I could find my way alone from here to Kamschatka. + </p> + <p> + So I drove up first in search of lodgings. At the station even several + people had bowed or shaken hands with me respectfully as I descended from + the train. They came up as if they thought I must recognise them at once: + there was recognition in their eyes; but when they met my blank stare, + they seemed to remember all about it, and merely murmured in strange + tones: + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, miss! So you’re here: glad to see you’ve + come back again at last to Woodbury.” + </p> + <p> + This reception dazzled me. It was so strange, so uncanny. I was glad to + get away in a fly by myself, and to be driven to lodgings in the clean + little High Street. For to me, it wasn’t really “coming back” + at all: it was coming to a strange town, where everyone knew me, and <i>I</i> + knew nobody. + </p> + <p> + “You’d like to go to Jane’s, of course,” the + driver said to me with a friendly nod as he reached the High Street: and + not liking to confess my forgetfulness of Jane, I responded with warmth + that Jane’s would, no doubt, exactly suit me. + </p> + <p> + We drew up at the door of a neat little house. The driver rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Una’s here,” he said, confidentially; “and + she’s looking for lodgings.” + </p> + <p> + It was inexpressibly strange and weird to me, this one-sided recognition, + this unfamiliar familiarity: it gave me a queer thrill of the supernatural + that I can hardly express to you. But I didn’t know what to do, when + a kindly-faced, middle-aged English upper-class servant rushed out at me, + open-armed, and hugging me hard to her breast, exclaimed with many loud + kisses: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Una, Miss Una! So it’s YOU, dear; so it is! Then you’ve + come back at last to us!” + </p> + <p> + I could hardly imagine what to say or do. The utmost I could assert with + truth was, Jane’s face wasn’t exactly and entirely in all ways + unfamiliar to me. Yet I could see Jane herself was so unfeignedly + delighted to see me again, that I hadn’t the heart to confess I’d + forgotten her very existence. So I took her two hands in mine—since + friendliness begets friendliness—and holding her off a little way, + for fear the kisses should be repeated, I said to her very gravely: + </p> + <p> + “You see, Jane, since those days I’ve had a terrible shock, + and you can hardly expect me to remember anything. It’s all like a + dream to me. You must forgive me if I don’t recall it just at once + as I ought to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, miss,” Jane answered, holding my hands in her + delight and weeping volubly. “We’ve read about all that, of + course, in the London newspapers. But there, I’m glad anyhow you + remembered to come and look for my lodgings. I think I should just have + sat down and cried if they told me Miss Una’d come back to Woodbury, + and never so much as asked to see me.” + </p> + <p> + I don’t think I ever felt so like a hypocrite in my life before. But + I realised at least that even if Jane’s lodgings were discomfort + embodied, I must take them and stop in them, while I remained there, now. + Nothing else was possible. I COULDN’T go elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately, however, the rooms turned out to be as neat as a new pin, and + as admirably kept as any woman in England could keep them. I gathered from + the very first, of course, that Jane had been one of the servants at The + Grange in the days of my First State; and while I drank my cup of tea, + Jane herself came in and talked volubly to me, disclosing to me, + parenthetically, the further fact that she was the parlour-maid at the + time of my father’s murder. That gave me a clue to her identity. + Then she was the witness Greenfield who gave evidence at the inquest! I + made a mental note of that, and determined to look up what she’d + said to the coroner, in the book of extracts the Inspector gave me, as + soon as I got alone in my bedroom that evening. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, however, Jane came in again, with the freedom of an old + servant, and talked to me much about the Woodbury Mystery. Gradually, as + time went on that night, though I remembered nothing definite of myself + about her, the sense of familiarity and friendliness came home to me more + vividly. The appropriate emotion seemed easier to rouse, I observed, than + the intellectual memory. I knew Jane and I had been on very good terms, + some time, somewhere. I talked with her easily, for I had a consciousness + of companionship. + </p> + <p> + By-and-by, without revealing to her how little I could recollect about her + own personality, I confessed to Jane, by slow degrees, that the whole past + was still gone utterly from my shattered memory. I told her I knew nothing + except the Picture and the facts it comprised; and to show her just how + small that knowledge really was, I showed her (imprudently enough) the + photograph the Inspector had left with me. + </p> + <p> + Jane looked at it long and slowly, with tears in her eyes. Then she said + at last, after a deep pause, in a very hushed voice: + </p> + <p> + “Why, how did you get this? It wasn’t put in the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I answered quietly, “it wasn’t put in the + papers. For reasons of their own, the police kept it unpublished.” + </p> + <p> + Jane gazed at the proof still closer. “They oughtn’t to have + done that,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “They ought to have sent it out everywhere broadcast—so that + anybody who knew the man could tell him by his back.” + </p> + <p> + That seemed to me such obvious good sense that I wondered to myself the + police hadn’t thought long since of it; but I supposed they had some + good ground of their own for holding it all this time in their own + possession. + </p> + <p> + Jane went on talking to me still for many minutes about the scene: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes; that was just how he lay, poor dear gentleman! And the + book on the chair, too! Well, did you ever in your life see anything so + like! And to think it was taken all by itself, as one might say, by magic. + But there! your poor papa was a wonderful clever man. Such things as he + used to invent! Such ideas and such machines! We were sorry for him, + though we always thought, to be sure, he was dreadful severe with you, + Miss Una. Such a gentleman to have his own way, too—so cold and + reserved like. But one mustn’t talk nothing but good about the dead, + they say. And if he was a bit hard, he was more than hard treated for it + in the end, poor gentleman!” + </p> + <p> + It interested me to get these half side-lights on my father’s + character. Knowing nothing of him, as I did, save the solitary fact that + he was the white-haired gentleman I saw dead in my Picture, I naturally + wanted to learn as much as I could from this old servant of ours as to the + family conditions. + </p> + <p> + “Then you thought him harsh, in the servants’-hall?” I + said tentatively to Jane. “You thought him hard and unbending?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there, Miss,” Jane ran on, putting a cushion to my back + tenderly—it was strange to be the recipient of so much delicate + attention from a perfect stranger,—“not exactly what you’d + call harsh to us ourselves, you know: he was a good master enough, as long + as one did what was ordered, though he was a little bit fidgetty. But to + you, we all thought he was always rather hard. People said so in Woodbury. + And yet, in a way, I don’t know how it was, he always seemed more’n + half afraid of you. He was careful about your health, and spoiled and + petted you for that; yet he was always pulling you up, you know, and + looking after what you did: and for one thing, I remember, there’s + many a time you were sent to bed when you were a good big girl for nothing + on earth else but because he heard you talking to us in the hall about + Australia.” + </p> + <p> + “Talking to you about Australia!” I cried, pricking my ears. + “Why, what harm was there in that? Why on earth didn’t he want + me to talk about Australia?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! what harm indeed?” Jane echoed blandly. “That’s + what we often used to say among ourselves downstairs. But Mr. Callingham, + he was always that way, miss—so strict and particular. He said he’d + forbidden you to say a word to anybody about that confounded country; and + you must do as you were told. He seemed to have a grudge against + Australia, though it was there he made his money. And he always would have + his own way, your father would.” + </p> + <p> + While she spoke, I looked hard at the white head in the photograph. Even + as I did so, a thought occurred to me that had never occurred before. Both + in my mental Picture, and in looking at the photograph when I saw it + first, the feeling that was uppermost in my mind was not sorrow, but + horror. I didn’t think with affection and regret and a deep sense of + bereavement about my father’s murder. The emotional accompaniment + that had stamped itself upon the very fibre of my soul, was not pain but + awe. I think my main feeling was a feeling that a foul crime had taken + place in the house, not a feeling that I had lost a very dear and near + relative. Rightly or wrongly, I drew from this the inference, which Jane’s + gossip confirmed, that I had probably rather feared than loved my father. + </p> + <p> + It was strange to be reduced to such indirect evidence on such a point as + that; but it was all I could get, and I had to be content with it. + </p> + <p> + Jane, leaning over my shoulder, looked hard at the photograph too. I could + see her eyes were fixed on the back of the man who was seen disappearing + through the open window. He was dressed like a gentleman, in + knickerbockers and jacket, as far as one could judge; for the evening + light rather blurred that part of the picture. One hand was just waved, + palm open, behind him. Jane regarded it hard. Then she gave an odd little + start: + </p> + <p> + “Why, just look at that hand!” she cried, with a tremor of + surprise. “Don’t you see what it is? Don’t you think it’s + a woman’s?” + </p> + <p> + I gazed back at her incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible,” I answered, shaking my head. “It belongs + as clear as day to the man you see in the photograph. How on earth could + his hand be a woman’s then, I’d like to know? I can see the + shirt-cuff.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” Jane answered, with simple common-sense: “it’s + DRESSED like a man, of course, and it’s a man to look at; but the + hand’s a woman’s, as true as I’m standing here. Why + mightn’t a woman dress in a man’s suit on purpose? And perhaps + it was just because they were so sure it was a man as did it, that the + police has gone wrong so long in trying to find the murderer.” + </p> + <p> + I looked hard at the hand myself. Then I shut my eyes, and thought of the + corresponding object in my mental Picture. The result fairly staggered me. + The impression in each case was exactly the same. It was a soft and + delicate hand, very white and womanlike. But was it really a woman’s? + I couldn’t feel quite sure in my own mind about that; but the very + warning Jane gave me seemed to me a most useful one. It would be well, + after all, to keep one’s mind sedulously open to every possible + explanation, and to take nothing for granted as to the murderer’s + personality. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. — THE GRANGE AT WOODBURY + </h2> + <p> + I stopped for three weeks in Jane’s lodgings; and before the end of + that time, Jane and I had got upon the most intimate footing. It was + partly her kindliness that endeared her to me, and her constant sense of + continuity with the earlier days which I had quite forgotten; but it was + partly too, I felt sure, a vague revival within my own breast of a + familiarity that had long ago subsisted between us. I was coming to myself + again, on one side of my nature. Day by day I grew more certain that while + facts had passed away from me, appropriate emotions remained vaguely + present. Among the Woodbury people that I met, I recognised none to say + that I knew them; but I knew almost at first sight that I liked this one + and disliked that one. And in every case alike, when I talked the matter + over afterwards with Jane, she confirmed my suspicion that in my First + State I had liked or disliked just those persons respectively. My brain + was upset, but my heart remained precisely the same as ever. + </p> + <p> + On my second morning I went up to The Grange with her. The house was still + unlet. Since the day of the murder, nobody cared to live in it. The garden + and shrubbery had been sadly neglected: Jane took me out of the way as we + walked up the path, to show me the place where the photographic apparatus + had been found embedded in the grass, and where the murderer had cut his + hands getting over the wall in his frantic agitation. The wall was pretty + high and protected with bottle-glass. I guessed he must have been tall to + scramble over it. That seemed to tell against Jane’s crude idea that + a woman might have done it. + </p> + <p> + But when I said so to Jane, she met me at once with the crushing reply: + “Perhaps it wasn’t the same person that came back for the box.” + I saw she was right again. I had jumped at a conclusion. In cases like + this, one must leave no hypothesis untried, jump at no conclusions of any + sort. Clearly, that woman ought to have been made a detective. + </p> + <p> + As I entered the house the weird sense of familiarity that pursued me + throughout rose to a very high pitch. I couldn’t fairly say, indeed, + that I remembered the different rooms. All I could say with certainty was + that I had seen them before. To this there were three exceptions—the + three that belonged to my Second State—the library, my bedroom, and + the hall and staircase. The first was indelibly printed on my memory as a + component part of the Picture, and I found my recollection of every object + in the room almost startling in its correctness. Only, there was an alcove + on one side that I’d quite forgotten, and I saw why most clearly. I + stood with my back to it as I looked at the Picture. The other two bits I + remembered as the room in which I had had my first great illness, and the + passage down which I had been carried or helped when I was taken to Aunt + Emma’s. + </p> + <p> + I had begun to recognise now that the emotional impression made upon me by + people and things was the only sure guide I still possessed as to their + connection or association with my past history. And the rooms at The + Grange had each in this way some distinctive characteristic. The library, + of course, was the chief home of the Horror which had hung upon my spirit + even during the days when I hardly knew in any intelligible sense the + cause of it. But the drawing-room and dining-room both produced upon my + mind a vague consciousness of constraint. I was dimly aware of being ill + at ease and uncomfortable in them. My own bedroom, on the contrary, gave + me a pleasant feeling of rest and freedom and security: while the servants’-hall + and the kitchen seemed perfect paradises of liberty. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! many’s the time, miss,” Jane said with a sigh, + looking over at the empty grate, “you’d come down here to make + cakes or puddings, and laugh and joke like a child with Mary an’ me. + I often used to say to Emily—her as was cook here before Ellen + Smith,—‘Miss Una’s never so happy as when she’s + down here in the kitchen.’ And ‘That’s true what you + say,’ says Emily to me, many a time and often.” + </p> + <p> + That was exactly the impression left upon my own mind. I began to + conclude, in a dim, formless way, that my father must have been a somewhat + stern and unsympathetic man; that I had felt constrained and uncomfortable + in his presence upstairs, and had often been pleased to get away from his + eye to the comparative liberty and ease of my own room or of the + maid-servants’ quarters. + </p> + <p> + At last, in the big attic that had once been the nursery, I paused and + looked at Jane. A queer sensation came over me. + </p> + <p> + “Jane,” I said slowly, hardly liking to frame the words, + “there’s something strange about this room. He wasn’t + cruel to me, was he?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no, miss,” Jane answered promptly. “He wasn’t + never what you might call exactly cruel. He was a very good father, and + looked after you well; but he was sort of stern and moody-like—would + have his own way, and didn’t pay no attention to fads and fancies, + he called ‘em. When you were little, many’s the time he sent + you up here for punishment—disobedience and such like.” + </p> + <p> + I took out the photograph and tried, as it were, to think of my father as + alive and with his eyes open. I couldn’t remember the eyes. Jane + told me they were blue; but I think what she said was the sort of + impression the face produced upon me. A man not unjust or harsh in his + dealings with myself, but very strong and masterful. A man who would have + his own way in spite of anybody. A father who ruled his daughter as a + vessel of his making, to be done as he would with, and be moulded to his + fashion. + </p> + <p> + Still, my visit to The Grange resulted in the end in casting very little + light upon the problem before me. It pained and distressed me greatly, but + it brought no new elements of the case into view: at best, it only + familiarised me with the scene of action of the tragedy. The presence of + the alcove was the one fresh feature. Nothing recalled to me as yet in any + way the murderer’s features. I racked my brain in vain; no fresh + image came up in it. I could recollect nothing about the man or his + antecedents. + </p> + <p> + I almost began to doubt that I would ever succeed in reconstructing my + past, when even the sight of the home in which I had spent my childish + days suggested so few new thoughts or ideas to me. + </p> + <p> + For a day or two after that I rested at Jane’s, lest I should + disturb my brain too much. Then I called once more on the doctor who had + made the post mortem on my father, and given evidence at the inquest, to + see if anything he could say might recall my lapsed memory. + </p> + <p> + The moment he came into the room—a man about fifty, close-shaven and + kindly-looking—I recognised him at once, and held out my hand to him + frankly. He surveyed me from head to foot with a good medical stare, and + then wrung my hand in return with extraordinary warmth and effusion. I + could see at once he retained a most pleasing recollection of my First + State, and was really glad to see me. + </p> + <p> + “What, you remember me then, Una!” he cried, with quite + fatherly delight. “You haven’t forgotten me, my dear, as you’ve + forgotten all the rest, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + It was startling to be called by one’s Christian name like that, and + by a complete stranger, too; but I was getting quite accustomed now to + these little incongruities. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I remember you perfectly,” I answered, half-grieved + to distress him, “though I shouldn’t have known your name, and + didn’t expect to see you. You’re the doctor who attended me in + my first great illness—the illness with which my present life began—just + after the murder.” + </p> + <p> + He drew back, a little crestfallen. + </p> + <p> + “Then that’s all you recollect, is it?” he asked. + “You don’t remember me before, dear? Not Dr. Marten, who used + to take you on his knee when you were a tiny little girl, and bring you + lollipops from town, to the great detriment of your digestion, and get + into rows with your poor father for indulging you and spoiling you? You + must surely remember me?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head slowly. I was sorry to disappoint him; but it was + necessary before all things to get at the bare truth. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid not,” I answered. “Do please forgive + me! You must have read in the papers, like everybody else, of the very + great change that has so long come over me. Bear in mind, I can’t + remember anything at all that occurred before the murder. That first + illness is to me the earliest recollection of childhood.” + </p> + <p> + He gazed across at me compassionately. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” he said in a low voice, like a very + affectionate friend, “it’s much better so. You have been + mercifully spared a great deal of pain. Una, when I first saw you at The + Grange after your father’s death, I thanked heaven you had been so + seized. I thanked heaven the world had become suddenly a blank to you. I + prayed hard you might never recover your senses again, or at least your + memory. And now that you’re slowly returned to life once more, + against all hope or fear, I’m heartily glad it’s in this + peculiar way. I’m heartily glad all the past’s blotted out for + you. You can’t understand that, my child? Ah, no, very likely not. + But I think it’s much best for you, all your first life should be + wholly forgotten.” He paused for a second. Then he added slowly: + “If you remembered it all, the sense of the tragedy would be far + more acute and poignant even than at present.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so,” I said resolutely; “but not the sense of + mystery. It’s THAT that appals me so! I’d rather know the + truth than be so wrapped up in the incomprehensible.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me pityingly once more. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” he said, in the same gentle and fatherly + voice, “you don’t wholly understand. It doesn’t all come + home to you. I can see clearly, from what Inspector Wolferstan told me, + after his visit to you the other day—” + </p> + <p> + I broke in, in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Inspector Wolferstan!” I cried. “Then he came down here + to see you, did he?” + </p> + <p> + It was horrible to find how all my movements were discussed and + chronicled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he came down here to see me and talk things over,” Dr. + Marten went on, as calmly as if it were mere matter of course. “And + I could see from what he said you were still spared much. For instance, + you remember it all only as an event that happened to an old man with a + long white beard. You don’t fully realise, except intellectually, + that it was your own father. You’re saved, as a daughter, the misery + and horror of thinking and feeling it was your father who lay dead there.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s quite true,” I answered. “I admit that I + can’t feel it all as deeply as I ought. But none the less, I’ve + come down here to make a violent effort. Let it cost what it may, I must + get at the truth. I wanted to see whether the sight of The Grange and of + Woodbury may help me to recall the lost scenes in my memory.” + </p> + <p> + To my immense surprise, Dr. Marten rose from his seat, and standing up + before me in a perfect agony of what seemed like terror, half mixed with + affection, exclaimed in a very earnest and resolute voice: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Una, my child, whatever you do—I beg of you—I + implore you—don’t try to recall the past at all! Don’t + attempt it! Don’t dream of it!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” I cried, astonished. “Surely it’s my + duty to try and find out my father’s murderer!” + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering me, he looked about him for half a minute in + suspense, as if doubtful what next to do or to say. Then he walked across + with great deliberation to the door of the room, and locked and + double-locked it with furtive alarm, as I interpreted his action. + </p> + <p> + So terrified did he seem, indeed, that for a moment the idea occurred to + me in a very vague way—Was I talking with the murderer? Had the man + who himself committed the crime conducted the post mortem, and put Justice + off the scent? And was I now practically at the mercy of the criminal I + was trying to track down? The thought for a second or two made me feel + terribly uncomfortable. But I glanced at his back and at his hands, and + reassured myself. That broad, short man was not the slim figure of my + Picture and of the photograph. Those large red hands were not the + originals of the small and delicate white palm just displayed at the back + in both those strange documents of the mysterious murder. + </p> + <p> + The doctor came over again, and drew his chair close to mine. + </p> + <p> + “Una, my child,” he said slowly, “I love you very much, + as if you were my own daughter. I always loved you and admired you, and + was sorry—oh, so sorry!—for you. You’ve quite forgotten + who I am; but I’ve not forgotten you. Take what I say as coming from + an old friend, from one who loves you and has your interest at heart. For + heaven’s sake, I implore you, my child, make no more inquiries. Try + to forget—not to remember. If you do recollect, you’ll be + sorry in the end for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so?” I asked, amazed, yet somehow feeling in my heart I + could trust him implicitly. “Why should the knowledge of the true + circumstances of the case make me more unhappy than I am at present?” + </p> + <p> + He gazed harder at me than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Because,” he replied in slow tones, weighing each word as he + spoke, “you may find that the murder was committed by some person or + persons you love or once loved very much indeed. You may find it will rend + your very heart-strings to see that person or those persons punished. You + may find the circumstances were wholly otherwise than you imagine them to + be.... Let sleeping dogs lie, my dear. Without your aid, nothing more can + be done. Don’t trouble yourself to put the blood-hounds on the track + of some unhappy creature who might otherwise escape. Don’t rake it + all up afresh. Bury it—bury it—bury it!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke so earnestly that he filled me with vague alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Marten,” I said solemnly, “answer me just one + question. Do you know who was the murderer?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” he exclaimed, starting once more. “Thank + heaven, I can’t tell you that! I don’t know. I know nothing. + Nobody on earth knows but the two who were present on the night of the + murder, I feel sure. And of those two, one’s unknown, and the other + has forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “But you suspect who he is?” I put in, probing the secret + curiously. + </p> + <p> + He trembled visibly. + </p> + <p> + “I suspect who he is,” he replied, after a moment’s + hesitation. “But I have never communicated, and will never + communicate, my suspicions to anybody, not even to you. I will only say + this: the person whom I suspect is one with whom you may now have + forgotten all your past relations, but whom you would be sorry to punish + if you recovered your memory. I formed a strong opinion at the time who + that person was. I formed it from the nature and disposition of the wound, + and the arrangement of the objects in the room when I was called in to see + your father’s body.” + </p> + <p> + “And you never said so at the inquest!” I cried, indignant. + </p> + <p> + He looked at me hard again. Then he spoke in a very slow and earnest + voice: + </p> + <p> + “For your sake, Una, and for the sake of your affections, I held my + peace,” he said. “My dear, the suspicion was but a very + slender one: I had nothing to go upon. And why should I have tried to + destroy your happiness?” + </p> + <p> + That horrible article in the penny Society paper came back to my mind once + more with hideous suggestiveness. I turned to him almost fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “So far as you know, Dr. Marten,” I asked, “was I ever + in love? Had I ever an admirer? Was I ever engaged to anyone?” + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders and smiled a sort of smile of relief. + </p> + <p> + “How should I know?” he answered. “Admirers?—yes, + dozens of them; I was one myself. Lovers?—who can say? But I advise + you not to push the inquiry further.” + </p> + <p> + I questioned him some minutes longer, but could get nothing more from him. + Then I rose to go. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Marten,” I said firmly, “if I remember all, and if + it wrings my heart to remember, I tell you I will give up that man to + justice all the same! I think I know myself well enough to know this much + at least, that I never, never could stoop either to love or to screen a + man who could commit such a foul and dastardly crime as this one.” + </p> + <p> + He took my hand fervently, raised it with warmth to his lips and kissed it + twice over. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” he said, with tears dropping down his gentle old + cheeks, “this is a very great mystery—a terrible mystery. But + I know you speak the truth. I can see you mean it. Therefore, all the more + earnestly do I beg and beseech you, go away from Woodbury at once, and as + long as you live think no more about it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. — A VISION OF DEAD YEARS + </h2> + <p> + The interview with Dr. Marten left me very much disquieted. But it wasn’t + the only disquieting thing that occurred at Woodbury. Before I left the + place I happened to go one day into Jane’s own little sitting-room. + Jane was anxious I should see it—she wanted me to know all her + house, she said, for the sake of old times: and for the sake of those old + times that I couldn’t remember, but when I knew she’d been + kind to me, I went in and looked at it. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing very peculiar about Jane’s little sitting-room: + just the ordinary English landlady’s parlour. You know the type:—square + table in the middle; bright blue vases on the mantelpiece; + chromo-lithograph from the Illustrated London News on the wall; rickety + whatnot with glass-shaded wax-flowers in the recess by the window. But + over in one corner I chanced to observe a framed photograph of early + execution, which hung faded and dim there. Perhaps it was because my + father was such a scientific amateur; but photography, I found out in + time, struck the key-note of my history in every chapter. I didn’t + know why, but this particular picture attracted me strangely. It came from + The Grange, Jane told me: she’d hunted it out in the attic over the + front bedroom after the house was shut up. It belonged to a lot of my + father’s early attempts that were locked in a box there. “He’d + always been trying experiments and things,” she said, “with + photography, poor gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + Faded and dim as it was, the picture riveted my eyes at once by some + unknown power of attraction. I gazed at it long and earnestly. It + represented a house of colonial aspect, square, wood-built, and + verandah-girt, standing alone among strange trees whose very names and + aspects were then unfamiliar to me, but which I nowadays know to be + Australian eucalyptuses. On the steps of the verandah sat a lady in deep + mourning. A child played by her side, and a collie dog lay curled up still + and sleepy in the foreground. The child, indeed, stirred no chord of any + sort in my troubled brain; but my heart came up into my mouth so at sight + of the lady, that I said to myself all at once in my awe, “That must + surely be my mother!” + </p> + <p> + The longer I looked at it, the more was I convinced I must have judged + aright. Not indeed that in any true sense I could say I remembered her + face or figure: I was so young when she died, according to everybody’s + account, that even if I’d remained in my First State I could hardly + have retained any vivid recollection of her. But both lady and house + brought up in me once more to some vague degree that strange consciousness + of familiarity I had noticed at The Grange: and what was odder still, the + sense of wont seemed even more marked in the Australian cottage than in + the case of the house which all probability would have inclined one + beforehand to think I must have remembered better. If this was indeed my + earliest home, then I seemed to recollect it far more readily than my + later one. + </p> + <p> + I turned trembling to Jane, hardly daring to frame the question that rose + first to my lips. + </p> + <p> + “Is that—my mother?” I faltered out slowly. + </p> + <p> + But there Jane couldn’t help me. She’d never seen the lady, + she said. + </p> + <p> + “When first I come to The Grange, miss, you see, your mother’d + been buried a year; there was only you and Mr. Callingham in family. And I + never saw that photograph, neither, till I picked it out of the box locked + up in the attic. The little girl might be you, like enough, when you look + at it sideways; and yet again it mightn’t. But the lady I don’t + know. I never saw your mother.” + </p> + <p> + So I was fain to content myself with pure conjecture. + </p> + <p> + All day long, however, the new picture haunted me almost as persistently + as the old one. + </p> + <p> + That night I went to sleep fast, and slept for some hours heavily. I woke + with a start. I had been dreaming very hard. And my dream was peculiarly + clear and lifelike. Never since the first night of my new life—the + night of the murder—had I dreamed such a dream, or seen dead objects + so vividly. It came out in clear colours, like the terrible Picture that + had haunted me so long. And it affected me strangely. It was a scene, + rather than a dream—a scene, as at the theatre; but a scene in which + I realised and recognised everything. + </p> + <p> + I stood on the steps of a house—a white wooden house, with a + green-painted verandah—the very house I had seen that afternoon in + the faded photograph in Jane’s little sitting-room. But I didn’t + think of it at first as the house in the old picture: I thought of it as + home—our own place—the cottage. The steps seemed to me very + high, as in childish recollection. A lady walked about on the verandah and + called to me: a lady in a white gown, like the lady in the photograph, + only younger and prettier, and dressed much more daintily. But I didn’t + think of her as that either: I called her mamma to myself: I looked up + into her face, oh, ever so much above me: I must have been very small + indeed when that picture first occurred to me. There was a gentleman, too, + in a white linen coat, who pinched my mamma’s ear, and talked softly + and musically. But I didn’t think of him quite so: I knew he was my + papa: I played about his knees, a little scampering child, and looked up + in his face, and teased him and laughed at him. My papa looked down at me, + and called me a little kitten, and rolled me over on my back, and fondled + me and laughed with me. There were trees growing all about, big trees with + long grey leaves: the same sort of trees as the ones in the photograph. + But I didn’t remember that at first: in my dream, and in the first + few minutes of my waking thought, I knew them at once as the big + blue-gum-trees. + </p> + <p> + I awoke in the midst of it: and the picture persisted. + </p> + <p> + Then, with a sudden burst of intuition, the truth flashed upon me all at + once. My dream was no mere dream, but a revelation in my sleep. It was my + intellect working unconsciously and spontaneously in an automatic + condition. For the very first time in my life, since the night of the + murder, I had really REMEMBERED something that occurred before it. + </p> + <p> + This was a scene of my First State. In all probability it was my earliest + true childish recollection. + </p> + <p> + I sat up in bed, appalled. I dared not call aloud or ring for Jane to come + to me. But if I’d seen a ghost, it could hardly have affected me + more profoundly than this ghost of my own dead life thus brought suddenly + back to me. Gazing away across some illimitable vista of dim years, I + remembered this one scene as something that once occurred, long ago, to my + very self, in my own experience. Then came a vast gulf, an unbridged + abyss: and after that, with a vividness as of yesterday, the murder. + </p> + <p> + I held my ears and crouched low, sitting up in my bed in the dark. But the + dream seemed to go on still: it remained with me distinctly. + </p> + <p> + The more I thought it over, the more certain it appeared as part of my own + experience. Putting two and two together, I made sure in my own mind this + was a genuine recollection of my life in Australia. I was born there, I + knew: that I had learned from everybody. But I could distinctly remember + having LIVED there now. It came back to me as memory. The dream had + reinstated it. + </p> + <p> + And it was the sight of the photograph that had produced the dream. This + was curious, very. A weird idea came across me. Had I begun, in all past + efforts to remember, at the wrong end? Instead of trying to recollect the + circumstances that immediately preceded the murder, ought I to have set + out by trying to reinstate my First Life, chapter by chapter and verse by + verse, from childhood upward? Ought I to start by recalling as far as + possible my very earliest recollections in my previous existence, and then + gradually work up through all my subsequent history to the date of the + murder? + </p> + <p> + The more I thought of it, the more convinced was I that that was the right + procedure. + </p> + <p> + It was certainly significant that this vague childish recollection of + something which might have happened when I was just about two years old + should be the very first thing to recur to my my memory. Yet so appalled + and alarmed was I by the weirdness of this sudden apparition, looming up, + as it were, all by itself in the depths of my consciousness, that I hardly + dared bring myself to think of trying to recall any other scenes of that + dead and past existence. The picture rose like an exhalation, hanging + unrelated in mid-air, a mere mental mirage: and it terrified me so much, + that I shrank unutterably from the effort of calling up another of like + sort to follow it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. — HATEFUL SUSPICIONS + </h2> + <p> + The rest of that night I lay awake in my bed, the scene in the verandah by + the big blue-gum-trees haunting me all the time, much as in earlier days + the Picture of the murder had pursued and haunted me. Early in the morning + I rose up, and went down to Jane in her little parlour. I longed for + society in my awe. I needed human presence. I couldn’t bear to be + left alone by myself with all these pressing and encompassing mysteries. + </p> + <p> + “Jane,” I said after a few minutes’ careless talk—for + I didn’t like to tell her about my wonderful dream,—“where + exactly did you find the picture of that house hanging over in the corner + there?” + </p> + <p> + “Lor’ bless your heart, miss,” Jane answered, “there’s + a whole boxful of them at The Grange. Nobody ever cared for them. They’re + up in the top attic. They were locked till your papa died, and then they + were opened by order of the executors. Some of ‘em’s faded + even worse than that one, and none of ‘em’s very good; but I + picked this one out because it was better worth framing for my room than + most of ‘em. The executors took no notice when they found what they was. + They opened the box to see if it was dockyments.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jane,” I said, “I shall go up and bring them + every one away with me. It’s possible they may help me to recollect + things a bit.” I drew my hand across my forehead. “It all + seems so hazy,” I went on. “Yet when I see things again, I + sometimes feel as if I almost recognised them.” + </p> + <p> + So that very morning we went up together (I wouldn’t go alone), and + got the rest of the photographs—very faded positives from + old-fashioned plates, most of them representing persons and places I had + never seen; and a few of them apparently not taken in England. + </p> + <p> + I didn’t look them all over at once just then. I thought it best not + to do so. I would give my memory every possible chance. Take a few at a + time, and see what effect they produced on me. Perhaps—though I + shrank from the bare idea with horror—they might rouse in my sleep + such another stray effort of spontaneous reconstruction. Yet the last one + had cost me much nervous wear and tear—much mental agony. + </p> + <p> + A few days after, I went away from Woodbury. I had learned for the moment, + I thought, all that Woodbury could teach me: and I longed to get free + again for a while from this pervading atmosphere of mystery. At Aunt Emma’s, + at least, all was plain and aboveboard. I would go back to + Barton-on-the-Sea, and rest there for a while, among the heathery hills, + before proceeding any further on my voyage of discovery. + </p> + <p> + But I took back Jane with me. I was fond of Jane now. In those two short + weeks I had learned to cling to her. Though I remembered her, strictly + speaking, no more than at first, yet the affection I must have borne her + in my First State seemed to revive in me very easily, like all other + emotions. I was as much at home with Jane, indeed, as if I had known her + for years. And this wasn’t strange; for I HAD known her for years, + in point of fact; and and though I’d forgotten most of those years, + the sense of familiarity they had inspired still lived on with me + unconsciously. I know now that memory resides chiefly in the brain, while + the emotions are a wider endowment of the nervous system in general; so + that while a great shock may obliterate whole tracts in the memory, no + power on earth can ever alter altogether the sentiments and feelings. + </p> + <p> + As for Jane, she was only too glad to come with me. There were no lodgers + at present, she said; and none expected. Her sister Elizabeth would take + care of the rooms, and if any stranger came, why, Lizzie’d telegraph + down at once for her. So I wrote to Aunt Emma to expect us both next day. + Aunt Emma’s, I knew, was a home where I or mine were always welcome. + </p> + <p> + Jane had never seen Aunt Emma. There had been feud between the families + while my father lived, so she didn’t visit The Grange after my + mother’s death. Aunt Emma had often explained to me in part how all + that happened. It was the one point in our family history on which she’d + ever been explicit: for she had a grievance there; and what woman on earth + can ever suppress her grievances? It’s our feminine way to air them + before the world, as it’s a man’s to bury them deep in his own + breast and brood over them. + </p> + <p> + My mother, she told me, had been a widow when my father married her—a + rich young widow. She had gone away, a mere girl, to Australia with her + first husband, a clergyman, who was lost at sea two or three years after, + on the voyage home to England without her. She had one little girl by her + first husband, but the child died quite young: and then she married my + father, who met her first in Australia while she waited for news of the + clergyman’s safety. Her family always disapproved of the second + marriage. My father had no money, it seemed; and mamma was well off, + having means of her own to start with, like Aunt Emma, and having + inherited also her first husband’s property, which was very + considerable. He had left it to his little girl, and after her to his + wife; so that first my father, and then I myself, came in, in the end, to + both the little estates, though my mother’s had been settled on the + children of the first marriage. Aunt Emma always thought my father had + married for money: and she said he had been hard and unkind to mamma: not + indeed cruel; he wasn’t a cruel man; but severe and wilful. He made + her do exactly as he wished about everything, in a masterful sort of way, + that no woman could stand against. He crushed her spirit entirely, Aunt + Emma told me; she had no will of her own, poor thing: his individuality + was so strong, that it overrode my mother’s weak nature rough-shod. + </p> + <p> + Not that he was rough. He never scolded her; he never illtreated her; but + he said to her plainly, “You are to do so and so;” and she + obeyed like a child. She never dared to question him. + </p> + <p> + So Aunt Emma had always said my mother was badly used, especially in money + matters—the money being all, when one came to think of it, her own + or her first husband’s;—and as a consequence, auntie was never + invited to The Grange during my father’s lifetime. + </p> + <p> + When we reached Barton-on-the-Sea, Jane and I, on our way from Woodbury, + Aunt Emma was waiting at the station to meet us. To my great + disappointment, I could see at first sight she didn’t care for Jane: + and I could also see at first sight Jane didn’t care for her. This + was a serious blow to me, for I leaned upon those two more than I leaned + upon anyone; and I had far too few friends in the world of my own, to + afford to do without any one of them. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, however, when I went up to my own room to bed, Jane came + up to help me as she always did at Woodbury. I began at once to tax her + with not liking Aunt Emma. With a little hesitation, Jane admitted that at + first sight she hadn’t felt by any means disposed to care for her. I + pressed her hard as to why. Jane held off and prevaricated. That roused my + curiosity:—you see, I’m a woman. I insisted upon knowing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, miss, I can’t tell you!” Jane cried, growing red in + the face, “I can’t bear to say it out. You oughtn’t to + ask. It’ll hurt you to know I even thought such a thing of her!” + </p> + <p> + “You MUST tell me, Jane,” I exclaimed, with a cold shudder of + terror, half guessing what she meant. “Don’t keep me in + suspense. Let me know what it is. I’m accustomed to shocks now. I + know I can stand them.” + </p> + <p> + Jane answered nothing directly. She only held out her coarse red hand and + asked me, with a face growing pale as she spoke: + </p> + <p> + “Where’s that picture of the murder?” + </p> + <p> + I produced it from my box, trembling inwardly all over. + </p> + <p> + Jane darted one finger demonstratively at a point in the photograph. + </p> + <p> + “Whose hand is THAT?” she asked with a strange earnestness, + putting her nail on the murderer’s. + </p> + <p> + The words escaped me in a cry of horror almost before I was aware of them: + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Emma’s!” I said, gasping. “I NEVER noticed + it before.” + </p> + <p> + Then I drew back and stared at it in speechless awe and consternation. + </p> + <p> + It was quite, quite true. No use in denying it. The figure that escaped + through the window was dressed in man’s clothes, to be sure, and as + far as one could judge from the foreshortening and the peculiar stoop, had + a man’s form and stature. But the hand was a woman’s—soft, + and white, and delicate: nay more, the hand, as I said in my haste, was + line for line Aunt Emma’s. + </p> + <p> + In a moment a terrible sinking came over me from head to foot. I trembled + like an aspen-leaf. Could this, then, be the meaning of Dr. Marten’s + warning, that I should let sleeping dogs lie, lest I should be compelled + to punish someone whom I loved most dearly? Had Fate been so cruel to me, + that I had learned to cling most in my Second State to the very criminal + whose act had blotted out my First? Had I grown to treat like a mother my + father’s murderer? + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma’s hand! Aunt Emma’s hand! That was Aunt Emma’s + hand, every touch and every line of it. But no! where were the marks, + those well-known marks on the palm? I took up the big magnifying-glass + with which I had often scanned that photograph close before. Not a sign or + a trace of them. I shut my eyes, and called up again the mental Picture of + the murder. I looked hard at the phantom-hand in it, that floated like a + vision, all distinct before my mind’s eye. It was flat and smooth + and white. Not a scar—not a sign on it. I turned round to Jane, that + too natural detective. + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” I cried hastily, with a quick tone of triumph. + “Aunt Emma’s hand is marked on the palm with great gashes and + cuts. This one’s smooth as smooth can be. And so’s the one I + can see in the Picture within me!” + </p> + <p> + Jane drew back with a startled air, and opened her mouth, all agog, to let + in a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “The wall!” she said slowly. “The bottle-glass, don’t + you know! The blood on the top! Whoever did it, climbed over and tore his + hands. Or HER hands, if it was a woman! That would account for the gashes.” + </p> + <p> + This was more than I could endure. The coincidence was too crushing. I + bent down my head on my arms and cried silently, bitterly. I hated Jane in + my heart for even suggesting it. Yet I couldn’t deny to myself for a + moment the strength and suggestiveness of her half-spoken argument. + </p> + <p> + Not that for a second I believed it true. I could never believe it. Aunt + Emma, so gentle, so kindly, so sweet: incapable of hurting any living + thing: the tenderest old lady that breathed upon earth: and my own mother’s + sister, whom I loved as I never before loved anyone! Aunt Emma the + murderess! The bare idea was preposterous! I couldn’t entertain it. + My whole nature revolted from it. + </p> + <p> + And indeed, how very slight, after all, was the mere scrap of evidence on + which Jane ventured to suggest so terrible a charge! A man—in man’s + clothes—fairly tall and slim, and apparently dark-haired, but + stooping so much that he looked almost hump-backed: how different from + Aunt Emma, with her womanly figure, and her upright gait, and her sweet + old white head! Why, it was clearly ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + And yet, the fact remained that as Jane pointed to the Picture and asked, + “Whose hand is that?” the answer came up all spontaneously to + my lips, without hesitation, “Aunt Emma’s!” + </p> + <p> + I sat there long in my misery, thinking it over to myself. I didn’t + know what to do. I couldn’t go and confide to Aunt Emma’s ear + this new and horrible doubt,—which was no doubt after all, for I + KNEW it was impossible. I hated Jane for suggesting it; I hated her for + telling me. Yet I couldn’t be left alone. I was far too terrified. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jane;” I cried, looking up to her, and yet despising + myself for saying it, “you must stop here to-night and sleep with + me. If I’m left by myself in the room alone, I know I shall go mad—I + can feel it—I’m sure of it!” + </p> + <p> + Jane stopped with me and soothed me. She was certainly very kind. Yet I + felt in a dim underhand sort of way it was treason to Aunt Emma to receive + her caresses at all after what she had said to me. Though to be sure, it + was I, not she, who spoke those hateful words. It was I myself who had + said the hand was Aunt Emma’s. + </p> + <p> + As I lay awake and thought, the idea flashed across me suddenly, could + Jane have any grudge of her own against Aunt Emma? Was this a deliberate + plot? What did she mean by her warnings that I should keep my mind open? + Why had she said from the very first it was a woman’s hand? Did she + want to set me against my aunt? And was Dr. Marten in league with her? In + my tortured frame of mind, I felt all alone in the world. I covered my + head and sobbed in my misery. I didn’t know who were my friends and + who were against me. + </p> + <p> + At last, after long watching, I dozed off into an uneasy sleep. Jane had + already been snoring long beside me. I woke up again with a start. I was + cold and shuddering. I had dreamed once more the same Australian dream. My + mamma as before stood gentle beside me. She stooped down and smoothed my + hair: I could see her face and her form distinctly. And I noticed now she + was like her sister, Aunt Emma, only younger and prettier, and ever so + much slighter. And her hand, too, was soft and white like auntie’s—very + gentle and delicate. + </p> + <p> + It was just there that I woke up—with the hand before my eyes. Oh, + how vividly I noted it! Aunt Emma’s hand, only younger, and + unscarred on the palm. The family hand, no doubt: the hand of the Moores. + I remembered, now, that Aunt Emma had spoken more than once of that family + peculiarity. It ran through the house, she said. But my hand was quite + different: not the Moore type at all: I supposed I must have taken it, as + was natural, from the Callinghams. + </p> + <p> + And then, in my utter horror and loneliness, a still more awful and + ghastly thought presented itself to me. This was my mother’s hand I + saw in the picture. Was it my mother, indeed, who wrought the murder? Was + she living or dead? Had my father put upon her some grievous wrong? Had he + pretended to get her out of the way? Had he buried her alive, so to speak, + in some prison or madhouse? Had she returned in disguise from the asylum + or the living grave to avenge herself and murder him? In my present frame + of mind, no idea was too wild or too strange for me to entertain. If this + strain continued much longer, I should go mad myself with suspense and + horror! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. — YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH + </h2> + <p> + Next morning my head ached. After all I’d suffered, I could hardly + bear to recur to the one subject that now always occupied my thoughts. And + yet, on the other hand, I couldn’t succeed in banishing it. To + relieve my mind a little, I took out the photographs I had brought from + the box at The Grange, and began to sort them over according to probable + date and subject. + </p> + <p> + They were of different periods, some old, some newer. I put them together + in series, as well as I could, by the nature of the surroundings. The most + recent of all were my father’s early attempts at instantaneous + electric photography—the attempts which led up at last to his + automatic machine, the acmegraph, that produced all unconsciously the + picture of the murder. Some of these comparatively recent proofs + represented men running and horses trotting: but the best of all, tied + together with a bit of tape, clearly belonged to a single set, and must + have been taken at the same time at an athletic meeting. There was one of + a flat race, viewed from a little in front, with the limbs of the runners + in seemingly ridiculous attitudes, so instantaneous and therefore so + grotesquely rigid were they. There was another of a high jump, seen from + one side at the very moment of clearing the pole, so that the figure + poised solid in mid-air as motionless as a statue. And there was a third, + equally successful, of a man throwing the hammer, in which the hammer, in + the same way, seemed to hang suspended of itself like Mahomet’s + coffin between earth and heaven. + </p> + <p> + But the one that attracted my attention the most was a photograph of an + obstacle-race, in which the runners had to mount and climb over a wagon + placed obtrusively sideways across the course on purpose to baffle them. + This picture was taken from a few yards in the rear; and the athletes were + seen in it in the most varied attitudes. Some of them were just climbing + up one side of the wagon: others had mounted to the top ledge of the body: + and one, standing on the further edge, was in the very act of leaping down + to the ground in front of him. He was bent double, to spring, with a stoop + like a hunchback, and balanced himself with one hand held tightly behind + him. + </p> + <p> + As my eye fell on that figure, a cold thrill ran through me. For a moment + I only knew something important had happened. Next instant I realised what + the thrill portended. I could only see the man’s back, to be sure, + but I knew him in a second. I had no doubt as to who it was. This was HIM—the + murderer! + </p> + <p> + Yes, yes! There could be no mistaking that arched round back that had + haunted me so long in my waking dreams. I knew him at sight. It was the + man I had seen on the night of the murder getting out of the window! + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I was overwrought. Perhaps my fancy ran away with me. But I didn’t + doubt for a second. I rose from my seat, and in a tremulous voice called + Jane into the room. Without one word I laid both pictures down before her + together. Jane glanced first at the one, then turned quickly to the other. + A sharp little cry broke from her lips all unbidden. She saw it as fast + and as instinctively as I had done. + </p> + <p> + “That’s him!” she exclaimed, aghast, and as pale as a + sheet. “That’s him, right enough, Miss Una. That’s the + very same back! That’s the very same hand! That’s the man! + That’s the murderer!” + </p> + <p> + And indeed, this unanimity was sufficiently startling. For nothing could + have been more different than the dress in the two cases. In the murder + scene, the man seemed to wear a tweed suit and knickerbockers,—he + was indistinct, as I said before, against the blurred light of the window: + while in the athletic scene, he wore just a thin jersey and + running-drawers, cut short at the knee, with his arms and legs bare, and + his muscles contracted. Yet for all that, we both knew him for the same + man at once. That stooping back was unmistakable; that position of the + hand was characteristic and unique. We were sure he was the same man. I + trembled with agitation. I had a clue to the murderer! + </p> + <p> + Yet, strange to say, that wasn’t the first thought that occurred to + my mind. In the relief of the moment, I looked up into Jane’s eyes, + and exclaimed with a sigh of profound relief: + </p> + <p> + “Then you see how mistaken you were about the hands and Aunt Emma!” + </p> + <p> + Jane looked close at the hand in the photograph once more. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s curious,” she said, slowly. “That’s + a man, sure enough: but he’d ought to be a Moore. The palm’s + your aunt’s as clear as ever you could paint it!” + </p> + <p> + I glanced over her shoulder. She was perfectly right. It was a man beyond + all doubt, the figure on the wagon. Yet the hand was Aunt Emma’s, + every line and every stroke of it; except, of course, the scars. Those, I + saw at a glance, were wholly wanting. + </p> + <p> + And now I had really a clue to the murderer. + </p> + <p> + Yet how slight a clue! Just a photograph of men’s backs. What men? + When and where? It was an athletic meeting. Of what club or society? That + was the next question now I had to answer. Instinctively I made up my mind + to answer it myself, without giving any notice to the police of my + discovery. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I should never have been able to answer it at all but for one of + the photographs which, as I thought, though lying loose by itself, formed + part of the same series. It represented the end of a hundred-yard race, + with the winners coming in at the tape by a pavilion with a flag-staff. On + the staff a big flag was flying loosely in the wind. The folds hid half of + the words on its centre from sight. But this much at least I could read: + </p> + <h3> + “ER...OM..OY...LETI...UB.” + </h3> + <p> + I gazed at them long and earnestly. After a minute or two of thought, I + made out the last two words. The inscription must surely be + Something-or-other Athletic Club. + </p> + <p> + But what was “Er... om.. oy...”? That question staggered me. + Gazing harder at it than ever, I could come to no conclusion. It was the + name of a place, no doubt: but what place, I knew not. + </p> + <p> + “Er”? No, “Ber”: just a suspicion of a B came + round the corner of a fold. If B was the first letter, I might possibly + identify it. + </p> + <p> + I took the photograph down to Aunt Emma, without telling her what I meant. + She couldn’t bear to think I was ever engaged in thinking of my + First State at all. + </p> + <p> + “Can you read the inscription on that flag, auntie?” I asked. + “It’s an old photograph I picked up in the attic at The + Grange, and I’d like to know, if I could, at what place it was + taken.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma gazed at it long and earnestly. Her colour never changed. Then + she shook her head quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know the place,” she said; “and I don’t + know the name. I can’t quite make it out. That’s E, and R, and + O. You see, the letters in between might be almost anything.” + </p> + <p> + I wasn’t going to be put off, however, with the port thus in sight. + One fact was almost certain. Wherever that pavilion might be, the murderer + was there on the day unknown when those photo-graphs were taken. And + whatever that day might be, my father and the murderer were there + together. That brought the two into connection, and brought me one step + nearer a solution than ever the police had been; for hitherto no one had + even pretended to have the slightest clue to the personality of the man + who jumped out of the window. + </p> + <p> + I went into the library and took down the big atlas. Opening the map of + England and Wales, I began a hopeless search, county by county, from + Northumberland downward, for any town or village that would fit these + mysterious letters. It was a wild and foolish idea. In the first place not + a quarter of the villages were marked in the map; and in the second place, + my brain soon got muddled and dazed with trying to fit in the names with + the letters on the flag. Two hours had passed away, and I’d only got + as far down as Lancashire and Durham. And, most probably even so, I would + never come upon it. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly, a bright idea broke on my brain at once. The Index! The + Index! Presumably, as no fold seemed to obscure the first words, the name + began with what looked like a B. That was always something. + </p> + <p> + A man would have thought of that at once, of course: but then, I have the + misfortune to be only a woman. + </p> + <p> + I turned to the Index in haste, and looked down it with hurried eyes. + Almost sooner than I could have hoped, the riddle unread itself. “Ber-, + Berb-, Berc-, Berd-,” I read out: “Berkshire: Berham: + Berhampore: that won’t do: Berlin: Berling: Bernina: Berry—what’s + that? Oh, great heavens!”—my brain reeled—“Berry + Pomeroy!” + </p> + <p> + It was as clear as day. How could I have missed it before? There it seemed + to stand out almost legible on the flagstaff. I read it now with ease: + “Berry Pomeroy Athletic Club.” + </p> + <p> + I looked up the map once more, following the lines with my fingers, till I + found the very place where the name was printed. A village in Devonshire, + not far from Torquay. Yes! That’s it; Berry Pomeroy. The murderer + was there on the day of that athletic meeting! + </p> + <p> + My heart came up into my mouth with mingled horror and triumph. I felt + like a bloodhound who gets on the trail of his man. I would track him down + now, no doubt—my father’s murderer! + </p> + <p> + I had no resentment against him, no desire for vengeance. But I had a + burning wish to free myself from this environing mystery. + </p> + <p> + I wouldn’t tell the police or the inspector, however, what clue I + had obtained. I’d find it all out for myself without anyone’s + help. I remembered what Dr. Marten had said, and determined to be wise. I’d + work on my own lines till all was found out: and then, be it who it might, + I sternly resolved I’d let justice be done on him. + </p> + <p> + So I said nothing even to Jane about the discovery I’d just made. I + said nothing to anybody till we sat down at dinner. Then, in the course of + conversation, I got on the subject of Devonshire. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie,” I ventured to ask at last, in a very casual way, + “did I ever, so far as you know, go anywhere near a place called + Berry Pomeroy?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma gave a start. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, why do you ask?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say you remember that, do you? What do you + want to know for, Una? You can’t possibly recollect your Torquay + visit, surely!” + </p> + <p> + I trembled all over. Then I was on the right track! + </p> + <p> + “Was I ever at Torquay?” I asked once more, as firmly as I + could. “And when I was there, did I go over one day to Berry + Pomeroy?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma grew all at once as white as death. + </p> + <p> + “This is wonderful!” she cried in an agitated voice. “This + is wonderful—wonderful! If you can remember that, my child, you can + remember anything.” + </p> + <p> + “I DON’T remember it auntie,” I answered, not liking to + deceive her. “To tell you the truth, I simply guessed at it. But + when and why was I at Torquay? Please tell me. And did I go to Berry + Pomeroy?” For I stuck to my point, and meant to get it out of her. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma gazed at me fixedly. + </p> + <p> + “You went to Torquay, dear,” she said in a very slow voice, + “in the spring of the same year your poor father was killed: that’s + more than four years ago. The Willie Moores live at Torquay, and several + more of your cousins. You went to stop with Willie’s wife, and you + stayed five weeks. I don’t know whether you ever went over to Berry + Pomeroy. You may have, and you mayn’t: it’s within an easy + driving distance. Minnie Moore has often written to ask me whether you + could go there again; Minnie was always fond of you, and thinks you’d + remember her: but I’ve been afraid to allow you, for fear it should + recall sad scenes. She’s about your own age, Minnie is; and she’s + a daughter of Willie Moore, who’s my own first cousin, and of course + your dear mother’s.” + </p> + <p> + I never hesitated a moment. I was strung up too tightly by that time. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie dear,” I said quietly, “I go to-morrow to + Torquay. I must know all now. I must hunt up these people.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie knew from my tone it was no use trying to stand in my way any + longer. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, dear,” she said resignedly. “I don’t + believe it’s good for you: but you must do as you like. You have + your father’s will, Una. You were always headstrong.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. — THE VISION RECURS + </h2> + <p> + I hated asking auntie questions, they seemed to worry and distress her so; + but that evening, in view of my projected visit to Torquay, I was obliged + to cross-examine her rather closely about many things. I wanted to know + about my Torquay relations, and as far as possible about my mother’s + family. In the end I learned that the Willie Moores were cousins of ours + on my mother’s side who had never quarrelled with my father, like + Aunt Emma, and through whom alone accordingly, in the days of my First + State, Aunt Emma was able to learn anything about me. They had a house at + Torquay, and connections all around; for the Moores were Devonshire + people. Aunt Emma was very anxious, if I went down there at all, I should + stop with Mrs. Moore: for Minnie would be so grieved, she said, if I went + to an hotel or took private lodgings. But I wouldn’t hear of that + myself. I knew nothing of the Moores—in my present condition—and + I didn’t like to trust myself in the hands of those who to me were + perfect strangers. So I decided on going to the Imperial Hotel, and + calling on the Moores quietly to pursue my investigation. + </p> + <p> + Another question I asked in the course of the evening. I had wondered + about it often, and now, in these last straits, curiosity overcame me. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Emma,” I said unexpectedly after a pause, without one + word of introduction, “how ever did you get those scars on your + hand? You’ve never told me.” + </p> + <p> + In a moment, Aunt Emma blushed suddenly crimson like a girl of eighteen. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” she answered very gravely, in a low strange tone, + “oh, don’t ask me about that, dear. Don’t ask me about + that. You could never understand it.... I got them... in climbing over a + high stone wall... a high stone wall, with bits of glass stuck on top of + it.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of her prohibition, I couldn’t help asking one virtual + question more. I gave a start of horror: + </p> + <p> + “Not the wall at The Grange!” I cried. “Oh, Aunt Emma, + how wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + She gazed at me, astonished. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the wall at The Grange,” she said simply. “But I + don’t know how you guessed it.... Oh, Una, don’t talk to me + any more about these things, I implore you. You can’t think how they + grieve me. They distress me unspeakably.” + </p> + <p> + Much as I longed to know, I couldn’t ask her again after that. She + was trembling like an aspen-leaf. For some minutes we sat and looked at + the fireplace in silence. + </p> + <p> + Then curiosity overcame me again. + </p> + <p> + “Only one question more, auntie,” I said. “When I came + to you first, you were at home here at Barton. You didn’t come to + Woodbury to fetch me after the murder. You didn’t attend the + inquest. I’ve often wondered at that. Why didn’t you bring me + yourself? Why didn’t you hurry to nurse me as soon as you heard they’d + shot my father?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma gazed at me again with a face like a sheet. + </p> + <p> + “Darling,” she said, quivering, “I was ill. I was in + bed. I was obliged to stay away. I’d hurt myself badly a little + before.... Oh, Una, leave off! If you go on like this, you’ll drive + me mad. Say no more, I implore of you.” + </p> + <p> + I couldn’t think what this meant; but as auntie wished it, I held my + peace, all inwardly trembling with suppressed excitement. + </p> + <p> + That night, when I went up to bed, I lay awake long, thinking to myself of + the Australian scene. In the silence of the night it came back to me + vividly. Rain pattered on the roof, and helped me to remember it. I could + see the blue-gum trees waving their long ribbon-like leaves in the wind: I + could see the cottage, the verandah, my mother, our dog: nay, even, I + remembered now, with a burst of recollection, his name was Carlo. The + effort was more truly a recollection than before: it was part of myself: I + felt aware it was really I myself, not another, who had seen all this, and + lived and moved in it. + </p> + <p> + Slowly I fell asleep, and passed from thinking to dreaming. My dream was + but a prolongation of the thoughts I had been turning over in my waking + mind. I was still in Australia; still on the verandah of our wooden house; + and my mamma was there, and papa beside her. I knew it was papa; for I + held his hand and played with him. But he was so much altered, so grave + and severe; though he smiled at me good-humouredly. Mamma was sitting + behind, with baby on her lap. It seemed to me quite natural she should be + there with baby. The scene was so distinct—very vivid and clear. It + persisted for many minutes, perhaps even hours. It burnt itself into my + brain. At last, it woke me up by its very intensity. + </p> + <p> + As I woke, a great many thoughts crowded in upon me all at once. This time + I knew instantly it was no mere dream, but a true recollection. Yet what a + strange recollection! how unexpected! how incomprehensible! How much in it + to settle! how much to investigate and hunt up and inquire about! + </p> + <p> + In the first place, though I was still in my dream a little girl, much + time must have elapsed since the earlier vision; for my papa looked far + older, and graver, and sterner. He had more hair about his face, too, a + long brown beard and heavy moustache; and when I gazed hard at him + mentally, I could recognise the likeness with the white-bearded man who + lay dead on the floor: while in my former recollection, I could scarcely + make out any resemblance of the features. This showed that the second + scene came long after the first: my father must by that time have begun to + resemble his later self. A weird feeling stole over me. Was I going to + relive my previous life, piecemeal? Was the past going to unroll itself in + slow but regular panorama to my sleeping vision? Was my First State to + become known like this in successive scenes to my Second? + </p> + <p> + But that wasn’t all. There were strange questions to decide, too, + about this new dream of dead days. What could be the meaning of that + mysterious baby? She seemed to be so vivid, so natural, so real; her + presence there was so much a pure matter of course to me, that I couldn’t + for a moment separate her from the rest of the Picture. I REMEMBERED the + baby, now; as I remembered my mother, and my father, and Australia. There + was no room for doubt as to that. The baby was an integral part of my real + recollection. Floating across the dim ocean of years, I was certain that + night I had once lived in such a scene, with my mamma, and baby. + </p> + <p> + Yet oh, what baby? I never had a brother or sister of my own, except the + half-sister that died—the clergyman’s child, Mary Wharton. And + Mary, from what I had learned from Aunt Emma and others, must have died + when I was only just five months old, immediately before we left + Australia. How, then, could I remember her, even in this exalted mental + state of trance or dream? And, above all, how could I remember a far + earlier scene, when my papa was younger, when his face was smooth, and + when there was no other baby? + </p> + <p> + This mystery only heightened the other mysteries which surrounded my life. + I was surfeited with them now. In very despair and listlessness, I turned + round on my side, and dozed dreamily off again, unable to grapple with it. + </p> + <p> + But still that scene haunted me. And still, even in sleep, I asked myself + over and over again, “How on earth can this be? What’s the + meaning of the baby?” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was a little sister that died young, whom I never had heard of. + And perhaps not. In a life such as mine, new surprises are always + possible. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. — THE MOORES OF TORQUAY + </h2> + <p> + Strange to say, in spite of everything, my sleep refreshed me. I woke up + in the morning strong and vigorous—thank goodness, I have physically + a magnificent constitution—and packed my box, with Jane’s + help, for my Torquay expedition. + </p> + <p> + I went up to London and down to Torquay alone, though Jane offered to + accompany me. I was learning to be self-reliant. It suited my plans + better. Nobody could bear this burden for me but myself; and the sooner I + learnt to bear it my own way, the happier for me. + </p> + <p> + At Torquay station, to my great surprise, a fresh-looking girl of my own + age rushed up to me suddenly, and kissed me without one word of warning. + She was a very pretty girl, pink-cheeked and hazel-eyed: and as she kissed + me, she seized both my hands in hers, and cried out to me frankly: + </p> + <p> + “Why, there you are, Una dear! Cousin Emma telegraphed us what train + you’d arrive by; so I’ve driven down to meet you. And now, you’re + coming up with us this very minute in the pony-carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re Minnie Moore, I suppose?” I said, gazing at her + admiringly. Her sweet, frank smile and apple-blossom cheek somehow + inspired me with confidence. + </p> + <p> + She looked back at me quite distressed. Tears rose at once into her eyes + with true Celtic suddenness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Una,” she cried, deeply hurt and drawing back into her + shell, “don’t tell me you don’t know me! Why, I’m + Minnie! Minnie!” + </p> + <p> + My heart went out to her at once. I took her hand in mine again. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie dear,” I said softly, quite remorseful for my mistake, + “you must remember what has happened to me, and not be angry. I’ve + forgotten everything, even my own past life. I’ve forgotten that I + ever before set eyes upon you. But, my dear, there’s one thing I’ve + NOT in a way forgotten; and that is, that I loved you and love you dearly. + And I ‘ll give you a proof of it. When I started, I knew none of + you; and I told Aunt Emma I wouldn’t go among strangers. The moment + I see you, I know you’re no stranger, but a very dear cousin. When I’ve + forgotten MYSELF, how can I remember YOU? But I’ll go up with you at + once. And I’ll countermand the room I ordered by telegram at the + Imperial.” + </p> + <p> + The tears stood fuller in Minnie’s eyes than before. She clasped my + hand hard. Her pretty lips trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Una darling,” she said, “we always were friends, and we + always shall be. If you love me, that’s all. You’re a darling. + I love you.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at her sweet face, and knew it was true. And oh, I was so glad to + have a new friend—an old friend, already! For somehow, as always, + while the intellectual recollection had faded, the emotion survived. I + felt as if I’d known Minnie Moore for years, though I never + remembered to have seen her in my life till that minute. + </p> + <p> + Well, I remained at the Moores’ for a week, and felt quite at home + there. They were all very nice, Cousin Willie, and Aunt Emily (she made me + call her aunt; she said I’d always done so), and Minnie, and all of + them. They were really dear people; and blood, after all, is thicker than + water. But I made no haste to push inquiries just at first. I preferred to + feel my way. I wanted to find out what they knew, if anything, about Berry + Pomeroy. + </p> + <p> + The first time I ventured to mention the subject to Minnie, she gave a + very queer smile—a smile of maidenly badinage. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you remember THAT, any way,” she said, in a teasing + little way, looking down at me and laughing. “I thought you’d + remember that. I must say you enjoyed yourself wonderfully at Berry + Pomeroy!” + </p> + <p> + “Remember what?” I cried, all eagerness; for I saw she + attached some special importance to the recollection. And yet, it was + terrible she should jest about the clue to my father’s murderer! + </p> + <p> + Minnie looked arch. When she looked arch, she was charming. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I never saw you prettier or more engaging in your life than + you were that day,” she said evasively, as if trying to pique me. + “And you flirted so much, too! And everybody admired you so. + Everybody on the grounds... especially one person!” + </p> + <p> + I looked up at her in surprise. I was in my own room, seated by the + dressing-table, late at night, when we’d gone up to bed; and Minnie + was beside me, standing up, with her bedroom candle in that pretty white + little hand of hers. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” I exclaimed eagerly. “Was it a dance—or + a picnic?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know very well,” Minnie went on teasingly, “though + you pretend you forget. HE was there, don’t you know. You must + remember HIM, if you’ve forgotten all the rest of your previous + life. You say you remember the appropriate emotions. Well, he was an + emotion: at least, you thought so. It was an Athletic Club Meeting: and + Dr. Ivor was there. He went across on his bicycle.” + </p> + <p> + I gave a start of surprise. Minnie looked down at me half maliciously. + </p> + <p> + “There, you see,” she said archly again, “at Dr. Ivor + you change colour. I told you you’d remember him!” + </p> + <p> + I grew pale with astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie dear,” I said, holding her hands very tight in my own, + “it wasn’t that, I assure you. I’ve forgotten him, + utterly. If ever I knew a Dr. Ivor, if ever I flirted with him, as you + seem to imply, he’s gone clean out of my head. His name stirs no + chord—recalls absolutely nothing. But I want to know about that + Athletic Meeting. Was my poor father there that day? And did he take a set + of photographs?” + </p> + <p> + Minnie clapped her hands triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “I KNEW you remembered!” she cried. “Of course, Cousin + Vivian was there. We drove over in a break. You MUST remember that. And he + took a whole lot of instantaneous photographs.” + </p> + <p> + My hand trembled violently in my cousin’s. I felt I was now on the + very eve of a great discovery. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie,” I said, tentatively, “do you think your papa + would drive us over some day and—and show us the place again?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he would, dear,” Minnie answered, with a gentle + pressure of my hand. “He’d be only too delighted. Whatever you + choose. You know you were always such a favourite of daddy’s.” + </p> + <p> + I knew nothing of the sort; but I was glad to learn it. I drew Minnie out + a little more about the Athletics and my visit to Berry Pomeroy. She + wouldn’t tell me much: she was too illusive and indefinite: she + never could get the notion out of her head, somehow, that I remembered all + about it, and was only pretending to forgetfulness. But I gathered from + what she said, that Dr. Ivor and I must have flirted a great deal; or, at + least, that he must have paid me a good lot of attention. My father didn’t + like it, Minnie said; he thought Dr. Ivor wasn’t well enough off to + marry me. He was a distant cousin of ours, of course—everything was + always “of course” with that dear bright Minnie—what, + didn’t I know that? Oh, yes, his mother was one of the Moores of + Barnstaple, cousin Edward’s people. His name was Courtenay Moore + Ivor, you know—though I knew nothing of the sort. And he was awfully + clever. And, oh, so handsome! + </p> + <p> + “Is he at Berry Pomeroy still?” I asked, trembling, thinking + this would be a good person to get information from about the people at + the Athletic Sports. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, no,” Minnie answered, looking hard at me, curiously. + “He was never at Berry Pomeroy. He had a practice at Babbicombe. He’s + in Canada now, you know. He went over six months after Cousin Vivian’s + death. I think, dear,”—she hesitated,—“he never + QUITE got over your entirely forgetting him, even if you forgot your whole + past history.” + </p> + <p> + This was a curious romance to me, that Minnie thus sprang on me—a + romance of my own past life of which I myself knew nothing. + </p> + <p> + We sat late talking, and I could see Minnie was very full indeed of Dr. + Ivor. Over and over again she recurred to his name, and always as though + she thought it might rouse some latent chord in my memory. But nothing + came of it. If ever I had cared for Dr. Ivor at all, that feeling had + passed away utterly with the rest of my experiences. + </p> + <p> + When Minnie rose to go, I took her hand once more in mine. As I did so, I + started. Something about it seemed strangely familiar. I looked at it + close with a keen glance. Why, this was curious! It was Aunt Emma’s + hand: it was my mother’s hand: it was the hand in my mental Picture: + it was the hand of the murderer! + </p> + <p> + “It’s just like auntie’s,” I said with an effort, + seeing Minnie noticed my start. + </p> + <p> + She looked at it and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “The Moore hand,” she said gaily. “We all have it, + except you. It’s awfully persistent.” + </p> + <p> + I turned it over in front and examined the palm. At sight of it my brain + reeled. This was surely magic! Minnie Moore’s hand, too, was scarred + over with cuts, exactly like Aunt Emma’s! + </p> + <p> + “Why, how on earth did you do that?” I cried, thunderstruck at + the discovery. + </p> + <p> + But Minnie only laughed again, a bright girlish laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Climbing over that beastly wall at The Grange,” she said with + a merry look. “Oh, what fun we did have! We climbed it together. We + were dreadful tomboys in those days, dear, you and I: but you were luckier + than I was, and didn’t cut yourself with the bottle-glass.” + </p> + <p> + This was too surprising to be passed over unnoticed. When Minnie was gone, + I lay awake and pondered about it. Had all the Moores got scars on their + hands, I wondered? And how many people, I asked myself, had cut themselves + time and again in climbing over that barricaded garden-wall of my father’s? + </p> + <p> + The Moore hand might be hereditary, but not surely the scars. Was the + murderer, then, a Moore, and was that the meaning of Dr. Marten’s + warning? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. — DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE + </h2> + <p> + Two days later, Cousin Willie drove us over to Berry Pomeroy. The lion of + the place is the castle, of course; but Minnie had told him beforehand I + wanted, for reasons of my own, to visit the cricket-field where the sports + were held “the year Dr. Ivor won the mile race, you remember.” + So we went there straight. As soon as we entered, I recognised the field + at once, and the pavilion, and the woods, as being precisely the same as + those presented in the photograph. But I got no further than that. The + captain of the cricket-club was on the ground that day, and I managed to + get into conversation with him, and strolled off in the grounds. There I + showed him the photograph, and asked if he could identify the man climbing + over the wagon: but he said he couldn’t recognise him. Somebody or + other from Torquay, perhaps; not a regular resident. The figures were so + small, and so difficult to make sure about. If I’d leave him the + photograph, perhaps—but at that I drew back, for I didn’t want + anybody, least of all at Torquay, to know what quest I was engaged upon. + </p> + <p> + We drove back, a merry party enough, in spite of my failure. Minnie was + always so jolly, and her mirth was contagious. She talked all the way + still of Dr. Ivor, half-teasing me. It was all very well my pretending not + to remember, she said; but why did I want to see the cricket-field if it + wasn’t for that? Poor Courtenay! if only he knew, how delighted he’d + be to know he wasn’t forgotten! For he really took it to heart, my + illness—she always called it my illness, and so I suppose it was. + From the day I lost my memory, nothing seemed to go right with him; and he + was never content till he went and buried himself somewhere in the wilds + of Canada. + </p> + <p> + That evening again, I sat with Minnie in my room. I was depressed and + distressed. I didn’t want to cry before Minnie, but I could have + cried with good heart for sheer vexation. Of course I couldn’t bear + to go showing the photograph to all the world, and letting everybody see I’d + made myself a sort of amateur detective. They would mistake my motives so. + And yet I didn’t know how I was ever to find out my man any other + way. It was that or nothing. I made up my mind I would ask Cousin Willie. + </p> + <p> + I took out the photograph, as if unintentionally, when I went to my box, + and laid it down with my curling-tongs on the table close by Minnie. + Minnie took it up abstractedly and looked at it with an indefinite gaze. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this is the cricket-field!” she cried, as soon as she + collected her senses. “One of your father’s experiments. The + earliest acmegraphs. How splendidly they come out! See, that’s Sir + Everard at the bottom; and there’s little Jack Hillier above; and + this on one side’s Captain Brooks; and there, in front of all—well, + you know HIM anyhow, Una. Now, don’t pretend you forget! That’s + Courtenay Ivor!” + </p> + <p> + Her finger was on the man who stood poised ready to jump. With an awful + recoil, I drew back and suppressed a scream. It was on the tip of my + tongue to cry out, “Why, that’s my father’s murderer!” + </p> + <p> + But, happily, with a great effort of will I restrained myself. I saw it + all at a glance. That, then, was the meaning of Dr. Marten’s + warning! No wonder, I thought, the shock had disorganised my whole brain. + If Minnie was right, I was in love once with that man. And I must have + seen my lover murder my father! + </p> + <p> + For I didn’t doubt, from what Minnie said, I had really once loved + Dr. Ivor. Horrible and ghastly as it might be to realise it, I didn’t + doubt it was the truth. I had once loved the very man I was now bent on + pursuing as a criminal and a murderer! + </p> + <p> + “You’re sure that’s him, Minnie?” I cried, trying + to conceal my agitation. “You’re sure that’s Courtenay + Ivor, the man stooping on the wagon-top?” + </p> + <p> + Minnie looked at me, smiling. She thought I was asking for a very + different reason. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s him, right enough, dear,” she said. “I + could tell him among a thousand. Why, the Moore hand alone would be quite + enough to know him by. It’s just like my own. We’ve all of us + got it—except yourself. I always said you weren’t one of us. + You’re a regular born Callingham.” + </p> + <p> + I gazed at her fixedly. I could hardly speak. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Minnie!” I cried once more, “have you ... have you + any photograph of him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, we haven’t, dear,” Minnie answered. + </p> + <p> + “That was a fad of Courtenay’s, you know. Wherever he went, he’d + never be photographed. He was annoyed that day that your father should + have taken him unawares. He hated being ‘done,’ he said. He’s + so handsome and so nice, but he’s not a bit conceited. And he was + such a splendid bicyclist! He rode over and back on his bicycle that day, + and then ran in all the races as if it were nothing.” + </p> + <p> + A light burst over me at once. This was circumstantial evidence. The + murderer who disappeared as if by magic the moment his crime was committed + must have come and gone all unseen, no doubt, on his bicycle. He must have + left it under the window till his vile deed was done, and then leapt out + upon it in a second and dashed off whence he came like a flash of + lightning. + </p> + <p> + It was a premeditated crime, in that case, not the mere casual result of a + sudden quarrel. + </p> + <p> + I must find out this man now, were it only to relieve my own sense of + mystery. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie,” I said once more, screwing up my courage to ask, + “where’s Dr. Ivor now? I mean—that is to say—in + what part of Canada?” + </p> + <p> + Minnie looked at me and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “There, I told you so!” she said, merrily. “It’s + not the least bit of use your pretending you’re not in love with + him, Una. Why, just look how you tremble! You’re as white as a + ghost! And then you say you don’t care for poor Courtenay! I forget + the exact name of the place where he lives, but I’ve got it in my + desk, and I can tell you to-morrow.—Oh, yes; it’s Palmyra, on + the Canada Pacific. I suppose you want to write to him. Or perhaps you + mean to go out and offer yourself bodily.” + </p> + <p> + It was awful having to bottle up the truth in one’s own heart, and + to laugh and jest like this; but I endured it somehow. + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s not that,” I said gravely. “I’ve + other reasons of my own for asking his address, Minnie. I want to go out + there, it’s true; but not because I cherish the faintest pleasing + recollection of Dr. Ivor in any way.” + </p> + <p> + Minnie scanned me over in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how you ARE altered, Una!” she cried. “I love + you, dear, and like you every bit as much as ever. But you’ve + changed so much. I don’t think you’re at all what you used to + be. You’re so grave and sombre.” + </p> + <p> + “No wonder, Minnie,” I exclaimed, bursting gladly into tears—the + excuse was such a relief—“no wonder, when you think how much I’ve + passed through!” + </p> + <p> + Minnie flung her arms around my neck, and kissed me over and over again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear!” she cried, melting. “What have I done? What + have I said? I ought never to have spoken so. It was cruel of me—cruel, + Una dear. I shall stop here to-night, and sleep with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you, darling!” I cried. “Minnie, that IS good + of you. I’m so awfully glad. For to-morrow I must be thinking of + getting ready for Canada.” + </p> + <p> + “Canada!” Minnie exclaimed, alarmed. “You’re not + really going to Canada! Oh, Una, you’re joking! You don’t mean + to say you’re going out there to find him!” + </p> + <p> + I took her hand in mine, and held it up in the air above her head + solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “Dear cousin,” I said, “I love you. But you must promise + me this one thing. Whatever may happen, give me your sacred word of honour + you’ll never tell anybody what we’ve said here to-night. You’ll + kill me if you do. I don’t want any living soul on earth to know of + it.” + </p> + <p> + I spoke so seriously, Minnie felt it was important. + </p> + <p> + “I promise you,” she answered, growing suddenly far graver + than her wont. “Oh, Una, I haven’t the faintest idea what you + mean, but no torture on earth shall ever wring a word of it from me!” + </p> + <p> + So I went to bed in her arms, and cried myself to sleep, thinking with my + latest breath, in a tremor of horror, that I’d found it at last. + Courtenay Ivor was the name of my father’s murderer! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. — MY WELCOME TO CANADA + </h2> + <p> + The voyage across the Atlantic was long and uneventful. No whales, no + icebergs, no excitement of any sort. My fellow-passengers said it was as + dull as it was calm. But as for me, I had plenty to occupy my mind + meanwhile. Strange things had happened in the interval, and were happening + to me on the way. Strange things, in part, of my own internal history. + </p> + <p> + For before I left England, as I sat with Aunt Emma in her little + drawing-room at Barton-on-the-Sea, discussing my plans and devising routes + westward, she made me, quite suddenly, an unexpected confession. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” she said, after a long pause, “you haven’t + told me, my dear, why you’re going to Canada. And I don’t want + to ask you. I know pretty well. We needn’t touch upon that. You’re + going to hunt up some supposed clue to the murderer.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so, Auntie,” I said oracularly: “and perhaps + not.” + </p> + <p> + For I didn’t want it to get talked about and be put into all the + newspapers. And I knew now if I wanted to keep it out, I must first be + silent. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma drew nearer and took my hand in hers. At the same time, she held + up the other scarred and lacerated palm. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know when I got that, Una?” she asked with a sudden + burst. “Well, I’ll tell you, my child.... It was the night of + your father’s death. And I got it climbing over the wall at The + Grange, to escape detection.” + </p> + <p> + My blood ran cold once more. What on earth could this mean? Had Auntie—? + But no. I had the evidence of my own senses that it was Courtenay Ivor. I’d + tracked him down now. There was no room for doubt. The man on the wagon + was the man who fired the shot. I could have sworn to that bent back, of + my own knowledge, among a thousand. + </p> + <p> + I hadn’t long to wait, however. Auntie went on after a short pause. + </p> + <p> + “I was there,” she said, “by accident, trying for once + to see you.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at her fixedly still, and still I said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I was stopping with friends at the time, ten miles off from + Woodbury,” Aunt Emma went on, smoothing my hand with hers, “and + I longed so to see you. I came over by train that day, and stopped late + about the town in hopes I might meet you in the street. But I was + disappointed. Towards evening I ventured even to go into the grounds of + The Grange, and look about everywhere on the chance that I might see you. + Perhaps your father might be out. I went round towards the window, which I + now know to be the library. As I went, I saw a bicycle leaning up against + the wall by the window. I thought that must be some visitor, but still I + went on. But just as I reached the window, I saw a flash of electric + light; and by the light, I could make out your father’s head and + beard. He looked as if he were talking angrily and loudly to somebody. The + window was open. I was afraid to stop longer. In a sudden access of fear, + I ran across the shrubbery towards the garden-wall. To tell you the truth, + I was horribly frightened. Why, I don’t know; for nothing had + happened as yet. I suppose it was just the dusk and the mean sense of + intrusion.” + </p> + <p> + She paused and wiped her brow. I sat still, and listened eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Presently,” she went on, very low, “as I ran and ran, I + heard behind me a loud crash—a sound as of a pistol-shot. That + terrified me still more. I thought I was being pursued. Perhaps they took + me for a burglar. In the agony of my terror, I rushed at the wall in mad + haste, and climbed over it anyhow. In climbing, I tore my hand, as you + see, and made myself bleed, oh, terribly! However, I persevered, and got + down on the other side, with my clothes very little the worse for the + scramble. And, fortunately, I was carrying a small light dust-cloak: I put + it on at once, and it covered up everything. Then I began to walk along + the road as fast as I could in the direction of the station. As I did so, + a bicycle shot out from the gate in the opposite direction, going as hard + as it could spin, simply flying towards Whittingham. Three minutes later, + a man came up to me, breathless. It was the gardener at The Grange, I + believe. + </p> + <p> + “‘Have you seen anybody go this way?’ he asked. ‘A + young man, running hard? A young man in knickerbockers?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘N—no,’ I answered, trembling; for I was afraid + to confess. ‘Not a soul has gone past!’ + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I didn’t know of the murder as yet; and I only + wanted to get off unperceived to the station. + </p> + <p> + “I’d bound up my hand in my handkerchief by that time, and + held it tight under my cloak. I went back by train unnoticed, and returned + to my friends’ house. I hadn’t even told them I was going to + Woodbury at all. I pretended I’d been spending the day at + Whittingham. Next morning, I read in the paper of your father’s + murder.” + </p> + <p> + I stared hard at Aunt Emma. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you tell me this long ago?” I cried, in an + agony of suspense. “Why didn’t you give evidence and say so at + the inquest?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I?” Aunt Emma answered, looking back at me + appealingly. “The circumstances were too suspicious. As it was, + everybody was running after the young man in knickerbockers. Nobody took + any notice of a little old lady in a long grey dust-cloak. But if once I’d + confessed and shown my wounded hand, who would ever have believed I’d + nothing to do with the murder?—except you, perhaps, Una. Oh no: I + came back here to my own home as fast as ever I could; for I was really + ill. I took to my bed at once. And as nobody called me to give evidence at + the inquest, I said nothing to anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “But the bicycle!” I cried. “The bicycle! You ought to + have mentioned that. You were the only one who saw it. It was a clue to + the murderer.” + </p> + <p> + “If I’d told,” Aunt Emma answered, “I should never + have been allowed to take charge of you at all. I thought my one clear + duty was to my sister’s child: it was to take care of your health in + your shattered condition. And even now, Una, I tell you only for this: if + you find out anything new, in Canada or here, try not to drag me into it. + I couldn’t stand the strain. Cross-examination would kill me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll remember it, auntie,” I said, wearied out with + excitement. “But I think you did wrong, all the same. In a case like + this, it’s everybody’s first duty to tell all he knows, in the + interests of justice.” + </p> + <p> + However, this confession of Aunt Emma’s rendered one thing more + certain to me than ever before. I was sure I was on the right track now, + after Courtenay Ivor. The bicycle clinched the proof. + </p> + <p> + But I said nothing as yet to the police, or to my friendly Inspector. I + was determined to hunt the whole thing up on my own account first, and + then deliver my criminal, when fully secured, to the laws of my country. + </p> + <p> + Not that I was vindictive. Not that I wanted to punish the man. No; I + shrank terribly from the task. But to relieve myself from this persistent + sense of surrounding mystery, and to free others from suspicion, I felt + compelled to discover him. It seemed to me like a duty laid upon me from + without. I dared not shirk it. + </p> + <p> + On the way out to Quebec, the sea seemed to revive strange memories. I had + never crossed it before, except long, long ago, on my way home from + Australia. And now that I sat on deck, in a wicker-chair, and looked at + the deep dark waves by myself, I began once more, in vague snatches, to + recall that earlier voyage. It came back to me all of itself. And that was + quite in keeping with my previous recollections. My past life, I felt + sure, was unfolding itself slowly to me in regular succession, from + childhood onward. + </p> + <p> + Sitting there on the quarter-deck, gazing hard at the waves, I remembered + how I had played on a similar ship years and years before, a little girl + in short frocks, with my mamma in a long folding-chair beside me. I could + see my mamma, with a sort of frightened smile on her poor pale face; and + she looked so unhappy. My papa was there too, somewhat older and greyer—very + unlike the papa of my first Australian picture. His face was so much + hairier. Mamma cried a good deal at times, and papa tried to comfort her. + Besides, what struck me most, there was no more baby. I wasn’t even + allowed to speak about baby. That subject was tabooed—perhaps + because it always made mamma cry so much, and press me hard to her bosom. + At any rate, I remembered how once I spoke of baby to some + fellow-passenger in the saloon, and papa was very angry, and caught me up + in his arms and took me down to my berth; and there I had to stop all day + by myself (though it was rolling hard) and could have no fruit for dinner, + because I’d been naughty. I was strictly enjoined never to mention + baby to anyone again, either then or at any time. I was to forget all + about her. + </p> + <p> + Day after day, as we sailed on, reminiscences of the same sort crowded + thicker and thicker upon me. Never reminiscences of my later life, but + always early scenes brought up by distinct suggestion of that Australian + voyage. When we passed a ship, it burst upon me how we’d passed such + ships before: when there was fire-drill on deck, I remembered having + assisted years earlier at just such fire-drill. The whole past came back + like a dream, so that I could reconstruct now the first five or six years + of my life almost entirely. And yet, even so there was a gap, a puzzle, a + difficulty somehow. I couldn’t make the chronology of this + slow-returning memory fit in as it ought with the chronology of the facts + given to me by Aunt Emma and the Moores of Torquay. There was a constant + discrepancy. It seemed to me that I must be a year or two older at least + than they made me out. I remembered the voyage home far too well for my + age. I fancied I went back further in my Australian recollections than + would be possible from the dates Aunt Emma assigned me. + </p> + <p> + Slowly, as I compared these mental pictures of my first childhood one with + the other, a strange fact seemed to loom forth, incomprehensible, + incredible. When first it struck me, all unnerved as I was, my reason + staggered before it. But it was true, none the less: quite true, I felt + certain. Had I had two papas, then?—for the pictures differed so. + Was one, clean-shaven, trim, and in a linen coat, the same as the other, + older, graver, and sterner, with much hair on his face, and a rough sort + of look, whom I saw more persistently in my later childish memories? I + could hardly believe it. One man couldn’t alter so greatly in a few + short years. Yet I thought of them both alike quite unquestioningly as + papa: I thought of them too, I fancied, in a dim sort of way, as one and + the same person. + </p> + <p> + These fresh mysteries occupied my mind for the greater part of that + uneventful voyage. To throw them off, I laughed and talked as much as + possible with the rest of the passengers. Indeed, I gained the reputation + of being “an awfully jolly girl,” so heartily did I throw + myself into all the games and amusements, to escape from the burden of my + pressing thoughts: and I believe many old ladies on board were thoroughly + scandalised that a woman whose father had been brutally murdered should + ever be able to seem so bright and lively again. How little they knew! And + what a world of mystery seemed to oppress and surround me! + </p> + <p> + At last, early one morning, we reached the Gulf, and took in our pilot off + the Straits of Belleisle. I was on deck at the time, playing a game called + “Shovelboard.” As the pilot reached the ship, he took the + captain’s hand, and, to my immense surprise, said in an audible + voice: + </p> + <p> + “So you’ve the famous Miss Callingham for a passenger, I hear, + this voyage. There’s the latest Quebec papers. You’ll see you’re + looked for. Our people are expecting her.” + </p> + <p> + I rushed forward, fiery hot, and with a trembling hand took one of the + papers he was distributing all round, right and left, to the people on + deck. It was unendurable that the memory of that one event should thus dog + me through life with such ubiquitous persistence. I tore open the sheet. + There, with horrified eyes, I read this hateful paragraph, in the + atrociously vulgar style of Transatlantic journalism: + </p> + <p> + “The Sarmatian, expected off Belleisle to-morrow morning, brings + among her passengers, as we learn by telegram, the famous Una Callingham, + whose connection with the so-called Woodbury Mystery is now a matter of + historical interest. The mysterious two-souled lady possesses, at present, + all her faculties intact, as before the murder, and is indeed, people say, + a remarkably spry and intelligent young person; but she has most + conveniently forgotten all the events of her past life, and more + particularly the circumstances of her father’s death, which is + commonly conjectured to have been due to the pistol of some unknown lover. + Such freaks of memory are common, we all know, in the matter of small + debts and of newspaper subscriptions, but they seldom extend quite so far + as the violent death of a near relation. However, Una knows her own + business best. The Sarmatian is due alongside the Bonsecours Quay at 10 + a.m. on Wednesday, the 10th; and all Quebec will, no doubt, be assembled + at the landing-stage to say ‘Good-morning’ to the two-souled + lady.” + </p> + <p> + The paper dropped from my hand. This was too horrible for anything! How I + was ever to go through the ordeal of the landing at Quebec after that, I + hadn’t the faintest conception. And was I to be dogged and annoyed + like this through all my Canadian trip by anonymous scribblers? Had these + people no hearts? no consideration for the sensitiveness of an English + lady? + </p> + <p> + I looked over the side of the ship at the dark-blue water. Oh, how I + longed to plunge into it and be released for ever from this abiding + nightmare! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + </h2> + <p> + The moment we reached the quay at Quebec, some two days later, a dozen + young men, with little notebooks in their hands, jumped on board all at + once. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Callingham!” they cried with one accord, making a dash + for the quarter-deck. “Which is she? Oh, this!—If you please, + Miss Callingham, I should like to have ten minutes of your time to + interview you!” + </p> + <p> + I clapped my hands to my ears, and stood back, all horrified. What I + should have done, I don’t know, but for a very kind man in a big + rough overcoat, who had jumped on board at the same time, and made over to + me like the reporters. He stepped up to me at once, pushed aside the young + men, and said in a most friendly tone: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Callingham, I think? You’d better come with me, then. + These people are all sharks. Everybody in Quebec’s agog to see the + Two-souled Lady. Answer no questions at all. Take not the least notice of + them. Just follow me to the Custom House. Let them rave, but don’t + speak to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” I asked blindly, clinging to his arm in my + terror. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a policeman in plain clothes,” my new friend + answered; “and I’ve been specially detailed by order for this + duty. I’m here to look after you. You’ve friends in Canada, + though you may have quite forgotten them. They’ve sent me to help + you. Those are two of my chums there, standing aside by the gangway. We’ll + walk you off between us. Don’t be afraid.—Here, you sir, + there; make way!—No one shall come near you.” + </p> + <p> + I was so nervous, and so ashamed that I accepted my strange escort without + inquiry or remonstrance. He helped me, with remarkable politeness for a + common policeman, across to the Custom House, where I sat waiting for my + luggage. Reporters and sightseers, meanwhile, pressed obtrusively around + me. My protector held them back. I was half wild with embarrassment. I’m + naturally a reserved and somewhat sensitive girl, and this American + publicity made me crimson with bashfulness. + </p> + <p> + As I sat there waiting, however, the two other policemen to whom my + champion had beckoned sat one on each side of me, keeping off the idle + crowd, while my first friend looked after the luggage and saw it safely + through the Customs for me. He must be an Inspector, I fancied, or some + other superior officer, the officials were so deferential to him. I gave + him my keys, and he looked after everything himself. I had nothing, for my + part, to do but to sit and wait patiently for him. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had finished, he called a porter to his side. + </p> + <p> + “Vite!” he cried, in a tone of authority, to the man. “Un + fiacre!” + </p> + <p> + And the porter called one. + </p> + <p> + I started to find that I knew what he meant. Till that moment, in my + Second State, I had learned no French, and didn’t know I could speak + any. But I recognised the words quite well as soon as he uttered them. My + lost knowledge reasserted itself. + </p> + <p> + They bundled on my boxes. The crowd still stood around and gaped at me, + open-mouthed. I got into the cab, more dead than alive. + </p> + <p> + “Allez!” my policeman cried to the French-Canadian driver, + seating himself by my side. + </p> + <p> + “A la gare du chemin de fer Pacific! Aussi vite que possible!” + </p> + <p> + I understood every word. This was wonderful. My memory was coming back + again. + </p> + <p> + The man tore along the streets to the Pacific railway station. By the time + we reached it we had distanced the sightseers, though some of them gave + chase. My policeman got out. + </p> + <p> + “The train’s just going!” he said sharply. “Don’t + take a ticket for Palmyra, if you don’t want to be followed and + tracked out all the way. They’ll telegraph on your destination. Book + to Kingston instead, and then change at Sharbot Lake, and take a second + ticket on from there to Palmyra.” + </p> + <p> + I listened, half dazed. Palmyra was the place where Dr. Ivor lived. Yet, + even in the hurry of the moment, I wondered much to myself how the + policeman knew I wanted to go to Palmyra. + </p> + <p> + There was no time to ask questions, however, or to deliberate on my plans. + I took my ticket as desired, in a turmoil of feelings, and jumped on to + the train. I trusted by this time I had eluded detection. I ought to have + come, I saw now, under a feigned name. This horrid publicity was more than + I could endure. My policeman helped me in with his persistent politeness, + and saw my boxes checked as far as Sharbot Lake for me. Then he handed me + the checks. + </p> + <p> + “Go in the Pullman,” he said quietly. “It’s a long + journey, you know: four-and-twenty hours. You’ve only just caught + it. But if you’d stopped in Quebec, you’d never have been able + to give the sightseers the slip. You’d have been pestered all + through. I think you’re safe now. It was this or nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you so much!” I cried, with heartfelt gratitude, + leaning out of the window as the train was on the point of starting. I + pulled out my purse, and drew timidly forth a sovereign. “I’ve + only English money,” I said, hesitating, for I didn’t know + whether he’d be offended or not at the offer of a tip—he + seemed such a perfect gentleman. “But if that’s any use to you—” + </p> + <p> + He smiled a broad smile and shook his head, much amused. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you,” he said, half laughing, with a very curious + air. “I’m a policeman, as I told you. But I don’t need + tips. I’m the Chief Constable of Quebec—there’s my card; + Major Tascherel,—and I’m glad to be of use, I’m sure, to + any friend of Dr. Ivor’s.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his hat with the inborn grace of a high-born gentleman. I + coloured and bowed. The train steamed out of the station. As it went, I + fell back, half fainting, in the comfortable armchair of the Pullman car, + hardly able to speak with surprise and horror. It was all so strange, so + puzzling, so bewildering! Then I owed my escape from the stenographic + myrmidons of the Canadian Press to the polite care and attention of my + father’s murderer! + </p> + <p> + Major Tascherel was a friend, he said, of Dr. Ivor’s! + </p> + <p> + Then Dr. Ivor knew I had come. He knew I was going to Palmyra to find him. + And yet he had written to Quebec, apparently, expecting this crush, and + asking his friend the Chief Constable to protect and befriend me. Had he + murdered my father, and was he in love with me still? Did he think I’d + come out, not to track him down, but to look for him? Strange, horrible + questions! My heart stood still within me at this extraordinary + revelation. Yet I was so frightened at the moment, alone in a strange + land, that I felt almost grateful to the murderer himself for his kindness + in thinking of me and providing for my reception. + </p> + <p> + As I settled in my seat and had time to realise what these things meant, + it dawned upon me by degrees that all this was less remarkable, after all, + than I first thought it. For they had telegraphed from England that I + sailed on the Sarmatian; and Dr. Ivor, like everybody else, must have read + the telegram. He might naturally conclude I would be half-mobbed by + reporters; and as it was clear he had once been fond of me—hateful + as I felt it even to admit the fact to myself—he might really have + desired to save me annoyance and trouble. It was degrading, to be sure, + even to think I owed anything of any sort to such a wretch as that + murderer; yet in a certain corner of my heart I couldn’t help being + thankful to him. But how strange to feel I had come there on purpose to + hunt him down! How horrible that I must so repay good with evil! + </p> + <p> + Then a still more ghastly thought surged up suddenly in my mind. Why on + earth did he think I was going to Palmyra? Was it possible he fancied I + loved him still—that I wanted to marry him? Could he imagine I’d + come out just to fling myself at his feet and ask him to take me? Could he + suppose I’d forgotten all the rest of my past life, and his vile act + as well, and yet remembered alone what little love, if any, I ever had + borne him? It was incredible that any man, however wicked, however + conceited, should think such folly as that—that a girl would marry + her father’s murderer; and yet what might not one expect from a man + who, after having shot my father, had still the inconceivable and + unbelievable audacity to take deliberate steps for securing my own comfort + and happiness? From such a wretch as that, one might look for almost + anything! + </p> + <p> + For ten minutes or more, as we whirled along the line in the Pullman car, + I was too dazed and confused to notice anything around me. My brain swam + vaguely, filled full with wild whirling thoughts; the strange drama of my + life, always teeming with mysteries, seemed to culminate in this reception + in an unknown land by people who appeared almost to know more about my + business than I myself did. I gazed out of the window blankly. In some + vague dim way I saw we were passing between rocky hills, pine-clad and + beautiful, with deep glimpses now and then into the riven gorge of a noble + river. But I didn’t even realise to myself that these were Canadian + hills—those were the heights of Abraham—that was the silver + St. Lawrence. It all passed by like a living dream. I sat still in my + chair, as one stunned and faint; I gazed out, more dead than alive, on the + unfamiliar scene that unrolled itself in exquisite panorama before me. + Quebec and the Laurentian hills were to me half unreal: the inner senses + alone were awake and conscious. + </p> + <p> + Presently a gentle voice at my side broke, not at all unpleasantly, the + current of my reflections. It was a lady’s voice, very sweet and + musical. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid,” it said kindly, with an air of tender + solicitude, “you only just caught the train, and were hurried and + worried and flurried at the last at the station. You look so white and + tired. How your breath comes and goes! And I think you’re new to our + Canadian ways. I saw you didn’t understand about the checks for the + baggage. Let me take away this bag and put it up in the rack for you. Here’s + a footstool for your feet; that’ll make you more comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + At the first sound of her sweet voice, I turned to look at the speaker. + She was a girl, perhaps a year or two younger than myself, very slender + and graceful, and with eyes like a mother’s. She wasn’t + exactly pretty, but her face was so full of intelligence and expression + that it was worth a great deal more than any doll-like prettiness. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was pleasure at being spoken to kindly at all in this land of + strangers; perhaps it was revulsion from the agony of shame and modesty I + had endured at Quebec; but, at any rate, I felt drawn at first sight to my + sweet-voiced fellow-traveller. Besides, she reminded me somewhat of Minnie + Moore, and that resemblance alone was enough to attract me. I looked up at + her gratefully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you so much!” I cried, putting my bag in her hand. + “I’ve only just come out from England; and I’d hardly + time at Quebec to catch the train; and the people crowded around so, that + I was flustered at landing; and everything somehow seems to be going + against me.” + </p> + <p> + And with that my poor overwrought nerves gave way all at once, and without + any more ado I just burst out crying. + </p> + <p> + The lady by my side leant over me tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “There—cry, dear,” she said, as if she’d known me + for years, stooping down and almost caressing me. “Jack,”—and + she turned to a tall gentleman at her side,—“quick! you’ve + got my black bag; get me out the sal volatile. She’s quite faint, + poor thing; we must look after her instantly.” + </p> + <p> + The person to whom she spoke, and who was apparently her husband or her + brother, took down the black bag from the rack hastily, and got out the + sal volatile, as my friend directed him. He poured a little into a tumbler + and held it quietly to my lips. I liked his manner, as I’d liked the + lady’s. He was so very brotherly. Besides, there was something + extremely soothing about his quick, noiseless way. He did it all so fast, + yet without the faintest sign of agitation. I couldn’t help thinking + what a good nurse he would make; he was so rapid and effective, yet so + gentle and so quiet. He seemed perfectly accustomed to the ways of nervous + women. + </p> + <p> + I dried my eyes after a while, and looked up in his face. He was very + good-looking, and had a charming soft smile. How lucky I should have + tumbled upon such pleasant travelling companions! In my present mental + state, I had need of sympathy. And, indeed, they took as much care of me, + and coddled me up as tenderly, as if they’d known me for years. I + was almost tempted to make a clean breast of my personality to them, and + tell them why it was I had been so worried and upset by my reception at + Quebec: but I shrank from confessing it. I hated my own name, almost, it + seemed to bring me such very unpleasant notoriety. + </p> + <p> + In a very few minutes, I felt quite at home with my new friends. I + explained to them that when I landed I had no intention of going on West + by train at once, but that news which I received on the way had compelled + me to push forward by the very first chance; and that I had to change my + ticket at a place called Sharbot Lake, whose very position or distance I + hadn’t had time to discover. The lady smiled sweetly, and calmed my + fears by telling me we wouldn’t reach Sharbot Lake till mid-day + to-morrow, and that I would have plenty of time there to book on to my + destination. + </p> + <p> + Thus encouraged, I went on to tell them I had no Canadian money, having + brought out what I needed for travelling expenses and hotels in Bank of + England 20 pound notes. The lady smiled again, and said in the friendliest + way: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my brother’ll get them changed for you at Montreal as we + pass, won’t you, Jack? or at least as much as you need till you get + to”—she checked herself—“the end of your journey.” + </p> + <p> + I noticed how she pulled herself up, though at the moment I attached no + particular importance to it. + </p> + <p> + So he was her brother, not her husband, then! Well, he was a very nice + fellow, either way, and nobody could be kinder or more sympathetic than he’d + been to me so far. + </p> + <p> + We fell into conversation, which soon by degrees grew quite intimate. + </p> + <p> + “How far West are you going?” the man she called Jack asked + after a little time, tentatively. + </p> + <p> + And I answered, all unsuspiciously: + </p> + <p> + “To a place called Palmyra.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, we live not far from Palmyra,” the sister replied, with + a smile. “We’re going that way now. Our station’s + Adolphus Town, the very next village.” + </p> + <p> + I hadn’t yet learned to join the wisdom of the serpent to the + innocence of the dove, I’m afraid. Remember, though in some ways I + was a woman full grown, in others I was little more than a four-year-old + baby. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a Dr. Ivor there?” I asked eagerly, leaning + forward. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, quite well,” the lady answered, arranging my + footstool more comfortably as she spoke. “He’s got a farm out + there now, and hardly practises at all. How queer it is! One always finds + one knows people in common. Is Dr. Ivor a friend of yours?” + </p> + <p> + I recoiled at the stray question almost as if I’d been shot. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” I cried, horrified at the bare idea of such treason. + “He’s anything but a friend... I—I only wanted to know + about him.” + </p> + <p> + The lady looked at Jack, and Jack looked at the lady. Were they + telegraphing signs? I fancied somehow they gave one another very meaning + glances. Jack was the first to speak, breaking an awkward silence. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t expect everyone to know your own friends, or to + like them either, Elsie,” he said slowly, with his eyes fixed hard + on her, as if he expected her to flare up. + </p> + <p> + My heart misgave me. A hateful idea arose in it. Could my sweet travelling + companion be engaged—to my father’s murderer? + </p> + <p> + “But he’s a dear good fellow, for all that, Jack,” Elsie + said stoutly; and strange as it sounds to say so, I admired her for + sticking up for her friend Dr. Ivor, if she really liked him. “I won’t + hear him run down by anybody, not even by YOU. If this lady knew him + better, I’m sure she’d like him, as we all do.” + </p> + <p> + Jack turned the conversation abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “But if you’re going to Palmyra,” he asked, “where + do you mean to stop? Have you thought about lodgings? You mustn’t + imagine it’s a place like an English town, with an inn or hotel or + good private apartments. There’s nowhere you can put up at in these + brand-new villages. Are you going to friends, or did you expect to find + quarters as easily as in England?” + </p> + <p> + This was a difficulty which, indeed, had never even occurred to me till + that moment. I stammered and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said slowly, “to tell you the truth, I haven’t + thought about that. The landing at Quebec was such a dreadful surprise to + me, and”—tears came into my eyes again—“I had a + great shock there—and I had to come on so quick, I didn’t ask + about anything but catching the train. I meant to stop a night or two + either at Quebec or in Montreal, and to make all inquiries: but + circumstances, you see, have prevented that. So I really don’t know + what I’d better do when I get to Palmyra.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” my new friend answered quickly, her soft sweet voice + having quite a decisive ring in it. “You’d better not go on to + Palmyra at all. There’s no sort of accommodation there, except a + horrid drinking-saloon. You’d better stop short at Adolphus Town and + spend the night with us; and then you can look about you next day, if you + like, and see what chance there may be of finding decent quarters. Old + Mrs. Wilkins might take her in, Jack, or the Blacks at the tannery.” + </p> + <p> + I smiled, and felt touched. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how good of you!” I cried. “But I really couldn’t + think of it. Thank you ever so much, though, for your kind thought, all + the same. It’s so good and sweet of you. But you don’t even + know who I am. I have no introduction.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re your own best introduction,” Elsie said, with a + pretty nod: I thought of her somehow from the very first moment I heard + her name as Elsie. “And as to your not knowing us, never mind about + that. We know YOU at first sight. It’s the Canadian way to entertain + Angels unawares. Out here, you know, hospitality’s the rule of the + country.” + </p> + <p> + Well, I demurred for a long time; I fought off their invitation as well as + I could: I couldn’t bear thus to quarter myself upon utter + strangers. But they both were so pressing, and brought up so many cogent + arguments why I couldn’t go alone to the one village saloon—a + mere whisky-drinking public-house, they said, of very bad character,—that + in the long run I was fain almost to acquiesce in their kind plan for my + temporary housing. Besides, after my horrid experience at Quebec, it was + such a positive relief to me to meet anybody nice and delicate, that I + couldn’t find it in my heart to refuse these dear people. And then, + perhaps it was best not to go quite on to Palmyra at once, for fear of + unexpectedly running against my father’s murderer. If I met him in + the street, and he recognised me and spoke to me, what on earth could I + do? My head was all in a whirl, indeed, as to what he might intend or + expect: for I felt sure he expected me. I made one last despairing effort. + </p> + <p> + “If I stop at your house, though,” I said, half ashamed of + myself for venturing to make conditions, “there’s one promise + you must make me—that I sha’n’t see Dr. Ivor unless you + let me know and get my consent beforehand.” + </p> + <p> + Jack, as I called him to myself, answered gaily back with a rather curious + smile: + </p> + <p> + “If you like, you need see nobody but our own two selves. We’ll + promise not to introduce anybody to you without due leave, and to let you + do as you like in that and in everything.” + </p> + <p> + So I yielded at last. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must know your name,” I said tentatively. + </p> + <p> + And Jack, looking queerly at me with an inquiring air, said: + </p> + <p> + “My sister’s name’s Elsie; mine’s John Cheriton.” + </p> + <p> + “And yours?” Elsie asked, glancing timidly down at me. + </p> + <p> + My heart beat hard. I was face to face with a dilemma. These were friends + of Courtenay Ivor’s, and I had given myself away to them. I was + going to their house, to accept their hospitality—and to betray + their friend! Never in my life did I feel so guilty before. Oh! what on + earth was I to do? I had told them too much; I had gone to work foolishly. + If I said my real name, I should let out my whole secret. I must brazen it + out now. With tremulous lips and flushed cheek, I answered quickly, + “Julia Marsden.” + </p> + <p> + Elsie drew back, all abashed. In a moment her cheek grew still redder, I + felt sure, than my own. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Marsden!” she cried, eyeing me close. “Why, I + thought you were Miss Callingham!” + </p> + <p> + “How on earth did you know that?” I exclaimed, terrified + almost out of my life. Was I never for one moment to escape my own + personality? + </p> + <p> + “Why, they put it in the papers that you were coming,” Elsie + answered, looking tenderly at me, more in sympathy than in anger. “And + it’s written on your bag, you know, that Jack put up in the rack + there... That’s why we were so sorry for you, and so grieved at the + way you must have been hustled on the quay. And that’s also why we + wanted you to come to us... But don’t be a bit afraid. We quite + understand you want to travel incognita. After the sort of reception you + got at Quebec, no wonder you’re afraid of these hateful + sightseers!... Very well, dear,” she took my hand with the air of an + old friend, “your disguise shall be respected while you stop at our + house. Miss Marsden let it be. You can make any inquiries you like about + Dr. Ivor. We will be secrecy itself. We’ll say nothing to anyone. + And my brother’ll take your ticket at Sharbot Lake for Adolphus + Town.” + </p> + <p> + I broke down once more. I fairly cried at such kindness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how good you are!” I said. “How very, very good. + This is more than one could ever have expected from strangers.” + </p> + <p> + She held my hand and stroked it. + </p> + <p> + “We’re not strangers,” she answered. “We’re + English ourselves. We sympathise deeply with you in this new, strange + country. You must treat us exactly like a brother and sister. We liked you + at first sight, and we’re sure we’ll get on with you.” + </p> + <p> + I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “And I liked you also,” I said, “and your brother, too. + You’re both so good and kind. How can I ever sufficiently thank you?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. — MY PLANS ALTER + </h2> + <p> + The rest of that day we spent chatting very amicably in our Pullman + arm-chairs. I couldn’t understand it myself—when I had a + moment to think, I was shocked and horrified at it. I was so terribly at + home with them. These were friends of Dr. Ivor’s—friends of my + father’s murderer! I had come out to Canada to track him, to deliver + him over, if I could, to the strong hand of Justice. And yet, there I was + talking away with his neighbours and friends as if I had known them all my + life, and loved them dearly. Nay, what was more, I couldn’t in my + heart of hearts help liking them. They were really sweet people—so + kind and sympathetic, so perceptive of my sensitiveness. They asked no + questions that could hurt me in any way. They showed no curiosity about + the object of my visit or my relation to Dr. Ivor. They were kindness and + courtesy itself. I could see Mr. Cheriton was a gentleman in fibre, and + Elsie was as sweet as any woman on earth could be. + </p> + <p> + By-and-by, the time came for the Pullman saloon to be transformed for the + night into a regular sleeping-car. All this was new to me, and I watched + it with interest. As soon as the beds were made up, I crept into my berth, + and my new friend Elsie took her place on the sofa below me. I lay awake + long and thought over the situation. The more I thought of it, the + stranger it all seemed. I tried hard to persuade myself I was running some + great danger in accepting the Cheritons’ invitation. Certainly, I + had behaved with consummate imprudence. Canada is a country, I said to + myself, where they kidnap and murder well-to-do young Englishmen. How much + easier, then, to kidnap and murder a poor weak stray English girl! I was + entirely at the mercy of the Cheritons, that was clear: and the Cheritons + were Dr. Ivor’s friends. As I thought all the circumstances over, + the full folly of my own conduct came home to me more and more. I had let + these people suppose I was travelling under an assumed name. I had let + them know my ticket was not for Palmyra but for Kingston, where I didn’t + mean to go. I had told them I meant to change it at Sharbot Lake. So they + were aware that no one on earth but themselves had any idea where I had + gone. And I had further divulged to them the important fact that I had + plenty of ready money in Bank of England notes! I stood aghast at my own + silliness. But still, I did NOT distrust them. + </p> + <p> + No, I did NOT distrust them. I felt I ought to be distrustful. I felt it + might be expected of me. But they were so gentle-mannered and so + sweet-natured, that I couldn’t distrust them. I tried very hard, but + distrust wouldn’t come to me. That kind fellow Jack—I thought + of him, just so, as Jack already—couldn’t hurt a fly, much + less kill a woman. It grieved me to think I would have to hurt his + feelings. + </p> + <p> + For now that I came to look things squarely in the face in my berth by + myself, I began to see how utterly impossible it would be for me after all + to go and stop with the Cheritons. How I could ever have dreamt it + feasible I could hardly conceive. I ought to have refused at once. I ought + to have been braver. I ought to have said outright, “I’ll have + nothing to do or say with anyone who is a friend or an acquaintance of + Courtenay Ivor’s.” And yet, to have said so would have been to + give up the game for lost. It would have been to proclaim that I had come + out to Canada as Courtenay Ivor’s enemy. + </p> + <p> + I wasn’t fit, that was the fact, for my self-imposed task of private + detective. + </p> + <p> + A good part of that night I lay awake in my berth, bitterly reproaching + myself for having come on this wild-goose chase without the aid of a man—an + experienced officer. Next morning, I rose and breakfasted in the car. The + Cheritons breakfasted with me, and, sad to say, seemed more charming than + ever. That good fellow Jack was so attentive and kind, I almost felt + ashamed to have to refuse his hospitality; and as for Elsie, she couldn’t + have treated me more nicely or cordially if she’d been my own + sister. It wasn’t what they said that touched my heart: it was what + they didn’t say or do—their sweet, generous reticence. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast, I steeled myself for the task, and broke it to them + gently that, thinking it over in the night, I’d come to the + conclusion I couldn’t consistently accept their proffered welcome. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how to say NO to you,” I cried, “after + you’ve been so wonderfully kind and nice; but reasons which I can’t + fully explain just now make me feel it would be wrong of me to think of + stopping with you. It would hamper my independence of action to be in + anybody else’s house. I must shift for myself, and try if I can’t + find board and lodging somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Find it with us then!” Elsie put in eagerly. “If that’s + all that’s the matter, I’m sure we’re not proud—are + we, Jack?—not a bit. Sooner than you should go elsewhere and be + uncomfortable in your rooms, I’d take you in myself, and board you + and look after you. You could pay what you like; and then you’d + retain your independence, you see, as much as ever you wanted.” + </p> + <p> + But her brother interrupted her with a somewhat graver air: + </p> + <p> + “It goes deeper than that, I’m afraid, Elsie,” he said, + turning his eye full upon her. “If Miss Callingham feels she couldn’t + be happy in stopping with us, she’d better try elsewhere. Though + where on earth we can put her, I haven’t just now the very slightest + idea. But we’ll turn it over in our own minds before we reach + Adolphus Town.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sweet reasonableness about Jack that attracted me greatly. I + could see he entered vaguely into the real nature of my feelings. But he + wouldn’t cross-question me: he was too much of a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Callingham knows her own motives best,” he said more + than once, when Elsie tried to return to the charge. “If she feels + she can’t come to us, we must be content to do the best we can for + her with our neighbours. Perhaps Mrs. Walters would take her in: she’s + our clergyman’s wife, Miss Callingham, and you mightn’t feel + the same awkwardness with her as with my sister.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she know—Dr. Ivor?” I faltered out, unable to + conceal my real reasons entirely. + </p> + <p> + “Not so intimately as we do,” Jack answered, with a quick + glance at his sister. “We might ask her at any rate. There are so + few houses in Palmyra or the neighbourhood where you could live as you’re + accustomed, that we mustn’t be particular. But at least you’ll + spend one night with us, and then we can arrange all the other things + afterward.” + </p> + <p> + My mind was made up. + </p> + <p> + “No, not even one night,” I said. I couldn’t accept + hospitality from Dr. Ivor’s friends. Between his faction and mine + there could be nothing now but the bitterest enmity. How dare I even + parley with people who were friends of my father’s murderer? + </p> + <p> + Yet I was sorry to disappoint that good fellow, Jack, all the same. Did he + want me to sleep one night at his house on purpose to rob me and murder + me? Girl as I was, and rendered timorous in some ways by the terrible + shocks I had received, I couldn’t for one moment believe it. I KNEW + he was good: I KNEW he was honourable, gentle, a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + So, journeying on all morning, we reached Sharbot Lake, still with nothing + decided. At the little junction station, Jack got me my ticket. That was + the turning point in my career. The die was cast. There I lost my + identity. A crowd lounged around the platform, and surged about the + Pullman car, calling to see “Una Callingham.” But no Una + Callingham appeared on the scene. I went, on in the same train, without a + word to anyone, all unknown save to the two Cheritons, and as an + unrecognised unit of common humanity. I had cast that horrid identity + clean behind me. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon was pleasant. In spite of my uncertainty, it gave me a sense + of pleased confidence to be in the Cheritons’ company. I had taken + to them at once: and the more I talked with them, the better I liked them. + Especially Jack, that nice brotherly Jack, who seemed almost like an old + friend to me. You get to know people so well on a long railway journey. I + was quite sorry to think that by five o’clock that afternoon we + should reach Adolphus Town, and so part company. + </p> + <p> + About ten minutes to five, we were collecting our scattered things, and + putting our front-hair straight by the mirror in the ladies’ + compartment. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss Cheriton,” I said warmly, longing to kiss her as I + spoke, “I shall never forget how kind you two have been to me. I do + wish so much I hadn’t to leave you like this. But it’s quite + inevitable. I don’t see really how I could ever endure—” + </p> + <p> + I said no more, for just at that moment, as the words trembled on my lips, + a terrible jar thrilled suddenly through the length and breadth of the + carriage. Something in front seemed to rush into us with a deep thud. + There was a crash, a fierce grating, a dull hiss, a clatter. Broken glass + was flying about. The very earth beneath the wheels seemed to give way + under us. Next instant, all was blank. I just knew I was lying, bruised + and stunned and bleeding, on a bare dry bank, with my limbs aching + painfully. + </p> + <p> + I guessed what it all meant. A collision, no doubt. But I lay faint and + ill, and knew nothing for the moment as to what had become of my + fellow-passengers. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. — A STRANGE RECOGNITION + </h2> + <p> + Gradually I was aware of somebody moistening my temples. A soft palm held + my hand. Elsie was leaning over me. I opened my eyes with a start. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Elsie,” I cried, “how kind of you!” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to me quite natural to call her Elsie. + </p> + <p> + Even as I spoke, somebody else raised my head and poured something down my + throat. I swallowed it with a gulp. Then I opened my eyes again. + </p> + <p> + “And Jack, too,” I murmured. + </p> + <p> + It seemed as if he’d been “Jack” to me for years and + years already. + </p> + <p> + “She knows us!” Elsie cried, clasping her hands. “She’s + much better—much better. Quick, Jack, more brandy! And make haste + there—a stretcher!” + </p> + <p> + There was a noise close by. Unseen hands lifted me up, and Jack laid me on + the stretcher. Half-an-hour at least must have elapsed, I felt since the + first shock of the accident. I had been unconscious meanwhile. The actual + crash came and went like lightning. And my memory of all else was blotted + out for the moment. + </p> + <p> + Next, as I lay still, two men took the stretcher and carried me off at a + slow pace, under Jack’s direction. They walked single-file along the + line, and turned down a rough road that led off near a river. I didn’t + ask where they were going: I was too weak and feeble. At last they came to + a house, a small white wooden cottage, very colonial and simple, but neat + and pretty. There was a garden in front, full of old-fashioned flowering + shrubs; and a verandah ran round the house, about whose posts clambered + sweet English creepers. + </p> + <p> + They carried me in, and laid me down on a bed, in a sweet little room, + very plain but dainty. It was panelled with polished pitchpine, and roses + peeped in at the open window. Everything about the cottage bore the + impress of native good taste. I knew it was Jack’s home. It was just + such a room as I should have expected from Elsie. + </p> + <p> + The bed on which they placed me was neat and soft. I lay there dozing with + pain. Elsie sat by my side, her own arm in a sling. By-and-by, an Irish + maid came in and undressed me carefully under Elsie’s direction. + Then Elsie said to me, half shrinking: + </p> + <p> + “Now you must see the doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Not Dr. Ivor!” I cried, waking up to a full sense of this new + threatened horror. “Whatever I do, dear, I WON’T see Dr. Ivor!” + </p> + <p> + Jack had come in while she spoke, and was standing by the bed, I saw now. + The servant had gone out. He lifted my arm, and held my wrist in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a doctor myself, Miss Callingham,” he said softly, + with that quiet, reassuring voice of his. “Don’t be alarmed at + that; nobody but myself and Elsie need come near you in any way.” + </p> + <p> + I smiled at his words, well pleased. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m so glad you’re a doctor!” I cried, much + relieved at the news; “for I’m not the least little bit in the + world afraid of YOU. I don’t mind your attending me. I like to have + you with me.” For I had always a great fancy for doctors, somehow. + </p> + <p> + “That’s well,” he said, smiling at me such a sweet + sympathetic smile as he felt my pulse with his finger. “Confidence + is the first great requisite in a patient: it’s half the battle. You’re + not seriously hurt, I hope, but you’re very much shaken. Whether you + like it or not, you’ll have to stop here now for some days at least, + till you’re thoroughly recovered.” + </p> + <p> + I’m ashamed to write it down; but I was really pleased to hear it. + Nothing would have induced me to go voluntarily to their house with the + intention of stopping there—for they were friends of Dr. Ivor’s. + But when you’re carried on a stretcher to the nearest convenient + house, you’re not responsible for your own actions. And they were + both so nice and kind, it was a pleasure to be near them. So I was almost + thankful for that horrid accident, which had cut the Gordian knot of my + perplexity as to a house to lodge in. + </p> + <p> + It was a fortnight before I was well enough to get out of bed and lie + comfortably on the sofa. All that time Jack and Elsie tended me with + unsparing devotion. Elsie had a little bed made up in my room; and Jack + came to see me two or three times a day, and sat for whole hours with me. + It was so nice he was a doctor! A doctor, you know, isn’t a man—in + some ways. And it soothed me so to have him sitting there with Elsie by my + bedside. + </p> + <p> + They were “Jack” and “Elsie” to me, to their + faces, before three days were out; and I was plain “Una” to + them: it sounded so sweet and sisterly. Elsie slipped it out the second + morning as naturally as could be. + </p> + <p> + “Una’d like a cup of tea, Jack;” then as red as fire all + at once, she corrected herself, and added, “I mean, Miss Callingham.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do call me Una!” I cried; “it’s so much nicer + and more natural.... But how did you come to know my name was Una at all?” + For she slipped it out as glibly as if she’d always called me so. + </p> + <p> + “Why, everybody knows that.” Elsie answered, amused. “The + whole world speaks of you always as Una Callingham. You forget you’re + a celebrity. Doctors have read memoirs about you at Medical Congresses. + You’ve been discussed in every paper in Europe and America.” + </p> + <p> + I paused and sighed. This was very humiliating. It was unpleasant to rank + in the public mind somewhere between Constance Kent and Laura Bridgman. + But I had to put up with it. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” I said, with a deep breath, “if those I don’t + care for call me so behind my back, let me at least have the pleasure of + hearing myself called so by those I love, like you, Elsie.” + </p> + <p> + She leant over me and kissed my forehead with a burst of genuine delight. + </p> + <p> + “Then you love me, Una!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “How can I help it?” I answered. “I love you dearly + already.” And I might have added with truth, “And your brother + also.” + </p> + <p> + For Jack was really, without any exception, the most lovable man I ever + met in my life—at once so strong and manly, and yet so womanly and + so gentle. Every day I stopped there, I liked him better and better. I was + glad when he came into my room, and sorry when he went away again to work + on the farm: for he worked very hard; his hand was all horny with common + agricultural labour. It was sad to think of such a man having to do such + work. And yet he was so clever, and such a capital doctor. I wondered he + hadn’t done well and stayed in England. But Elsie told me he’d + had great disappointments, and failed in his profession through no fault + of his own. I could never understand that: he had such a delightful + manner. Though, perhaps I was prejudiced; for, in point of fact, I began + to feel I was really in love with Jack Cheriton. + </p> + <p> + And Jack was in love with me too. This was a curious result of my voyage + to Canada in search of Dr. Ivor! Instead of hunting up the criminal, I had + stopped to fall in love with one of his friends and neighbours. And I + found it so delicious: I won’t pretend to deny it. I was absolutely + happy when Jack sat by my bedside and held my hand in his. I didn’t + know what it would lead to, or whether it would ever lead to anything at + all; but I was happy meanwhile just to love and be loved by him. I think + when you’re really in love, that’s quite enough. Jack never + proposed to me: he never asked me to marry him. He just sat by my bedside + and held my hand; and once, when Elsie went out to fetch my beef-tea, he + stooped hastily down and kissed, me, oh, so tenderly! I don’t know + why, but I wasn’t the least surprised. It seemed to me quite natural + that Jack should kiss me. + </p> + <p> + So I went idly on for a fortnight, in a sort of lazy lotus-land, never + thinking of the future, but as happy and as much at home as if I’d + lived all my life with Jack and Elsie. I hated even to think I would soon + be well; for then I’d have to go and look out for Courtenay Ivor. + </p> + <p> + At last one afternoon I was sufficiently strong to be lifted out of bed, + and dressed in a morning robe, and laid out on the sofa in the little + drawing-room. It looked out upon the verandah, which was high above the + ground; and Jack came in and sat with me, alone without Elsie. My heart + throbbed high at that: I liked to be alone for half-an-hour with Jack. + Perhaps... But who knows? Well, at any rate, even if he didn’t, it + was nice to have the chance of a good long, quiet chat with him. I loved + Elsie dearly; but at a moment like this, why, I liked to have Jack all to + myself without even Elsie. + </p> + <p> + So I was pleased when Jack told me Elsie was going into Palmyra with the + buggy to get the English letters. Then she’d be gone a good long + time! Oh, how lovely! How beautiful! + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything you’d like from the town?” he asked, + as Elsie drove past the window. “Anything Elsie could get for you? + If so, please say so.” + </p> + <p> + I hesitated a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think,” I asked at last, for I didn’t want to be + troublesome, “she could get me a lemon?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly,” Jack answered; “there she goes in the + buggy! Here, wait a moment, Una! I’ll run after her to the gate this + minute and tell her.” + </p> + <p> + He sprang lightly on to the parapet of the verandah. Then, with one hand + held behind him to poise himself, palm open backward, he leapt with a + bound to the road, and darted after her hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + My heart stood still within me. That action revealed him. The back, the + open hand, the gesture, the bend—I would have known them anywhere. + With a horrible revulsion I recognised the truth. This was my father’s + murderer! This was Courtenay Ivor! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. — MURDER WILL OUT + </h2> + <p> + He was gone but for three minutes. Meanwhile, I buried my face in my + burning hands, and cried to myself in unspeakable misery. + </p> + <p> + For, horrible as it sounds to say so, I knew perfectly well now that Jack + was Dr. Ivor: yet, in spite of that knowledge, I loved him still. He was + my father’s murderer; and I couldn’t help loving him! + </p> + <p> + It was that that filled up the cup of my misery to overflowing. I loved + the man well: and I must turn to denounce him. + </p> + <p> + He came back, flushed and hot, expecting thanks for his pains. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she’ll get you the lemon, Una,” he said, panting. + “I overtook her by the big tulip-tree.” + </p> + <p> + I gazed at him fixedly, taking my hands from my face, with the tears still + wet on my burning cheek. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve deceived me!” I cried sternly. “Jack, you’ve + given me a false name. I know who you are, now. You’re no Jack at + all. You’re Courtenay Ivor!” + </p> + <p> + He drew back, quite amazed. Yet he didn’t seem thunderstruck. Not + fear but surprise was the leading note on his features. + </p> + <p> + “So you’ve found that out at last, Una!” he exclaimed, + staring hard at me. “Then you remember me after all, darling! You + know who I am. You haven’t quite forgotten me. And you recall what + has gone, do you?” + </p> + <p> + I rose from the sofa, ill as I was, in my horror. + </p> + <p> + “You dare to speak to me like that, sir!” I cried. “You, + whom I’ve tracked out to your hiding-place and discovered! You, whom + I’ve come across the ocean to hunt down! You, whom I mean to give up + this very day to Justice! Let me go from your house at once! How dare you + ever bring me here? How dare you stand unabashed before the daughter of + the man you so cruelly murdered?” + </p> + <p> + He drew back like one stung. + </p> + <p> + “The daughter of the man I murdered!” he faltered out slowly, + as in a turmoil of astonishment. “The man <i>I</i> murdered! Oh, + Una, is it possible you’ve forgotten so much, and yet remember me + myself? I can’t believe it, darling. Sit down, my child, and think. + Surely, surely the rest will come back to you gradually.” + </p> + <p> + His calmness unnerved me. What could he mean by these words? No actor on + earth could dissemble like this. His whole manner was utterly unlike the + manner of a man just detected in a terrible crime. He seemed rather to + reproach me, indeed, than to crouch; to be shocked and indignant. + </p> + <p> + “Explain yourself,” I said coldly, in a very chilly voice. + “Courtenay Ivor, I give you three minutes to explain. At the end of + that time, if you can’t exonerate yourself, I walk out of this house + to give you up, as I ought, to the arm of Justice!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me, all pity, yet inexpressibly reproachful. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Una,” he cried, clasping his hands—those small + white hands of his—Aunt Emma’s hands—the murderer’s + hands—how had I never before noticed them?—“and I, who + have suffered so much for you! I, who have wrecked my whole life for you, + ungrudgingly, willingly! I, who have sacrificed even Elsie’s + happiness and Elsie’s future for you! This is too, too hard! Una, + Una, spare me!” + </p> + <p> + A strange trembling seized me. It was in my heart to rush forward and + clasp him to my breast. Murderer or no murderer, his look, his voice, cut + me sharply to the heart. Words trembled on the tip of my tongue: “Oh, + Jack, I love you!” But with a violent effort, I repressed them + sternly. This horrible revulsion seemed to tear me in two. I loved him so + much. Though till the moment of the discovery, I never quite realised how + deeply I loved him. + </p> + <p> + “Courtenay Ivor,” I said slowly, steeling myself once more for + a hard effort, “I knew who you were at once when I saw you poise + yourself on the parapet. Once before in my life I saw you like that, and + the picture it produced has burned itself into the very fibre and marrow + of my being. As long as I live, I can never get rid of it. It was when you + leapt from the window at The Grange, at Woodbury, after murdering my + father!” + </p> + <p> + He started once more. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” he said solemnly, in a very clear voice, “there’s + some terrible error somewhere. You’re utterly mistaken about what + took place that night. But oh, great heavens! how am I ever to explain the + misconception to YOU? If you still think thus, it would be cruel to + undeceive you. I daren’t tell you the whole truth. It would kill + you! It would kill you!” + </p> + <p> + I drew myself up like a pillar of ice. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” I said, in a hard voice; for I saw he had something + to say. “Don’t mind for my heart. Tell me the truth. I can + stand it.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated for a minute or two. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t!” he cried huskily. “Dear Una, don’t + ask me! Won’t you trust me, without? Won’t you believe me when + I tell you, I never did it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I can’t,” I answered with sullen resolution, though + my eyes belied my words. “I can’t disbelieve the evidence of + my own senses. I SAW you escape that night. I see you still. I’ve + seen you for years. I KNOW it was you, and you only, who did it!” + </p> + <p> + He flung himself down in a chair, and let his arms drop listlessly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! what can I ever do to disillusion you?” he cried in + despair. “Oh! what can I ever do? This is too, too terrible!” + </p> + <p> + I moved towards the door. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going,” I said, with a gulp. “You’ve + deceived me, Jack. You’ve lied to me. You have given me feigned + names. You have decoyed me to your house under false pretences. And I + recognise you now. I know you in all your baseness. You’re my father’s + murderer! Don’t hope to escape by playing on my feelings. I’d + deserve to be murdered myself, if I could act like that! I’m on my + way to the police-office, to give you in custody on the charge of + murdering Vivian Callingham at Woodbury!” + </p> + <p> + He jumped up again, all anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you mustn’t walk!” he cried, laying his hand + upon my arm. “Give me up, if you like; but wait till the buggy comes + back, and Elsie’ll drive you round with me. You’re not fit to + go a step as you are at present... Oh! what shall I ever do, though. You’re + so weak and ill. Elsie’ll never allow it.” + </p> + <p> + “Elsie’ll never allow WHAT?” I asked; though I felt it + was rather more grotesque than undignified and inconsistent thus to parley + and make terms with my father’s murderer. Though, to be sure, it was + Jack, and I couldn’t bear to refuse him. + </p> + <p> + He kept his hand on my arm with an air of authority. + </p> + <p> + “Una, my child,” he said, thrusting me back—and even at + that moment of supreme horror, a thrill ran all through my body at his + touch and his words—“you MUSTN’T go out of this house as + you are this minute. I refuse to allow it. I’m your doctor, and I + forbid it. You’re under my charge, and I won’t let you stir. + If I did, I’d be responsible.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed me gently into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “I gave you but one false name,” he said slowly—“the + name of Cheriton. To be sure I, was never christened John, but I’m + Jack to my intimates. It was my nickname from a baby. Jack’s what I’ve + always been called at home—Jack’s what, in the dear old days + at Torquay, you always called me. But I saw if I let you know who I was at + once, there’d be no chance of recalling the past, and so saving you + from yourself. To save you, I consented to that one mild deception. It + succeeded in bringing you here, and in keeping you here till Elsie and I + were once more what we’d always been to you. I meant to tell you all + in the end, when the right time came. Now, you’ve forced my hand, + and I don’t know how I can any longer refrain from telling you.” + </p> + <p> + “Telling me WHAT?” I said icily. “What do you mean by + your words? Why all these dark hints? If you’ve anything to say, why + not say it like a man?” + </p> + <p> + For I loved him so much that in my heart of hearts, I half hoped there + might still be some excuse, some explanation. + </p> + <p> + He looked at me solemnly. Then he leant back in his chair and drew his + hand across his brow. I could see now why I hadn’t recognised that + delicate hand before: white as it was by nature, hard work on the farm had + long bronzed and distorted it. But I saw also, for the first time, that + the palm was scarred with cuts and rents—exactly like Minnie Moore’s, + exactly like Aunt Emma’s. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” he began slowly, in a very puzzled tone, “if I + could, I’d give myself up and be tried, and be found guilty and + executed for your sake, sooner than cause you any further distress, or + expose you to the shock of any more disclosures. But I can’t do + that, on Elsie’s account. Even if I decided to put Elsie to that + shame and disgrace—which would hardly be just, which would hardly be + manly of me—Elsie knows all, and Elsie’d never consent to it. + She’d never let her brother be hanged for a crime of which (as she + knows) he’s entirely innocent. And she’d tell out all in full + court—every fact, every detail—which would be worse for you + ten thousand times in the end than learning it here quietly.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me all,” I said, growing stony, yet trembling from head + to foot. “Oh, Jack,”—I seized his hand,—“I + don’t know what you mean! But I somehow trust you. I want to know + all. I can bear anything—anything—better than this suspense. + You MUST tell me! You MUST explain to me!” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” he said slowly, looking hard into my eyes, and + feeling my pulse half unconsciously with his finger as he spoke. “Una + darling, you must make up your mind now for a terrible shock. I won’t + tell you in words, for you’d never believe it. I’ll SHOW you + who it was that fired the shot at Mr. Callingham.” + </p> + <p> + He moved over to the other side of the room, and unlocking drawer after + drawer, took a bundle of photographs from the inmost secret cabinet of a + desk in the corner. + </p> + <p> + “There, Una,” he said, selecting one of them and holding it up + before my eyes. “Prepare yourself, darling. That’s the person + who pulled the trigger that night in the library!” + </p> + <p> + I looked at it and fell back with a deadly shriek of horror. It was an + instantaneous photograph. It represented a scene just before the one the + Inspector gave me. And there, in its midst, I saw myself as a girl, with a + pistol in my hand. The muzzle flashed and smoked. I knew the whole truth. + It was I myself who held the pistol and fired at my father! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. — THE REAL MURDERER + </h2> + <p> + For some seconds I sat there, leaning back in my chair and gazing close at + that incredible, that accusing document. I knew it couldn’t lie: I + knew it must be the very handiwork of unerring Nature. Then slowly a + recollection began to grow up in my mind. I knew of my own memory it was + really true. I remembered it so, now, as in a glass, darkly. I remembered + having stood, with the pistol in my hand, pointing it straight at the + breast of the man with the long white beard whom they called my father. A + new mental picture rose up before me like a vision. I remembered it all as + something that once really occurred to me. + </p> + <p> + Yet I remembered it, as I had long remembered the next scene in the + series, merely as so much isolated and unrelated fact, without connection + of any sort to link it to the events that preceded or followed it. It was + <i>I</i> who shot my father! I realised that now with a horrid gulp. But + what on earth did I ever shoot him for? + </p> + <p> + And I had hunted down Jack for the crime I had committed myself! I had + threatened to give him up for my own dreadful parricide! + </p> + <p> + After a minute, I rose, and staggered feebly to the door. I saw the path + of duty clear as daylight before me. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” Jack faltered out, watching me close + with anxious eyes, lest I should stumble or faint. + </p> + <p> + And I answered aloud, in a hollow voice: + </p> + <p> + “To the police-station, of course,—to give myself into custody + for the murder of my father.” + </p> + <p> + When I thought it was Jack, though I loved him better than I loved my own + life, I would have given him up to justice as a sacred duty. Now I knew it + was myself, how could I possibly do otherwise? How could I love my own + life better than I loved dear Jack’s, who had given up everything to + save me and protect me? + </p> + <p> + With a wild bound of horror, Jack sprang upon me at once. He seized me + bodily in his arms. He carried me back into the room with irresistible + strength. I fought against him in vain. He laid me on the sofa. He bent + over me like a whirlwind and smothered me with hot kisses. + </p> + <p> + “My darling,” he cried, “my darling, then this shock + hasn’t killed you! It hasn’t stunned you like the last! You’re + still your own dear self! You’ve still strength to think and plan + exactly what one would expect from you. Oh! Una, my Una, you must wait and + hear all. When you’ve learned HOW it happened, you won’t wish + to act so rashly.” + </p> + <p> + I struggled to free myself, though his arms were hard and close like a + strong man’s around me. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go, Jack!” I cried feebly, trying to tear myself from + his grasp. “I love you better than I love my own life. If I would + have given YOU up, how much more must I give up myself, now I know it was + I who really did it!” + </p> + <p> + He held me down by main force. He pinned me to the sofa. I suppose it’s + because I’m a woman, and weak, and all that—but I liked even + then to feel how strong and how big he was, and how feeble I was myself, + like a child in his arms. And I resisted on purpose, just to feel him hold + me. Somehow, I couldn’t realize, after all, that I was indeed a + murderess. It didn’t seem possible. I couldn’t believe it was + in me. + </p> + <p> + “Jack,” I said slowly, giving way at last, and letting him + hold me down with his small strong hands and slender iron wrist, “tell + me, if you will, how I came to do it. I’ll sit here quite still, if + only you’ll tell me. Am I really a murderess?” + </p> + <p> + Jack recoiled like one shot. + </p> + <p> + “YOU a murderess, my spotless Una!” he exclaimed, all aghast. + “If anyone else on earth but you had just asked such a thing in my + presence, I’d have leapt at the fellow’s throat, and held him + down till I choked him!” + </p> + <p> + “But I did it!” I cried wildly. “I remember now, I did + it. It all comes back to me at last. I fired at him, just so. I aimed the + loaded pistol point-blank at his heart, I can hear the din in my ears. I + can see the flash at the muzzle. And then I flung down the pistol—like + this—at my feet: and darkness came on; and I forgot everything. Why, + Dr. Marten knew that much! I remember now, he told me he’d formed a + very strong impression, from the nature of the wound and the position of + the various objects on the floor of the room, who it was that did it! He + must have seen it was <i>I</i> who flung down the pistol.” + </p> + <p> + Jack gazed at me in suspense. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a very good friend of yours, then,” he murmured, + “that Dr. Marten. For he never said a word of all that at the + inquest.” + </p> + <p> + “But I must give myself up!” I cried, in a fever of penitence + for what that other woman who once was ME had done. “Oh, Jack, do + let me! It’s hateful to know I’m a murderess and to go + unpunished. It’s hateful to draw back from the fate I’d have + imposed on another. I’d like to be hanged for it. I want to be + hanged. It’s the only possible way to appease one’s + conscience.” + </p> + <p> + And yet, though I said it, I felt all the time it wasn’t really I, + but that other strange girl who once lived at The Grange and looked + exactly like me. I remember it, to be sure; but it was in my Other State: + and, so far as my moral responsibility was concerned, my Other State and I + were two different people. + </p> + <p> + For I knew in my heart I couldn’t commit a murder. + </p> + <p> + Jack rose without a word, and fetched me in some brandy. + </p> + <p> + “Drink this,” he said calmly, in his authoritative medical + tone; “drink this before you say another sentence.” + </p> + <p> + And, obedient to his order, I took it up and drank it. + </p> + <p> + Then he sat down beside me, and took my hand in his, and with very gentle + words began to reason and argue with me. + </p> + <p> + He was glad I’d struggled, he said, because that broke the first + force of the terrible shock for me. Action was always good for one in any + great crisis. It gave an outlet for the pent-up emotions, too suddenly let + loose with explosive force, and kept them from turning inward and doing + serious harm, as mine had done on that horrible night of the accident. He + called it always the accident, I noticed, and never the murder. That gave + me fresh hope. Could I really after all have fired unintentionally? But + no; when I came to look inward,—to look backward on my past state,—I + was conscious all the time of some strong and fierce resentment + smouldering deep in my heart at the exact moment of firing. However it + might have happened, I was angry with the man with the long white beard: I + fired at him hastily, it is true, but with malice prepense and deliberate + intent to wound and hurt him. + </p> + <p> + Jack went on, however, undeterred, in a low and quiet voice, soothing my + hand with his as he spoke, and very kind and gentle. My spirit rebelled at + the thought that I could ever for one moment have imagined him a murderer. + I said so in one wild burst. Jack held my hand, and still reasoned with + me. I like a man’s reasoning; it’s so calm and impartial. It + seems to overcome one by its mere display of strength. If I’d + changed my mind once, Jack said, I might change it again, when further + evidence on the point was again forthcoming. I mustn’t give myself + up to the police till I understood much more. If I did, I would commit a + very grave mistake. There were reasons that had led to the firing of the + shot. Very grave reasons too. Couldn’t I restore and reconstruct + them, now I knew the last stage of the terrible history? If possible, he’d + rather I should arrive at them by myself than that he should tell me. + </p> + <p> + I cast my mind back all in vain. + </p> + <p> + “No, Jack,” I said trustfully. “I can’t remember + anything one bit like that. I can remember forward, sometimes, but never + backwards. I can remember now how I flung down the pistol, and how the + servants burst in. But not a word, not an item, of what went before. That’s + all a pure blank to me.” + </p> + <p> + And then I went on to tell him in very brief outline how the first thing I + could recollect in all my life was the Australian scene with the big + blue-gum-trees; and how that had been recalled to me by the picture at + Jane’s; and how one scene in that way had gradually suggested + another; and how I could often think ahead from a given fact but never go + back behind it and discover what led up to it. + </p> + <p> + Jack drew his hand over his chin and reflected silently. + </p> + <p> + “That’s odd,” he said, after a pause. “Yet very + comprehensible. I might almost have thought of that before: might have + arrived at it on general principles. Psychologically and physiologically + it’s exactly what one would have expected from the nature of memory. + And yet it never occurred to me. Set up the train of thought in the order + in which it originally presented itself, and the links may readily restore + themselves in successive series. Try to trace it backward in the inverse + order, and the process is very much more difficult and involved.—Well, + we’ll try things just so with you, Una. We’ll begin by + reconstructing your first life as far as we can from the very outset, with + the aid of these stray hints of yours; and then we’ll see whether we + can get you to remember all your past up to the day of the accident more + easily.” + </p> + <p> + I gazed up at him with gratitude. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jack,” I said, trembling, “in spite of this shock, + I believe I can do it now. I believe I can remember. The scales are + falling from my eyes. I’m becoming myself again. What you’ve + said and what you’ve shown me seems to have broken down a veil. I + feel as if I could reconstruct all now, when once the key’s + suggested to me.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled at me encouragingly. Oh, how could I ever have doubted him? + </p> + <p> + “That’s right, darling,” he answered. “I should + have expected as much, indeed. For now for the very first time since the + accident you’ve got really at the other side of the great blank in + your memory.” + </p> + <p> + I felt so happy, though I knew I was a murderess. I didn’t mind now + whether I was hanged or not. To love Jack and be loved by him was quite + enough for me. When he called me “darling,” I was in the + seventh heavens. It sounded so familiar. I knew he must have called me so, + often and often before, in the dim dead past that was just beginning to + recur to me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. — THE STRANGER FROM THE SEA + </h2> + <p> + I held his hand tight. It was so pleasant to know I could love him now + with a clear conscience, even if I had to give myself up to the police + to-morrow. And indeed, being a woman, I didn’t really much care + whether they took me or not, if only I could love Jack, and know Jack + loved me. + </p> + <p> + “You must tell me everything—this minute—Jack,” I + said, clinging to him like a child. “I can’t bear this + suspense. Begin telling me at once. You’ll do me more harm than good + if you keep me waiting any longer.” + </p> + <p> + Jack took instinctively a medical view of the situation. + </p> + <p> + “So I think, my child,” he said, looking lovingly at me. + “Your nerves are on the rack, and will be the better for + unstringing. Oh, Una, it’s such a comfort that you know at last who + I am! It’s such a comfort that I’m able to talk to you to-day + just as we two used to talk four years ago in Devonshire!” + </p> + <p> + “Did I love you then, Jack?” I whispered, nestling still + closer to him, in spite of my horror. Or rather, my very horror made me + feel more acutely than ever the need for protection. I was no longer alone + in the world. I had a man to support me. + </p> + <p> + “You told me so, darling,” he answered, smoothing my hair with + his hand. “Have you forgotten all about it? Doesn’t even that + come back? Can’t you remember it now, when I’ve told you who I + am and how it all happened?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + “All cloudy still,” I replied, vaguely. “Some dim sense + of familiarity, perhaps,—as when people say they have a feeling of + having lived all this over somewhere else before,—but nothing more + certain, nothing more definite.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I must begin at the beginning,” Jack answered, bracing + himself for his hard task, “and reconstruct your whole life for you, + as far as I know it, from your very childhood. I’m particularly + anxious you should not merely be TOLD what took place, but should remember + the past. There are gaps in my own knowledge I want you to eke out. There + are places I want you to help me myself over. And besides, it’ll be + more satisfactory to yourself to remember than to be told it.” + </p> + <p> + I leaned back, almost exhausted. Incredible as it may seem to you, in + spite of that awful photograph, I couldn’t really believe even so I + had killed my father. And yet I knew very well now that Jack, at least, + hadn’t done it. That was almost enough. But not quite. My head swam + round in terror. I waited and longed for Jack to explain the whole thing + to me. + </p> + <p> + “You remember,” he said, watching me close, “that when + you lived as a very little girl in Australia you had a papa who seems + different to you still from the papa in your later childish memories?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember it very well,” I replied. “It came back to + me on the Sarmatian. I think of him always now as the papa in the loose + white linen coat. The more I dwell on him, the more does he come out to me + as a different man from the other one—the father...I shot at The + Grange, at Woodbury. The father that lives with me in that ineffaceable + Picture.” + </p> + <p> + “He WAS a different man,” Jack answered, with a sudden burst, + as if he knew all my story. “Una, I may as well relieve your mind + all at once on that formidable point. You shot that man”—he + pointed to the white-bearded person in the photograph,—“but it + was not parricide: it was not even murder. It was under grave + provocation...in more than self-defence...and he was NOT your father.” + </p> + <p> + “Not my father!” I cried, clasping my hands and leaning + forward in my profound suspense. “But I killed him all the same! Oh, + Jack, how terrible!” + </p> + <p> + “You must quiet yourself, my child,” he said, still soothing + me automatically. “I want your aid in this matter. You must listen + to me calmly, and bring your mind to bear on all I say to you.” + </p> + <p> + Then he began with a regular history of my early life, which came back to + me as fast as he spoke, scene by scene and year by year, in long and + familiar succession. I remembered everything, sometimes only when he + suggested it; but sometimes also, before he said the words, my memory + outran his tongue, and I put in a recollection or two with my own tongue + as they recurred to me under the stimulus of this new birth of my dead + nature. I recalled my early days in the far bush in Australia; my journey + home to England on the big steamer with mamma; the way we travelled about + for years from place to place on the Continent. I remembered how I had + been strictly enjoined, too, never to speak of baby; and how my father + used to watch my mother just as closely as he watched me, always afraid, + as it appeared to me, she should make some verbal slip or let out some + great secret in an unguarded moment. He seemed relieved, I recollected + now, when my poor mother died: he grew less strict with me then, but as + far as I could judge, though he was careful of my health, he never really + loved me. + </p> + <p> + Then Jack reminded me further of other scenes that came much later in my + forgotten life. He reminded me of my trip to Torquay, where I first met + him: and all at once the whole history of my old visits to the Moores came + back like a flood to me. The memory seemed to inundate and overwhelm my + brain. They were the happiest time of all life, those delightful visits, + when I met Jack and fell in love with him, and half confided my love to my + Cousin Minnie. Strange to say, though at Torquay itself I’d + forgotten it all, in that little Canadian house, with Jack by my side to + recall it, it rushed back like a wave upon me. I’d fallen in love + with Jack without my father’s knowledge or consent; and I knew very + well my father would never allow me to marry him. He had ideas of his own, + my father, about the sort of person I ought to marry: and I half suspected + in my heart of hearts he meant if possible always to keep me at home + single to take care of him and look after him. I didn’t know, as + yet, he had sufficient reasons of his own for desiring me to remain for + ever unmarried. + </p> + <p> + I remembered, too, that I never really loved my father. His nature was + hard, cold, reserved, unsympathetic. I only feared and obeyed him. At + times, my own strong character came out, I remembered, and I defied him to + his face, defied him openly. Then there were scenes in the house, dreadful + scenes, too hateful to dwell upon: and the servants came up to my room at + the end and comforted me. + </p> + <p> + So, step by step, Jack reminded me of everything in my own past life, up + to the very night of the murder, from which my Second State dated. I’d + come back from Torquay a week or two before, very full indeed of Jack, and + determined at all costs, sooner or later, to marry him. But though I had + kept all quiet, papa had suspected my liking on the day of the Berry + Pomeroy athletics, and had forbidden me to see Jack, or to write to him, + or to have anything further to say to him. He was determined, he told me, + whoever I married, I shouldn’t at least marry a beggarly doctor. All + that I remembered; and also how, in spite of the prohibition, I wrote + letters to Jack, but could receive none in return—lest my father + should see them. + </p> + <p> + And still, the central mystery of the murder was no nearer solution. I + held my breath in terror. Had I really any sort of justification in + killing him? + </p> + <p> + Dimly and instinctively, as Jack went on, a faint sense of resentment and + righteous indignation against the man with the white beard rose up vaguely + in my mind by slow degrees. I knew I had been angry with him, I knew I had + defied him, but how or why as yet I knew not. + </p> + <p> + Then Jack suddenly paused, and began in a different voice a new part of + his tale. It was nothing I remembered or could possibly remember, he said; + but it was necessary to the comprehension of what came after, and would + help me to recall it. About a week after I left Torquay, it seemed, Jack + was in his consulting-room at Babbicombe one day, having just returned + from a very long bicycle ride—for he was a first-rate cyclist,—when + the servant announced a new patient; and a very worn-out old man came in + to visit him. + </p> + <p> + The man had a ragged grey beard and scanty white hair; he was clad in poor + clothes, and had tramped on foot all the way from London to Babbicombe, + where Jack used to practice. But Jack saw at once under this rough + exterior he had the voice and address of a cultivated gentleman, though he + was so broken down by want and long suffering and exposure and illness + that he looked like a beggar just let loose from the workhouse. + </p> + <p> + I held my breath as Jack showed me the poor old man’s photograph. It + was a portrait taken after death—for Jack attended him to the end + through a fatal illness;—and it showed a face thin and worn, and + much lined by unspeakable hardships. But I burst out crying at once the + very moment I looked at it. For a second or two, I couldn’t say why: + I suppose it was instinct. Blood is thicker than water, they tell us; and + I have the intuition of kindred very strong in me, I believe. But at any + rate, I cried silently, with big hot tears, while I looked at that dead + face of silent suffering, as I never had cried over the photograph of the + respectable-looking man who lay dead on the floor of the library, and whom + I was always taught to consider my father. Then it came back to me, why... + I gazed at it and grew faint. I clutched Jack’s arm for support. I + knew what it meant now. The poor worn old man who lay dead on the bed with + that look of mute agony on his features—was my first papa: the papa + in the loose white linen coat: the one I remembered with childlike love + and trustfulness in my earliest babyish Australian recollections! + </p> + <p> + I couldn’t mistake the face. It was burnt into my brain now. This + was he, though much older and sadder, and more scarred and lined by age + and weather. It was my very first papa. My own papa. I cried silently + still. I couldn’t bear to look at it. Then the real truth broke upon + me once more. This, and this alone, was in very deed my one real father! + </p> + <p> + I seized the faded photograph and pressed it to my lips. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know him!” I cried wildly. “It’s my father! + My father!” + </p> + <p> + Some minutes passed before Jack could go on with his story. This rush of + emotions was too much for me for a while. I could hardly hear him or + attend to him, so deeply did it stir me. + </p> + <p> + At last I calmed down, still holding that pathetic photograph on the table + before me. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me all about him,” I murmured, sobbing. “For, + Jack, I remember now, he was so good and kind, and I loved him—I + loved him.” + </p> + <p> + Jack went on with his story, trying to soothe me and reassure me. The old + man introduced himself by very cautious degrees as a person in want, not + so much of money, though of that to be sure he had none, as of kindness + and sympathy in a very great sorrow. He was a shipwrecked mariner, in a + sense: shipwrecked on the sea of Life and on the open Pacific as well. But + once he had been a clergyman, and a man of education, position, + reputation, fortune. + </p> + <p> + Gradually as he went on Jack began to grasp at the truth of this curious + tale. The worn and battered stranger had but lately landed in London from + a sailing vessel which had brought him over from a remote Pacific islet: + not a tropical islet of the kind with whose palms and parrots we are all + so familiar, but a cold and snowy rock, away off far south, among the + frosts and icebergs, near the Antarctic continent. There for twenty long + years that unhappy man had lived by himself a solitary life. + </p> + <p> + I started at the sound. + </p> + <p> + “For twenty years!” I exclaimed. “Oh, Jack, you must be + wrong; for how could that be? I was only eighteen when all this happened. + How could my real father have been twenty years away from me, when I was + only eighteen, and I remember him so perfectly?” + </p> + <p> + Jack looked at me and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve much to learn yet, Una,” he answered. “The + story’s a long one. You were NOT eighteen but twenty-two at the + time. You’ve been deliberately misled as to your own age all along. + You developed late, and were always short for your real years, not tall + and precocious as we all of us imagined. But you were four years older + than Mr. Callingham pretended. You’re twenty-six now, not twenty-two + as you think. Wait, and in time you’ll hear all about it.” + </p> + <p> + He went on with his story. I listened, spell-bound. The unhappy man + explained to Jack how he had been wrecked on the voyage, and escaped on a + raft with one other passenger: how they had drifted far south, before + waves and current, till they were cast at last on this wretched island: + how they remained there for a month or two, picking up a precarious living + on roots and berries and eggs of sea-birds: and how at last, one day, he + had come back from hunting limpets and sea-urchins on the shore of a + lonely bay—to find, to his amazement, his companion gone, and + himself left alone on that desolate island. His fellow-castaway, he knew + then, had deceived and deserted him! + </p> + <p> + There was no room, indeed, to doubt the treachery of the wretched being + who had so basely treated him. As he looked, a ship under full sail stood + away to northward. In vain the unhappy man made wild signals from the + shore with his tattered garments. No notice was taken of them. His + companion must deliberately have suppressed the other’s existence, + and pretended to be alone by himself on the island. + </p> + <p> + “And his name?” Jack asked of the poor old man, horrified. + </p> + <p> + The stranger answered without a moment’s pause: + </p> + <p> + “His name, if you want it—was Vivian Callingham.” + </p> + <p> + “And yours?” Jack continued, as soon as he could recover from + his first shock of horror. + </p> + <p> + “And mine,” the poor castaway replied, “is Richard + Wharton.” + </p> + <p> + As Jack told me those words, another strange thrill ran through me. + </p> + <p> + “Richard Wharton was the name of mamma’s first husband. Then I’m + not a Callingham at all!” I cried, unable to take it all in at first + in its full complexity. “I’m really a Wharton!” + </p> + <p> + Jack nodded his head in assent. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’re really a Wharton,” he said. “You’re + the baby that died, as we all were told. Your true Christian name’s + Mary. But, Una, you were always Una to all of us in England; and though + the real Una Callingham died when you were a little girl of three or four + years old, you’ll be Una always now to Elsie and me. We can’t + think of you as other than we’ve always called you.” + </p> + <p> + Then he went on to explain to me how the stranger had landed in London, + alone and friendless, twenty years later, from a passing Australian + merchant vessel which had picked him up on the island. All those years he + had waited, and fed himself on eggs of penguins. He landed by himself, the + crew having given him a suit of old clothes, and subscribed to find him in + immediate necessaries. He began to inquire cautiously in London about his + wife and family. At first, he could learn little or nothing; for nobody + remembered him, and he feared to ask too openly, a sort of Enoch Arden + terror restraining him from proclaiming his personality till he knew + exactly what had happened in his long absence. But bit by bit, he found + out at last that his wife had married again, and was now long dead: and + that the man she had married was Vivian Callingham, his own treacherous + companion on the Crozet Islands. As soon as he learned that, the full + depth of the man’s guilt burst upon him like a thunderbolt. Richard + Wharton understood now why Vivian Callingham had left him alone on those + desert rocks, and sailed away in the ship without telling the captain of + his fellow-castaway’s plight. He saw the whole vile plot the man had + concocted at once, and the steps he had taken to carry it into execution. + </p> + <p> + Vivian Callingham, whom I falsely thought my father, had gone back to + Australia with pretended news of Richard Wharton’s death. He had + sought my widowed mother in her own home up country, and told her a lying + tale of his devotion to her husband in his dying moments on that remote + ocean speck in the far Southern Pacific. By this story he ingratiated + himself. He knew she was rich: he knew she was worth marrying: and to + marry her, he had left my own real father, Richard Wharton, to starve and + languish for twenty years among rocks and sea-fowl on a lonely island! + </p> + <p> + My blood ran cold at such a tale of deadly treachery. I remembered now to + have heard some small part of it before. But much of it, as Jack told it + to me, was quite new and unexpected. No wonder I had turned in horror that + night from the man I long believed to be my own father, when I learned by + what vile and cruelly treacherous means he had succeeded in imposing his + supposed relationship upon me! But still, all this brought me no nearer + the real question of questions—why did I shoot him? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. — THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF + </h2> + <p> + As Jack went on unfolding that strange tale of fraud and heartless wrong, + my interest every moment grew more and more absorbing. But I can’t + recall it now exactly as Jack told me it. I can only give you the + substance of that terrible story. + </p> + <p> + When Richard Wharton first learned of his wife’s second marriage + during his own lifetime to that wicked wretch who had ousted and + supplanted him, he believed also, on the strength of Vivian Callingham’s + pretences, that his own daughter had died in her babyhood in Australia. He + fancied, therefore, that no person of his kin remained alive at all, and + that he might proceed to denounce and punish Vivian Callingham. With that + object in view, he tramped down all the way from London to Torquay, to + make himself known to his wife’s relations, the Moores, and to their + cousin, Courtenay Ivor of Babbicombe—my Jack, as I called him. For + various reasons of his own, he called first on Jack, and proceeded to + detail to him this terrible family story. + </p> + <p> + At first hearing, Jack could hardly believe such a tale was true—of + his Una’s father, as he still thought Vivian Callingham. But a + strange chance happened to reveal a still further complication. It came + out in this way. I had given Jack a recent photograph of myself in fancy + dress, which hung up over his mantelpiece. As the weather-worn visitor’s + eye fell on the picture, he started and grew pale. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that’s her!” he cried with a sudden gasp. “That’s + my daughter—Mary Wharton!” + </p> + <p> + Well, naturally enough Jack thought, to begin with, this was a mere + mistake on his strange visitor’s part. + </p> + <p> + “That’s her half-sister,” he said, “Una Callingham—your + wife’s child by her second marriage. She may be like her, no doubt, + as half-sisters often are. But Mary Wharton, I know, died some eighteen + years ago or so, when Una was quite a baby, I believe. I’ve heard + all about it, because, don’t you see, I’m engaged to Una.” + </p> + <p> + The poor wreck of a clergyman, however, shook his head with profound + conviction. He knew better than that. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no,” he said decisively: “that’s my child, + Mary Wharton. Even after all these years, I couldn’t possibly be + mistaken. Blood is thicker than water: I’d know her among ten + thousand. She’d be just that age now, too. I see the creature’s + vile plot. His daughter died young, and he’s palmed off my Mary as + his own child, to keep her money in his hands. But never mind the money. + Thank Heaven, she’s alive! That’s her! That’s my Mary!” + </p> + <p> + The plot seemed too diabolical and too improbable for anybody to believe. + Jack could hardly think it possible when his new friend told him. But the + stranger persisted so—it’s hard for me even to think of him as + quite really my father—that Jack at last brought out two or three + earlier photographs I’d given him some time before; and his visitor + recognised them at once, in all their stages, as his own daughter. This + roused Jack’s curiosity. He determined to hunt the matter up with + his unknown connection. And he hunted it up thenceforward with deliberate + care, till he proved every word of it. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, the poor broken-down man, worn out with his long tramp and his + terrible emotions, fell ill almost at once, in Jack’s own house, and + became rapidly so feeble that Jack dared not question him further. The + return to civilisation was more fatal than his long solitary banishment. + At the end of a week he died, leaving on Jack’s mind a profound + conviction that all he had said was true, and that I was really Richard + Wharton’s daughter, not Vivian Callingham’s. + </p> + <p> + “For a week or two I made inquiries, Una,” Jack said to me as + we sat there,—“inquiries which I won’t detail to you in + full just now, but which gradually showed me the truth of the poor soul’s + belief. What you yourself told me just now chimes in exactly with what I + discovered elsewhere, by inquiry and by letters from Australia. The baby + that died was the real Una Callingham. Shortly after its death, your + stepfather and your mother left the colony. All your real father’s + money had been bequeathed to his child: and your mother’s also was + settled on you. Mr. Callingham saw that if your mother died, and you lived + and married, he himself would be deprived of the fortune for which he had + so wickedly plotted. So he made up another plot even more extraordinary + and more diabolical still than the first. He decided to pretend it was + Mary Wharton that died, and to palm you off on the world as his own child, + Una Callingham. For if Mary Wharton died, the property at once became + absolutely your mother’s, and she could will it away to her husband + or anyone else she chose to.” + </p> + <p> + “But baby was so much younger than I!” I cried, going back on + my recollections once more. “How could he ever manage to make the + dates come right again?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true,” Jack answered; “the baby was younger than + you. But your step-father—I’ve no other name by which I can + call him—made a clever plan to set that straight. He concealed from + the people in Australia which child had been ill, and he entered her death + as Mary Wharton. Then, to cover the falsification, he left Melbourne at + once, and travelled about for some years on the Continent in + out-of-the-way places till all had been forgotten. You went forth upon the + world as Una Callingham, with your true personality as Mary Wharton all + obscured even in your own memory. Fortunately for your false father’s + plot, you were small for your age, and developed slowly: he gave out, on + the contrary, that you were big for your years and had outgrown yourself, + Australian-wise, both in wisdom and stature.” + </p> + <p> + “But my mother!” I exclaimed, appalled. “How could she + ever consent to such a wicked deception?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Callingham had your mother completely under his thumb,” + Jack answered with promptitude. “She couldn’t call her soul + her own, your poor mother—so I’ve heard: he cajoled her and + terrified her till she didn’t dare to oppose him. Poor shrinking + creature, she was afraid of her life to do anything except as he bade her. + He must have persuaded her first to acquiesce passively in this hateful + plot, and then must have terrified her afterwards into full compliance by + threats of exposure.” + </p> + <p> + “He was a very unhappy man himself,” I put in, casting back. + “His money did him no good. I can remember now how gloomy and moody + he was often, at The Grange.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true,” Jack replied. “He lived in perpetual fear + of your real father’s return, or of some other breakdown to his + complicated system of successive deceptions. He never had a happy minute + in his whole life, I believe. Blind terrors surrounded him. He was afraid + of everything, and afraid of everybody. Only his scientific work seemed + ever to give him any relief. There, he became a free man. He threw himself + into that, heart and soul, on purpose, I fancy, because it absorbed him + while he was at it, and prevented him for the time being from thinking of + his position.” + </p> + <p> + “And how did you find it all out?” I asked eagerly, anxious to + get on to the end. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s long to tell,” Jack replied. “Too + long for one sitting. I won’t trouble you with it now. Discrepancies + in facts and dates, and inquiries among servants both in England and in + Victoria, first put me upon the track. But I said nothing at the time of + my suspicions to anyone. I waited till I could appeal to the man’s + own conscience with success, as I hoped. And then, besides, I hardly knew + how to act for the best. I wanted to marry you; and therefore, as far as + was consistent with justice and honour, I wished to spare your supposed + father a complete exposure.” + </p> + <p> + “But why didn’t you tell the police?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Because I had really nothing definite in any way to go upon. + Realise the position to yourself, and you’ll see how difficult it + was for me. Mr. Callingham suspected I was paying you attentions. Clearly, + under those circumstances, it was to my obvious interest that you should + get possession of all his property. Any claims I might make for you would, + therefore, be naturally regarded with suspicion. The shipwrecked man had + told nobody but myself. I hadn’t even an affidavit, a death-bed + statement. All rested upon his word, and upon mine as retailing it. He was + dead, and there was nothing but my narrative for what he told me. The + story itself was too improbable to be believed by the police on such + dubious evidence. I didn’t even care to try. I wanted to make your + step-father confess: and I waited for that till I could compel confession.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. — MY MEMORY RETURNS + </h2> + <p> + “At last my chance came,” Jack went on. “I’d found + out almost everything; not, of course, exactly by way of legal proof, but + to my own entire satisfaction: and I determined to lay the matter + definitely at once before Mr. Callingham. So I took a holiday for a + fortnight, to go bicycling in the Midlands I told my patients; and I fixed + my head-quarters at Wrode, which, as you probably remember, is twenty + miles off from Woodbury. + </p> + <p> + “It was important for my scheme I should catch Mr. Callingham alone. + I had no idea of entrapping him. I wanted to work upon his conscience and + induce him to confess. My object was rather to move him to remorse and + restitution than to terrify or surprise him. + </p> + <p> + “So on the day of the accident—call it murder, if you will—I + rode over on my machine, unannounced, to The Grange to see him. You knew + where I was staying, you recollect—” + </p> + <p> + At the words, a burst of memory came suddenly over me. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes!” I cried. “I remember. It was at the Wilsons’, + at Wrode. I wrote over there to tell you we were going to dine alone at + six that evening, as papa had got his electric apparatus home from his + instrument-maker, and was anxious to try his experiments early. You’d + written to me privately—a boy brought the note—that you wanted + to have an hour’s talk alone with papa. I thought it was about ME, + and I was, oh, ever so nervous!” + </p> + <p> + For it all came back to me now, as clear as yesterday. + </p> + <p> + Jack looked at me hard. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you remember that, dear,” he said. “Now, + Una, do try to remember all you can as I go along with my story... Well, I + rode over alone, never telling anybody at Wrode where I was going, nor + giving your step-father any reason of any sort to expect me. I trusted + entirely to finding him busy with his new invention. When I reached The + Grange, I came up the drive unperceived, and looking in at the library + window, saw your father alone there. He was pottering over his chemicals. + That gave me the clue. I left my bicycle under the window, tilted up + against the wall, and walked in without ringing, going straight to the + library. Nobody saw me come: nobody saw me return, except one old lady on + the road, who seemed to have forgotten all about it by the time of the + inquest.” + </p> + <p> + (I nodded and gave a start. I knew that must have been Aunt Emma.) + </p> + <p> + “Except yourself, Una, no human soul on earth ever seemed to suspect + me. And that wasn’t odd; for you and your father, and perhaps Minnie + Moore, were the only people in the world who ever knew I was in love with + you or cared for you in any way.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” I said, breathless. “And you went into the + library.” + </p> + <p> + “I went into the library,” Jack continued, “where I + found your father, just returned from enjoying his cigar on the lawn. He + was alone in the room—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” I cried eagerly, putting in my share now; for I had + a part in the history. “He WASN’T alone, Jack, though you + thought him so at the time. I remember all, at last. It comes back to me + like a flash. Oh, heavens, how it comes back to me! Jack, Jack, I remember + to-day every word, every syllable of it!” + </p> + <p> + He gazed at me in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Then tell me yourself, Una!” he exclaimed. “How did you + come to be there? For I knew you were there at last; but till you fired + the pistol, I hadn’t the faintest idea you had heard or seen + anything. Tell me all about it, quick! There comes in MY mystery.” + </p> + <p> + In one wild rush of thought the whole picture rose up like a vision before + me. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Jack,” I cried, “there was a screen, a little + screen in the alcove! You remember the alcove at the west end of the room. + It was so small a screen, you’d hardly have thought it could hide + me; but it did—it did—and all, too, by accident. I’d + gone in there after dinner, not much thinking where I went, and was seated + on the floor by the little alcove window, reading a book by the twilight. + It was a book papa told me I wasn’t to read, and I took it trembling + from the shelves, and was afraid he’d scold me—for you know + how stern he was. And I never was allowed to go alone into the library. + But I got interested in my book, and went on reading. So when he came in, + I went on sitting there very still, with the book hidden under my skirt, + for fear he should scold me. I thought perhaps before long papa’d go + out for a second, to get some plates for his photography or something, and + then I could slip away and never be noticed. The big window towards the + garden was open, you remember, and I meant to jump out of it—as you + did afterwards. It wasn’t very high; and though the book was only + The Vicar of Wakefield, he’d forbidden me to read it, and I was + dreadfully afraid of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you were there all the time?” Jack cried + interrogatively. “And you heard our conversation—our whole + conversation?” + </p> + <p> + “I was there all the time, Jack,” I cried, in a fever of + exaltation: “and I heard every word of it! It comes back to me now + with a vividness like yesterday. I see the room before my eyes. I remember + every syllable: I could repeat every sentence of it.” + </p> + <p> + Jack drew a deep sigh of intense relief. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for that!” he exclaimed, with profound gratitude. + “Then I’m saved, and you’re saved. We can both + understand one another in that case. We know how it all happened!” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” I answered. “I know all now. As I sat there + and cowered, I heard a knock at the door, and before papa could answer, + you entered hastily. Papa looked round, I could hear, and saw who it was + in a second. + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, it’s you!’ he said, coldly. ‘It’s + you, Dr. Ivor. And pray, sir, what do you want here this evening?’” + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” Jack cried, intensely relieved, I could feel. “Let + me see how much more you can remember, Una.” + </p> + <p> + “So you shut the door softly and said: + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes, it’s I, Mr. Callingham,’” I continued + all aglow, and looking into his eyes for confirmation. “‘And I’ve + come to tell you a fact that may surprise you. Prepare for strange news. + Richard Wharton has returned to England!’ + </p> + <p> + “I knew Richard Wharton was mamma’s first husband, who was + dead before I was born, as I’d always been told: and I sat there + aghast at the news: it was so sudden, so crushing. I’d heard he’d + been wrecked, and I thought he’d come to life again; but as yet I + didn’t suspect what was all the real meaning of it. + </p> + <p> + “But papa drew back, I could hear, in a perfect frenzy of rage, + astonishment, and terror. + </p> + <p> + “‘Richard Wharton!’ he hissed out between his teeth, + springing away like one stung. ‘Richard Wharton come back! You liar! + You sneak! He’s dead this twenty years! You’re trying to + frighten me.’ + </p> + <p> + “I never meant to overhear your conversation. But at that, it was so + strange, I drew back and cowered even closer. I was afraid of papa’s + voice. I was afraid of his rage. He spoke just like a man who was ready to + murder you. + </p> + <p> + “Then you began to talk with papa about strange things that + astonished me—strange things that I only half understood just then, + but that by the light of what you’ve told me to-day I quite + understand now—the history of my real father. + </p> + <p> + “‘I’m no liar,’ you answered. ‘Richard + Wharton has come back. And by the aid of what he’s disclosed, I know + the whole truth. The girl you call your daughter, and whose money you’ve + stolen, is not yours at all. She’s Richard Wharton’s daughter + Mary!’ + </p> + <p> + “Papa staggered back a pace or two, and came quite close to the + screen. I cowered behind it in alarm. I could see he was terrified. For a + minute or two you talked with him, and urged him to confess. Bit by bit, + as you went on, he recovered his nerve, and began to bluster. He didn’t + deny what you said: he saw it was no use: he just sneered and + prevaricated. + </p> + <p> + “As I listened to his words, I saw he admitted it all. A great + horror came over me. Then my life was one long lie! He was never my + father. He had concocted a vile plot. He had held me in this slavery so + many years to suit his own purposes. He had crushed my mother to death, + and robbed me of my birthright. Even before that night, I never loved him. + I thought it very wicked of me, but I never could love him. As he spoke to + you and grew cynical, I began to loathe and despise him. I can’t + tell you how great a comfort it was to me to know—to hear from his + own lips I was not that man’s daughter. + </p> + <p> + “At last, after many recriminations, he looked across at you, and + said, half laughing, for he was quite himself again by that time: + </p> + <p> + “‘This is all very fine, Courtenay Ivor—all very fine in + its way; but how are you going to prove it? that’s the real + question. Do you think any jury in England will believe, on your + unsupported oath, such a cock-and-bull story? Do you think, even if + Richard Wharton’s come back, and you’ve got him on your side, + I can’t cross-examine all the life out of his body?’ + </p> + <p> + “At that you said gravely—wanting to touch his conscience, I + suppose:— + </p> + <p> + “‘Richard Wharton’s come back, but you can’t + cross-examine him. For Richard Wharton died some six or eight weeks since + at my cottage at Babbicombe, after revealing to me all this vile plot + against himself and his daughter.’ + </p> + <p> + “Then papa drew back with a loud laugh—a hateful laugh like a + demon’s. I can’t help calling him papa still, though it pains + me even to think of him. That loud laugh rings still in my ears to this + day. It was horrible, diabolical, like a wild beast’s in triumph. + </p> + <p> + “‘You fool!’ he said, with a sneer. ‘And you come + here to tell me that! You infernal idiot! You come here to put yourself in + my power like this! Courtenay Ivor, I always knew you were an ass, but I + didn’t ever know you were quite such a born idiot of a fellow as + that. Hold back there, you image!’ With a rapid dart, before you + could see what he was doing, he passed a wire round your body and thrust + two knobs into your hands. ‘You’re in my power now!’ he + exclaimed. ‘You can’t move or stir!’ + </p> + <p> + “I saw at once what he’d done. He’d pinned you to the + spot with the handles of his powerful electric apparatus. It was so strong + that it would hold one riveted to the spot in pain. You couldn’t let + go. You could hardly even speak or cry aloud for help. He had pinned you + down irresistibly. I thought he meant to murder you. + </p> + <p> + “Yet I was too terrified, even so, to scream aloud for the servants. + I only crouched there, rooted, and wondered what next would happen. + </p> + <p> + “He went across to the door and turned the key in it. Then he opened + the cabinet and took out some things there. It was growing quite dusk, and + I could hardly see them. He returned with them where you stood, struggling + in vain to set yourself free. His voice was as hard as adamant now. He + spoke slowly and distinctly, in a voice like a fiend’s. Oh, Jack, no + wonder that scene took away my reason!” + </p> + <p> + “And you can remember what he said next, Una?” Jack asked, + following me eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I can remember what he said next,” I went on. “He + stood over you threateningly. I could see then the thing he held in his + right hand was a loaded revolver. In his left was a bottle, a small + medical phial. + </p> + <p> + “‘If you stir, I’ll shoot you,’ he said; ‘I’ll + shoot you like a dog! You fool, you’ve sealed your own fate! What an + idiot to let me know Richard Wharton’s dead! Now, hear your fate! + Nobody saw you come into this house to-night. Nobody shall see you leave. + Look here, sir, at this bottle. It’s chloroform: do you understand? + Chloroform—chloroform—chloroform! I shall hold it to your nose—so. + I shall stifle you quietly—no blood, no fuss, no nasty mess of any + sort. And when I’m done,—do you see these flasks?—I can + reduce your damned carcase to a pound of ashes with chemicals in + half-an-hour! You’ve found out too much. But you’ve mistaken + your man! Courtenay Ivor, say your prayers and commend your soul to the + devil! You’ve driven me to bay, and I give you no quarter!’” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. — THE FATAL SHOT + </h2> + <p> + “Thank God, Una,” Jack cried, “you remember it now even + better than I do!” + </p> + <p> + “Remember it!” I answered, holding my brow with my hands to + keep the flood of thought from bursting it to fragments. “Remember + it! Why, it comes back to me like waves of fire and burns me. I remember + every word, every act, every gesture. I lifted my head slowly, Jack, and + looked over the screen at him. In the twilight, I saw him there—the + man I called my father—holding the bottle to your face, that wicked + bottle of chloroform, with his revolver in one hand, and a calm smile like + a fiend’s playing hatefully and cruelly round that grave-looking + mouth of his. I never saw any man look so ghastly in my life. I was rooted + to the spot with awe and terror. I dared hardly cry out or move. Yet I + knew this was murder. He would kill you! He would kill you! He was trying + to poison you before my very eyes. Oh, heaven, how I hated him! He was no + father of mine. He had never been my father. And he was murdering the man + I loved best in the world. For I loved you better than life, Jack! Oh, the + strain of it was terrible! I see it all now. I live it all over again. + With one wild bound I leapt forward, and, hardly knowing what I did, I + pressed the button, turned off the current from the battery, and rushed + wildly upon him. I suppose the knob I pressed not only released you, but + set the photographic machine at work automatically. But I didn’t + know it then. At any rate, I remember now, in the seconds that followed, + flash came fast after flash. There was a sudden illumination. The room was + lighter than day. It grew alternately bright as noon and then dark as + pitch again by contrast. And by the light of the flashes, I saw you, + half-dazed with the chloroform, standing helpless there. + </p> + <p> + “I rushed up and caught the man’s arm. He was never my father! + He dropped the bottle and struggled hard for possession of the pistol. + First he pointed it at you, then at me, then at you again. He meant to + shoot you. I was afraid it would go off. With a terrible effort I twisted + his wrist awry, in the mad force of passion, and wrenched the revolver + away from him. He jumped at my throat, still silent, but fierce like a + tiger at bay. I eluded him, and sprang back. Then I remember no more, + except that I stood with the pistol pointed at him. Next, came a flash, a + loud roar. And then, in a moment, the Picture. He lay dead on the floor in + his blood. And my Second State began. And from that day, for months, I was + like a little child again.” + </p> + <p> + Jack looked at me as I paused. + </p> + <p> + “And then?” he went on in a very low voice, half prompting me. + </p> + <p> + “And then all I can remember,” I said, “is how you got + out of the window. But I didn’t know when I saw you, it was you or + anyone else. That was my Second State then. The shot seemed to end all. + What comes next is quite different. It belongs to the new world. There, my + life stopped dead short and began all over again.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moments silence. Jack was the first to break it. + </p> + <p> + “And now will you give yourself up to the police, Una?” he + asked me quietly. + </p> + <p> + The question brought me back to the present again with a bound. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! what ought I to do?” I cried, wringing my hands. “I + don’t quite know all yet. Jack, why did you run away that last + moment and leave me?” + </p> + <p> + Jack took my hand very seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Una, my child,” he said, fixing his eyes on mine, “I + hardly know whether I can ever make you understand all that. I must ask + you at first at least just simply to believe me. I must ask you to trust + me and to accept my account. When you rushed upon me as I stood there, all + entangled in that hateful apparatus, and unable to move, I didn’t + know where you had been; I didn’t know how you’d come there. + But I felt sure you must have heard at least your false father’s + last words—that he’d stifle me with the chloroform and burn my + body up afterwards to ashes with his chemicals. You seized the pistol + before I could quite recover from the effects of the fumes. He lay dead at + my feet before I realised what was happening. + </p> + <p> + “Then, in a moment, as I looked at you, I took it all in, like a + flash of lightning. I saw how impossible it would be ever to convince + anybody else of the truth of our story. I saw if we both told the truth, + no one would ever believe us. There was no time then to reflect, no time + to hesitate. I had to make up my mind at once to a plan of action, and to + carry it out without a second’s delay. In one burst of inspiration, + I saw that to stop would be to seal both our fates. I didn’t mind so + much for myself; that was nothing, nothing: but for your sake I felt I + must dare and risk everything. Then I turned round and looked at you. I + saw at one glance the horror of the moment had rendered you speechless and + almost senseless. The right plan came to me at once as if by magic. + ‘Una,’ I cried, ‘stand back! Wait till the servants + come!’ For I knew the report of the revolver would soon bring them + up to the library. Then I waited myself. As they reached the door, and + forced it open, I jumped up to the window. Just outside, my bicycle stood + propped against the wall. I let them purposely catch just a glimpse of my + back—an unfamiliar figure. They saw the pistol on the floor,—Mr. + Callingham dead—you, startled and horrified—a man unknown, + escaping in hot haste from the window. I risked my own life, so as to save + your name and honour. I let them see me escape, so as to exonerate you + from suspicion. If they hanged me, what matter? Then I leapt down in a + hurry, jumped lightly on my machine, and rode off like the wind down the + avenue to the high-road. For a second or two they waited to look at you + and your father. That second or two saved us. By the time they’d + come out to look, I was away down the grounds, past the turn of the + avenue, and well on for the high-road. They’d seen a glimpse of the + murderer, escaping by the window. They would never suspect YOU. You were + saved, and I was happy.” + </p> + <p> + “And for the same reason even now,” I said, “you wouldn’t + tell the police?” + </p> + <p> + “Let sleeping dogs lie,” Jack answered, in the same words as + Dr. Marten. “Why rake up this whole matter? It’s finished for + ever now, and nobody but yourself is ever likely to reopen it. If we both + told our tale, we might run a great risk of being seriously + misinterpreted. You know it’s true; so do I: but who else would + believe us? No man’s bound to criminate himself. You shot him to + save my life, at the very moment when you first learned all his cruelty + and his vileness. The rest of the world could never be made to understand + all that. They’d say to the end, as it looks on the surface, ‘She + shot her father to save her lover.’” + </p> + <p> + “You’re right,” I said slowly. “I shall let this + thing rest. But the photographs, Jack—the apparatus—the affair + of the inquest?” + </p> + <p> + “That was all very simple,” Jack answered. “For a day or + two, of course, I was in a frantic state of mind for fear you should be + suspected, or the revolver should betray you. But though I saw the + electric sparks, of course, I knew nothing about the photographs. I wasn’t + even aware that the apparatus took negatives automatically. And I was so + full of the terrible reports in the newspapers about your sudden loss of + health, that I could think of nothing else—least of all my own + safety. As good luck would have it, however, the clergyman at Wrode, who + knew the Wilsons, happened to speak to me of the murder—all England + called it the murder and talked of nothing else for at least a fortnight,—and + in the course of conversation he mentioned this apparatus of Mr. + Callingham’s construction. ‘What a pity,’ he said, + ‘there didn’t happen to be one of them in the library at the + time! If it was focussed towards the persons, and had been set on by the + victim, it would have photographed the whole scene the murder, the + murderer.’ + </p> + <p> + “That hint revealed much to me. As he spoke, I remembered suddenly + about those mysterious flashes when you burst all at once on my sight from + behind the screen. Till that moment, I thought of them only as some result + of your too suddenly turning off the electric current. But then, it came + home to me in a second that Mr. Callingham must have set out his apparatus + all ready for experimenting—that the electric apparatus was there to + put it in working order. The button you turned must not only have stopped + the current that nailed me writhing to the spot: it must also have set + working the automatic photographic camera! + </p> + <p> + “That thought, as you may imagine, filled me with speechless alarm: + for I remembered then that one of the flashes broke upon us at the exact + moment when you fired the pistol. Such a possibility was horrible to + contemplate. The photographs by themselves could give no clue to our + conversation or to the events that compelled you, almost against your own + will, to fire that fatal shot. If they were found by the police, all would + be up with both of us. They might hang ME if they liked: except for Elsie’s + sake, I didn’t mind much about that: but for your safety, come what + might, I felt I must manage to get hold of them or to destroy them. + </p> + <p> + “Were the negatives already in the hands of the police? That was now + the great question. I read the reports diligently, with all their + descriptions of the room, and noticed that while the table, the alcove, + the screen, the box, the electrical apparatus, were all carefully + mentioned, not a word was said anywhere about the possession of the + negatives. Reasoning further upon the description of the supposed murderer + as given by the servants, and placarded broadcast in every town in + England, I came to the conclusion that the police couldn’t yet have + discovered the existence of these negatives: for some of them must surely + have photographed my face, however little in focus; while the printed + descriptions mentioned only the man’s back, as the servants saw him + escaping from the window. The papers said the room was being kept closed + till the inquest, for inspection in due time by the coroner’s jury. + I made up my mind at once. When the room was opened for the jurors to view + it, I must get in there and carry them off, if they caught me in the + attempt. + </p> + <p> + “It was no use trying before the jury had seen the room. But as soon + as that was all over, I judged the strictness of the watch upon the + premises would be relaxed, and the windows would probably be opened a + little to air the place. So on the morning of the inquest, I told the + Wilsons casually I’d met you at Torquay and had therefore a sort of + interest in learning the result of the coroner’s deliberation. Then + I took my bicycle, and rode across to Woodbury. Leaning up my machine + against the garden wall, I walked carelessly in at the gate, and up the + walk to the library window, as if the place belonged to me. Oh, how my + heart beat as I looked in and wondered! The folding halves were open, and + the box stood on the table, still connected with the wires that conducted + the electrical current. I stood and hesitated in alarm. Were the negatives + still there, or had the police discovered them? If they were gone, all was + up with you. The game was lost. No jury on earth, I felt sure, would + believe my story. + </p> + <p> + “I vaulted up to the sill. Thank heaven, I was athletic. Not a soul + was about: but I heard a noise of muffled voices in the other rooms + behind. Treading cat-like across the floor, I turned the key in the lock. + A chalk mark still showed the position of the pistol on the ground exactly + as you flung it. The box was on the table, and I saw at a glance, the + wires which connected it with the battery had never been disconnected. I + was afraid of receiving a shock if I touched them with my hands, and I had + no time to waste in discovering electrical attachments. So I pulled out my + knife, and you can fancy with what trembling hands I cut that wire on + either side and released the box from its dangerous connections. I knew + only too well the force of that current. Then I took the thing under my + arm, leaped from the window once more, and ran across the shrubbery + towards the spot where I’d left my bicycle. + </p> + <p> + “On the way, the thought struck me that if I carried along the + camera, all would be up with me should I happen to be challenged. It was + the only one of the sort in existence at the time, and the wires at the + side would at once suffice to identify it and to arouse the suspicion even + of an English policeman. I paused for a moment behind a thick clump of + lilacs and tried to pull out the incriminating negatives. Oh, Una, I did + it for your sake; but there, terrified and trembling, in hiding behind the + bushes, and in danger of my life, with that still more unspeakable danger + for yours haunting me always like a nightmare, can you wonder that for the + moment I almost felt myself a murderer? The very breezes in the trees made + my heart give a jump, and then stand still within me. I got out the first + two or three plates with some trifling difficulty, for I didn’t + understand the automatic apparatus then as I understand it now: but the + fourth stuck hard for a minute; the fifth broke in two; and the sixth—well, + the sixth plate baffled me entirely by getting jammed in the clockwork, + and refusing to move, either backward or forward. + </p> + <p> + “At that moment, I either heard or fancied I heard a loud noise of + pursuit, a hue and cry behind me. Zeal for your safety had made me + preternaturally nervous. I looked about me hurriedly, thrust the negatives + I’d recovered into my breast-pocket as fast as ever I could, flung + the apparatus away from me with the sixth plate jammed hard in the groove, + and made off at the top of my speed for the wall behind me. For there, at + that critical point, it occurred to me suddenly that the sixth and last + flash of the machine had come and gone just as I stood poising myself on + the ledge of the window-sill; and I thought to myself—rightly as it + turned out—this additional evidence would only strengthen the belief + in the public mind that Mr. Callingham had been murdered by the man whom + the servants saw escaping from the window. + </p> + <p> + “The rest, my child, you know pretty well already. In a panic on + your account, I scrambled over the wall, tearing my hands as I went with + that nasty-bottle glass, reached my bicycle outside, and made off, not for + the country, but for the inn where they were holding the coroner’s + inquest. My left hand I had to hold, tied up in my handkerchief to stop + the bleeding, in the pocket of my jacket: but I thought this the best way, + all the same, to escape detection. And, indeed, instead of being, as I + feared, the only man there in bicycling dress and knickerbockers, I found + the occasion had positively attracted all the cyclists of the + neighbourhood. Each man went there to show his own innocence of fear or + suspicion. A good dozen or two of bicyclists stood gathered already in the + body of the room in the same incriminating costume. So I found safety in + numbers. Even the servants who had seen me disappear through the window, + though their eyes lighted upon me more than once, never for a moment + seemed to suspect me. And I know very well why. When I stand up, I’m + the straightest and most perpendicular man that ever walked erect. But + when I poise to jump, I bend my spine so much that I produce the + impression of being almost hump-backed. It was that attitude you + recognised in me when I jumped from the window just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Jack,” I cried clinging to him in a perfect whirlwind of + wonder, “one can hardly believe it—that was only an hour ago!” + </p> + <p> + “That was only an hour ago,” Jack answered, smiling. “But + as for you, I suppose you’ve lived half a lifetime again in it. And + now you know the whole secret of the Woodbury Mystery. And you won’t + want to give yourself up to the police any longer.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. — ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + </h2> + <p> + “But why didn’t you explain it all to me at the very first?” + I exclaimed, all tremulous. “When you met me at Quebec, I mean—why + didn’t you tell me then? Did you and Elsie come there on purpose to + meet me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we came there to meet you,” Jack answered. “But we + were afraid to make ourselves known to you all at once just at first, + because, you see, Una, I more than half suspected then, what I know now to + be the truth, that you were coming out to Canada on purpose to hunt me up, + not as your friend and future husband, but in enmity and suspicion as your + father’s murderer. And in any case we were uncertain which attitude + you might adopt towards me. But I see I must explain a little more even + now. I haven’t told you yet why I came at all to Canada.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me now,” I answered. “I must know everything + to-day. I can never rest now till I’ve heard the whole story.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Jack went on more calmly, “after the first + excitement wore off in the public mind, there came after a bit a lull of + languid interest; the papers began to forget the supposed facts of the + murder, and to dwell far more upon your own new role as a psychological + curiosity. They talked much about your strange new life and its analogies + elsewhere. I was anxious to see you, of course, to satisfy myself of your + condition; but the doctors who had charge of you refused to let you mix + for a while with anyone you had known in your First State; and I now think + wisely. It was best you should recover your general health and faculties + by slow degrees, without being puzzled and distracted by constant + upsetting recollections and suggestions of your past history. + </p> + <p> + “But for me, of course, at the time, the separation was terrible. + Each morning, I read with feverish interest the reports of your health, + and longed, day after day, to hear of some distinct improvement. And yet + at the same time, I was terrified at every approach to complete + convalescence: I feared that if you got better at all, you might remember + too quick, and that then the sudden rush of recollection might kill you or + upset your reason. But by-and-by, it became clear to me you could remember + nothing of the actual shot itself. And I saw plainly why. It was the + firing of the pistol that obliterated, as it were, every trace of your + past life in your disorganised brain. And it obliterated ITSELF too. Your + new life began just one moment later, with the Picture of the dead man + stretched before you in his blood on the floor, and a figure in the + background disappearing through the window.” + </p> + <p> + How clever he was, to be sure! I saw in a moment Jack had interpreted my + whole frame of mind correctly and wonderfully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I went back to Babbicombe,” Jack continued, “and, + lest my heart should break for want of human sympathy, I confided every + word of my terrible story to Elsie. Elsie can trust me; and Elsie believed + me. Gradually, as you began to recover, I realised the soundness of your + doctor’s idea that you should be allowed to come back to yourself by + re-education from the very beginning, without any too early intrusion of + reminiscences from your previous life to confuse and disturb you. But I + couldn’t go on with my profession, all the same, while I waited. I + couldn’t attend as I ought to my patients’ wants and ailments: + I was too concentrated upon you: the strain was too great upon me. So I + threw up my practice, came out to Canada, bought a bit of land, and began + farming here, and seeing a few patients now and again locally, just to + fill up my time with. I felt confident in the end you would recover and + remember me. I felt confident you would come to yourself and marry me. But + still, it was very long work waiting. Every month, Elsie got news + indirectly from Minnie Moore or someone of your state of health; and I + intended to go back and try to see you as soon as ever you were in a + condition to bear the shock of re-living your previous life again. + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately, however, the police got hold of YOU before I could + carry my plan into execution. As soon as I heard that, I made up my mind + at once to go home by the first mail and break it all gently to you. So + Elsie and I started for Quebec, meaning to sail by the Dominion steamer + for England. But at the hotel at Quebec we saw the telegrams announcing + that you were then on your way out to Canada. Well, of course we didn’t + feel sure whether you came as a friend or an enemy. We were certain it was + to seek me out you were coming to America; but whether you remembered me + still and still loved me, or whether you’d found out some stray clue + to the missing man, and were anxious to hunt me down as your father’s + murderer, we hadn’t the slightest conception. So under those + circumstances, we thought it best not to meet you ourselves at the + steamer, or to reveal our identity too soon, for fear of a catastrophe. I + knew it would be better to wait and watch—to gain your confidence, + if possible—in any case, to find out how you were affected on first + seeing us and talking with us. + </p> + <p> + “Well then, as the time came on for the Sarmatian to arrive, it + began to strike me by degrees that all Quebec was agog with curiosity to + see you. I dared not go down to meet you at the quay myself; but the Chief + Constable of Quebec, Major Tascherel, was an old friend and fellow-officer + of my father’s; and when I explained to him my fears that you might + be mobbed by sightseers on your arrival at the harbour, and told him how + afraid I was of the shock it might give you to meet an old friend + unexpectedly at the steamer’s side, he very kindly consented to go + down and see you safe through the Custom House, It was so lucky I knew + him. If it hadn’t been for that, you might have been horribly + inconvenienced. + </p> + <p> + “As you may imagine, when we first saw you get into the Pullman car, + both Elsie and I felt our hearts come up into our months with suspense and + anxiety. We’d arranged it all so on purpose, for we felt sure you + were on your way to Palmyra to find us: but when it came to the actual + crisis, we wondered most nervously what effect the sight of us might have + upon your system. But in a moment, I saw you didn’t remember us at + all, or only vaguely attached to us some faint sense of friendliness. That + was well, because it enabled us to gain your confidence easily. As we + spoke with you, the sense of friendly interest deepened. I knew that, all + unconsciously to yourself, you loved me still, and that in a very short + time, if only I could see you and be with you, I might bring all back to + you.” + </p> + <p> + Jack paused and looked at me. As he paused, I felt my old self revive + again more completely than ever with a rush. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jack,” I cried, “so you HAVE done; so you HAVE + brought all back to me! My Second State’s over: I’m the same + girl you used to know at Torquay once more. I remember everything—everything—such + a world—such a lifetime! I feel as if my head would burst with all + the things I remember. I don’t know what to do with it. I’m so + tired, so weary.” + </p> + <p> + “Lay it here,” Jack said simply. + </p> + <p> + And I laid it on his shoulder, just as I used to do years ago, and cried + so long in silence, and was ever so much comforted. For I’ve + admitted all along that I’m only a woman. + </p> + <p> + There we sat, hand in hand, for many minutes more, saying never another + word, but sympathising silently, till Elsie returned from Palmyra. + </p> + <p> + When she burst into the room, she called out lightly as she entered: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ve got you your lemon, Una, and I do hope—” + Then she broke short suddenly. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, + faltering, and half guessing the truth, “what’s the meaning of + this? Why, Una’s been crying. You bad boy, you’ve been + frightening her. I oughtn’t to have left her ten minutes alone with + you!” + </p> + <p> + Jack rose and held up his hand in warning. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk to her at present, Elsie,” he said. “You + needn’t be afraid. Una’s found out everything. She remembers + all now. And she knows how everything happened. And she’s borne it + so bravely, without any more shock to her health and strength than was + absolutely inevitable.—Let her sleep if she can. It’ll do her + so much good.—But, Elsie, there’s one thing I want to say to + you both before I hand her over to you. After all that’s happened, I + don’t think Una’ll want to hear that hateful name of + Callingham any more. It never was really hers, and it never shall be. We’ll + let bygones be bygones in every other respect, and not rake up any details + of that hateful story. But she’s been Una to us always, and she + shall be Una still. It’s a very good name for her: for there’s + only one of her. But next week, I propose, she shall be Una Ivor.” + </p> + <p> + I threw myself on his neck, and cried again like a child. + </p> + <p> + “I accept, Jack,” I said, sobbing. “Let it be Ivor, if + you will. Next week, then, I’ll be your wife at last, my darling!” + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Recalled to Life, by Grant Allen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECALLED TO LIFE *** + +***** This file should be named 5832-h.htm or 5832-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/8/3/5832/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Recalled to Life + +Author: Grant Allen + +Posting Date: May 24, 2013 [EBook #5832] +Release Date: June, 2004 +First Posted: September 10, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECALLED TO LIFE *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +RECALLED TO LIFE + +BY GRANT ALLEN + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + + + +I. UNA CALLINGHAM'S FIRST RECOLLECTION + +II. BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN + +III. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR + +IV. THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS + +V. I BECOME A WOMAN + +VI. RE-LIVING MY LIFE + +VII. THE GRANGE AT WOODBURY + +VIII. A VISION OF DEAD YEARS + +IX. HATEFUL SUSPICIONS + +X. YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH + +XI. THE VISION RECURS + +XII. THE MOORES OF TORQUAY + +XIII. DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE + +XIV. MY WELCOME TO CANADA + +XV. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + +XVI. MY PLANS ALTER + +XVII. A STRANGE RECOGNITION + +XVIII. MURDER WILL OUT + +XIX. THE REAL MURDERER + +XX. THE STRANGER FROM THE SEA + +XXI. THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF + +XXII. MY MEMORY RETURNS + +XXIII. THE FATAL SHOT + +XXIV. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +UNA CALLINGHAM'S FIRST RECOLLECTION + + +It may sound odd to say so, but the very earliest fact that +impressed itself on my memory was a scene that took place--so I was +told--when I was eighteen years old, in my father's house, The +Grange, at Woodbury. + +My babyhood, my childhood, my girlhood, my school-days were all +utterly blotted out by that one strange shock of horror. My past +life became exactly as though it had never been. I forgot my own +name. I forgot my mother-tongue. I forgot everything I had ever done +or known or thought about. Except for the power to walk and stand +and perform simple actions of every-day use, I became a baby in arms +again, with a nurse to take care of me. The doctors told me, later, +I had fallen into what they were pleased to call "a Second State." I +was examined and reported upon as a Psychological Curiosity. But at +the time, I knew nothing of all this. A thunderbolt, as it were, +destroyed at one blow every relic, every trace of my previous +existence; and I began life all over again, with that terrible scene +of blood as my first birthday and practical starting point. + +I remember it all even now with horrible distinctness. Each item in +it photographed itself vividly on my mind's eye. I saw it as in a +picture--just as clearly, just as visually. And the effect, now I +look back upon it with a maturer judgment, was precisely like a +photograph in another way too. It was wholly unrelated in time and +space: it stood alone by itself, lighted up by a single spark, +without rational connection before or after it. What led up to it +all, I hadn't the very faintest idea. I only knew the Event itself +took place; and I, like a statue, stood rooted in the midst of it. + +And this was the Picture as, for many long months, it presented +itself incessantly to my startled brain, by day and by night, awake +or asleep, in colours more distinct than words can possibly paint +them. + +I saw myself standing in a large, square room--a very handsome old +room, filled with bookshelves like a library. On one side stood a +table, and on the table a box. A flash of light rendered the whole +scene visible. But it wasn't light that came in through the window. +It was rather like lightning, so quick it was, and clear, and +short-lived, and terrible. Half-way to the door, I stood and looked +in horror at the sight revealed before my eyes by that sudden flash. +A man lay dead in a little pool of blood that gurgled by short jets +from a wound on his left breast. I didn't even know at the moment +the man was my father; though slowly, afterward, by the concurrent +testimony of others, I learnt to call him so. But his relationship +wasn't part of the Picture to me. There, he was only in my eyes a +man--a man well past middle age, with a long white beard, now +dabbled with the thick blood that kept gurgling so hatefully from +the red spot in his waistcoat. He lay on his back, half-curled round +toward one arm, exactly as he fell. And the revolver he had been +shot with lay on the ground not far from him. + +But that wasn't all the Picture. The murderer was there as well as +the victim. Besides the table, and the box, and the wounded man, and +the pistol, I saw another figure behind, getting out of the window. +It was the figure of a man, I should say about twenty-five or +thirty: he had just raised himself to the ledge, and was poising to +leap; for the room, as I afterwards learned, though on the ground +floor, stood raised on a basement above the garden behind. I +couldn't see the man's face, or any part of him, indeed, except his +stooping back, and his feet, and his neck, and his elbows. But what +little I saw was printed indelibly on the very fibre of my nature. I +could have recognised that man anywhere if I saw him in the same +attitude. I could have sworn to him in any court of justice on the +strength of his back alone, so vividly did I picture it. + +He was tall and thin, but he stooped like a hunchback. + +There were other points worth notice in that strange mental +photograph. The man was well-dressed, and had the bearing of a +gentleman. Looking back upon the scene long after, when I had +learned once more what words and things meant, I could feel +instinctively this was no common burglar, no vulgar murderer. +Whatever might have been the man's object in shooting my father, I +was certain from the very first it was not mere robbery. But at the +time, I'm confident, I never reasoned about his motives or his +actions in any way. I merely took in the scene, as it were, +passively, in a great access of horror, which rendered me incapable +of sense or thought or speech or motion. I saw the table, the box, +the apparatus by its side, the murdered man on the floor, the pistol +lying pointed with its muzzle towards his body, the pool of blood +that soaked deep into the Turkey carpet beneath, the ledge of the +window, the young man's rounded back as he paused and hesitated. And +I also saw, like an instantaneous flash, one hand pushed behind him, +waving me off, I almost thought, with the gesture of one warning. + +Why didn't I remember the murderer's face? That puzzled me long +after. I must have seen him before: I must surely have been there +when the crime was committed. I must have known at the moment +everything about it. But the blank that came over my memory, came +over it with the fatal shot. All that went before, was to me as +though it were not. I recollect vaguely, as the first point in my +life, that my eyes were shut hard, and darkness came over me. While +they were so shut, I heard an explosion. Next moment, I believe, I +opened them, and saw this Picture. No sensitive-plate could have +photographed it more instantaneously, as by an electric spark, than +did my retina that evening, as for months after I saw it all. In +another moment, I shut my lids again, and all was over. There was +darkness once more, and I was alone with my Horror. + +In years then to come, I puzzled my head much as to the meaning of +the Picture. Gradually, step by step, I worked some of it out, with +the aid of my friends, and of the evidence tendered at the coroner's +inquest. But for the moment I knew nothing of all that. I was a +newborn baby again. Only with this important difference. They say +our minds at birth are like a sheet of white paper, ready to take +whatever impressions may fall upon them. Mine was like a sheet all +covered and obscured by one hateful picture. It was weeks, I fancy, +before I knew or was conscious of anything else but that. The +Picture and a great Horror divided my life between them. + +Recollect, I didn't even remember the murdered man was my father. I +didn't recognise the room as one in our own old house at Woodbury. I +didn't know anything at all except what I tell you here. I saw the +corpse, the blood, the box on the table, the wires by the side, the +bottles and baths and plates of an amateur photographer's kit, +without knowing what they all meant. I saw even the books not as +books but as visible points of colour. It had something the effect +on me that it might have upon anyone else to be dropped suddenly on +the stage of a theatre at the very moment when a hideous crime was +being committed, and to believe it real, or rather, to know it by +some vague sense as hateful and actual. + +Here my history began. I date from that Picture. My second babyhood +was passed in the shadow of the abiding Horror. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN + + +Wha happened after is far more vague to me. Compared with the +vividness of that one initial Picture, the events of the next few +months have only the blurred indistinctness of all childish +memories. For I was a child once more, in all save stature, and had +to learn to remember things just like other children. + +I will try to tell the whole tale over again exactly as it then +struck me. + +After the Picture, I told you, I shut my eyes in alarm for a second. +When I opened them once more there was a noise, a very great noise, +and my recollection is that people had burst wildly into the room, +and were lifting the dead body, and bending over it in astonishment, +and speaking loud to me, and staring at me. I believe they broke the +door open, though that's rather inference than memory; I learnt it +afterwards. Soon some of them rushed to the open window and looked +out into the garden. Then, suddenly, a man gave a shout, and leaping +on to the sill, jumped down in pursuit, as I thought, of the +murderer. As time went on, more people flocked in; and some of them +looked at the body and the pool of blood; and some of them turned +round and spoke to me. But what they said or what they meant I +hadn't the slightest idea. The noise of the pistol-shot still rang +loud in my ears: the ineffable Horror still drowned all my senses. + +After a while, another man came in, with an air of authority, and +felt my pulse and my brow, and lifted me on to a sofa. But I didn't +even remember there was such a thing as a doctor. I lay there for a +while, quite dazed; and the man, who was kindly-looking and +close-shaven and fatherly, gave me something in a glass: after which +he turned round and examined the body. He looked hard at the +revolver, too, and chalked its place on the ground. Then I saw no +more, for two women lifted me in their arms and took me up to bed; +and with that, the first scene of my childhood seemed to end +entirely. + +I lay in bed for a day or two, during which time I was dimly aware +of much commotion going on here and there in the house; and the +doctor came night and morning, and tended me carefully. I suppose I +may call him the doctor now, though at the time I didn't call him +so--I knew him merely as a visible figure. I don't believe I THOUGHT +at all during those earliest days, or gave things names in any known +language. They rather passed before me dreamily in long procession, +like a vague panorama. When people spoke to me, it was like the +sound of a foreign tongue. I attached no more importance to anything +they said than to the cawing of the rooks in the trees by the +rectory. + +At the end of five days, the doctor came once more, and watched me a +great deal, and spoke in a low voice with a woman in a white cap and +a clean white apron who waited on me daily. As soon as he was gone, +my nurse, as I learned afterwards to call her,--it's so hard not to +drop into the language of everyday life when one has to describe +things to other people,--my nurse got me up, with much ado and +solemnity, and dressed me in a new black frock, very dismal and +ugly, and put on me a black hat, with a dreary-looking veil; and +took me downstairs, with the aid of a man who wore a suit of blue +clothes and a queer kind of helmet. The man was of the sort I now +call a policeman. These pictures are far less definite in my mind +than the one that begins my second life; but still, in a vague kind +of way, I pretty well remember them. + +On the ground floor, nurse made me walk; and I walked out to the +door, where a cab was in waiting, drawn slowly by a pair of horses. +People were looking on, on either side, between the door and the +cab--great crowds of people, peering eagerly forward; and two more +men in blue suits were holding them off by main force from surging +against me and incommoding me. I don't think they wanted to hurt me: +it was rather curiosity than anger I saw in their faces. But I was +afraid, and shrank back. They were eager to see me, however, and +pressed forward with loud cries, so that the men in blue suits had +hard work to prevent them. + +I know now there were two reasons why they wanted to see me. I was +the murdered man's daughter, and I was a Psychological Phenomenon. + +We drove away, through green lanes, in the cab, nurse and I; and in +spite of the Horror, which surrounded me always, and the Picture, +which recurred every time I shut my eyes to think, I enjoyed that +drive very much, with all the fresh vividness of childish pleasure. +Though I learnt later I was eighteen years old at least, I was in my +inner self just like a baby of ten months, going ta-ta. At the end +of the drive, we drew up sharp at a house, where some more men stood +about, with red bands on their caps, and took boxes from the cab and +put them into a van, while nurse and I got into a different +carriage, drawn quickly by a thing that went puff-puff, puff-puff. I +didn't know it was a railway, and yet in a way I did. I half forgot, +half remembered it. Things that I'd seen in my previous state seemed +to come back to me, in fact, as soon as I saw them; or at least to +be more familiar to me than things I'd never seen before. Especially +afterwards. But while things were remembered, persons, I found +by-and-by, were completely forgotten. Or rather, while I remembered +after a while generalities, such as houses and men, recognising them +in the abstract as a house, or a man, or a horse, or a baby, I +forgot entirely particulars, such as the names of people and the +places I had lived in. Words soon came back to me: names and facts +were lost: I knew the world as a whole, not my own old part in it. + +Well, not to make my story too long in these early childish stages, +we went on the train, as it seemed to me, a long way across fields +to Aunt Emma's. I didn't know she was Aunt Emma then for, indeed, I +had never seen her before; but I remember arriving there at her +pretty little cottage, and seeing a sweet old lady--barely sixty, I +should say, but with smooth white hair,--who stood on the steps of +the house and cried like a child, and held out her hands to me, and +hugged me and kissed me. And it was there that I learned my first +word. A great many times over, she spoke about "Una." She said it so +often, I caught vaguely at the sound. And nurse, when she answered +her, said "Una" also. Then, when Aunt Emma called me, she always +said "Una." So it came to me dimly that Una meant ME. But I didn't +exactly recollect it had been my name before, though I learned in +due time afterwards that I'd always been called so. However, just at +first, I picked up the word as a child might pick it up; and when, +some months later, I began to talk easily, I spoke of myself always +in the third person as Una. I can remember with a smile now how I +went one day to Aunt Emma--I, a great girl of eighteen--and held up +my skirt, that I'd muddied in the street, and said to her, with +great gravity: + +"Una naughty girl: Una got her frock wet. Aunt Emma going to scold +poor Una for being so naughty!" + +Not that I often smiled, in those days; for, in spite of Aunt Emma's +kindness, my second girlhood, like my first, was a very unhappy one. +The Horror and the Picture pursued me too close. It was months and +months before I could get rid for a moment of that persistent +nightmare. And yet I had everything else on earth to make me happy. +Aunt Emma lived in a pretty east-coast town, with high bracken-clad +downs, and breezy common beyond; while in front stretched great +sands, where I loved to race about and to play cricket and tennis. +It was the loveliest town that ever you saw in your life, with a +broken chancel to the grand old church, and a lighthouse on a hill, +with delicious views to seaward. The doctor had sent me there (I +know now) as soon as I was well enough to move, in order to get me +away from the terrible associations of The Grange at Woodbury. As +long as I lived in the midst of scenes which would remind me of poor +father, he said, and of his tragical death, there was no hope of my +recovery. The only chance for me to regain what I had lost in that +moment of shock was complete change of air, of life, of +surroundings. Aunt Emma, for her part, was only too glad to take me +in: and as poor papa had died intestate, Aunt Emma was now, of +course, my legal guardian. + +She was my mother's sister, I learned as time went on; and there had +been feud while he lived between her and my father. Why, I couldn't +imagine. She was the sweetest old soul I ever knew, indeed, and what +on earth he could have quarrelled with her about I never could +fathom. She tended me so carefully that as months went by, the +Horror began to decrease and my soul to become calm again. I grew +gradually able to remain in a room alone for a few minutes at a +time, and to sleep at night in a bed by myself, if only there was a +candle, and nurse was in another bed in the same room close by me. + +Yet every now and again a fresh shivering fit came on. At such times +I would cover my head with the bedclothes and cower, and see the +Picture even so floating visibly in mid-air like a vision before me. + +My second education must have been almost as much of a business as +my first had been, only rather less longsome. I had first to relearn +the English language, which came back to me by degrees, much +quicker, of course, than I had picked it up in my childhood. Then I +had to begin again with reading, writing, and arithmetic--all new +to me in a way, and all old in another. Whatever I learned and +whatever I read seemed novel while I learned it, but familiar the +moment I had thoroughly grasped it. To put it shortly, I could +remember nothing of myself, but I could recall many things, after a +time, as soon as they were told me clearly. The process was rather a +process of reminding than of teaching, properly so called. But it +took some years for me to recall things, even when I was reminded of +them. + +I spent four years at Aunt Emma's, growing gradually to my own age +again. At the end of that time I was counted a girl of twenty-two, +much like any other. But I was older than my age; and the shadow of +the Horror pursued me incessantly. + +All that time I knew, too, from what I heard said in the house that +my father's murderer had never been caught, and that nobody even +knew who he was, or anything definite about him. The police gave him +up as an uncaught criminal. He was still at large, and might always +be so. I knew this from vague hints and from vague hints alone; for +whenever I tried to ask, I was hushed up at once with an air of +authority. + +"Una, dearest," Aunt Emma would say, in her quiet fashion, "you +mustn't talk about that night. I have Dr. Wade's strict orders that +nothing must be said to you about it, and above all nothing that +could in any way excite or arouse you." + +So I was fain to keep my peace; for though Aunt Emma was kind, she +ruled me still in all things like a little girl, as I was when I +came to her. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR + + +One morning, after I'd been four whole years at Aunt Emma's, I heard +a ring at the bell, and, looking over the stairs, saw a tall and +handsome man in a semi-military coat, who asked in a most audible +voice for Miss Callingham. + +Maria, the housemaid, hesitated a moment. + +"Miss Callingham's in, sir," she answered in a somewhat dubious +tone; "but I don't know whether I ought to let you see her or not. +My mistress is out; and I've strict orders that no strangers are to +call on Miss Callingham when her aunt's not here." + +And she held the door ajar in her hand undecidedly. + +The tall man smiled, and seemed to me to slip a coin quietly into +Maria's palm. + +"So much the better," he answered, with unobtrusive persistence; "I +thought Miss Moore was out. That's just why I've come. I'm an officer +from Scotland Yard, and I want to see Miss Callingham--alone--most +particularly." + +Maria drew herself up and paused. + +My heart stood still within me at this chance of enlightenment. I +guessed what he meant; so I called over the stairs to her, in a +tremor of excitement: + +"Show the gentleman into the drawing-room, Maria. I 'll come down to +him at once." + +For I was dying to know the explanation of the Picture that haunted +me so persistently; and as nobody at home would ever tell me +anything worth knowing about it, I thought this was as good an +opportunity as I could get for making a beginning towards the +solution of the mystery. + +Well, I ran into my own room as quick as quick could be, and set my +front hair straight, and slipped on a hat and jacket (for I was in +my morning dress), and then went down to the drawing-room to see the +Inspector. + +He rose as I entered. He was a gentleman, I felt at once. His manner +was as deferential, as kind, and as considerate to my sensitiveness, +as anything it's possible for you to imagine in anyone. + +"I'm sorry to have to trouble you, Miss Callingham," he said, with a +very gentle smile; "but I daresay you can understand yourself the +object of my visit. I could have wished to come in a more authorised +way; but I've been in correspondence with Miss Moore for some time +past as to the desirability of reopening the inquiry with regard to +your father's unfortunate death; and I thought the time might now +have arrived when it would be possible to put a few questions to you +personally upon that unhappy subject. Miss Moore objected to my +plan. She thought it would still perhaps be prejudicial to your +health--a point in which Dr. Wade, I must say, entirely agrees with +her. Nevertheless, in the interests of Justice, as the murderer is +still at large, I've ventured to ask you for this interview; because +what I read in the newspapers about the state of your health--." + +I interrupted him, astonished. + +"What you read in the newspapers about the state of my health!" I +repeated, thunderstruck. "Why, surely they don't put the state of MY +health in the newspapers!" + +For I didn't know then I was a Psychological Phenomenon. + +The Inspector smiled blandly, and pulling out his pocket-book, +selected a cutting from a pile that apparently all referred to me. + +"You're mistaken," he said, briefly. "The newspapers, on the +contrary, have treated your case at great length. See, here's the +latest report. That's clipped from last Wednesday's Telegraph." + +I remembered then that a paragraph of just that size had been +carefully cut out of Wednesday's paper before I was allowed by Aunt +Emma to read it. Aunt Emma always glanced over the paper first, +indeed, and often cut out such offending paragraphs. But I never +attached much importance to their absence before, because I thought +it was merely a little fussy result of auntie's good old English +sense of maidenly modesty. I supposed she merely meant to spare my +blushes. I knew girls were often prevented on particular days from +reading the papers. + +But now I seized the paragraph he handed me, and read it with deep +interest. It was the very first time I had seen my own name in a +printed newspaper. I didn't know then how often it had figured +there. + +The paragraph was headed, "THE WOODBURY MURDER," and it ran +something like this, as well as I can remember it: + +"There are still hopes that the miscreant who shot Mr. Vivian +Callingham at The Grange, at Woodbury, some four years since, may be +tracked down and punished at last for his cowardly crime. It will be +fresh in everyone's memory, as one of the most romantic episodes in +that extraordinary tragedy, that at the precise moment of her +father's death, Miss Callingham, who was present in the room during +the attack, and who alone might have been a witness capable of +recognising or describing the wretched assailant, lost her reason on +the spot, owing to the appalling shock to her nervous system, and +remained for some months in an imbecile condition. Gradually, as we +have informed our readers from time to time, Miss Callingham's +intellect has become stronger and stronger; and though she is still +totally unable to remember spontaneously any events that occurred +before her father's death, it is hoped it may be possible, by +describing vividly certain trains of previous incidents, to recall +them in some small degree to her imperfect memory. Dr. Thornton, of +Welbeck Street, who has visited her from time to time on behalf of +the Treasury, in conjunction with Dr. Wade, her own medical +attendant, went down to Barton-on-the-Sea on Monday, and once more +examined Miss Callingham's intellect. Though the Doctor is +judiciously reticent as to the result of his visit, it is generally +believed at Barton that he thinks the young lady sufficiently +recovered to undergo a regular interrogatory; and in spite of the +fact that Dr. Wade is opposed to any such proceeding at present, as +prejudicial to the lady's health, it is not unlikely that the +Treasury may act upon their own medical official's opinion, and send +down an Inspector from Scotland Yard to make inquiries direct on the +subject from Miss Callingham in person." + +My head swam round. It was all like a dream to me. I held my +forehead with my hands, and gazed blankly at the Inspector. + +"You understand what all this means?" he said interrogatively, +leaning forward as he spoke. "You remember the murder?" + +"Perfectly," I answered him, trembling all over. "I remember every +detail of it. I could describe you exactly all the objects in the +room. The Picture it left behind has burned itself into my brain +like a flash of lightning!" + +The Inspector drew his chair nearer. "Now, Miss Callingham," he said +in a very serious voice, "that's a remarkable expression--like a +flash of lightning.' Bear in mind, this is a matter of life and +death to somebody somewhere. Somebody's neck may depend upon your +answers. Will you tell me exactly how much you remember?" + +I told him in a few words precisely how the scene had imprinted +itself on my memory. I recalled the room, the box, the green wires, +the carpet; the man who lay dead in his blood on the floor; the man +who stood poised ready to leap from the window. He let me go on +unchecked till I'd finished everything I had to say spontaneously. +Then he took a photograph from his pocket, which he didn't show me. +Looking at it attentively, he asked me questions, one by one, about +the different things in the room at the time in very minute detail: +Where exactly was the box? How did it stand relatively to the +unlighted lamp? What was the position of the pistol on the floor? In +which direction was my father's head lying? Though it brought back +the Horror to me in a fuller and more terrible form than ever, I +answered all his questions to the very best of my ability. I could +picture the whole scene like a photograph to myself; and I didn't +doubt the object he held in his hand was a photograph of the room as +it appeared after the murder. He checked my statements, one by one +as I went on, by reference to the photograph, murmuring half to +himself now and again: "Yes, yes, exactly so"; "That's right"; "That +was so," at each item I mentioned. + +At the end of these inquiries, he paused and looked hard at me. + +"Now, Miss Callingham," he said again, peering deep into my eyes, "I +want you to concentrate your mind very much, not on this Picture you +carry so vividly in your own brain, but on the events that went +immediately before and after it. Pause long and think. Try hard to +remember. And first, you say there was a great flash of light. Now, +answer me this: was it one flash alone, or had there been several?" + +I stopped and racked my brain. Blank, blank, as usual. + +"I can't remember," I faltered out, longing terribly to cry. "I can +recall just that one scene, and nothing else in the world before +it." + +He looked at me fixedly, jotting down a few words in his note-book +as he looked. Then he spoke again, still more slowly: + +"Now, try once more," he said, with an encouraging air. "You saw +this man's back as he was getting out of the window. But can't you +remember having seen his face before? Had he a beard? a moustache? +what eyes? what nose? Did you see the shot fired? And if so, what +sort of person was the man who fired it?" + +Again I searched the pigeon-holes of my memory in vain, as I had +done a hundred times before by myself. + +"It's no use," I cried helplessly, letting my hands drop by my side. +"I can't remember a thing, except the Picture. I don't know whether +I saw the shot fired or not. I don't know what the murderer looked +like in the face. I've told you all I know. I can recall nothing +else. It's all a great blank to me." + +The Inspector hesitated a moment, as if in doubt what step to take +next. Then he drew himself up and said, still more gravely: + +"This inability to assist us is really very singular. I had hoped, +after Dr. Thornton's report, that we might at last count with some +certainty upon arriving at fresh results as to the actual murder. I +can see from what you tell me you're a young lady of +intelligence--much above the average--and great strength of mind. +It's curious your memory should fail you so pointedly just where we +stand most in need of its aid. Recollect, nobody else but you ever +saw the murderer's face. Now, I'm going to presume you're answering +me honestly, and try a bold means to arouse your dormant memory. +Look hard, and hark back.--Is that the room you recollect? Is that +the picture that still haunts and pursues you?" + +He handed me the photograph he held in his fingers. I took it, all +on fire. The sight almost made me turn sick with horror. To my awe +and amazement, it was indeed the very scene I remembered so well. +Only, of course, it was taken from another point of view, and +represented things in rather different relative positions to those I +figured them in. But it showed my father's body lying dead upon the +floor; it showed his poor corpse weltering helpless in its blood; it +showed myself, as a girl of eighteen, standing awestruck, gazing on +in blank horror at the sight; and in the background, half blurred by +the summer evening light, it showed the vague outline of a man's +back, getting out of the window. On one side was the door: that +formed no part of my mental picture, because it was at my back; but +in the photograph it too was indistinct, as if in the very act of +being burst open. The details were vague, in part--probably the +picture had never been properly focussed;--but the main figures +stood out with perfect clearness, and everything in the room was, +allowing for the changed point of view, exactly as I remembered it +in my persistent mental photograph. + +I drew a deep breath. + +"That's my Picture," I said, slowly. "But it recalls to me nothing +new. I--I don't understand it." + +The Inspector stared at me hard once more. + +"Do you know," he asked, "how that photograph was produced, and how +it came into our possession?" + +I trembled violently. + +"No, I don't," I answered, reddening. "But--I think it had something +to do with the flash like lightning." + +The Inspector jumped at those words like a cat upon a mouse. + +"Quite right," he cried briskly, as one who at last, after long +search, finds a hopeful clue where all seemed hopeless. "It had to +do with the flash. The flash produced it. This is a photograph taken +by your father's process.... Of course you recollect your father's +process?" + +He eyed me close. The words, as he spoke them, seemed to call up +dimly some faint memory of my pre-natal days--of my First State, as +I had learned from the doctors to call it. But his scrutiny made me +shrink. I shut my eyes and looked back. + +"I think," I said slowly, rummaging my memory half in vain, "I +remember something about it. It had something to do with +photography, hadn't it?...No, no, with the electric light....I +can't exactly remember which. Will you tell me all about it?" + +He leaned back in his chair, and, eyeing me all the time with that +same watchful glance, began to describe to me in some detail an +apparatus which he said my father had devised, for taking +instantaneous photographs by the electric light, with a clockwork +mechanism. It was an apparatus that let sensitive-plates revolve one +after another opposite the lens of a camera; and as each was +exposed, the clockwork that moved it produced an electric spark, so +as to represent such a series of effects as the successive positions +of a horse in trotting. My father, it seemed, was of a scientific +turn, and had just perfected this new automatic machine before his +sudden death. I listened with breathless interest; for up to that +time I had never been allowed to hear anything about my +father--anything about the great tragedy with which my second life +began. It was wonderful to me even now to be allowed to speak and +ask questions on it with anybody. So hedged about had I been all my +days with mystery. + +As I listened, I saw the Inspector could tell by the answering flash +in my eye that his words recalled SOMETHING to me, however vaguely. +As he finished, I leant forward, and with a very flushed face, that +I could feel myself, I cried, in a burst of recollection: + +"Yes, yes. I remember. And the box on the table--the box that's in +my mental picture, and is not in the photograph--THAT was the +apparatus you've just been describing." + +The Inspector turned upon me with a rapidity that fairly took my +breath away. + +"Well, where are the other ones?" he asked, pouncing down upon me +quite fiercely. + +"The other WHAT?" I repeated, amazed; for I didn't really understand +him. + +"Why, the other photographs!" he replied, as if trying to surprise +me. "There must have been more, you know. It held six plates. Except +for this one, the apparatus, when we found it, was empty." + +His manner seemed to crush out the faint spark of recollection that +just flickered within me. I collapsed at once. I couldn't stand such +brusqueness. + +"I don't know what you mean," I answered in despair. "I never saw +the plates. I know nothing about them." + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS + + +The Inspector scanned me close for a few minutes in silence. He +seemed doubtful, suspicious. At last he made a new move. "I believe +you, Miss Callingham," he said, more gently. "I can see this train +of thought distresses you too much. But I can see, too, our best +chance lies in supplying you with independent clues which you may +work out for yourself. You must re-educate your memory. You want to +know all about this murder, of course. Well, now, look over these +papers. They'll tell you in brief what little we know about it. And +they may succeed in striking afresh some resonant chord in your +memory." + +He handed me a book of pasted newspaper paragraphs, interspersed +here and there in red ink with little manuscript notes and comments. +I began to read it with profound interest. It was so strange for me +thus to learn for the first time the history of my own life; for I +was quite ignorant as yet of almost everything about my First State, +and my father and mother. + +The paragraphs told me the whole story of the crime, as far as it +was known to the world, from the very beginning. First of all, in +the papers, came the bald announcement that a murder had been +committed in a country town in Staffordshire; and that the victim +was Mr. Vivian Callingham, a gentleman of means, residing in his own +house, The Grange, at Woodbury. Mr. Callingham was the inventor of +the acmegraphic process. The servants, said the telegram to the +London papers, had heard the sound of a pistol-shot, about half-past +eight at night, coming from the direction of Mr. Callingham's +library. Aroused by the report, they rushed hastily to the spot, and +broke open the door, which was locked from within. As they did so, a +horrible sight met their astonished eyes. Mr. Callingham's dead body +lay extended on the ground, shot right through the heart, and +weltering in its life-blood. Miss Callingham stood by his side, +transfixed with horror, and mute in her agony. On the floor lay the +pistol that had fired the fatal shot. And just as the servants +entered, for one second of time, the murderer who was otherwise +wholly unknown, was seen to leap from the window into the shrubbery +below. The gardener rushed after him, and jumped down at the same +spot. But the murderer had disappeared as if by magic. It was +conjectured he must have darted down the road at full speed, vaulted +the gate, which was usually locked, and made off at a rapid run for +the open country. Up to date of going to press, the Telegraph said, +he was still at large and had not been apprehended. + +That was the earliest account--bald, simple, unvarnished. Then came +mysterious messages from the Central Press about the absence of any +clue to identify the stranger. He hadn't entered the house by any +regular way, it seemed; unless, indeed, Mr. Callingham had brought +him home himself and let him in with the latchkey. None of the +servants had opened the door that evening to any suspicious +character; not a soul had they seen, nor did any of them know a man +was with their master in the library. They heard voices, to be +sure--voices, loud at times and angry,--but they supposed it was Mr. +Callingham talking with his daughter. Till roused by the fatal +pistol-shot, the gardener said, they had no cause for alarm. Even +the footmarks the stranger might have left as he leaped from the +window were obliterated by the prints of the gardener's boots as he +jumped hastily after him. The only person who could cast any light +upon the mystery at all was clearly Miss Callingham, who was in the +room at the moment. But Miss Callingham's mind was completely +unhinged for the present by the nervous shock she had received as +her father fell dead before her. They must wait a few days till she +recovered consciousness, and then they might confidently hope that +the murderer would be identified, or at least so described that the +police could track him. + +After that, I read the report of the coroner's inquest. The facts +there elicited added nothing very new to the general view of the +case. Only, the servants remarked on examination, there was a +strange smell of chemicals in the room when they entered; and the +doctors seemed to suggest that the smell might be that of +chloroform, mixed with another very powerful drug known to affect +the memory. Miss Callingham's present state, they thought, might +thus perhaps in part be accounted for. + +You can't imagine how curious it was for me to see myself thus +impersonally discussed at such a distance of time, or to learn so +long after that for ten days or more I had been the central object +of interest to all reading England. My name was bandied about +without the slightest reserve. I trembled to see how cavalierly the +press had treated me. + +As I went on, I began to learn more and more about my father. He had +made money in Australia, it was said, and had come to live at +Woodbury some fourteen years earlier, where my mother had died when +I was a child of four; and some accounts said she was a widow of +fortune. My father had been interested in chemistry and photography, +it seemed, and had lately completed a new invention, the acmegraph, +for taking successive photographs at measured intervals of so many +seconds by electric light. He was a grave, stern man, the papers +said, more feared than loved by his servants and neighbours; but +nobody about was known to have a personal grudge against him. On the +contrary, he lived at peace with all men. The motive for the murder +remained to the end a complete mystery. + +On the second morning of the inquest, however, a curious thing +happened. The police, it appeared, had sealed up the room where the +murder took place, and allowed nobody to enter it till the inquiry +was over. But after the jury came round to view the room, the +policeman in charge found the window at the back of the house had +been recently opened, and the box with the photographic apparatus +had been stolen from the library. Till that moment nobody had +attached any importance to the presence of this camera. It hadn't +even been opened and examined by the police, who had carefully noted +everything else in the library. But as soon as the box was missed +strange questions began to be asked and conjecturally answered. The +police for the first time then observed that though it was half-past +eight at night when the murder occurred, and the lamp was not +lighted, the witnesses who burst first into the room described all +they saw as if they had seen it clearly. They spoke of things as +they would be seen in a very bright light, with absolute +definiteness. This set up inquiry, and the result of the inquiry was +to bring out the fact, which in the excitement of the moment had +escaped the notice of all the servants, that as they entered the +room and stared about at the murder, the electric flash of the +apparatus was actually in operation. But the scene itself had +diverted their attention from the minor matter of the light that +showed it. + +The Inspector had been watching me narrowly as I read these +extracts. When I reached that point, he broke in with a word of +explanation. + +"Well, that put me on the track, you see," he said, leaning forward +once more. "I thought to myself, if the light was acting, then the +whole apparatus must necessarily have been at work, and the scene as +it took place must have been photographed, act by act and step by +step, exactly as it happened. At the time the murderer, whoever he +was, can't have known the meaning of the flashes. But later, he must +have come to learn in some way what the electric light meant, and +must have realised, sooner than we did, that therein the box, in the +form of six successive negatives of the stages in the crime, was the +evidence that would infallibly convict him of this murder." He +stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "And to think, too," he went on +with a somewhat sheepish air, "we should have had those photographs +there in our power all those days and nights, and have let them in +the end slip like that through our fingers! To think he should have +found it out sooner than we! To think that an amateur like the +murderer should have outwitted us!" + +"But how do you know," I cried, "there was ever more than one +photograph? How do you know this wasn't the only negative?" + +"Because," the Inspector answered quickly, pointing to a figure in +the corner of the proof, "do you see that six? Well, that tells the +tale. Each plate of the series was numbered so in the apparatus. +Number six could only fall into focus after numbers one, and two, +and three, and four, and five, had first been photographed. We've +only got the last--and least useful for our purpose. There must have +been five earlier ones, showing every stage of the crime, if only +we'd known it." + +I was worked up now to a strange pitch of excitement. + +"And how did this one come into your possession?" I asked, all +breathless. "If you managed to lay your hands on one, why not on all +six of them?" + +The Inspector drew a long breath. + +"Ah, that's the trouble!" he replied, still gazing at me hard. "You +see, it was this way. As soon as we found the camera was missing, we +came to the conclusion the murderer must have returned to The Grange +to fetch it. But it was a large and heavy box, and the only one of +its kind as yet manufactured; so, to carry it away in his hands +would no doubt have led to instant detection. I concluded, +therefore, the man would take off the box entire, so as to prevent +the danger of removing the plates on the spot; and as soon as he +reached a place of safety in the shrubbery, he'd fling away the +camera, either destroying the incriminating negatives then and there +or carrying them off with him. The details of the invention had +already been explained to me by your father's instrument-maker, who +set up the clockwork for him from his own designs; and I knew that +the removal of the plates from the box was a delicate, and to some +extent a difficult, operation. So I felt sure they could only have +been taken out in a place of comparative safety, not far from the +house; and I searched the shrubbery carefully, to find the camera." + +"And you found it at last?" I asked, unable to restrain my +agitation. + +"I found it at last," he answered, "near the far end of the grounds, +just flung into the deep grass, behind a clump of lilacs. The camera +was there intact, but five plates were missing. The sixth, from +which the positive you hold in your hand was taken, had got jammed +in the mechanism in the effort to remove it. Evidently the murderer +had tried to take out the plates in a very great hurry and with +trembling hands, as was not unnatural. He had succeeded with five, +when the sixth stuck fast in the groove of the clockwork. Just at +that moment, as we judged, either an alarm was raised in the rear, +or some panic fear seized on him. Probably the fellow judged right +that the most incriminating pictures of all had by that time been +removed, and that the last would only show his back, if it included +him at all, or if he came into focus. Perhaps he had even been able +unconsciously to count the flashes at the moment, and knew that +before the sixth flash arrived he was on the ledge of the window. At +any rate, he clearly gave up the attempt to remove the sixth, and +flung the whole apparatus away from him in a sudden access of +horror. We guessed as much both from the appearance of the spot +where the grass was trampled down, and the way the angle of the +camera was imbedded forcibly in the soft ground of the shrubbery." + +"And he got away with the rest!" I exclaimed, following it up like a +story, but a story in which I was myself an unconscious character. + +"No doubt," the Inspector answered, stroking his chin regretfully. +"And what's most annoying of all, we've every reason to suppose the +fellow stole the things only a few minutes before we actually missed +them. For we saw grounds for supposing he jumped away from the spot, +and climbed over the wall at the back, cutting his hands as he went +with the bottle-glass on the top to prevent intruders. And what +makes us think only a very short time must have elapsed between the +removal of the plates and the moment we came upon his tracks is +this--the blood from his cut hands was still fresh and wet upon the +wall when we found it." + +"Then you only just missed him!" I exclaimed. "He got off by the +skin of his teeth. It's wonderful, when you were so near, you +shouldn't have managed to overtake him! One would have thought you +must have been able to track him to earth somehow!" + +"One would have thought so," the Inspector answered, rather +crestfallen. "But policemen, after all, are human like the rest of +us. We missed the one chance that might have led to an arrest. And +now, what I want to ask you once more is this: Reflecting over what +you've heard and read to-day, do you think you can recollect--a +very small matter--whether or not there were SEVERAL distinct +flashes?" + +I shut my eyes once more, and looked hard into the past. Slowly, as +I looked, a sort of dream seemed to come over me. I saw it vaguely +now, or thought I saw it. Flash, flash, flash, flash. Then the sound +of the pistol. Then the Picture, and the Horror, and the awful +blank. I opened my eyes again, and told the Inspector so. + +"And once more," he went on, in a very insinuating voice. "Shut your +eyes again, and look back upon that day. Can't you remember whether +or not, just a moment before, you saw the murderer's face by the +light of the flashes?" + +I shut my eyes and thought. Again the flashes seemed to stand out +clear and distinct. But no detail supervened--no face came back to +me. I felt it was useless. + +"Impossible!" I said shortly. "It only makes my head swim. I can +remember no further." + +"I see," the Inspector answered. "It's just as Dr. Wade said. +Suggest a fact in your past history, and you may possibly remember +it; but ask you to recall anything not suggested or already known, +and all seems a mere blank to you! You haven't the faintest idea, +then, who the murderer was or what he looked like?" + +I rose up before him solemnly, and stared him full in the face. I +was wrought up by that time to a perfect pitch of excitement and +interest. + +"I haven't the faintest idea," I answered, feeling myself a woman at +last, and realising my freedom; "I know and remember no more of it +than you do. But from this moment forth, I shall not rest until I've +found him out and tracked him down, and punished him. I shall never +let my head rest in peace on my pillow until I've discovered my +father's murderer!" + +"That's well," the Inspector said sharply, shutting his notes up to +go. "If you persevere in that mind, and do as you say, we shall soon +get to the bottom of the Woodbury Mystery!" + +And even as he spoke a key turned in the front door. I knew it was +Aunt Emma, come in from her marketing. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +I BECOME A WOMAN + + +Aunt Emma burst into the room, all horror and astonishment. She +looked at the Inspector for a few seconds in breathless indignation; +then she broke out in a tone of fiery remonstrance which fairly +surprised me: + +"What do you mean by this intrusion, sir? How dare you force your +way into my house in my absence? How dare you encourage my servants +to disobey my orders? How dare you imperil this young lady's health +by coming here to talk with her?" + +She turned round to me anxiously. I suppose I was very flushed with +excitement and surprise. + +"My darling child," she cried, growing pale all at once, "Maria +should never have allowed him to come inside the door! You should +have stopped upstairs! You should have refused to see him! I shall +have you ill again on my hands, as before, after this. He'll have +undone all the good the last four years have done for you!" + +But I was another woman now. I felt it in a moment. + +"Auntie dearest," I answered, moving across to her, and laying my +hand on her shoulder to soothe her poor ruffled nerves, "don't be +the least alarmed. It's I who'm to blame, and not Maria. I told her +to let this gentleman in. He's done me good, not harm. I'm so glad +to have been allowed at last to speak freely about it!" + +Aunt Emma shook all over, visibly to the naked eye. + +"You'll have a relapse, my child!" she exclaimed, half crying, and +clinging to me in her terror. "You'll forget all you've learned: +you'll go back these four years again!--Leave my house at once, sir! +You should never have entered it!" + +I stood between them like a statue. + +"No, stop here a little longer," I said, waving my hand towards him +imperiously. "I haven't yet heard all it's right for me to hear.... +Auntie, you mistake. I'm a woman at last. I see what everything +means. I'm beginning to remember again. For four years that hateful +Picture has haunted me night and day. I could never shut my eyes for +a minute without seeing it. I've longed to know what it all meant; +but whenever I've asked, I've been repressed like a baby. I'm a baby +no longer: I feel myself a woman. What the Inspector here has told +me already, half opens my eyes: I must have them opened altogether +now. I can't stop at this point. I'm going back to Woodbury." + +Aunt Emma clung to me still harder in a perfect agony of passionate +terror. + +"To Woodbury, my darling!" she cried. "Going back! Oh, Una, it'll +kill you!" + +"I think not," the Inspector answered, with a very quiet smile. +"Miss Callingham has recovered, I venture to say, far more +profoundly than you imagine. This repression, our medical adviser +tells us, has been bad for her. If she's allowed to visit freely the +places connected with her earlier life, it may all return again to +her; and the ends of Justice may thus at last be served for us. I +notice already one hopeful symptom: Miss Callingham speaks of going +back to Woodbury." + +Aunt Emma looked up at him, horrified. All her firmness was gone +now. + +"It's YOU who've put this into her head!" she exclaimed, in a +ferment of horror. "She'd never thought of it herself. You've made +her do it!" + +"On the contrary, auntie," I answered, feeling my ground grow surer +under me every moment as I spoke, "this gentleman has never even by +the merest hint suggested such an idea to my mind. It occurred to me +quite spontaneously. I MUST find out now who was my father's +murderer! All the Inspector has told me seems to arouse in my brain +some vague, forgotten chords. It brings back to me faint shadows. I +feel sure if I went to Woodbury I should remember much more. And +then, you must see for yourself, there's another reason, dear, that +ought to make me go. Nobody but I ever saw the murderer's face. It's +a duty imposed upon me from without, as it were, never to rest again +in peace till I've recognised him." + +Aunt Emma collapsed into an easy-chair. Her face was deadly pale. +Her ringers trembled. + +"If you go, Una," she cried, playing nervously with her gloves, "I +must go with you too! I must take care of you: I must watch over +you!" + +I took her quivering hand in mine and stroked it gently. It was a +soft and delicate white little hand, all marked inside with curious +ragged scars that I'd known and observed ever since I first knew +her. I held it in silence for a minute. Somehow I felt our positions +were reversed to-day. This interview had suddenly brought out what I +know now to be my own natural and inherent character--self-reliant, +active, abounding in initiative. For four years I had been as a +child in her hands, through mere force of circumstances. My true +self came out now and asserted its supremacy. + +"No, dear," I said, soothing her cheek; "I shall go alone. I shall +try what I can discover and remember myself without any suggestion +or explanation from others. I want to find out how things really +stand. I shall set to work on my own account to unravel this +mystery." + +"But how can you manage things by yourself?" Aunt Emma exclaimed, +wringing her hands despondently. "A girl of your age! without even a +maid! and all alone in the world! I shall be afraid to let you go. +Dr. Wade won't allow it." + +I drew myself up very straight, and realised the position. + +"Aunt Emma," I said plainly, in a decided voice, "I'm a full-grown +woman, over twenty-one years of age, mistress of my own acts, and no +longer a ward of yours. I can do as I like, and neither Dr. Wade nor +anybody else can prevent me. He may ADVICE me not to go: he has no +power to ORDER me. I'm my father's heiress, and a person of +independent means. I've been a cipher too long. From to-day I take +my affairs wholly into my own hands. I 'll go round at once and see +your lawyer, your banker, your agent, your tradesmen, and tell them +that henceforth I draw my own rents, I receive my own dividends, I +pay my own bills, I keep my own banking account. And to-morrow or +the next day I set out for Woodbury." + +The Inspector turned to Aunt Emma with a demonstrative smile. + +"There, you see for yourself," he said, well pleased, "what this +interview has done for her!" + +But Aunt Emma only drew back, wrung her hands again in impotent +despair, and stared at him blankly like a wounded creature. + +The Inspector took up his hat to leave. I followed him out to the +door, and shook hands with him cordially. The burden felt lighter on +my shoulders already. For four long years that mystery had haunted +me day and night, as a thing impenetrable, incomprehensible, not +even to be inquired about. The mere sense that I might now begin to +ask what it meant seemed to make it immediately less awful and less +burdensome to me. + +When I returned to the drawing-room, Aunt Emma sat there on the +sofa, crying silently, the very picture of misery. + +"Una," she said, without even raising her eyes to mine, "the man may +have done as he says: he may have restored you your mind again; but +what's that to me? He's lost me my child, my darling, my daughter!" + +I stooped down and kissed her. Dear, tender-hearted auntie! she had +always been very good to me. But I knew I was right, for all that, +in becoming a woman,--in asserting my years, my independence, my +freedom, my duty. To have shirked it any longer would have been +sheer cowardice. So I just kissed her silently, and went up to my +own room--to put on my brown hat, and go out to the banker's. + +From that moment forth, one fierce desire in life alone possessed +me. The brooding mystery that enveloped my life ceased to be +passive, and became an active goad, as it were, to push me forward +incessantly on my search for the runaway I was the creature of a +fixed idea. A fiery energy spurred me on all my time. I was +determined now to find out my father's murderer. I was determined to +shake off the atmosphere of doubt and forgetfulness. I was +determined to recall those first scenes of my life that so eluded my +memory. + +Yet, strange to say, it was rather a burning curiosity and a deep +sense of duty that urged me on, than anything I could properly call +affection--still less, revenge or malice. I didn't remember my +father as alive at all: the one thing I could recollect about him +was the ghastly look of that dead body, stretched at full length on +the library floor, with its white beard all dabbled in the red blood +that clotted it. It was abstract zeal for the discovery of the truth +that alone pushed me on. This search became to me henceforth an end +and aim in itself. It stood out, as it were, visibly in the +imperative mood: "go here;" "go there;" "do this;" "try that;" +"leave no stone unturned anywhere till you've tracked down the +murderer!" Those were the voices that now incessantly though +inaudibly pursued me. + +Next day I spent in preparations for my departure. I would hunt up +Woodbury now, though fifty Aunt Emma's held their gentle old faces +up in solemn warning against me. The day after that again, I set out +on my task. The pull was hard. I had taken my own affairs entirely +into my own hands by that time, and had provided myself with money +for a long stay at Woodbury. But it was the very first railway +journey I could ever remember to have made alone; and I confess, +when I found myself seated all by myself in a first-class carriage, +with no friend beside me, my resolution for a moment almost broke +down again. It was so terrible to feel oneself boxed up there for an +hour or two alone, with that awful Picture staring one in the face +all the time from every fence and field and wall and hoarding. It +obliterated Fry's Cocoa; it fixed itself on the yellow face of +Colman's Mustard. + +I went by Liverpool Street, and drove across to Paddington. I had +never, to my knowledge, been in London before: and it was all so new +to me. But Liverpool Street was even newer to me than Paddington, I +noticed. A faint sense of familiarity seemed to hang about the Great +Western line. And that was not surprising, I thought, as I turned it +over; for, of course, in the old days, when we lived at Woodbury, I +must often have come down from town that way with my father. Yet I +remembered nothing of it all definitely; the most I could say was +that I seemed dimly to recollect having been there before--though +when or where or how, I hadn't the faintest notion. + +I was early at Paddington. The refreshment room somehow failed to +attract me. I walked up and down the platform, waiting for my train. +As I did so, a boy pasted a poster on a board: it was the +contents-sheet of one of the baser little Society papers. Something +strange in it caught my eye. I looked again in amazement. Oh, great +heavens! what was this in big flaring letters? + +"MISS UNA CALLINGHAM AND THE WOODBURY MYSTERY! Is SHE SCREENING THE +MURDERER? A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION!" + +The words took my breath away. They were too horrible to realise. I +positively couldn't speak. I went up to the bookstall, laid down my +penny without moving my lips, and took the paper in my hand in +tremulous silence. + +I dared not open it there and then, I confess. I waited till I was +in the train, and on my way to Woodbury. + +When I did so, it was worse, even worse than my fears. The article +was short, but it was very hateful. It said nothing straight +out--the writer had evidently the fear of the law of libel before +his eyes as he wrote,--but it hinted and insinuated in a detestable +undertone the most vile innuendoes. A Treasury Doctor and a Police +Inspector, it said, had lately examined Miss Callingham again, and +found her intellect in every respect perfectly normal, except that +she couldn't remember the face of her father's murderer. Now, this +was odd, because, you see, Miss Callingham was in the room at the +moment the shot was fired; and, alone in the world, Miss Callingham +had seen the face of the man who fired it. Who was that man? and why +was he there, unknown to the servants, in a room with nobody but Mr. +Callingham and his daughter? A correspondent (who preferred to guard +his incognito) had suggested in this matter some very searching +questions: Could the young man--for it was allowed he was +young--have been there with Miss Callingham when Mr. Callingham +entered? Could he have been on terms of close intimacy with the +heroine of The Grange Mystery, who was a young lady--as all the +world knew from her photographs--of great personal attractiveness, +and who was also the heiress to a considerable property? Could he +have been there, then, by appointment, without the father's +knowledge? Was this the common case of a clandestine assignation? +Could the father have returned to the house unexpectedly, at an +inopportune moment, and found his daughter there, closeted with a +stranger--perhaps with a man who had already, for sufficient +grounds, been forbidden the premises? Such things might be, in this +world that we live in: he would be a bold man who would deny them +categorically. Could an altercation have arisen on the father's +return, and the fatal shot have been fired in the ensuing scuffle? +And could the young lady then have feigned this curious relapse into +that Second State we had all heard so much about, for no other +reason than to avoid giving evidence at a trial for murder against +her guilty lover? + +These were suggestions that deserved the closest consideration of +the Authorities charged with the repression of crime. Was it not +high time that the inquest on Mr. Callingham's body should be +formally reopened, and that the young lady, now restored (as we +gathered) to her own seven senses, should be closely interrogated by +trained legal cross-examiners? + +I laid down the paper with a burning face. I learned now, for the +first time, how closely my case had been watched, how eagerly my +every act and word had been canvassed. It was hateful to think of my +photograph having been exposed in every London shop-window, and of +anonymous slanderers being permitted to indite such scandal as this +about an innocent woman. But, at any rate, it had the effect of +sealing my fate. If I meant even before to probe this mystery to the +bottom, I felt now no other course was possibly open to me. For the +sake of my own credit, for the sake of my own good fame, I must find +out and punish my father's murderer. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +RELIVING MY LIFE + + +Often, as you walk down a street, a man or woman passes you by. You +look up at them and say to yourself, "I seem to know that face"; but +you can put no name to it, attach to it no definite idea, no +associations of any sort. That was just how Woodbury struck me when +I first came back to it. The houses, the streets, the people, were +in a way familiar; yet I could no more have found my way alone from +the station to The Grange than I could find my way alone from here +to Kamschatka. + +So I drove up first in search of lodgings. At the station even +several people had bowed or shaken hands with me respectfully as I +descended from the train. They came up as if they thought I must +recognise them at once: there was recognition in their eyes; but +when they met my blank stare, they seemed to remember all about it, +and merely murmured in strange tones: + +"Good-morning, miss! So you're here: glad to see you've come back +again at last to Woodbury." + +This reception dazzled me. It was so strange, so uncanny. I was glad +to get away in a fly by myself, and to be driven to lodgings in the +clean little High Street. For to me, it wasn't really "coming back" +at all: it was coming to a strange town, where everyone knew me, and +_I_ knew nobody. + +"You'd like to go to Jane's, of course," the driver said to me with +a friendly nod as he reached the High Street: and not liking to +confess my forgetfulness of Jane, I responded with warmth that +Jane's would, no doubt, exactly suit me. + +We drew up at the door of a neat little house. The driver rang the +bell. + +"Miss Una's here," he said, confidentially; "and she's looking for +lodgings." + +It was inexpressibly strange and weird to me, this one-sided +recognition, this unfamiliar familiarity: it gave me a queer thrill +of the supernatural that I can hardly express to you. But I didn't +know what to do, when a kindly-faced, middle-aged English +upper-class servant rushed out at me, open-armed, and hugging me +hard to her breast, exclaimed with many loud kisses: + +"Miss Una, Miss Una! So it's YOU, dear; so it is! Then you've come +back at last to us!" + +I could hardly imagine what to say or do. The utmost I could assert +with truth was, Jane's face wasn't exactly and entirely in all ways +unfamiliar to me. Yet I could see Jane herself was so unfeignedly +delighted to see me again, that I hadn't the heart to confess I'd +forgotten her very existence. So I took her two hands in mine--since +friendliness begets friendliness--and holding her off a little +way, for fear the kisses should be repeated, I said to her very +gravely: + +"You see, Jane, since those days I've had a terrible shock, and you +can hardly expect me to remember anything. It's all like a dream to +me. You must forgive me if I don't recall it just at once as I ought +to do." + +"Oh! yes, miss," Jane answered, holding my hands in her delight and +weeping volubly. "We've read about all that, of course, in the +London newspapers. But there, I'm glad anyhow you remembered to come +and look for my lodgings. I think I should just have sat down and +cried if they told me Miss Una'd come back to Woodbury, and never so +much as asked to see me." + +I don't think I ever felt so like a hypocrite in my life before. But +I realised at least that even if Jane's lodgings were discomfort +embodied, I must take them and stop in them, while I remained there, +now. Nothing else was possible. I COULDN'T go elsewhere. + +Fortunately, however, the rooms turned out to be as neat as a new +pin, and as admirably kept as any woman in England could keep them. +I gathered from the very first, of course, that Jane had been one of +the servants at The Grange in the days of my First State; and while +I drank my cup of tea, Jane herself came in and talked volubly to +me, disclosing to me, parenthetically, the further fact that she was +the parlour-maid at the time of my father's murder. That gave me a +clue to her identity. Then she was the witness Greenfield who gave +evidence at the inquest! I made a mental note of that, and +determined to look up what she'd said to the coroner, in the book of +extracts the Inspector gave me, as soon as I got alone in my bedroom +that evening. + +After dinner, however, Jane came in again, with the freedom of an +old servant, and talked to me much about the Woodbury Mystery. +Gradually, as time went on that night, though I remembered nothing +definite of myself about her, the sense of familiarity and +friendliness came home to me more vividly. The appropriate emotion +seemed easier to rouse, I observed, than the intellectual memory. I +knew Jane and I had been on very good terms, some time, somewhere. I +talked with her easily, for I had a consciousness of companionship. + +By-and-by, without revealing to her how little I could recollect +about her own personality, I confessed to Jane, by slow degrees, +that the whole past was still gone utterly from my shattered memory. +I told her I knew nothing except the Picture and the facts it +comprised; and to show her just how small that knowledge really was, +I showed her (imprudently enough) the photograph the Inspector had +left with me. + +Jane looked at it long and slowly, with tears in her eyes. Then she +said at last, after a deep pause, in a very hushed voice: + +"Why, how did you get this? It wasn't put in the papers." + +"No," I answered quietly, "it wasn't put in the papers. For reasons +of their own, the police kept it unpublished." + +Jane gazed at the proof still closer. "They oughtn't to have done +that," she said. + +"They ought to have sent it out everywhere broadcast--so that +anybody who knew the man could tell him by his back." + +That seemed to me such obvious good sense that I wondered to myself +the police hadn't thought long since of it; but I supposed they had +some good ground of their own for holding it all this time in their +own possession. + +Jane went on talking to me still for many minutes about the scene: + +"Ah, yes; that was just how he lay, poor dear gentleman! And the +book on the chair, too! Well, did you ever in your life see anything +so like! And to think it was taken all by itself, as one might say, +by magic. But there! your poor papa was a wonderful clever man. Such +things as he used to invent! Such ideas and such machines! We were +sorry for him, though we always thought, to be sure, he was dreadful +severe with you, Miss Una. Such a gentleman to have his own way, +too--so cold and reserved like. But one mustn't talk nothing but good +about the dead, they say. And if he was a bit hard, he was more than +hard treated for it in the end, poor gentleman!" + +It interested me to get these half side-lights on my father's +character. Knowing nothing of him, as I did, save the solitary fact +that he was the white-haired gentleman I saw dead in my Picture, I +naturally wanted to learn as much as I could from this old servant +of ours as to the family conditions. + +"Then you thought him harsh, in the servants'-hall?" I said +tentatively to Jane. "You thought him hard and unbending?" + +"Well, there, Miss," Jane ran on, putting a cushion to my back +tenderly--it was strange to be the recipient of so much delicate +attention from a perfect stranger,--"not exactly what you'd call +harsh to us ourselves, you know: he was a good master enough, as +long as one did what was ordered, though he was a little bit +fidgetty. But to you, we all thought he was always rather hard. +People said so in Woodbury. And yet, in a way, I don't know how it +was, he always seemed more'n half afraid of you. He was careful +about your health, and spoiled and petted you for that; yet he was +always pulling you up, you know, and looking after what you did: and +for one thing, I remember, there's many a time you were sent to bed +when you were a good big girl for nothing on earth else but because +he heard you talking to us in the hall about Australia." + +"Talking to you about Australia!" I cried, pricking my ears. "Why, +what harm was there in that? Why on earth didn't he want me to talk +about Australia?" + +"Ah! what harm indeed?" Jane echoed blandly. "That's what we often +used to say among ourselves downstairs. But Mr. Callingham, he was +always that way, miss--so strict and particular. He said he'd +forbidden you to say a word to anybody about that confounded +country; and you must do as you were told. He seemed to have a +grudge against Australia, though it was there he made his money. And +he always would have his own way, your father would." + +While she spoke, I looked hard at the white head in the photograph. +Even as I did so, a thought occurred to me that had never occurred +before. Both in my mental Picture, and in looking at the photograph +when I saw it first, the feeling that was uppermost in my mind was +not sorrow, but horror. I didn't think with affection and regret and +a deep sense of bereavement about my father's murder. The emotional +accompaniment that had stamped itself upon the very fibre of my +soul, was not pain but awe. I think my main feeling was a feeling +that a foul crime had taken place in the house, not a feeling that I +had lost a very dear and near relative. Rightly or wrongly, I drew +from this the inference, which Jane's gossip confirmed, that I had +probably rather feared than loved my father. + +It was strange to be reduced to such indirect evidence on such a +point as that; but it was all I could get, and I had to be content +with it. + +Jane, leaning over my shoulder, looked hard at the photograph too. I +could see her eyes were fixed on the back of the man who was seen +disappearing through the open window. He was dressed like a +gentleman, in knickerbockers and jacket, as far as one could judge; +for the evening light rather blurred that part of the picture. One +hand was just waved, palm open, behind him. Jane regarded it hard. +Then she gave an odd little start: + +"Why, just look at that hand!" she cried, with a tremor of surprise. +"Don't you see what it is? Don't you think it's a woman's?" + +I gazed back at her incredulously. + +"Impossible," I answered, shaking my head. "It belongs as clear as +day to the man you see in the photograph. How on earth could his +hand be a woman's then, I'd like to know? I can see the shirt-cuff." + +"Why, yes," Jane answered, with simple common-sense: "it's DRESSED +like a man, of course, and it's a man to look at; but the hand's a +woman's, as true as I'm standing here. Why mightn't a woman dress in +a man's suit on purpose? And perhaps it was just because they were +so sure it was a man as did it, that the police has gone wrong so +long in trying to find the murderer." + +I looked hard at the hand myself. Then I shut my eyes, and thought +of the corresponding object in my mental Picture. The result fairly +staggered me. The impression in each case was exactly the same. It +was a soft and delicate hand, very white and womanlike. But was it +really a woman's? I couldn't feel quite sure in my own mind about +that; but the very warning Jane gave me seemed to me a most useful +one. It would be well, after all, to keep one's mind sedulously open +to every possible explanation, and to take nothing for granted as to +the murderer's personality. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE GRANGE AT WOODBURY + + +I stopped for three weeks in Jane's lodgings; and before the end of +that time, Jane and I had got upon the most intimate footing. It was +partly her kindliness that endeared her to me, and her constant +sense of continuity with the earlier days which I had quite +forgotten; but it was partly too, I felt sure, a vague revival +within my own breast of a familiarity that had long ago subsisted +between us. I was coming to myself again, on one side of my nature. +Day by day I grew more certain that while facts had passed away from +me, appropriate emotions remained vaguely present. Among the +Woodbury people that I met, I recognised none to say that I knew +them; but I knew almost at first sight that I liked this one and +disliked that one. And in every case alike, when I talked the matter +over afterwards with Jane, she confirmed my suspicion that in my +First State I had liked or disliked just those persons respectively. +My brain was upset, but my heart remained precisely the same as +ever. + +On my second morning I went up to The Grange with her. The house was +still unlet. Since the day of the murder, nobody cared to live in +it. The garden and shrubbery had been sadly neglected: Jane took me +out of the way as we walked up the path, to show me the place where +the photographic apparatus had been found embedded in the grass, and +where the murderer had cut his hands getting over the wall in his +frantic agitation. The wall was pretty high and protected with +bottle-glass. I guessed he must have been tall to scramble over it. +That seemed to tell against Jane's crude idea that a woman might +have done it. + +But when I said so to Jane, she met me at once with the crushing +reply: "Perhaps it wasn't the same person that came back for the +box." I saw she was right again. I had jumped at a conclusion. In +cases like this, one must leave no hypothesis untried, jump at no +conclusions of any sort. Clearly, that woman ought to have been made +a detective. + +As I entered the house the weird sense of familiarity that pursued +me throughout rose to a very high pitch. I couldn't fairly say, +indeed, that I remembered the different rooms. All I could say with +certainty was that I had seen them before. To this there were three +exceptions--the three that belonged to my Second State--the library, +my bedroom, and the hall and staircase. The first was indelibly +printed on my memory as a component part of the Picture, and I found +my recollection of every object in the room almost startling in its +correctness. Only, there was an alcove on one side that I'd quite +forgotten, and I saw why most clearly. I stood with my back to it as +I looked at the Picture. The other two bits I remembered as the room +in which I had had my first great illness, and the passage down +which I had been carried or helped when I was taken to Aunt Emma's. + +I had begun to recognise now that the emotional impression made upon +me by people and things was the only sure guide I still possessed as +to their connection or association with my past history. And the +rooms at The Grange had each in this way some distinctive +characteristic. The library, of course, was the chief home of the +Horror which had hung upon my spirit even during the days when I +hardly knew in any intelligible sense the cause of it. But the +drawing-room and dining-room both produced upon my mind a vague +consciousness of constraint. I was dimly aware of being ill at ease +and uncomfortable in them. My own bedroom, on the contrary, gave me +a pleasant feeling of rest and freedom and security: while the +servants'-hall and the kitchen seemed perfect paradises of liberty. + +"Ah! many's the time, miss," Jane said with a sigh, looking over at +the empty grate, "you'd come down here to make cakes or puddings, +and laugh and joke like a child with Mary an' me. I often used to +say to Emily--her as was cook here before Ellen Smith,--'Miss Una's +never so happy as when she's down here in the kitchen.' And 'That's +true what you say,' says Emily to me, many a time and often." + +That was exactly the impression left upon my own mind. I began to +conclude, in a dim, formless way, that my father must have been a +somewhat stern and unsympathetic man; that I had felt constrained +and uncomfortable in his presence upstairs, and had often been +pleased to get away from his eye to the comparative liberty and ease +of my own room or of the maid-servants' quarters. + +At last, in the big attic that had once been the nursery, I paused +and looked at Jane. A queer sensation came over me. + +"Jane," I said slowly, hardly liking to frame the words, "there's +something strange about this room. He wasn't cruel to me, was he?" + +"Oh! no, miss," Jane answered promptly. "He wasn't never what you +might call exactly cruel. He was a very good father, and looked +after you well; but he was sort of stern and moody-like--would have +his own way, and didn't pay no attention to fads and fancies, he +called 'em. When you were little, many's the time he sent you up +here for punishment--disobedience and such like." + +I took out the photograph and tried, as it were, to think of my +father as alive and with his eyes open. I couldn't remember the +eyes. Jane told me they were blue; but I think what she said was the +sort of impression the face produced upon me. A man not unjust or +harsh in his dealings with myself, but very strong and masterful. A +man who would have his own way in spite of anybody. A father who +ruled his daughter as a vessel of his making, to be done as he would +with, and be moulded to his fashion. + +Still, my visit to The Grange resulted in the end in casting very +little light upon the problem before me. It pained and distressed me +greatly, but it brought no new elements of the case into view: at +best, it only familiarised me with the scene of action of the +tragedy. The presence of the alcove was the one fresh feature. +Nothing recalled to me as yet in any way the murderer's features. I +racked my brain in vain; no fresh image came up in it. I could +recollect nothing about the man or his antecedents. + +I almost began to doubt that I would ever succeed in reconstructing +my past, when even the sight of the home in which I had spent my +childish days suggested so few new thoughts or ideas to me. + +For a day or two after that I rested at Jane's, lest I should +disturb my brain too much. Then I called once more on the doctor who +had made the post mortem on my father, and given evidence at the +inquest, to see if anything he could say might recall my lapsed +memory. + +The moment he came into the room--a man about fifty, close-shaven +and kindly-looking--I recognised him at once, and held out my hand +to him frankly. He surveyed me from head to foot with a good medical +stare, and then wrung my hand in return with extraordinary warmth +and effusion. I could see at once he retained a most pleasing +recollection of my First State, and was really glad to see me. + +"What, you remember me then, Una!" he cried, with quite fatherly +delight. "You haven't forgotten me, my dear, as you've forgotten all +the rest, haven't you?" + +It was startling to be called by one's Christian name like that, and +by a complete stranger, too; but I was getting quite accustomed now +to these little incongruities. + +"Oh, yes; I remember you perfectly," I answered, half-grieved to +distress him, "though I shouldn't have known your name, and didn't +expect to see you. You're the doctor who attended me in my first +great illness--the illness with which my present life began--just +after the murder." + +He drew back, a little crestfallen. + +"Then that's all you recollect, is it?" he asked. "You don't +remember me before, dear? Not Dr. Marten, who used to take you on +his knee when you were a tiny little girl, and bring you lollipops +from town, to the great detriment of your digestion, and get into +rows with your poor father for indulging you and spoiling you? You +must surely remember me?" + +I shook my head slowly. I was sorry to disappoint him; but it was +necessary before all things to get at the bare truth. + +"I'm afraid not," I answered. "Do please forgive me! You must have +read in the papers, like everybody else, of the very great change +that has so long come over me. Bear in mind, I can't remember +anything at all that occurred before the murder. That first illness +is to me the earliest recollection of childhood." + +He gazed across at me compassionately. + +"My poor child," he said in a low voice, like a very affectionate +friend, "it's much better so. You have been mercifully spared a +great deal of pain. Una, when I first saw you at The Grange after +your father's death, I thanked heaven you had been so seized. I +thanked heaven the world had become suddenly a blank to you. I +prayed hard you might never recover your senses again, or at least +your memory. And now that you're slowly returned to life once more, +against all hope or fear, I'm heartily glad it's in this peculiar +way. I'm heartily glad all the past's blotted out for you. You can't +understand that, my child? Ah, no, very likely not. But I think it's +much best for you, all your first life should be wholly forgotten." +He paused for a second. Then he added slowly: "If you remembered it +all, the sense of the tragedy would be far more acute and poignant +even than at present." + +"Perhaps so," I said resolutely; "but not the sense of mystery. It's +THAT that appals me so! I'd rather know the truth than be so wrapped +up in the incomprehensible." + +He looked at me pityingly once more. + +"My poor child," he said, in the same gentle and fatherly voice, +"you don't wholly understand. It doesn't all come home to you. I can +see clearly, from what Inspector Wolferstan told me, after his visit +to you the other day--" + +I broke in, in surprise. + +"Inspector Wolferstan!" I cried. "Then he came down here to see you, +did he?" + +It was horrible to find how all my movements were discussed and +chronicled. + +"Yes, he came down here to see me and talk things over," Dr. Marten +went on, as calmly as if it were mere matter of course. "And I could +see from what he said you were still spared much. For instance, you +remember it all only as an event that happened to an old man with a +long white beard. You don't fully realise, except intellectually, +that it was your own father. You're saved, as a daughter, the misery +and horror of thinking and feeling it was your father who lay dead +there." + +"That's quite true," I answered. "I admit that I can't feel it all +as deeply as I ought. But none the less, I've come down here to make +a violent effort. Let it cost what it may, I must get at the truth. +I wanted to see whether the sight of The Grange and of Woodbury may +help me to recall the lost scenes in my memory." + +To my immense surprise, Dr. Marten rose from his seat, and standing +up before me in a perfect agony of what seemed like terror, half +mixed with affection, exclaimed in a very earnest and resolute +voice: + +"Oh, Una, my child, whatever you do--I beg of you--I implore +you--don't try to recall the past at all! Don't attempt it! Don't +dream of it!" + +"Why not?" I cried, astonished. "Surely it's my duty to try and find +out my father's murderer!" + +Instead of answering me, he looked about him for half a minute in +suspense, as if doubtful what next to do or to say. Then he walked +across with great deliberation to the door of the room, and locked +and double-locked it with furtive alarm, as I interpreted his +action. + +So terrified did he seem, indeed, that for a moment the idea +occurred to me in a very vague way--Was I talking with the murderer? +Had the man who himself committed the crime conducted the post +mortem, and put Justice off the scent? And was I now practically at +the mercy of the criminal I was trying to track down? The thought +for a second or two made me feel terribly uncomfortable. But I +glanced at his back and at his hands, and reassured myself. That +broad, short man was not the slim figure of my Picture and of the +photograph. Those large red hands were not the originals of the +small and delicate white palm just displayed at the back in both +those strange documents of the mysterious murder. + +The doctor came over again, and drew his chair close to mine. + +"Una, my child," he said slowly, "I love you very much, as if you +were my own daughter. I always loved you and admired you, and was +sorry--oh, so sorry!--for you. You've quite forgotten who I am; but +I've not forgotten you. Take what I say as coming from an old +friend, from one who loves you and has your interest at heart. For +heaven's sake, I implore you, my child, make no more inquiries. Try +to forget--not to remember. If you do recollect, you'll be sorry in +the end for it." + +"Why so?" I asked, amazed, yet somehow feeling in my heart I could +trust him implicitly. "Why should the knowledge of the true +circumstances of the case make me more unhappy than I am at +present?" + +He gazed harder at me than ever. + +"Because," he replied in slow tones, weighing each word as he spoke, +"you may find that the murder was committed by some person or +persons you love or once loved very much indeed. You may find it +will rend your very heart-strings to see that person or those +persons punished. You may find the circumstances were wholly +otherwise than you imagine them to be.... Let sleeping dogs lie, my +dear. Without your aid, nothing more can be done. Don't trouble +yourself to put the blood-hounds on the track of some unhappy +creature who might otherwise escape. Don't rake it all up afresh. +Bury it--bury it--bury it!" + +He spoke so earnestly that he filled me with vague alarm. + +"Dr. Marten," I said solemnly, "answer me just one question. Do you +know who was the murderer?" + +"No, no!" he exclaimed, starting once more. "Thank heaven, I can't +tell you that! I don't know. I know nothing. Nobody on earth knows +but the two who were present on the night of the murder, I feel +sure. And of those two, one's unknown, and the other has forgotten." + +"But you suspect who he is?" I put in, probing the secret curiously. + +He trembled visibly. + +"I suspect who he is," he replied, after a moment's hesitation. "But +I have never communicated, and will never communicate, my suspicions +to anybody, not even to you. I will only say this: the person whom I +suspect is one with whom you may now have forgotten all your past +relations, but whom you would be sorry to punish if you recovered +your memory. I formed a strong opinion at the time who that person +was. I formed it from the nature and disposition of the wound, and +the arrangement of the objects in the room when I was called in to +see your father's body." + +"And you never said so at the inquest!" I cried, indignant. + +He looked at me hard again. Then he spoke in a very slow and earnest +voice: + +"For your sake, Una, and for the sake of your affections, I held my +peace," he said. "My dear, the suspicion was but a very slender one: +I had nothing to go upon. And why should I have tried to destroy +your happiness?" + +That horrible article in the penny Society paper came back to my +mind once more with hideous suggestiveness. I turned to him almost +fiercely. + +"So far as you know, Dr. Marten," I asked, "was I ever in love? Had +I ever an admirer? Was I ever engaged to anyone?" + +He shrugged his shoulders and smiled a sort of smile of relief. + +"How should I know?" he answered. "Admirers?--yes, dozens of them; +I was one myself. Lovers?--who can say? But I advise you not to +push the inquiry further." + +I questioned him some minutes longer, but could get nothing more +from him. Then I rose to go. + +"Dr. Marten," I said firmly, "if I remember all, and if it wrings my +heart to remember, I tell you I will give up that man to justice all +the same! I think I know myself well enough to know this much at +least, that I never, never could stoop either to love or to screen a +man who could commit such a foul and dastardly crime as this one." + +He took my hand fervently, raised it with warmth to his lips and +kissed it twice over. + +"My dear," he said, with tears dropping down his gentle old cheeks, +"this is a very great mystery--a terrible mystery. But I know you +speak the truth. I can see you mean it. Therefore, all the more +earnestly do I beg and beseech you, go away from Woodbury at once, +and as long as you live think no more about it." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +A VISION OF DEAD YEARS + + +The interview with Dr. Marten left me very much disquieted. But it +wasn't the only disquieting thing that occurred at Woodbury. Before +I left the place I happened to go one day into Jane's own little +sitting-room. Jane was anxious I should see it--she wanted me to +know all her house, she said, for the sake of old times: and for the +sake of those old times that I couldn't remember, but when I knew +she'd been kind to me, I went in and looked at it. + +There was nothing very peculiar about Jane's little sitting-room: +just the ordinary English landlady's parlour. You know the +type:--square table in the middle; bright blue vases on the +mantelpiece; chromo-lithograph from the Illustrated London News on +the wall; rickety whatnot with glass-shaded wax-flowers in the +recess by the window. But over in one corner I chanced to observe a +framed photograph of early execution, which hung faded and dim +there. Perhaps it was because my father was such a scientific +amateur; but photography, I found out in time, struck the key-note +of my history in every chapter. I didn't know why, but this +particular picture attracted me strangely. It came from The Grange, +Jane told me: she'd hunted it out in the attic over the front +bedroom after the house was shut up. It belonged to a lot of my +father's early attempts that were locked in a box there. "He'd +always been trying experiments and things," she said, "with +photography, poor gentleman." + +Faded and dim as it was, the picture riveted my eyes at once by some +unknown power of attraction. I gazed at it long and earnestly. It +represented a house of colonial aspect, square, wood-built, and +verandah-girt, standing alone among strange trees whose very names +and aspects were then unfamiliar to me, but which I nowadays know to +be Australian eucalyptuses. On the steps of the verandah sat a lady +in deep mourning. A child played by her side, and a collie dog lay +curled up still and sleepy in the foreground. The child, indeed, +stirred no chord of any sort in my troubled brain; but my heart came +up into my mouth so at sight of the lady, that I said to myself all +at once in my awe, "That must surely be my mother!" + +The longer I looked at it, the more was I convinced I must have +judged aright. Not indeed that in any true sense I could say I +remembered her face or figure: I was so young when she died, +according to everybody's account, that even if I'd remained in my +First State I could hardly have retained any vivid recollection of +her. But both lady and house brought up in me once more to some +vague degree that strange consciousness of familiarity I had noticed +at The Grange: and what was odder still, the sense of wont seemed +even more marked in the Australian cottage than in the case of the +house which all probability would have inclined one beforehand to +think I must have remembered better. If this was indeed my earliest +home, then I seemed to recollect it far more readily than my later +one. + +I turned trembling to Jane, hardly daring to frame the question that +rose first to my lips. + +"Is that--my mother?" I faltered out slowly. + +But there Jane couldn't help me. She'd never seen the lady, she +said. + +"When first I come to The Grange, miss, you see, your mother'd been +buried a year; there was only you and Mr. Callingham in family. And +I never saw that photograph, neither, till I picked it out of the +box locked up in the attic. The little girl might be you, like +enough, when you look at it sideways; and yet again it mightn't. But +the lady I don't know. I never saw your mother." + +So I was fain to content myself with pure conjecture. + +All day long, however, the new picture haunted me almost as +persistently as the old one. + +That night I went to sleep fast, and slept for some hours heavily. I +woke with a start. I had been dreaming very hard. And my dream was +peculiarly clear and lifelike. Never since the first night of my new +life--the night of the murder--had I dreamed such a dream, or seen +dead objects so vividly. It came out in clear colours, like the +terrible Picture that had haunted me so long. And it affected me +strangely. It was a scene, rather than a dream--a scene, as at the +theatre; but a scene in which I realised and recognised everything. + +I stood on the steps of a house--a white wooden house, with a +green-painted verandah--the very house I had seen that afternoon in +the faded photograph in Jane's little sitting-room. But I didn't +think of it at first as the house in the old picture: I thought of +it as home--our own place--the cottage. The steps seemed to me very +high, as in childish recollection. A lady walked about on the +verandah and called to me: a lady in a white gown, like the lady in +the photograph, only younger and prettier, and dressed much more +daintily. But I didn't think of her as that either: I called her +mamma to myself: I looked up into her face, oh, ever so much above +me: I must have been very small indeed when that picture first +occurred to me. There was a gentleman, too, in a white linen coat, +who pinched my mamma's ear, and talked softly and musically. But I +didn't think of him quite so: I knew he was my papa: I played about +his knees, a little scampering child, and looked up in his face, and +teased him and laughed at him. My papa looked down at me, and called +me a little kitten, and rolled me over on my back, and fondled me +and laughed with me. There were trees growing all about, big trees +with long grey leaves: the same sort of trees as the ones in the +photograph. But I didn't remember that at first: in my dream, and in +the first few minutes of my waking thought, I knew them at once as +the big blue-gum-trees. + +I awoke in the midst of it: and the picture persisted. + +Then, with a sudden burst of intuition, the truth flashed upon me +all at once. My dream was no mere dream, but a revelation in my +sleep. It was my intellect working unconsciously and spontaneously +in an automatic condition. For the very first time in my life, since +the night of the murder, I had really REMEMBERED something that +occurred before it. + +This was a scene of my First State. In all probability it was my +earliest true childish recollection. + +I sat up in bed, appalled. I dared not call aloud or ring for Jane +to come to me. But if I'd seen a ghost, it could hardly have +affected me more profoundly than this ghost of my own dead life thus +brought suddenly back to me. Gazing away across some illimitable +vista of dim years, I remembered this one scene as something that +once occurred, long ago, to my very self, in my own experience. Then +came a vast gulf, an unbridged abyss: and after that, with a +vividness as of yesterday, the murder. + +I held my ears and crouched low, sitting up in my bed in the dark. +But the dream seemed to go on still: it remained with me distinctly. + +The more I thought it over, the more certain it appeared as part of +my own experience. Putting two and two together, I made sure in my +own mind this was a genuine recollection of my life in Australia. I +was born there, I knew: that I had learned from everybody. But I +could distinctly remember having LIVED there now. It came back to me +as memory. The dream had reinstated it. + +And it was the sight of the photograph that had produced the dream. +This was curious, very. A weird idea came across me. Had I begun, in +all past efforts to remember, at the wrong end? Instead of trying to +recollect the circumstances that immediately preceded the murder, +ought I to have set out by trying to reinstate my First Life, +chapter by chapter and verse by verse, from childhood upward? Ought +I to start by recalling as far as possible my very earliest +recollections in my previous existence, and then gradually work up +through all my subsequent history to the date of the murder? + +The more I thought of it, the more convinced was I that that was the +right procedure. + +It was certainly significant that this vague childish recollection +of something which might have happened when I was just about two +years old should be the very first thing to recur to my my memory. +Yet so appalled and alarmed was I by the weirdness of this sudden +apparition, looming up, as it were, all by itself in the depths of +my consciousness, that I hardly dared bring myself to think of +trying to recall any other scenes of that dead and past existence. +The picture rose like an exhalation, hanging unrelated in mid-air, a +mere mental mirage: and it terrified me so much, that I shrank +unutterably from the effort of calling up another of like sort to +follow it. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +HATEFUL SUSPICIONS + + +The rest of that night I lay awake in my bed, the scene in the +verandah by the big blue-gum-trees haunting me all the time, much as +in earlier days the Picture of the murder had pursued and haunted +me. Early in the morning I rose up, and went down to Jane in her +little parlour. I longed for society in my awe. I needed human +presence. I couldn't bear to be left alone by myself with all these +pressing and encompassing mysteries. + +"Jane," I said after a few minutes' careless talk--for I didn't +like to tell her about my wonderful dream,--"where exactly did you +find the picture of that house hanging over in the corner there?" + +"Lor' bless your heart, miss," Jane answered, "there's a whole +boxful of them at The Grange. Nobody ever cared for them. They're up +in the top attic. They were locked till your papa died, and then +they were opened by order of the executors. Some of 'em's faded even +worse than that one, and none of 'em's very good; but I picked this +one out because it was better worth framing for my room than most of +'em. The executors took no notice when they found what they was. +They opened the box to see if it was dockyments." + +"Well, Jane," I said, "I shall go up and bring them every one away +with me. It's possible they may help me to recollect things a bit." +I drew my hand across my forehead. "It all seems so hazy," I went +on. "Yet when I see things again, I sometimes feel as if I almost +recognised them." + +So that very morning we went up together (I wouldn't go alone), and +got the rest of the photographs--very faded positives from +old-fashioned plates, most of them representing persons and places I +had never seen; and a few of them apparently not taken in England. + +I didn't look them all over at once just then. I thought it best not +to do so. I would give my memory every possible chance. Take a few +at a time, and see what effect they produced on me. Perhaps--though +I shrank from the bare idea with horror--they might rouse in my +sleep such another stray effort of spontaneous reconstruction. Yet +the last one had cost me much nervous wear and tear--much mental +agony. + +A few days after, I went away from Woodbury. I had learned for the +moment, I thought, all that Woodbury could teach me: and I longed to +get free again for a while from this pervading atmosphere of +mystery. At Aunt Emma's, at least, all was plain and aboveboard. I +would go back to Barton-on-the-Sea, and rest there for a while, +among the heathery hills, before proceeding any further on my voyage +of discovery. + +But I took back Jane with me. I was fond of Jane now. In those two +short weeks I had learned to cling to her. Though I remembered her, +strictly speaking, no more than at first, yet the affection I must +have borne her in my First State seemed to revive in me very easily, +like all other emotions. I was as much at home with Jane, indeed, as +if I had known her for years. And this wasn't strange; for I HAD +known her for years, in point of fact; and and though I'd forgotten +most of those years, the sense of familiarity they had inspired +still lived on with me unconsciously. I know now that memory resides +chiefly in the brain, while the emotions are a wider endowment of +the nervous system in general; so that while a great shock may +obliterate whole tracts in the memory, no power on earth can ever +alter altogether the sentiments and feelings. + +As for Jane, she was only too glad to come with me. There were no +lodgers at present, she said; and none expected. Her sister +Elizabeth would take care of the rooms, and if any stranger came, +why, Lizzie'd telegraph down at once for her. So I wrote to Aunt +Emma to expect us both next day. Aunt Emma's, I knew, was a home +where I or mine were always welcome. + +Jane had never seen Aunt Emma. There had been feud between the +families while my father lived, so she didn't visit The Grange after +my mother's death. Aunt Emma had often explained to me in part how +all that happened. It was the one point in our family history on +which she'd ever been explicit: for she had a grievance there; and +what woman on earth can ever suppress her grievances? It's our +feminine way to air them before the world, as it's a man's to bury +them deep in his own breast and brood over them. + +My mother, she told me, had been a widow when my father married +her--a rich young widow. She had gone away, a mere girl, to +Australia with her first husband, a clergyman, who was lost at sea +two or three years after, on the voyage home to England without her. +She had one little girl by her first husband, but the child died +quite young: and then she married my father, who met her first in +Australia while she waited for news of the clergyman's safety. Her +family always disapproved of the second marriage. My father had no +money, it seemed; and mamma was well off, having means of her own to +start with, like Aunt Emma, and having inherited also her first +husband's property, which was very considerable. He had left it to +his little girl, and after her to his wife; so that first my father, +and then I myself, came in, in the end, to both the little estates, +though my mother's had been settled on the children of the first +marriage. Aunt Emma always thought my father had married for money: +and she said he had been hard and unkind to mamma: not indeed cruel; +he wasn't a cruel man; but severe and wilful. He made her do exactly +as he wished about everything, in a masterful sort of way, that no +woman could stand against. He crushed her spirit entirely, Aunt Emma +told me; she had no will of her own, poor thing: his individuality +was so strong, that it overrode my mother's weak nature rough-shod. + +Not that he was rough. He never scolded her; he never illtreated +her; but he said to her plainly, "You are to do so and so;" and she +obeyed like a child. She never dared to question him. + +So Aunt Emma had always said my mother was badly used, especially in +money matters--the money being all, when one came to think of it, +her own or her first husband's;--and as a consequence, auntie was +never invited to The Grange during my father's lifetime. + +When we reached Barton-on-the-Sea, Jane and I, on our way from +Woodbury, Aunt Emma was waiting at the station to meet us. To my +great disappointment, I could see at first sight she didn't care for +Jane: and I could also see at first sight Jane didn't care for her. +This was a serious blow to me, for I leaned upon those two more than +I leaned upon anyone; and I had far too few friends in the world of +my own, to afford to do without any one of them. + +In the evening, however, when I went up to my own room to bed, Jane +came up to help me as she always did at Woodbury. I began at once to +tax her with not liking Aunt Emma. With a little hesitation, Jane +admitted that at first sight she hadn't felt by any means disposed +to care for her. I pressed her hard as to why. Jane held off and +prevaricated. That roused my curiosity:--you see, I'm a woman. I +insisted upon knowing. + +"Oh, miss, I can't tell you!" Jane cried, growing red in the face, +"I can't bear to say it out. You oughtn't to ask. It'll hurt you to +know I even thought such a thing of her!" + +"You MUST tell me, Jane," I exclaimed, with a cold shudder of +terror, half guessing what she meant. "Don't keep me in suspense. +Let me know what it is. I'm accustomed to shocks now. I know I can +stand them." + +Jane answered nothing directly. She only held out her coarse red +hand and asked me, with a face growing pale as she spoke: + +"Where's that picture of the murder?" + +I produced it from my box, trembling inwardly all over. + +Jane darted one finger demonstratively at a point in the photograph. + +"Whose hand is THAT?" she asked with a strange earnestness, putting +her nail on the murderer's. + +The words escaped me in a cry of horror almost before I was aware of +them: + +"Aunt Emma's!" I said, gasping. "I NEVER noticed it before." + +Then I drew back and stared at it in speechless awe and +consternation. + +It was quite, quite true. No use in denying it. The figure that +escaped through the window was dressed in man's clothes, to be sure, +and as far as one could judge from the foreshortening and the +peculiar stoop, had a man's form and stature. But the hand was a +woman's--soft, and white, and delicate: nay more, the hand, as I +said in my haste, was line for line Aunt Emma's. + +In a moment a terrible sinking came over me from head to foot. I +trembled like an aspen-leaf. Could this, then, be the meaning of Dr. +Marten's warning, that I should let sleeping dogs lie, lest I should +be compelled to punish someone whom I loved most dearly? Had Fate +been so cruel to me, that I had learned to cling most in my Second +State to the very criminal whose act had blotted out my First? Had I +grown to treat like a mother my father's murderer? + +Aunt Emma's hand! Aunt Emma's hand! That was Aunt Emma's hand, every +touch and every line of it. But no! where were the marks, those +well-known marks on the palm? I took up the big magnifying-glass +with which I had often scanned that photograph close before. Not a +sign or a trace of them. I shut my eyes, and called up again the +mental Picture of the murder. I looked hard at the phantom-hand in +it, that floated like a vision, all distinct before my mind's eye. +It was flat and smooth and white. Not a scar--not a sign on it. I +turned round to Jane, that too natural detective. + +"No, no!" I cried hastily, with a quick tone of triumph. "Aunt +Emma's hand is marked on the palm with great gashes and cuts. This +one's smooth as smooth can be. And so's the one I can see in the +Picture within me!" + +Jane drew back with a startled air, and opened her mouth, all agog, +to let in a deep breath. + +"The wall!" she said slowly. "The bottle-glass, don't you know! The +blood on the top! Whoever did it, climbed over and tore his hands. +Or HER hands, if it was a woman! That would account for the gashes." + +This was more than I could endure. The coincidence was too crushing. +I bent down my head on my arms and cried silently, bitterly. I hated +Jane in my heart for even suggesting it. Yet I couldn't deny to +myself for a moment the strength and suggestiveness of her +half-spoken argument. + +Not that for a second I believed it true. I could never believe it. +Aunt Emma, so gentle, so kindly, so sweet: incapable of hurting any +living thing: the tenderest old lady that breathed upon earth: and +my own mother's sister, whom I loved as I never before loved anyone! +Aunt Emma the murderess! The bare idea was preposterous! I couldn't +entertain it. My whole nature revolted from it. + +And indeed, how very slight, after all, was the mere scrap of +evidence on which Jane ventured to suggest so terrible a charge! A +man--in man's clothes--fairly tall and slim, and apparently +dark-haired, but stooping so much that he looked almost hump-backed: +how different from Aunt Emma, with her womanly figure, and her upright +gait, and her sweet old white head! Why, it was clearly ridiculous. + +And yet, the fact remained that as Jane pointed to the Picture and +asked, "Whose hand is that?" the answer came up all spontaneously to +my lips, without hesitation, "Aunt Emma's!" + +I sat there long in my misery, thinking it over to myself. I didn't +know what to do. I couldn't go and confide to Aunt Emma's ear this +new and horrible doubt,--which was no doubt after all, for I KNEW it +was impossible. I hated Jane for suggesting it; I hated her for +telling me. Yet I couldn't be left alone. I was far too terrified. + +"Oh, Jane;" I cried, looking up to her, and yet despising myself for +saying it, "you must stop here to-night and sleep with me. If I'm +left by myself in the room alone, I know I shall go mad--I can feel +it--I'm sure of it!" + +Jane stopped with me and soothed me. She was certainly very kind. +Yet I felt in a dim underhand sort of way it was treason to Aunt +Emma to receive her caresses at all after what she had said to me. +Though to be sure, it was I, not she, who spoke those hateful words. +It was I myself who had said the hand was Aunt Emma's. + +As I lay awake and thought, the idea flashed across me suddenly, +could Jane have any grudge of her own against Aunt Emma? Was this a +deliberate plot? What did she mean by her warnings that I should +keep my mind open? Why had she said from the very first it was a +woman's hand? Did she want to set me against my aunt? And was Dr. +Marten in league with her? In my tortured frame of mind, I felt all +alone in the world. I covered my head and sobbed in my misery. I +didn't know who were my friends and who were against me. + +At last, after long watching, I dozed off into an uneasy sleep. Jane +had already been snoring long beside me. I woke up again with a +start. I was cold and shuddering. I had dreamed once more the same +Australian dream. My mamma as before stood gentle beside me. She +stooped down and smoothed my hair: I could see her face and her form +distinctly. And I noticed now she was like her sister, Aunt Emma, +only younger and prettier, and ever so much slighter. And her hand, +too, was soft and white like auntie's--very gentle and delicate. + +It was just there that I woke up--with the hand before my eyes. Oh, +how vividly I noted it! Aunt Emma's hand, only younger, and +unscarred on the palm. The family hand, no doubt: the hand of the +Moores. I remembered, now, that Aunt Emma had spoken more than once +of that family peculiarity. It ran through the house, she said. But +my hand was quite different: not the Moore type at all: I supposed I +must have taken it, as was natural, from the Callinghams. + +And then, in my utter horror and loneliness, a still more awful and +ghastly thought presented itself to me. This was my mother's hand I +saw in the picture. Was it my mother, indeed, who wrought the +murder? Was she living or dead? Had my father put upon her some +grievous wrong? Had he pretended to get her out of the way? Had he +buried her alive, so to speak, in some prison or madhouse? Had she +returned in disguise from the asylum or the living grave to avenge +herself and murder him? In my present frame of mind, no idea was too +wild or too strange for me to entertain. If this strain continued +much longer, I should go mad myself with suspense and horror! + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH + + +Next morning my head ached. After all I'd suffered, I could hardly +bear to recur to the one subject that now always occupied my +thoughts. And yet, on the other hand, I couldn't succeed in +banishing it. To relieve my mind a little, I took out the +photographs I had brought from the box at The Grange, and began to +sort them over according to probable date and subject. + +They were of different periods, some old, some newer. I put them +together in series, as well as I could, by the nature of the +surroundings. The most recent of all were my father's early attempts +at instantaneous electric photography--the attempts which led up at +last to his automatic machine, the acmegraph, that produced all +unconsciously the picture of the murder. Some of these comparatively +recent proofs represented men running and horses trotting: but the +best of all, tied together with a bit of tape, clearly belonged to a +single set, and must have been taken at the same time at an athletic +meeting. There was one of a flat race, viewed from a little in +front, with the limbs of the runners in seemingly ridiculous +attitudes, so instantaneous and therefore so grotesquely rigid were +they. There was another of a high jump, seen from one side at the +very moment of clearing the pole, so that the figure poised solid in +mid-air as motionless as a statue. And there was a third, equally +successful, of a man throwing the hammer, in which the hammer, in +the same way, seemed to hang suspended of itself like Mahomet's +coffin between earth and heaven. + +But the one that attracted my attention the most was a photograph of +an obstacle-race, in which the runners had to mount and climb over a +wagon placed obtrusively sideways across the course on purpose to +baffle them. This picture was taken from a few yards in the rear; +and the athletes were seen in it in the most varied attitudes. Some +of them were just climbing up one side of the wagon: others had +mounted to the top ledge of the body: and one, standing on the +further edge, was in the very act of leaping down to the ground in +front of him. He was bent double, to spring, with a stoop like a +hunchback, and balanced himself with one hand held tightly behind +him. + +As my eye fell on that figure, a cold thrill ran through me. For a +moment I only knew something important had happened. Next instant I +realised what the thrill portended. I could only see the man's back, +to be sure, but I knew him in a second. I had no doubt as to who it +was. This was HIM--the murderer! + +Yes, yes! There could be no mistaking that arched round back that +had haunted me so long in my waking dreams. I knew him at sight. It +was the man I had seen on the night of the murder getting out of the +window! + +Perhaps I was overwrought. Perhaps my fancy ran away with me. But I +didn't doubt for a second. I rose from my seat, and in a tremulous +voice called Jane into the room. Without one word I laid both +pictures down before her together. Jane glanced first at the one, +then turned quickly to the other. A sharp little cry broke from her +lips all unbidden. She saw it as fast and as instinctively as I had +done. + +"That's him!" she exclaimed, aghast, and as pale as a sheet. "That's +him, right enough, Miss Una. That's the very same back! That's the +very same hand! That's the man! That's the murderer!" + +And indeed, this unanimity was sufficiently startling. For nothing +could have been more different than the dress in the two cases. In +the murder scene, the man seemed to wear a tweed suit and +knickerbockers,--he was indistinct, as I said before, against the +blurred light of the window: while in the athletic scene, he wore +just a thin jersey and running-drawers, cut short at the knee, with +his arms and legs bare, and his muscles contracted. Yet for all +that, we both knew him for the same man at once. That stooping back +was unmistakable; that position of the hand was characteristic and +unique. We were sure he was the same man. I trembled with agitation. +I had a clue to the murderer! + +Yet, strange to say, that wasn't the first thought that occurred to +my mind. In the relief of the moment, I looked up into Jane's eyes, +and exclaimed with a sigh of profound relief: + +"Then you see how mistaken you were about the hands and Aunt Emma!" + +Jane looked close at the hand in the photograph once more. + +"Well, it's curious," she said, slowly. "That's a man, sure enough: +but he'd ought to be a Moore. The palm's your aunt's as clear as +ever you could paint it!" + +I glanced over her shoulder. She was perfectly right. It was a man +beyond all doubt, the figure on the wagon. Yet the hand was Aunt +Emma's, every line and every stroke of it; except, of course, the +scars. Those, I saw at a glance, were wholly wanting. + +And now I had really a clue to the murderer. + +Yet how slight a clue! Just a photograph of men's backs. What men? +When and where? It was an athletic meeting. Of what club or society? +That was the next question now I had to answer. Instinctively I made +up my mind to answer it myself, without giving any notice to the +police of my discovery. + +Perhaps I should never have been able to answer it at all but for +one of the photographs which, as I thought, though lying loose by +itself, formed part of the same series. It represented the end of a +hundred-yard race, with the winners coming in at the tape by a +pavilion with a flag-staff. On the staff a big flag was flying +loosely in the wind. The folds hid half of the words on its centre +from sight. But this much at least I could read: + +"ER...OM..OY...LETI...UB." + +I gazed at them long and earnestly. After a minute or two of +thought, I made out the last two words. The inscription must surely +be Something-or-other Athletic Club. + +But what was "Er... om.. oy..."? That question staggered me. Gazing +harder at it than ever, I could come to no conclusion. It was the +name of a place, no doubt: but what place, I knew not. + +"Er"? No, "Ber": just a suspicion of a B came round the corner of a +fold. If B was the first letter, I might possibly identify it. + +I took the photograph down to Aunt Emma, without telling her what I +meant. She couldn't bear to think I was ever engaged in thinking of +my First State at all. + +"Can you read the inscription on that flag, auntie?" I asked. "It's +an old photograph I picked up in the attic at The Grange, and I'd +like to know, if I could, at what place it was taken." + +Aunt Emma gazed at it long and earnestly. Her colour never changed. +Then she shook her head quietly. + +"I don't know the place," she said; "and I don't know the name. I +can't quite make it out. That's E, and R, and O. You see, the +letters in between might be almost anything." + +I wasn't going to be put off, however, with the port thus in sight. +One fact was almost certain. Wherever that pavilion might be, the +murderer was there on the day unknown when those photo-graphs were +taken. And whatever that day might be, my father and the murderer +were there together. That brought the two into connection, and +brought me one step nearer a solution than ever the police had been; +for hitherto no one had even pretended to have the slightest clue to +the personality of the man who jumped out of the window. + +I went into the library and took down the big atlas. Opening the map +of England and Wales, I began a hopeless search, county by county, +from Northumberland downward, for any town or village that would fit +these mysterious letters. It was a wild and foolish idea. In the +first place not a quarter of the villages were marked in the map; +and in the second place, my brain soon got muddled and dazed with +trying to fit in the names with the letters on the flag. Two hours +had passed away, and I'd only got as far down as Lancashire and +Durham. And, most probably even so, I would never come upon it. + +Then suddenly, a bright idea broke on my brain at once. The Index! +The Index! Presumably, as no fold seemed to obscure the first words, +the name began with what looked like a B. That was always something. + +A man would have thought of that at once, of course: but then, I +have the misfortune to be only a woman. + +I turned to the Index in haste, and looked down it with hurried +eyes. Almost sooner than I could have hoped, the riddle unread +itself. "Ber-, Berb-, Berc-, Berd-," I read out: "Berkshire: Berham: +Berhampore: that won't do: Berlin: Berling: Bernina: Berry--what's +that? Oh, great heavens!"--my brain reeled--"Berry Pomeroy!" + +It was as clear as day. How could I have missed it before? There it +seemed to stand out almost legible on the flagstaff. I read it now +with ease: "Berry Pomeroy Athletic Club." + +I looked up the map once more, following the lines with my fingers, +till I found the very place where the name was printed. A village in +Devonshire, not far from Torquay. Yes! That's it; Berry Pomeroy. The +murderer was there on the day of that athletic meeting! + +My heart came up into my mouth with mingled horror and triumph. I +felt like a bloodhound who gets on the trail of his man. I would +track him down now, no doubt--my father's murderer! + +I had no resentment against him, no desire for vengeance. But I had +a burning wish to free myself from this environing mystery. + +I wouldn't tell the police or the inspector, however, what clue I +had obtained. I'd find it all out for myself without anyone's help. +I remembered what Dr. Marten had said, and determined to be wise. +I'd work on my own lines till all was found out: and then, be it who +it might, I sternly resolved I'd let justice be done on him. + +So I said nothing even to Jane about the discovery I'd just made. I +said nothing to anybody till we sat down at dinner. Then, in the +course of conversation, I got on the subject of Devonshire. + +"Auntie," I ventured to ask at last, in a very casual way, "did I +ever, so far as you know, go anywhere near a place called Berry +Pomeroy?" + +Aunt Emma gave a start. + +"Oh, darling, why do you ask?" she cried. + +"You don't mean to say you remember that, do you? What do you want +to know for, Una? You can't possibly recollect your Torquay visit, +surely!" + +I trembled all over. Then I was on the right track! + +"Was I ever at Torquay?" I asked once more, as firmly as I could. +"And when I was there, did I go over one day to Berry Pomeroy?" + +Aunt Emma grew all at once as white as death. + +"This is wonderful!" she cried in an agitated voice. "This is +wonderful--wonderful! If you can remember that, my child, you can +remember anything." + +"I DON'T remember it auntie," I answered, not liking to deceive her. +"To tell you the truth, I simply guessed at it. But when and why was +I at Torquay? Please tell me. And did I go to Berry Pomeroy?" For I +stuck to my point, and meant to get it out of her. + +Aunt Emma gazed at me fixedly. + +"You went to Torquay, dear," she said in a very slow voice, "in the +spring of the same year your poor father was killed: that's more +than four years ago. The Willie Moores live at Torquay, and several +more of your cousins. You went to stop with Willie's wife, and you +stayed five weeks. I don't know whether you ever went over to Berry +Pomeroy. You may have, and you mayn't: it's within an easy driving +distance. Minnie Moore has often written to ask me whether you could +go there again; Minnie was always fond of you, and thinks you'd +remember her: but I've been afraid to allow you, for fear it should +recall sad scenes. She's about your own age, Minnie is; and she's a +daughter of Willie Moore, who's my own first cousin, and of course +your dear mother's." + +I never hesitated a moment. I was strung up too tightly by that +time. + +"Auntie dear," I said quietly, "I go to-morrow to Torquay. I must +know all now. I must hunt up these people." + +Auntie knew from my tone it was no use trying to stand in my way any +longer. + +"Very well, dear," she said resignedly. "I don't believe it's good +for you: but you must do as you like. You have your father's will, +Una. You were always headstrong." + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +THE VISION RECURS + + +I hated asking auntie questions, they seemed to worry and distress +her so; but that evening, in view of my projected visit to Torquay, +I was obliged to cross-examine her rather closely about many things. +I wanted to know about my Torquay relations, and as far as possible +about my mother's family. In the end I learned that the Willie +Moores were cousins of ours on my mother's side who had never +quarrelled with my father, like Aunt Emma, and through whom alone +accordingly, in the days of my First State, Aunt Emma was able to +learn anything about me. They had a house at Torquay, and +connections all around; for the Moores were Devonshire people. Aunt +Emma was very anxious, if I went down there at all, I should stop +with Mrs. Moore: for Minnie would be so grieved, she said, if I went +to an hotel or took private lodgings. But I wouldn't hear of that +myself. I knew nothing of the Moores--in my present condition--and I +didn't like to trust myself in the hands of those who to me were +perfect strangers. So I decided on going to the Imperial Hotel, and +calling on the Moores quietly to pursue my investigation. + +Another question I asked in the course of the evening. I had +wondered about it often, and now, in these last straits, curiosity +overcame me. + +"Aunt Emma," I said unexpectedly after a pause, without one word of +introduction, "how ever did you get those scars on your hand? You've +never told me." + +In a moment, Aunt Emma blushed suddenly crimson like a girl of +eighteen. + +"Una," she answered very gravely, in a low strange tone, "oh, don't +ask me about that, dear. Don't ask me about that. You could never +understand it.... I got them... in climbing over a high stone +wall... a high stone wall, with bits of glass stuck on top of it." + +In spite of her prohibition, I couldn't help asking one virtual +question more. I gave a start of horror: + +"Not the wall at The Grange!" I cried. "Oh, Aunt Emma, how +wonderful!" + +She gazed at me, astonished. + +"Yes, the wall at The Grange," she said simply. "But I don't know +how you guessed it.... Oh, Una, don't talk to me any more about +these things, I implore you. You can't think how they grieve me. +They distress me unspeakably." + +Much as I longed to know, I couldn't ask her again after that. She +was trembling like an aspen-leaf. For some minutes we sat and +looked at the fireplace in silence. + +Then curiosity overcame me again. + +"Only one question more, auntie," I said. "When I came to you first, +you were at home here at Barton. You didn't come to Woodbury to +fetch me after the murder. You didn't attend the inquest. I've often +wondered at that. Why didn't you bring me yourself? Why didn't you +hurry to nurse me as soon as you heard they'd shot my father?" + +Aunt Emma gazed at me again with a face like a sheet. + +"Darling," she said, quivering, "I was ill. I was in bed. I was +obliged to stay away. I'd hurt myself badly a little before.... Oh, +Una, leave off! If you go on like this, you'll drive me mad. Say no +more, I implore of you." + +I couldn't think what this meant; but as auntie wished it, I held my +peace, all inwardly trembling with suppressed excitement. + +That night, when I went up to bed, I lay awake long, thinking to +myself of the Australian scene. In the silence of the night it came +back to me vividly. Rain pattered on the roof, and helped me to +remember it. I could see the blue-gum trees waving their long +ribbon-like leaves in the wind: I could see the cottage, the +verandah, my mother, our dog: nay, even, I remembered now, with a +burst of recollection, his name was Carlo. The effort was more truly +a recollection than before: it was part of myself: I felt aware it +was really I myself, not another, who had seen all this, and lived +and moved in it. + +Slowly I fell asleep, and passed from thinking to dreaming. My dream +was but a prolongation of the thoughts I had been turning over in my +waking mind. I was still in Australia; still on the verandah of our +wooden house; and my mamma was there, and papa beside her. I knew it +was papa; for I held his hand and played with him. But he was so +much altered, so grave and severe; though he smiled at me +good-humouredly. Mamma was sitting behind, with baby on her lap. It +seemed to me quite natural she should be there with baby. The scene +was so distinct--very vivid and clear. It persisted for many +minutes, perhaps even hours. It burnt itself into my brain. At last, +it woke me up by its very intensity. + +As I woke, a great many thoughts crowded in upon me all at once. +This time I knew instantly it was no mere dream, but a true +recollection. Yet what a strange recollection! how unexpected! how +incomprehensible! How much in it to settle! how much to investigate +and hunt up and inquire about! + +In the first place, though I was still in my dream a little girl, +much time must have elapsed since the earlier vision; for my papa +looked far older, and graver, and sterner. He had more hair about +his face, too, a long brown beard and heavy moustache; and when I +gazed hard at him mentally, I could recognise the likeness with the +white-bearded man who lay dead on the floor: while in my former +recollection, I could scarcely make out any resemblance of the +features. This showed that the second scene came long after the +first: my father must by that time have begun to resemble his later +self. A weird feeling stole over me. Was I going to relive my +previous life, piecemeal? Was the past going to unroll itself in +slow but regular panorama to my sleeping vision? Was my First State +to become known like this in successive scenes to my Second? + +But that wasn't all. There were strange questions to decide, too, +about this new dream of dead days. What could be the meaning of that +mysterious baby? She seemed to be so vivid, so natural, so real; her +presence there was so much a pure matter of course to me, that I +couldn't for a moment separate her from the rest of the Picture. I +REMEMBERED the baby, now; as I remembered my mother, and my father, +and Australia. There was no room for doubt as to that. The baby was +an integral part of my real recollection. Floating across the dim +ocean of years, I was certain that night I had once lived in such a +scene, with my mamma, and baby. + +Yet oh, what baby? I never had a brother or sister of my own, except +the half-sister that died--the clergyman's child, Mary Wharton. And +Mary, from what I had learned from Aunt Emma and others, must have +died when I was only just five months old, immediately before we +left Australia. How, then, could I remember her, even in this +exalted mental state of trance or dream? And, above all, how could I +remember a far earlier scene, when my papa was younger, when his +face was smooth, and when there was no other baby? + +This mystery only heightened the other mysteries which surrounded my +life. I was surfeited with them now. In very despair and +listlessness, I turned round on my side, and dozed dreamily off +again, unable to grapple with it. + +But still that scene haunted me. And still, even in sleep, I asked +myself over and over again, "How on earth can this be? What's the +meaning of the baby?" + +Perhaps it was a little sister that died young, whom I never had +heard of. And perhaps not. In a life such as mine, new surprises are +always possible. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE MOORES OF TORQUAY + + +Strange to say, in spite of everything, my sleep refreshed me. I +woke up in the morning strong and vigorous--thank goodness, I have +physically a magnificent constitution--and packed my box, with +Jane's help, for my Torquay expedition. + +I went up to London and down to Torquay alone, though Jane offered +to accompany me. I was learning to be self-reliant. It suited my +plans better. Nobody could bear this burden for me but myself; and +the sooner I learnt to bear it my own way, the happier for me. + +At Torquay station, to my great surprise, a fresh-looking girl of my +own age rushed up to me suddenly, and kissed me without one word of +warning. She was a very pretty girl, pink-cheeked and hazel-eyed: +and as she kissed me, she seized both my hands in hers, and cried +out to me frankly: + +"Why, there you are, Una dear! Cousin Emma telegraphed us what train +you'd arrive by; so I've driven down to meet you. And now, you're +coming up with us this very minute in the pony-carriage." + +"You're Minnie Moore, I suppose?" I said, gazing at her admiringly. +Her sweet, frank smile and apple-blossom cheek somehow inspired me +with confidence. + +She looked back at me quite distressed. Tears rose at once into her +eyes with true Celtic suddenness. + +"Oh, Una," she cried, deeply hurt and drawing back into her shell, +"don't tell me you don't know me! Why, I'm Minnie! Minnie!" + +My heart went out to her at once. I took her hand in mine again. + +"Minnie dear," I said softly, quite remorseful for my mistake, "you +must remember what has happened to me, and not be angry. I've +forgotten everything, even my own past life. I've forgotten that I +ever before set eyes upon you. But, my dear, there's one thing I've +NOT in a way forgotten; and that is, that I loved you and love you +dearly. And I 'll give you a proof of it. When I started, I knew +none of you; and I told Aunt Emma I wouldn't go among strangers. The +moment I see you, I know you're no stranger, but a very dear cousin. +When I've forgotten MYSELF, how can I remember YOU? But I'll go up +with you at once. And I'll countermand the room I ordered by +telegram at the Imperial." + +The tears stood fuller in Minnie's eyes than before. She clasped my +hand hard. Her pretty lips trembled. + +"Una darling," she said, "we always were friends, and we always +shall be. If you love me, that's all. You're a darling. I love you." + +I looked at her sweet face, and knew it was true. And oh, I was so +glad to have a new friend--an old friend, already! For somehow, as +always, while the intellectual recollection had faded, the emotion +survived. I felt as if I'd known Minnie Moore for years, though I +never remembered to have seen her in my life till that minute. + +Well, I remained at the Moores' for a week, and felt quite at home +there. They were all very nice, Cousin Willie, and Aunt Emily (she +made me call her aunt; she said I'd always done so), and Minnie, and +all of them. They were really dear people; and blood, after all, is +thicker than water. But I made no haste to push inquiries just at +first. I preferred to feel my way. I wanted to find out what they +knew, if anything, about Berry Pomeroy. + +The first time I ventured to mention the subject to Minnie, she gave +a very queer smile--a smile of maidenly badinage. + +"Well, you remember THAT, any way," she said, in a teasing little +way, looking down at me and laughing. "I thought you'd remember +that. I must say you enjoyed yourself wonderfully at Berry Pomeroy!" + +"Remember what?" I cried, all eagerness; for I saw she attached some +special importance to the recollection. And yet, it was terrible she +should jest about the clue to my father's murderer! + +Minnie looked arch. When she looked arch, she was charming. + +"Why, I never saw you prettier or more engaging in your life than +you were that day," she said evasively, as if trying to pique me. +"And you flirted so much, too! And everybody admired you so. +Everybody on the grounds... especially one person!" + +I looked up at her in surprise. I was in my own room, seated by the +dressing-table, late at night, when we'd gone up to bed; and Minnie +was beside me, standing up, with her bedroom candle in that pretty +white little hand of hers. + +"What do you mean?" I exclaimed eagerly. "Was it a dance--or a +picnic?" + +"Oh, you know very well," Minnie went on teasingly, "though you +pretend you forget. HE was there, don't you know. You must remember +HIM, if you've forgotten all the rest of your previous life. You say +you remember the appropriate emotions. Well, he was an emotion: at +least, you thought so. It was an Athletic Club Meeting: and Dr. Ivor +was there. He went across on his bicycle." + +I gave a start of surprise. Minnie looked down at me half +maliciously. + +"There, you see," she said archly again, "at Dr. Ivor you change +colour. I told you you'd remember him!" + +I grew pale with astonishment. + +"Minnie dear," I said, holding her hands very tight in my own, "it +wasn't that, I assure you. I've forgotten him, utterly. If ever I +knew a Dr. Ivor, if ever I flirted with him, as you seem to imply, +he's gone clean out of my head. His name stirs no chord--recalls +absolutely nothing. But I want to know about that Athletic Meeting. +Was my poor father there that day? And did he take a set of +photographs?" + +Minnie clapped her hands triumphantly. + +"I KNEW you remembered!" she cried. "Of course, Cousin Vivian was +there. We drove over in a break. You MUST remember that. And he took +a whole lot of instantaneous photographs." + +My hand trembled violently in my cousin's. I felt I was now on the +very eve of a great discovery. + +"Minnie," I said, tentatively, "do you think your papa would drive +us over some day and--and show us the place again?" + +"Of course he would, dear," Minnie answered, with a gentle pressure +of my hand. "He'd be only too delighted. Whatever you choose. You +know you were always such a favourite of daddy's." + +I knew nothing of the sort; but I was glad to learn it. I drew +Minnie out a little more about the Athletics and my visit to Berry +Pomeroy. She wouldn't tell me much: she was too illusive and +indefinite: she never could get the notion out of her head, somehow, +that I remembered all about it, and was only pretending to +forgetfulness. But I gathered from what she said, that Dr. Ivor and +I must have flirted a great deal; or, at least, that he must have +paid me a good lot of attention. My father didn't like it, Minnie +said; he thought Dr. Ivor wasn't well enough off to marry me. He was +a distant cousin of ours, of course--everything was always "of +course" with that dear bright Minnie--what, didn't I know that? Oh, +yes, his mother was one of the Moores of Barnstaple, cousin Edward's +people. His name was Courtenay Moore Ivor, you know--though I knew +nothing of the sort. And he was awfully clever. And, oh, so +handsome! + +"Is he at Berry Pomeroy still?" I asked, trembling, thinking this +would be a good person to get information from about the people at +the Athletic Sports. + +"Oh dear, no," Minnie answered, looking hard at me, curiously. "He +was never at Berry Pomeroy. He had a practice at Babbicombe. He's in +Canada now, you know. He went over six months after Cousin Vivian's +death. I think, dear,"--she hesitated,--"he never QUITE got over +your entirely forgetting him, even if you forgot your whole past +history." + +This was a curious romance to me, that Minnie thus sprang on me--a +romance of my own past life of which I myself knew nothing. + +We sat late talking, and I could see Minnie was very full indeed of +Dr. Ivor. Over and over again she recurred to his name, and always +as though she thought it might rouse some latent chord in my memory. +But nothing came of it. If ever I had cared for Dr. Ivor at all, +that feeling had passed away utterly with the rest of my +experiences. + +When Minnie rose to go, I took her hand once more in mine. As I did +so, I started. Something about it seemed strangely familiar. I +looked at it close with a keen glance. Why, this was curious! It was +Aunt Emma's hand: it was my mother's hand: it was the hand in my +mental Picture: it was the hand of the murderer! + +"It's just like auntie's," I said with an effort, seeing Minnie +noticed my start. + +She looked at it and laughed. + +"The Moore hand," she said gaily. "We all have it, except you. It's +awfully persistent." + +I turned it over in front and examined the palm. At sight of it my +brain reeled. This was surely magic! Minnie Moore's hand, too, was +scarred over with cuts, exactly like Aunt Emma's! + +"Why, how on earth did you do that?" I cried, thunderstruck at the +discovery. + +But Minnie only laughed again, a bright girlish laugh. + +"Climbing over that beastly wall at The Grange," she said with a +merry look. "Oh, what fun we did have! We climbed it together. We +were dreadful tomboys in those days, dear, you and I: but you were +luckier than I was, and didn't cut yourself with the bottle-glass." + +This was too surprising to be passed over unnoticed. When Minnie was +gone, I lay awake and pondered about it. Had all the Moores got +scars on their hands, I wondered? And how many people, I asked +myself, had cut themselves time and again in climbing over that +barricaded garden-wall of my father's? + +The Moore hand might be hereditary, but not surely the scars. Was +the murderer, then, a Moore, and was that the meaning of Dr. +Marten's warning? + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE + + +Two days later, Cousin Willie drove us over to Berry Pomeroy. The +lion of the place is the castle, of course; but Minnie had told him +beforehand I wanted, for reasons of my own, to visit the +cricket-field where the sports were held "the year Dr. Ivor won the +mile race, you remember." So we went there straight. As soon as we +entered, I recognised the field at once, and the pavilion, and the +woods, as being precisely the same as those presented in the +photograph. But I got no further than that. The captain of the +cricket-club was on the ground that day, and I managed to get into +conversation with him, and strolled off in the grounds. There I +showed him the photograph, and asked if he could identify the man +climbing over the wagon: but he said he couldn't recognise him. +Somebody or other from Torquay, perhaps; not a regular resident. The +figures were so small, and so difficult to make sure about. If I'd +leave him the photograph, perhaps--but at that I drew back, for I +didn't want anybody, least of all at Torquay, to know what quest I +was engaged upon. + +We drove back, a merry party enough, in spite of my failure. Minnie +was always so jolly, and her mirth was contagious. She talked all +the way still of Dr. Ivor, half-teasing me. It was all very well my +pretending not to remember, she said; but why did I want to see the +cricket-field if it wasn't for that? Poor Courtenay! if only he +knew, how delighted he'd be to know he wasn't forgotten! For he +really took it to heart, my illness--she always called it my +illness, and so I suppose it was. From the day I lost my memory, +nothing seemed to go right with him; and he was never content till +he went and buried himself somewhere in the wilds of Canada. + +That evening again, I sat with Minnie in my room. I was depressed +and distressed. I didn't want to cry before Minnie, but I could have +cried with good heart for sheer vexation. Of course I couldn't bear +to go showing the photograph to all the world, and letting everybody +see I'd made myself a sort of amateur detective. They would mistake +my motives so. And yet I didn't know how I was ever to find out my +man any other way. It was that or nothing. I made up my mind I would +ask Cousin Willie. + +I took out the photograph, as if unintentionally, when I went to my +box, and laid it down with my curling-tongs on the table close by +Minnie. Minnie took it up abstractedly and looked at it with an +indefinite gaze. + +"Why, this is the cricket-field!" she cried, as soon as she +collected her senses. "One of your father's experiments. The +earliest acmegraphs. How splendidly they come out! See, that's Sir +Everard at the bottom; and there's little Jack Hillier above; and +this on one side's Captain Brooks; and there, in front of all--well, +you know HIM anyhow, Una. Now, don't pretend you forget! That's +Courtenay Ivor!" + +Her finger was on the man who stood poised ready to jump. With an +awful recoil, I drew back and suppressed a scream. It was on the tip +of my tongue to cry out, "Why, that's my father's murderer!" + +But, happily, with a great effort of will I restrained myself. I saw +it all at a glance. That, then, was the meaning of Dr. Marten's +warning! No wonder, I thought, the shock had disorganised my whole +brain. If Minnie was right, I was in love once with that man. And I +must have seen my lover murder my father! + +For I didn't doubt, from what Minnie said, I had really once loved +Dr. Ivor. Horrible and ghastly as it might be to realise it, I +didn't doubt it was the truth. I had once loved the very man I was +now bent on pursuing as a criminal and a murderer! + +"You're sure that's him, Minnie?" I cried, trying to conceal my +agitation. "You're sure that's Courtenay Ivor, the man stooping on +the wagon-top?" + +Minnie looked at me, smiling. She thought I was asking for a very +different reason. + +"Yes, that's him, right enough, dear," she said. "I could tell him +among a thousand. Why, the Moore hand alone would be quite enough to +know him by. It's just like my own. We've all of us got it--except +yourself. I always said you weren't one of us. You're a regular born +Callingham." + +I gazed at her fixedly. I could hardly speak. + +"Oh, Minnie!" I cried once more, "have you ... have you any +photograph of him?" + +"No, we haven't, dear," Minnie answered. + +"That was a fad of Courtenay's, you know. Wherever he went, he'd +never be photographed. He was annoyed that day that your father +should have taken him unawares. He hated being 'done,' he said. He's +so handsome and so nice, but he's not a bit conceited. And he was +such a splendid bicyclist! He rode over and back on his bicycle that +day, and then ran in all the races as if it were nothing." + +A light burst over me at once. This was circumstantial evidence. The +murderer who disappeared as if by magic the moment his crime was +committed must have come and gone all unseen, no doubt, on his +bicycle. He must have left it under the window till his vile deed +was done, and then leapt out upon it in a second and dashed off +whence he came like a flash of lightning. + +It was a premeditated crime, in that case, not the mere casual +result of a sudden quarrel. + +I must find out this man now, were it only to relieve my own sense +of mystery. + +"Minnie," I said once more, screwing up my courage to ask, "where's +Dr. Ivor now? I mean--that is to say--in what part of Canada?" + +Minnie looked at me and laughed. + +"There, I told you so!" she said, merrily. "It's not the least bit +of use your pretending you're not in love with him, Una. Why, just +look how you tremble! You're as white as a ghost! And then you say +you don't care for poor Courtenay! I forget the exact name of the +place where he lives, but I've got it in my desk, and I can tell you +to-morrow.--Oh, yes; it's Palmyra, on the Canada Pacific. I suppose +you want to write to him. Or perhaps you mean to go out and offer +yourself bodily." + +It was awful having to bottle up the truth in one's own heart, and +to laugh and jest like this; but I endured it somehow. + +"No, it's not that," I said gravely. "I've other reasons of my own +for asking his address, Minnie. I want to go out there, it's true; +but not because I cherish the faintest pleasing recollection of Dr. +Ivor in any way." + +Minnie scanned me over in surprise. + +"Well, how you ARE altered, Una!" she cried. "I love you, dear, and +like you every bit as much as ever. But you've changed so much. I +don't think you're at all what you used to be. You're so grave and +sombre." + +"No wonder, Minnie," I exclaimed, bursting gladly into tears--the +excuse was such a relief--"no wonder, when you think how much I've +passed through!" + +Minnie flung her arms around my neck, and kissed me over and over +again. + +"Oh, dear!" she cried, melting. "What have I done? What have I said? +I ought never to have spoken so. It was cruel of me--cruel, Una +dear. I shall stop here to-night, and sleep with you." + +"Oh, thank you, darling!" I cried. "Minnie, that IS good of you. I'm +so awfully glad. For to-morrow I must be thinking of getting ready +for Canada." + +"Canada!" Minnie exclaimed, alarmed. "You're not really going to +Canada! Oh, Una, you're joking! You don't mean to say you're going +out there to find him!" + +I took her hand in mine, and held it up in the air above her head +solemnly. + +"Dear cousin," I said, "I love you. But you must promise me this one +thing. Whatever may happen, give me your sacred word of honour +you'll never tell anybody what we've said here to-night. You'll +kill me if you do. I don't want any living soul on earth to know of +it." + +I spoke so seriously, Minnie felt it was important. + +"I promise you," she answered, growing suddenly far graver than her +wont. "Oh, Una, I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, but no +torture on earth shall ever wring a word of it from me!" + +So I went to bed in her arms, and cried myself to sleep, thinking +with my latest breath, in a tremor of horror, that I'd found it at +last. Courtenay Ivor was the name of my father's murderer! + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +MY WELCOME TO CANADA + + +The voyage across the Atlantic was long and uneventful. No whales, +no icebergs, no excitement of any sort. My fellow-passengers said +it was as dull as it was calm. But as for me, I had plenty to occupy +my mind meanwhile. Strange things had happened in the interval, and +were happening to me on the way. Strange things, in part, of my own +internal history. + +For before I left England, as I sat with Aunt Emma in her little +drawing-room at Barton-on-the-Sea, discussing my plans and devising +routes westward, she made me, quite suddenly, an unexpected +confession. + +"Una," she said, after a long pause, "you haven't told me, my dear, +why you're going to Canada. And I don't want to ask you. I know +pretty well. We needn't touch upon that. You're going to hunt up +some supposed clue to the murderer." + +"Perhaps so, Auntie," I said oracularly: "and perhaps not." + +For I didn't want it to get talked about and be put into all the +newspapers. And I knew now if I wanted to keep it out, I must first +be silent. + +Aunt Emma drew nearer and took my hand in hers. At the same time, +she held up the other scarred and lacerated palm. + +"Do you know when I got that, Una?" she asked with a sudden burst. +"Well, I'll tell you, my child.... It was the night of your father's +death. And I got it climbing over the wall at The Grange, to escape +detection." + +My blood ran cold once more. What on earth could this mean? Had +Auntie--? But no. I had the evidence of my own senses that it was +Courtenay Ivor. I'd tracked him down now. There was no room for +doubt. The man on the wagon was the man who fired the shot. I could +have sworn to that bent back, of my own knowledge, among a thousand. + +I hadn't long to wait, however. Auntie went on after a short pause. + +"I was there," she said, "by accident, trying for once to see you." + +I looked at her fixedly still, and still I said nothing. + +"I was stopping with friends at the time, ten miles off from +Woodbury," Aunt Emma went on, smoothing my hand with hers, "and I +longed so to see you. I came over by train that day, and stopped +late about the town in hopes I might meet you in the street. But I +was disappointed. Towards evening I ventured even to go into the +grounds of The Grange, and look about everywhere on the chance that +I might see you. Perhaps your father might be out. I went round +towards the window, which I now know to be the library. As I went, I +saw a bicycle leaning up against the wall by the window. I thought +that must be some visitor, but still I went on. But just as I +reached the window, I saw a flash of electric light; and by the +light, I could make out your father's head and beard. He looked as +if he were talking angrily and loudly to somebody. The window was +open. I was afraid to stop longer. In a sudden access of fear, I ran +across the shrubbery towards the garden-wall. To tell you the truth, +I was horribly frightened. Why, I don't know; for nothing had +happened as yet. I suppose it was just the dusk and the mean sense +of intrusion." + +She paused and wiped her brow. I sat still, and listened eagerly. + +"Presently," she went on, very low, "as I ran and ran, I heard +behind me a loud crash--a sound as of a pistol-shot. That terrified +me still more. I thought I was being pursued. Perhaps they took me +for a burglar. In the agony of my terror, I rushed at the wall in +mad haste, and climbed over it anyhow. In climbing, I tore my hand, +as you see, and made myself bleed, oh, terribly! However, I +persevered, and got down on the other side, with my clothes very +little the worse for the scramble. And, fortunately, I was carrying +a small light dust-cloak: I put it on at once, and it covered up +everything. Then I began to walk along the road as fast as I could +in the direction of the station. As I did so, a bicycle shot out +from the gate in the opposite direction, going as hard as it could +spin, simply flying towards Whittingham. Three minutes later, a man +came up to me, breathless. It was the gardener at The Grange, I +believe. + +"'Have you seen anybody go this way?' he asked. 'A young man, +running hard? A young man in knickerbockers?' + +"'N--no,' I answered, trembling; for I was afraid to confess. 'Not a +soul has gone past!' + +"Of course, I didn't know of the murder as yet; and I only wanted to +get off unperceived to the station. + +"I'd bound up my hand in my handkerchief by that time, and held it +tight under my cloak. I went back by train unnoticed, and returned +to my friends' house. I hadn't even told them I was going to +Woodbury at all. I pretended I'd been spending the day at +Whittingham. Next morning, I read in the paper of your father's +murder." + +I stared hard at Aunt Emma. + +"Why didn't you tell me this long ago?" I cried, in an agony of +suspense. "Why didn't you give evidence and say so at the inquest?" + +"How could I?" Aunt Emma answered, looking back at me appealingly. +"The circumstances were too suspicious. As it was, everybody was +running after the young man in knickerbockers. Nobody took any +notice of a little old lady in a long grey dust-cloak. But if once +I'd confessed and shown my wounded hand, who would ever have +believed I'd nothing to do with the murder?--except you, perhaps, +Una. Oh no: I came back here to my own home as fast as ever I could; +for I was really ill. I took to my bed at once. And as nobody called +me to give evidence at the inquest, I said nothing to anybody." + +"But the bicycle!" I cried. "The bicycle! You ought to have +mentioned that. You were the only one who saw it. It was a clue to +the murderer." + +"If I'd told," Aunt Emma answered, "I should never have been allowed +to take charge of you at all. I thought my one clear duty was to my +sister's child: it was to take care of your health in your shattered +condition. And even now, Una, I tell you only for this: if you find +out anything new, in Canada or here, try not to drag me into it. I +couldn't stand the strain. Cross-examination would kill me." + +"I'll remember it, auntie," I said, wearied out with excitement. +"But I think you did wrong, all the same. In a case like this, it's +everybody's first duty to tell all he knows, in the interests of +justice." + +However, this confession of Aunt Emma's rendered one thing more +certain to me than ever before. I was sure I was on the right track +now, after Courtenay Ivor. The bicycle clinched the proof. + +But I said nothing as yet to the police, or to my friendly +Inspector. I was determined to hunt the whole thing up on my own +account first, and then deliver my criminal, when fully secured, to +the laws of my country. + +Not that I was vindictive. Not that I wanted to punish the man. No; +I shrank terribly from the task. But to relieve myself from this +persistent sense of surrounding mystery, and to free others from +suspicion, I felt compelled to discover him. It seemed to me like a +duty laid upon me from without. I dared not shirk it. + +On the way out to Quebec, the sea seemed to revive strange memories. +I had never crossed it before, except long, long ago, on my way home +from Australia. And now that I sat on deck, in a wicker-chair, and +looked at the deep dark waves by myself, I began once more, in vague +snatches, to recall that earlier voyage. It came back to me all of +itself. And that was quite in keeping with my previous recollections. +My past life, I felt sure, was unfolding itself slowly to me in +regular succession, from childhood onward. + +Sitting there on the quarter-deck, gazing hard at the waves, I +remembered how I had played on a similar ship years and years +before, a little girl in short frocks, with my mamma in a long +folding-chair beside me. I could see my mamma, with a sort of +frightened smile on her poor pale face; and she looked so unhappy. +My papa was there too, somewhat older and greyer--very unlike the +papa of my first Australian picture. His face was so much hairier. +Mamma cried a good deal at times, and papa tried to comfort her. +Besides, what struck me most, there was no more baby. I wasn't even +allowed to speak about baby. That subject was tabooed--perhaps +because it always made mamma cry so much, and press me hard to her +bosom. At any rate, I remembered how once I spoke of baby to some +fellow-passenger in the saloon, and papa was very angry, and caught +me up in his arms and took me down to my berth; and there I had to +stop all day by myself (though it was rolling hard) and could have +no fruit for dinner, because I'd been naughty. I was strictly +enjoined never to mention baby to anyone again, either then or at +any time. I was to forget all about her. + +Day after day, as we sailed on, reminiscences of the same sort +crowded thicker and thicker upon me. Never reminiscences of my later +life, but always early scenes brought up by distinct suggestion +of that Australian voyage. When we passed a ship, it burst upon me +how we'd passed such ships before: when there was fire-drill on +deck, I remembered having assisted years earlier at just such +fire-drill. The whole past came back like a dream, so that I could +reconstruct now the first five or six years of my life almost +entirely. And yet, even so there was a gap, a puzzle, a difficulty +somehow. I couldn't make the chronology of this slow-returning +memory fit in as it ought with the chronology of the facts given to +me by Aunt Emma and the Moores of Torquay. There was a constant +discrepancy. It seemed to me that I must be a year or two older at +least than they made me out. I remembered the voyage home far too +well for my age. I fancied I went back further in my Australian +recollections than would be possible from the dates Aunt Emma +assigned me. + +Slowly, as I compared these mental pictures of my first childhood +one with the other, a strange fact seemed to loom forth, +incomprehensible, incredible. When first it struck me, all unnerved +as I was, my reason staggered before it. But it was true, none the +less: quite true, I felt certain. Had I had two papas, then?--for +the pictures differed so. Was one, clean-shaven, trim, and in a +linen coat, the same as the other, older, graver, and sterner, with +much hair on his face, and a rough sort of look, whom I saw more +persistently in my later childish memories? I could hardly believe +it. One man couldn't alter so greatly in a few short years. Yet I +thought of them both alike quite unquestioningly as papa: I thought +of them too, I fancied, in a dim sort of way, as one and the same +person. + +These fresh mysteries occupied my mind for the greater part of that +uneventful voyage. To throw them off, I laughed and talked as much +as possible with the rest of the passengers. Indeed, I gained the +reputation of being "an awfully jolly girl," so heartily did I throw +myself into all the games and amusements, to escape from the burden +of my pressing thoughts: and I believe many old ladies on board were +thoroughly scandalised that a woman whose father had been brutally +murdered should ever be able to seem so bright and lively again. How +little they knew! And what a world of mystery seemed to oppress and +surround me! + +At last, early one morning, we reached the Gulf, and took in our +pilot off the Straits of Belleisle. I was on deck at the time, +playing a game called "Shovelboard." As the pilot reached the ship, +he took the captain's hand, and, to my immense surprise, said in an +audible voice: + +"So you've the famous Miss Callingham for a passenger, I hear, this +voyage. There's the latest Quebec papers. You'll see you're looked +for. Our people are expecting her." + +I rushed forward, fiery hot, and with a trembling hand took one of +the papers he was distributing all round, right and left, to the +people on deck. It was unendurable that the memory of that one event +should thus dog me through life with such ubiquitous persistence. I +tore open the sheet. There, with horrified eyes, I read this hateful +paragraph, in the atrociously vulgar style of Transatlantic +journalism: + +"The Sarmatian, expected off Belleisle to-morrow morning, brings +among her passengers, as we learn by telegram, the famous Una +Callingham, whose connection with the so-called Woodbury Mystery is +now a matter of historical interest. The mysterious two-souled lady +possesses, at present, all her faculties intact, as before the +murder, and is indeed, people say, a remarkably spry and intelligent +young person; but she has most conveniently forgotten all the events +of her past life, and more particularly the circumstances of her +father's death, which is commonly conjectured to have been due to +the pistol of some unknown lover. Such freaks of memory are common, +we all know, in the matter of small debts and of newspaper +subscriptions, but they seldom extend quite so far as the violent +death of a near relation. However, Una knows her own business best. +The Sarmatian is due alongside the Bonsecours Quay at 10 a.m. on +Wednesday, the 10th; and all Quebec will, no doubt, be assembled at +the landing-stage to say 'Good-morning' to the two-souled lady." + +The paper dropped from my hand. This was too horrible for anything! +How I was ever to go through the ordeal of the landing at Quebec +after that, I hadn't the faintest conception. And was I to be dogged +and annoyed like this through all my Canadian trip by anonymous +scribblers? Had these people no hearts? no consideration for the +sensitiveness of an English lady? + +I looked over the side of the ship at the dark-blue water. Oh, how +I longed to plunge into it and be released for ever from this +abiding nightmare! + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + + +The moment we reached the quay at Quebec, some two days later, a +dozen young men, with little notebooks in their hands, jumped on +board all at once. + +"Miss Callingham!" they cried with one accord, making a dash for the +quarter-deck. "Which is she? Oh, this!--If you please, Miss +Callingham, I should like to have ten minutes of your time to +interview you!" + +I clapped my hands to my ears, and stood back, all horrified. What I +should have done, I don't know, but for a very kind man in a big +rough overcoat, who had jumped on board at the same time, and made +over to me like the reporters. He stepped up to me at once, pushed +aside the young men, and said in a most friendly tone: + +"Miss Callingham, I think? You'd better come with me, then. These +people are all sharks. Everybody in Quebec's agog to see the +Two-souled Lady. Answer no questions at all. Take not the least +notice of them. Just follow me to the Custom House. Let them rave, +but don't speak to them." + +"Who are you?" I asked blindly, clinging to his arm in my terror. + +"I'm a policeman in plain clothes," my new friend answered; "and +I've been specially detailed by order for this duty. I'm here to +look after you. You've friends in Canada, though you may have quite +forgotten them. They've sent me to help you. Those are two of my +chums there, standing aside by the gangway. We'll walk you off +between us. Don't be afraid.--Here, you sir, there; make way!--No +one shall come near you." + +I was so nervous, and so ashamed that I accepted my strange escort +without inquiry or remonstrance. He helped me, with remarkable +politeness for a common policeman, across to the Custom House, where +I sat waiting for my luggage. Reporters and sightseers, meanwhile, +pressed obtrusively around me. My protector held them back. I was +half wild with embarrassment. I'm naturally a reserved and somewhat +sensitive girl, and this American publicity made me crimson with +bashfulness. + +As I sat there waiting, however, the two other policemen to whom my +champion had beckoned sat one on each side of me, keeping off the +idle crowd, while my first friend looked after the luggage and saw +it safely through the Customs for me. He must be an Inspector, I +fancied, or some other superior officer, the officials were so +deferential to him. I gave him my keys, and he looked after +everything himself. I had nothing, for my part, to do but to sit and +wait patiently for him. + +As soon as he had finished, he called a porter to his side. + +"Vite!" he cried, in a tone of authority, to the man. "Un fiacre!" + +And the porter called one. + +I started to find that I knew what he meant. Till that moment, in my +Second State, I had learned no French, and didn't know I could speak +any. But I recognised the words quite well as soon as he uttered +them. My lost knowledge reasserted itself. + +They bundled on my boxes. The crowd still stood around and gaped at +me, open-mouthed. I got into the cab, more dead than alive. + +"Allez!" my policeman cried to the French-Canadian driver, seating +himself by my side. + +"A la gare du chemin de fer Pacific! Aussi vite que possible!" + +I understood every word. This was wonderful. My memory was coming +back again. + +The man tore along the streets to the Pacific railway station. By +the time we reached it we had distanced the sightseers, though some +of them gave chase. My policeman got out. + +"The train's just going!" he said sharply. "Don't take a ticket for +Palmyra, if you don't want to be followed and tracked out all the +way. They'll telegraph on your destination. Book to Kingston +instead, and then change at Sharbot Lake, and take a second ticket +on from there to Palmyra." + +I listened, half dazed. Palmyra was the place where Dr. Ivor lived. +Yet, even in the hurry of the moment, I wondered much to myself how +the policeman knew I wanted to go to Palmyra. + +There was no time to ask questions, however, or to deliberate on my +plans. I took my ticket as desired, in a turmoil of feelings, and +jumped on to the train. I trusted by this time I had eluded +detection. I ought to have come, I saw now, under a feigned name. +This horrid publicity was more than I could endure. My policeman +helped me in with his persistent politeness, and saw my boxes +checked as far as Sharbot Lake for me. Then he handed me the checks. + +"Go in the Pullman," he said quietly. "It's a long journey, you +know: four-and-twenty hours. You've only just caught it. But if +you'd stopped in Quebec, you'd never have been able to give the +sightseers the slip. You'd have been pestered all through. I think +you're safe now. It was this or nothing." + +"Oh, thank you so much!" I cried, with heartfelt gratitude, leaning +out of the window as the train was on the point of starting. I +pulled out my purse, and drew timidly forth a sovereign. "I've only +English money," I said, hesitating, for I didn't know whether he'd +be offended or not at the offer of a tip--he seemed such a perfect +gentleman. "But if that's any use to you--" + +He smiled a broad smile and shook his head, much amused. + +"Oh, thank you," he said, half laughing, with a very curious air. +"I'm a policeman, as I told you. But I don't need tips. I'm the +Chief Constable of Quebec--there's my card; Major Tascherel,--and +I'm glad to be of use, I'm sure, to any friend of Dr. Ivor's." + +He lifted his hat with the inborn grace of a high-born gentleman. I +coloured and bowed. The train steamed out of the station. As it +went, I fell back, half fainting, in the comfortable armchair of the +Pullman car, hardly able to speak with surprise and horror. It was +all so strange, so puzzling, so bewildering! Then I owed my escape +from the stenographic myrmidons of the Canadian Press to the polite +care and attention of my father's murderer! + +Major Tascherel was a friend, he said, of Dr. Ivor's! + +Then Dr. Ivor knew I had come. He knew I was going to Palmyra to +find him. And yet he had written to Quebec, apparently, expecting +this crush, and asking his friend the Chief Constable to protect and +befriend me. Had he murdered my father, and was he in love with me +still? Did he think I'd come out, not to track him down, but to look +for him? Strange, horrible questions! My heart stood still within me +at this extraordinary revelation. Yet I was so frightened at the +moment, alone in a strange land, that I felt almost grateful to the +murderer himself for his kindness in thinking of me and providing +for my reception. + +As I settled in my seat and had time to realise what these things +meant, it dawned upon me by degrees that all this was less +remarkable, after all, than I first thought it. For they had +telegraphed from England that I sailed on the Sarmatian; and Dr. +Ivor, like everybody else, must have read the telegram. He might +naturally conclude I would be half-mobbed by reporters; and as it +was clear he had once been fond of me--hateful as I felt it even to +admit the fact to myself--he might really have desired to save me +annoyance and trouble. It was degrading, to be sure, even to think I +owed anything of any sort to such a wretch as that murderer; yet in +a certain corner of my heart I couldn't help being thankful to him. +But how strange to feel I had come there on purpose to hunt him +down! How horrible that I must so repay good with evil! + +Then a still more ghastly thought surged up suddenly in my mind. Why +on earth did he think I was going to Palmyra? Was it possible he +fancied I loved him still--that I wanted to marry him? Could he +imagine I'd come out just to fling myself at his feet and ask him to +take me? Could he suppose I'd forgotten all the rest of my past +life, and his vile act as well, and yet remembered alone what +little love, if any, I ever had borne him? It was incredible that +any man, however wicked, however conceited, should think such folly +as that--that a girl would marry her father's murderer; and yet what +might not one expect from a man who, after having shot my father, +had still the inconceivable and unbelievable audacity to take +deliberate steps for securing my own comfort and happiness? From +such a wretch as that, one might look for almost anything! + +For ten minutes or more, as we whirled along the line in the Pullman +car, I was too dazed and confused to notice anything around me. My +brain swam vaguely, filled full with wild whirling thoughts; the +strange drama of my life, always teeming with mysteries, seemed to +culminate in this reception in an unknown land by people who +appeared almost to know more about my business than I myself did. I +gazed out of the window blankly. In some vague dim way I saw we were +passing between rocky hills, pine-clad and beautiful, with deep +glimpses now and then into the riven gorge of a noble river. But I +didn't even realise to myself that these were Canadian hills--those +were the heights of Abraham--that was the silver St. Lawrence. It +all passed by like a living dream. I sat still in my chair, as one +stunned and faint; I gazed out, more dead than alive, on the +unfamiliar scene that unrolled itself in exquisite panorama before +me. Quebec and the Laurentian hills were to me half unreal: the +inner senses alone were awake and conscious. + +Presently a gentle voice at my side broke, not at all unpleasantly, +the current of my reflections. It was a lady's voice, very sweet and +musical. + +"I'm afraid," it said kindly, with an air of tender solicitude, "you +only just caught the train, and were hurried and worried and +flurried at the last at the station. You look so white and tired. +How your breath comes and goes! And I think you're new to our +Canadian ways. I saw you didn't understand about the checks for the +baggage. Let me take away this bag and put it up in the rack for +you. Here's a footstool for your feet; that'll make you more +comfortable." + +At the first sound of her sweet voice, I turned to look at the +speaker. She was a girl, perhaps a year or two younger than myself, +very slender and graceful, and with eyes like a mother's. She wasn't +exactly pretty, but her face was so full of intelligence and +expression that it was worth a great deal more than any doll-like +prettiness. + +Perhaps it was pleasure at being spoken to kindly at all in this +land of strangers; perhaps it was revulsion from the agony of shame +and modesty I had endured at Quebec; but, at any rate, I felt drawn +at first sight to my sweet-voiced fellow-traveller. Besides, she +reminded me somewhat of Minnie Moore, and that resemblance alone was +enough to attract me. I looked up at her gratefully. + +"Oh, thank you so much!" I cried, putting my bag in her hand. "I've +only just come out from England; and I'd hardly time at Quebec to +catch the train; and the people crowded around so, that I was +flustered at landing; and everything somehow seems to be going +against me." + +And with that my poor overwrought nerves gave way all at once, and +without any more ado I just burst out crying. + +The lady by my side leant over me tenderly. + +"There--cry, dear," she said, as if she'd known me for years, +stooping down and almost caressing me. "Jack,"--and she turned to a +tall gentleman at her side,--"quick! you've got my black bag; get me +out the sal volatile. She's quite faint, poor thing; we must look +after her instantly." + +The person to whom she spoke, and who was apparently her husband or +her brother, took down the black bag from the rack hastily, and got +out the sal volatile, as my friend directed him. He poured a little +into a tumbler and held it quietly to my lips. I liked his manner, +as I'd liked the lady's. He was so very brotherly. Besides, there +was something extremely soothing about his quick, noiseless way. He +did it all so fast, yet without the faintest sign of agitation. I +couldn't help thinking what a good nurse he would make; he was so +rapid and effective, yet so gentle and so quiet. He seemed perfectly +accustomed to the ways of nervous women. + +I dried my eyes after a while, and looked up in his face. He was +very good-looking, and had a charming soft smile. How lucky I should +have tumbled upon such pleasant travelling companions! In my present +mental state, I had need of sympathy. And, indeed, they took as much +care of me, and coddled me up as tenderly, as if they'd known me for +years. I was almost tempted to make a clean breast of my personality +to them, and tell them why it was I had been so worried and upset by +my reception at Quebec: but I shrank from confessing it. I hated my +own name, almost, it seemed to bring me such very unpleasant +notoriety. + +In a very few minutes, I felt quite at home with my new friends. I +explained to them that when I landed I had no intention of going on +West by train at once, but that news which I received on the way had +compelled me to push forward by the very first chance; and that I +had to change my ticket at a place called Sharbot Lake, whose very +position or distance I hadn't had time to discover. The lady smiled +sweetly, and calmed my fears by telling me we wouldn't reach Sharbot +Lake till mid-day to-morrow, and that I would have plenty of time +there to book on to my destination. + +Thus encouraged, I went on to tell them I had no Canadian money, +having brought out what I needed for travelling expenses and hotels +in Bank of England 20 pound notes. The lady smiled again, and said +in the friendliest way: + +"Oh, my brother'll get them changed for you at Montreal as we pass, +won't you, Jack? or at least as much as you need till you get +to"--she checked herself--"the end of your journey." + +I noticed how she pulled herself up, though at the moment I attached +no particular importance to it. + +So he was her brother, not her husband, then! Well, he was a very +nice fellow, either way, and nobody could be kinder or more +sympathetic than he'd been to me so far. + +We fell into conversation, which soon by degrees grew quite +intimate. + +"How far West are you going?" the man she called Jack asked after a +little time, tentatively. + +And I answered, all unsuspiciously: + +"To a place called Palmyra." + +"Why, we live not far from Palmyra," the sister replied, with a +smile. "We're going that way now. Our station's Adolphus Town, the +very next village." + +I hadn't yet learned to join the wisdom of the serpent to the +innocence of the dove, I'm afraid. Remember, though in some ways I +was a woman full grown, in others I was little more than a +four-year-old baby. + +"Do you know a Dr. Ivor there?" I asked eagerly, leaning forward. + +"Oh, yes, quite well," the lady answered, arranging my footstool +more comfortably as she spoke. "He's got a farm out there now, and +hardly practises at all. How queer it is! One always finds one knows +people in common. Is Dr. Ivor a friend of yours?" + +I recoiled at the stray question almost as if I'd been shot. + +"Oh, no!" I cried, horrified at the bare idea of such treason. "He's +anything but a friend... I--I only wanted to know about him." + +The lady looked at Jack, and Jack looked at the lady. Were they +telegraphing signs? I fancied somehow they gave one another very +meaning glances. Jack was the first to speak, breaking an awkward +silence. + +"You can't expect everyone to know your own friends, or to like them +either, Elsie," he said slowly, with his eyes fixed hard on her, as +if he expected her to flare up. + +My heart misgave me. A hateful idea arose in it. Could my sweet +travelling companion be engaged--to my father's murderer? + +"But he's a dear good fellow, for all that, Jack," Elsie said +stoutly; and strange as it sounds to say so, I admired her for +sticking up for her friend Dr. Ivor, if she really liked him. "I +won't hear him run down by anybody, not even by YOU. If this lady +knew him better, I'm sure she'd like him, as we all do." + +Jack turned the conversation abruptly. + +"But if you're going to Palmyra," he asked, "where do you mean to +stop? Have you thought about lodgings? You mustn't imagine it's a +place like an English town, with an inn or hotel or good private +apartments. There's nowhere you can put up at in these brand-new +villages. Are you going to friends, or did you expect to find +quarters as easily as in England?" + +This was a difficulty which, indeed, had never even occurred to me +till that moment. I stammered and hesitated. + +"Well," I said slowly, "to tell you the truth, I haven't thought +about that. The landing at Quebec was such a dreadful surprise to +me, and"--tears came into my eyes again--"I had a great shock +there--and I had to come on so quick, I didn't ask about anything +but catching the train. I meant to stop a night or two either at +Quebec or in Montreal, and to make all inquiries: but circumstances, +you see, have prevented that. So I really don't know what I'd better +do when I get to Palmyra." + +"I do," my new friend answered quickly, her soft sweet voice having +quite a decisive ring in it. "You'd better not go on to Palmyra at +all. There's no sort of accommodation there, except a horrid +drinking-saloon. You'd better stop short at Adolphus Town and spend +the night with us; and then you can look about you next day, if you +like, and see what chance there may be of finding decent quarters. +Old Mrs. Wilkins might take her in, Jack, or the Blacks at the +tannery." + +I smiled, and felt touched. + +"Oh, how good of you!" I cried. "But I really couldn't think of it. +Thank you ever so much, though, for your kind thought, all the same. +It's so good and sweet of you. But you don't even know who I am. I +have no introduction." + +"You're your own best introduction," Elsie said, with a pretty nod: +I thought of her somehow from the very first moment I heard her name +as Elsie. "And as to your not knowing us, never mind about that. We +know YOU at first sight. It's the Canadian way to entertain Angels +unawares. Out here, you know, hospitality's the rule of the +country." + +Well, I demurred for a long time; I fought off their invitation as +well as I could: I couldn't bear thus to quarter myself upon utter +strangers. But they both were so pressing, and brought up so many +cogent arguments why I couldn't go alone to the one village +saloon--a mere whisky-drinking public-house, they said, of very bad +character,--that in the long run I was fain almost to acquiesce in +their kind plan for my temporary housing. Besides, after my horrid +experience at Quebec, it was such a positive relief to me to meet +anybody nice and delicate, that I couldn't find it in my heart to +refuse these dear people. And then, perhaps it was best not to go +quite on to Palmyra at once, for fear of unexpectedly running +against my father's murderer. If I met him in the street, and he +recognised me and spoke to me, what on earth could I do? My head was +all in a whirl, indeed, as to what he might intend or expect: for I +felt sure he expected me. I made one last despairing effort. + +"If I stop at your house, though," I said, half ashamed of myself +for venturing to make conditions, "there's one promise you must make +me--that I sha'n't see Dr. Ivor unless you let me know and get my +consent beforehand." + +Jack, as I called him to myself, answered gaily back with a rather +curious smile: + +"If you like, you need see nobody but our own two selves. We'll +promise not to introduce anybody to you without due leave, and to +let you do as you like in that and in everything." + +So I yielded at last. + +"Well, I must know your name," I said tentatively. + +And Jack, looking queerly at me with an inquiring air, said: + +"My sister's name's Elsie; mine's John Cheriton." + +"And yours?" Elsie asked, glancing timidly down at me. + +My heart beat hard. I was face to face with a dilemma. These were +friends of Courtenay Ivor's, and I had given myself away to them. I +was going to their house, to accept their hospitality--and to +betray their friend! Never in my life did I feel so guilty before. +Oh! what on earth was I to do? I had told them too much; I had gone +to work foolishly. If I said my real name, I should let out my whole +secret. I must brazen it out now. With tremulous lips and flushed +cheek, I answered quickly, "Julia Marsden." + +Elsie drew back, all abashed. In a moment her cheek grew still +redder, I felt sure, than my own. + +"Oh, Marsden!" she cried, eyeing me close. "Why, I thought you were +Miss Callingham!" + +"How on earth did you know that?" I exclaimed, terrified almost out +of my life. Was I never for one moment to escape my own personality? + +"Why, they put it in the papers that you were coming," Elsie +answered, looking tenderly at me, more in sympathy than in anger. +"And it's written on your bag, you know, that Jack put up in the +rack there... That's why we were so sorry for you, and so grieved at +the way you must have been hustled on the quay. And that's also why +we wanted you to come to us... But don't be a bit afraid. We quite +understand you want to travel incognita. After the sort of reception +you got at Quebec, no wonder you're afraid of these hateful +sightseers!... Very well, dear," she took my hand with the air of an +old friend, "your disguise shall be respected while you stop at our +house. Miss Marsden let it be. You can make any inquiries you like +about Dr. Ivor. We will be secrecy itself. We'll say nothing to +anyone. And my brother'll take your ticket at Sharbot Lake for +Adolphus Town." + +I broke down once more. I fairly cried at such kindness. + +"Oh, how good you are!" I said. "How very, very good. This is more +than one could ever have expected from strangers." + +She held my hand and stroked it. + +"We're not strangers," she answered. "We're English ourselves. We +sympathise deeply with you in this new, strange country. You must +treat us exactly like a brother and sister. We liked you at first +sight, and we're sure we'll get on with you." + +I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it. + +"And I liked you also," I said, "and your brother, too. You're both +so good and kind. How can I ever sufficiently thank you?" + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +MY PLANS ALTER + + +The rest of that day we spent chatting very amicably in our Pullman +arm-chairs. I couldn't understand it myself--when I had a moment to +think, I was shocked and horrified at it. I was so terribly at home +with them. These were friends of Dr. Ivor's--friends of my father's +murderer! I had come out to Canada to track him, to deliver him +over, if I could, to the strong hand of Justice. And yet, there I +was talking away with his neighbours and friends as if I had known +them all my life, and loved them dearly. Nay, what was more, I +couldn't in my heart of hearts help liking them. They were really +sweet people--so kind and sympathetic, so perceptive of my +sensitiveness. They asked no questions that could hurt me in any +way. They showed no curiosity about the object of my visit or my +relation to Dr. Ivor. They were kindness and courtesy itself. I +could see Mr. Cheriton was a gentleman in fibre, and Elsie was as +sweet as any woman on earth could be. + +By-and-by, the time came for the Pullman saloon to be transformed +for the night into a regular sleeping-car. All this was new to me, +and I watched it with interest. As soon as the beds were made up, I +crept into my berth, and my new friend Elsie took her place on the +sofa below me. I lay awake long and thought over the situation. The +more I thought of it, the stranger it all seemed. I tried hard to +persuade myself I was running some great danger in accepting the +Cheritons' invitation. Certainly, I had behaved with consummate +imprudence. Canada is a country, I said to myself, where they kidnap +and murder well-to-do young Englishmen. How much easier, then, to +kidnap and murder a poor weak stray English girl! I was entirely at +the mercy of the Cheritons, that was clear: and the Cheritons were +Dr. Ivor's friends. As I thought all the circumstances over, the +full folly of my own conduct came home to me more and more. I had +let these people suppose I was travelling under an assumed name. I +had let them know my ticket was not for Palmyra but for Kingston, +where I didn't mean to go. I had told them I meant to change it at +Sharbot Lake. So they were aware that no one on earth but themselves +had any idea where I had gone. And I had further divulged to them +the important fact that I had plenty of ready money in Bank of +England notes! I stood aghast at my own silliness. But still, I did +NOT distrust them. + +No, I did NOT distrust them. I felt I ought to be distrustful. I +felt it might be expected of me. But they were so gentle-mannered +and so sweet-natured, that I couldn't distrust them. I tried very +hard, but distrust wouldn't come to me. That kind fellow Jack--I +thought of him, just so, as Jack already--couldn't hurt a fly, much +less kill a woman. It grieved me to think I would have to hurt his +feelings. + +For now that I came to look things squarely in the face in my berth +by myself, I began to see how utterly impossible it would be for me +after all to go and stop with the Cheritons. How I could ever have +dreamt it feasible I could hardly conceive. I ought to have refused +at once. I ought to have been braver. I ought to have said outright, +"I'll have nothing to do or say with anyone who is a friend or an +acquaintance of Courtenay Ivor's." And yet, to have said so would +have been to give up the game for lost. It would have been to +proclaim that I had come out to Canada as Courtenay Ivor's enemy. + +I wasn't fit, that was the fact, for my self-imposed task of +private detective. + +A good part of that night I lay awake in my berth, bitterly +reproaching myself for having come on this wild-goose chase without +the aid of a man--an experienced officer. Next morning, I rose and +breakfasted in the car. The Cheritons breakfasted with me, and, sad +to say, seemed more charming than ever. That good fellow Jack was so +attentive and kind, I almost felt ashamed to have to refuse his +hospitality; and as for Elsie, she couldn't have treated me more +nicely or cordially if she'd been my own sister. It wasn't what they +said that touched my heart: it was what they didn't say or do--their +sweet, generous reticence. + +After breakfast, I steeled myself for the task, and broke it to them +gently that, thinking it over in the night, I'd come to the +conclusion I couldn't consistently accept their proffered welcome. + +"I don't know how to say NO to you," I cried, "after you've been so +wonderfully kind and nice; but reasons which I can't fully explain +just now make me feel it would be wrong of me to think of stopping +with you. It would hamper my independence of action to be in anybody +else's house. I must shift for myself, and try if I can't find board +and lodging somewhere." + +"Find it with us then!" Elsie put in eagerly. "If that's all that's +the matter, I'm sure we're not proud--are we, Jack?--not a bit. +Sooner than you should go elsewhere and be uncomfortable in your +rooms, I'd take you in myself, and board you and look after you. You +could pay what you like; and then you'd retain your independence, +you see, as much as ever you wanted." + +But her brother interrupted her with a somewhat graver air: + +"It goes deeper than that, I'm afraid, Elsie," he said, turning his +eye full upon her. "If Miss Callingham feels she couldn't be happy +in stopping with us, she'd better try elsewhere. Though where on +earth we can put her, I haven't just now the very slightest idea. +But we'll turn it over in our own minds before we reach Adolphus +Town." + +There was a sweet reasonableness about Jack that attracted me +greatly. I could see he entered vaguely into the real nature of my +feelings. But he wouldn't cross-question me: he was too much of a +gentleman. + +"Miss Callingham knows her own motives best," he said more than +once, when Elsie tried to return to the charge. "If she feels she +can't come to us, we must be content to do the best we can for her +with our neighbours. Perhaps Mrs. Walters would take her in: she's +our clergyman's wife, Miss Callingham, and you mightn't feel the +same awkwardness with her as with my sister." + +"Does she know--Dr. Ivor?" I faltered out, unable to conceal my real +reasons entirely. + +"Not so intimately as we do," Jack answered, with a quick glance at +his sister. "We might ask her at any rate. There are so few houses +in Palmyra or the neighbourhood where you could live as you're +accustomed, that we mustn't be particular. But at least you'll spend +one night with us, and then we can arrange all the other things +afterward." + +My mind was made up. + +"No, not even one night," I said. I couldn't accept hospitality from +Dr. Ivor's friends. Between his faction and mine there could be +nothing now but the bitterest enmity. How dare I even parley with +people who were friends of my father's murderer? + +Yet I was sorry to disappoint that good fellow, Jack, all the same. +Did he want me to sleep one night at his house on purpose to rob me +and murder me? Girl as I was, and rendered timorous in some ways by +the terrible shocks I had received, I couldn't for one moment +believe it. I KNEW he was good: I KNEW he was honourable, gentle, a +gentleman. + +So, journeying on all morning, we reached Sharbot Lake, still with +nothing decided. At the little junction station, Jack got me my +ticket. That was the turning point in my career. The die was cast. +There I lost my identity. A crowd lounged around the platform, and +surged about the Pullman car, calling to see "Una Callingham." But +no Una Callingham appeared on the scene. I went, on in the same +train, without a word to anyone, all unknown save to the two +Cheritons, and as an unrecognised unit of common humanity. I had +cast that horrid identity clean behind me. + +The afternoon was pleasant. In spite of my uncertainty, it gave me a +sense of pleased confidence to be in the Cheritons' company. I had +taken to them at once: and the more I talked with them, the better I +liked them. Especially Jack, that nice brotherly Jack, who seemed +almost like an old friend to me. You get to know people so well on a +long railway journey. I was quite sorry to think that by five +o'clock that afternoon we should reach Adolphus Town, and so part +company. + +About ten minutes to five, we were collecting our scattered things, +and putting our front-hair straight by the mirror in the ladies' +compartment. + +"Well, Miss Cheriton," I said warmly, longing to kiss her as I +spoke, "I shall never forget how kind you two have been to me. I do +wish so much I hadn't to leave you like this. But it's quite +inevitable. I don't see really how I could ever endure--" + +I said no more, for just at that moment, as the words trembled on my +lips, a terrible jar thrilled suddenly through the length and +breadth of the carriage. Something in front seemed to rush into us +with a deep thud. There was a crash, a fierce grating, a dull hiss, +a clatter. Broken glass was flying about. The very earth beneath the +wheels seemed to give way under us. Next instant, all was blank. I +just knew I was lying, bruised and stunned and bleeding, on a bare +dry bank, with my limbs aching painfully. + +I guessed what it all meant. A collision, no doubt. But I lay faint +and ill, and knew nothing for the moment as to what had become of my +fellow-passengers. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +A STRANGE RECOGNITION + + +Gradually I was aware of somebody moistening my temples. A soft palm +held my hand. Elsie was leaning over me. I opened my eyes with a +start. + +"Oh, Elsie," I cried, "how kind of you!" + +It seemed to me quite natural to call her Elsie. + +Even as I spoke, somebody else raised my head and poured something +down my throat. I swallowed it with a gulp. Then I opened my eyes +again. + +"And Jack, too," I murmured. + +It seemed as if he'd been "Jack" to me for years and years already. + +"She knows us!" Elsie cried, clasping her hands. "She's much +better--much better. Quick, Jack, more brandy! And make haste +there--a stretcher!" + +There was a noise close by. Unseen hands lifted me up, and Jack laid +me on the stretcher. Half-an-hour at least must have elapsed, I felt +since the first shock of the accident. I had been unconscious +meanwhile. The actual crash came and went like lightning. And my +memory of all else was blotted out for the moment. + +Next, as I lay still, two men took the stretcher and carried me off +at a slow pace, under Jack's direction. They walked single-file +along the line, and turned down a rough road that led off near a +river. I didn't ask where they were going: I was too weak and +feeble. At last they came to a house, a small white wooden cottage, +very colonial and simple, but neat and pretty. There was a garden in +front, full of old-fashioned flowering shrubs; and a verandah ran +round the house, about whose posts clambered sweet English creepers. + +They carried me in, and laid me down on a bed, in a sweet little +room, very plain but dainty. It was panelled with polished +pitchpine, and roses peeped in at the open window. Everything about +the cottage bore the impress of native good taste. I knew it was +Jack's home. It was just such a room as I should have expected from +Elsie. + +The bed on which they placed me was neat and soft. I lay there +dozing with pain. Elsie sat by my side, her own arm in a sling. +By-and-by, an Irish maid came in and undressed me carefully under +Elsie's direction. Then Elsie said to me, half shrinking: + +"Now you must see the doctor." + +"Not Dr. Ivor!" I cried, waking up to a full sense of this new +threatened horror. "Whatever I do, dear, I WON'T see Dr. Ivor!" + +Jack had come in while she spoke, and was standing by the bed, I saw +now. The servant had gone out. He lifted my arm, and held my wrist +in his hand. + +"I'm a doctor myself, Miss Callingham," he said softly, with that +quiet, reassuring voice of his. "Don't be alarmed at that; nobody +but myself and Elsie need come near you in any way." + +I smiled at his words, well pleased. + +"Oh, I'm so glad you're a doctor!" I cried, much relieved at the +news; "for I'm not the least little bit in the world afraid of YOU. +I don't mind your attending me. I like to have you with me." For I +had always a great fancy for doctors, somehow. + +"That's well," he said, smiling at me such a sweet sympathetic smile +as he felt my pulse with his finger. "Confidence is the first great +requisite in a patient: it's half the battle. You're not seriously +hurt, I hope, but you're very much shaken. Whether you like it or +not, you'll have to stop here now for some days at least, till +you're thoroughly recovered." + +I'm ashamed to write it down; but I was really pleased to hear it. +Nothing would have induced me to go voluntarily to their house with +the intention of stopping there--for they were friends of Dr. +Ivor's. But when you're carried on a stretcher to the nearest +convenient house, you're not responsible for your own actions. And +they were both so nice and kind, it was a pleasure to be near them. +So I was almost thankful for that horrid accident, which had cut the +Gordian knot of my perplexity as to a house to lodge in. + +It was a fortnight before I was well enough to get out of bed and +lie comfortably on the sofa. All that time Jack and Elsie tended me +with unsparing devotion. Elsie had a little bed made up in my room; +and Jack came to see me two or three times a day, and sat for whole +hours with me. It was so nice he was a doctor! A doctor, you know, +isn't a man--in some ways. And it soothed me so to have him sitting +there with Elsie by my bedside. + +They were "Jack" and "Elsie" to me, to their faces, before three +days were out; and I was plain "Una" to them: it sounded so sweet +and sisterly. Elsie slipped it out the second morning as naturally +as could be. + +"Una'd like a cup of tea, Jack;" then as red as fire all at once, +she corrected herself, and added, "I mean, Miss Callingham." + +"Oh, do call me Una!" I cried; "it's so much nicer and more +natural.... But how did you come to know my name was Una at all?" +For she slipped it out as glibly as if she'd always called me so. + +"Why, everybody knows that." Elsie answered, amused. "The whole +world speaks of you always as Una Callingham. You forget you're a +celebrity. Doctors have read memoirs about you at Medical +Congresses. You've been discussed in every paper in Europe and +America." + +I paused and sighed. This was very humiliating. It was unpleasant to +rank in the public mind somewhere between Constance Kent and Laura +Bridgman. But I had to put up with it. + +"Very well," I said, with a deep breath, "if those I don't care for +call me so behind my back, let me at least have the pleasure of +hearing myself called so by those I love, like you, Elsie." + +She leant over me and kissed my forehead with a burst of genuine +delight. + +"Then you love me, Una!" she exclaimed. + +"How can I help it?" I answered. "I love you dearly already." And I +might have added with truth, "And your brother also." + +For Jack was really, without any exception, the most lovable man I +ever met in my life--at once so strong and manly, and yet so womanly +and so gentle. Every day I stopped there, I liked him better and +better. I was glad when he came into my room, and sorry when he went +away again to work on the farm: for he worked very hard; his hand +was all horny with common agricultural labour. It was sad to think +of such a man having to do such work. And yet he was so clever, and +such a capital doctor. I wondered he hadn't done well and stayed in +England. But Elsie told me he'd had great disappointments, and +failed in his profession through no fault of his own. I could never +understand that: he had such a delightful manner. Though, perhaps I +was prejudiced; for, in point of fact, I began to feel I was really +in love with Jack Cheriton. + +And Jack was in love with me too. This was a curious result of my +voyage to Canada in search of Dr. Ivor! Instead of hunting up the +criminal, I had stopped to fall in love with one of his friends and +neighbours. And I found it so delicious: I won't pretend to deny it. +I was absolutely happy when Jack sat by my bedside and held my hand +in his. I didn't know what it would lead to, or whether it would +ever lead to anything at all; but I was happy meanwhile just to love +and be loved by him. I think when you're really in love, that's +quite enough. Jack never proposed to me: he never asked me to marry +him. He just sat by my bedside and held my hand; and once, when +Elsie went out to fetch my beef-tea, he stooped hastily down and +kissed, me, oh, so tenderly! I don't know why, but I wasn't the +least surprised. It seemed to me quite natural that Jack should kiss +me. + +So I went idly on for a fortnight, in a sort of lazy lotus-land, +never thinking of the future, but as happy and as much at home as if +I'd lived all my life with Jack and Elsie. I hated even to think I +would soon be well; for then I'd have to go and look out for +Courtenay Ivor. + +At last one afternoon I was sufficiently strong to be lifted out of +bed, and dressed in a morning robe, and laid out on the sofa in the +little drawing-room. It looked out upon the verandah, which was high +above the ground; and Jack came in and sat with me, alone without +Elsie. My heart throbbed high at that: I liked to be alone for +half-an-hour with Jack. Perhaps... But who knows? Well, at any rate, +even if he didn't, it was nice to have the chance of a good long, +quiet chat with him. I loved Elsie dearly; but at a moment like +this, why, I liked to have Jack all to myself without even Elsie. + +So I was pleased when Jack told me Elsie was going into Palmyra with +the buggy to get the English letters. Then she'd be gone a good long +time! Oh, how lovely! How beautiful! + +"Is there anything you'd like from the town?" he asked, as Elsie +drove past the window. "Anything Elsie could get for you? If so, +please say so." + +I hesitated a moment. + +"Do you think," I asked at last, for I didn't want to be +troublesome, "she could get me a lemon?" + +"Oh, certainly," Jack answered; "there she goes in the buggy! Here, +wait a moment, Una! I'll run after her to the gate this minute and +tell her." + +He sprang lightly on to the parapet of the verandah. Then, with one +hand held behind him to poise himself, palm open backward, he leapt +with a bound to the road, and darted after her hurriedly. + +My heart stood still within me. That action revealed him. The back, +the open hand, the gesture, the bend--I would have known them +anywhere. With a horrible revulsion I recognised the truth. This was +my father's murderer! This was Courtenay Ivor! + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +MURDER WILL OUT + + +He was gone but for three minutes. Meanwhile, I buried my face in my +burning hands, and cried to myself in unspeakable misery. + +For, horrible as it sounds to say so, I knew perfectly well now that +Jack was Dr. Ivor: yet, in spite of that knowledge, I loved him +still. He was my father's murderer; and I couldn't help loving him! + +It was that that filled up the cup of my misery to overflowing. I +loved the man well: and I must turn to denounce him. + +He came back, flushed and hot, expecting thanks for his pains. + +"Well, she'll get you the lemon, Una," he said, panting. "I overtook +her by the big tulip-tree." + +I gazed at him fixedly, taking my hands from my face, with the tears +still wet on my burning cheek. + +"You've deceived me!" I cried sternly. "Jack, you've given me a +false name. I know who you are, now. You're no Jack at all. You're +Courtenay Ivor!" + +He drew back, quite amazed. Yet he didn't seem thunderstruck. Not +fear but surprise was the leading note on his features. + +"So you've found that out at last, Una!" he exclaimed, staring hard +at me. "Then you remember me after all, darling! You know who I am. +You haven't quite forgotten me. And you recall what has gone, do +you?" + +I rose from the sofa, ill as I was, in my horror. + +"You dare to speak to me like that, sir!" I cried. "You, whom I've +tracked out to your hiding-place and discovered! You, whom I've come +across the ocean to hunt down! You, whom I mean to give up this very +day to Justice! Let me go from your house at once! How dare you ever +bring me here? How dare you stand unabashed before the daughter of +the man you so cruelly murdered?" + +He drew back like one stung. + +"The daughter of the man I murdered!" he faltered out slowly, as in +a turmoil of astonishment. "The man _I_ murdered! Oh, Una, is it +possible you've forgotten so much, and yet remember me myself? I +can't believe it, darling. Sit down, my child, and think. Surely, +surely the rest will come back to you gradually." + +His calmness unnerved me. What could he mean by these words? No +actor on earth could dissemble like this. His whole manner was +utterly unlike the manner of a man just detected in a terrible +crime. He seemed rather to reproach me, indeed, than to crouch; to +be shocked and indignant. + +"Explain yourself," I said coldly, in a very chilly voice. +"Courtenay Ivor, I give you three minutes to explain. At the end of +that time, if you can't exonerate yourself, I walk out of this house +to give you up, as I ought, to the arm of Justice!" + +He looked at me, all pity, yet inexpressibly reproachful. + +"Oh, Una," he cried, clasping his hands--those small white hands of +his--Aunt Emma's hands--the murderer's hands--how had I never +before noticed them?--"and I, who have suffered so much for you! I, +who have wrecked my whole life for you, ungrudgingly, willingly! I, +who have sacrificed even Elsie's happiness and Elsie's future for +you! This is too, too hard! Una, Una, spare me!" + +A strange trembling seized me. It was in my heart to rush forward +and clasp him to my breast. Murderer or no murderer, his look, his +voice, cut me sharply to the heart. Words trembled on the tip of my +tongue: "Oh, Jack, I love you!" But with a violent effort, I +repressed them sternly. This horrible revulsion seemed to tear me in +two. I loved him so much. Though till the moment of the discovery, I +never quite realised how deeply I loved him. + +"Courtenay Ivor," I said slowly, steeling myself once more for a +hard effort, "I knew who you were at once when I saw you poise +yourself on the parapet. Once before in my life I saw you like that, +and the picture it produced has burned itself into the very fibre +and marrow of my being. As long as I live, I can never get rid of +it. It was when you leapt from the window at The Grange, at +Woodbury, after murdering my father!" + +He started once more. + +"Una," he said solemnly, in a very clear voice, "there's some +terrible error somewhere. You're utterly mistaken about what took +place that night. But oh, great heavens! how am I ever to explain +the misconception to YOU? If you still think thus, it would be cruel +to undeceive you. I daren't tell you the whole truth. It would kill +you! It would kill you!" + +I drew myself up like a pillar of ice. + +"Go on," I said, in a hard voice; for I saw he had something to say. +"Don't mind for my heart. Tell me the truth. I can stand it." + +He hesitated for a minute or two. + +"I can't!" he cried huskily. "Dear Una, don't ask me! Won't you +trust me, without? Won't you believe me when I tell you, I never did +it?" + +"No, I can't," I answered with sullen resolution, though my eyes +belied my words. "I can't disbelieve the evidence of my own senses. +I SAW you escape that night. I see you still. I've seen you for +years. I KNOW it was you, and you only, who did it!" + +He flung himself down in a chair, and let his arms drop listlessly. + +"Oh! what can I ever do to disillusion you?" he cried in despair. +"Oh! what can I ever do? This is too, too terrible!" + +I moved towards the door. + +"I'm going," I said, with a gulp. "You've deceived me, Jack. You've +lied to me. You have given me feigned names. You have decoyed me to +your house under false pretences. And I recognise you now. I know +you in all your baseness. You're my father's murderer! Don't hope to +escape by playing on my feelings. I'd deserve to be murdered myself, +if I could act like that! I'm on my way to the police-office, to +give you in custody on the charge of murdering Vivian Callingham at +Woodbury!" + +He jumped up again, all anxiety. + +"Oh, no, you mustn't walk!" he cried, laying his hand upon my arm. +"Give me up, if you like; but wait till the buggy comes back, and +Elsie'll drive you round with me. You're not fit to go a step as you +are at present... Oh! what shall I ever do, though. You're so weak +and ill. Elsie'll never allow it." + +"Elsie'll never allow WHAT?" I asked; though I felt it was rather +more grotesque than undignified and inconsistent thus to parley and +make terms with my father's murderer. Though, to be sure, it was +Jack, and I couldn't bear to refuse him. + +He kept his hand on my arm with an air of authority. + +"Una, my child," he said, thrusting me back--and even at that +moment of supreme horror, a thrill ran all through my body at his +touch and his words--"you MUSTN'T go out of this house as you are +this minute. I refuse to allow it. I'm your doctor, and I forbid it. +You're under my charge, and I won't let you stir. If I did, I'd be +responsible." + +He pushed me gently into a chair. + +"I gave you but one false name," he said slowly--"the name of +Cheriton. To be sure I, was never christened John, but I'm Jack to +my intimates. It was my nickname from a baby. Jack's what I've +always been called at home--Jack's what, in the dear old days at +Torquay, you always called me. But I saw if I let you know who I was +at once, there'd be no chance of recalling the past, and so saving +you from yourself. To save you, I consented to that one mild +deception. It succeeded in bringing you here, and in keeping you +here till Elsie and I were once more what we'd always been to you. I +meant to tell you all in the end, when the right time came. Now, +you've forced my hand, and I don't know how I can any longer refrain +from telling you." + +"Telling me WHAT?" I said icily. "What do you mean by your words? +Why all these dark hints? If you've anything to say, why not say it +like a man?" + +For I loved him so much that in my heart of hearts, I half hoped +there might still be some excuse, some explanation. + +He looked at me solemnly. Then he leant back in his chair and drew +his hand across his brow. I could see now why I hadn't recognised +that delicate hand before: white as it was by nature, hard work on +the farm had long bronzed and distorted it. But I saw also, for the +first time, that the palm was scarred with cuts and rents--exactly +like Minnie Moore's, exactly like Aunt Emma's. + +"Una," he began slowly, in a very puzzled tone, "if I could, I'd +give myself up and be tried, and be found guilty and executed for +your sake, sooner than cause you any further distress, or expose you +to the shock of any more disclosures. But I can't do that, on +Elsie's account. Even if I decided to put Elsie to that shame and +disgrace--which would hardly be just, which would hardly be manly of +me--Elsie knows all, and Elsie'd never consent to it. She'd never +let her brother be hanged for a crime of which (as she knows) he's +entirely innocent. And she'd tell out all in full court--every fact, +every detail--which would be worse for you ten thousand times in the +end than learning it here quietly." + +"Tell me all," I said, growing stony, yet trembling from head to +foot. "Oh, Jack,"--I seized his hand,--"I don't know what you mean! +But I somehow trust you. I want to know all. I can bear +anything--anything--better than this suspense. You MUST tell me! You +MUST explain to me!" + +"I will," he said slowly, looking hard into my eyes, and feeling my +pulse half unconsciously with his finger as he spoke. "Una darling, +you must make up your mind now for a terrible shock. I won't tell +you in words, for you'd never believe it. I'll SHOW you who it was +that fired the shot at Mr. Callingham." + +He moved over to the other side of the room, and unlocking drawer +after drawer, took a bundle of photographs from the inmost secret +cabinet of a desk in the corner. + +"There, Una," he said, selecting one of them and holding it up +before my eyes. "Prepare yourself, darling. That's the person who +pulled the trigger that night in the library!" + +I looked at it and fell back with a deadly shriek of horror. It was +an instantaneous photograph. It represented a scene just before the +one the Inspector gave me. And there, in its midst, I saw myself as +a girl, with a pistol in my hand. The muzzle flashed and smoked. I +knew the whole truth. It was I myself who held the pistol and fired +at my father! + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +THE REAL MURDERER + + +For some seconds I sat there, leaning back in my chair and gazing +close at that incredible, that accusing document. I knew it couldn't +lie: I knew it must be the very handiwork of unerring Nature. Then +slowly a recollection began to grow up in my mind. I knew of my own +memory it was really true. I remembered it so, now, as in a glass, +darkly. I remembered having stood, with the pistol in my hand, +pointing it straight at the breast of the man with the long white +beard whom they called my father. A new mental picture rose up +before me like a vision. I remembered it all as something that once +really occurred to me. + +Yet I remembered it, as I had long remembered the next scene in the +series, merely as so much isolated and unrelated fact, without +connection of any sort to link it to the events that preceded or +followed it. It was _I_ who shot my father! I realised that now with +a horrid gulp. But what on earth did I ever shoot him for? + +And I had hunted down Jack for the crime I had committed myself! I +had threatened to give him up for my own dreadful parricide! + +After a minute, I rose, and staggered feebly to the door. I saw the +path of duty clear as daylight before me. + +"Where are you going?" Jack faltered out, watching me close with +anxious eyes, lest I should stumble or faint. + +And I answered aloud, in a hollow voice: + +"To the police-station, of course,--to give myself into custody for +the murder of my father." + +When I thought it was Jack, though I loved him better than I loved +my own life, I would have given him up to justice as a sacred duty. +Now I knew it was myself, how could I possibly do otherwise? How +could I love my own life better than I loved dear Jack's, who had +given up everything to save me and protect me? + +With a wild bound of horror, Jack sprang upon me at once. He seized +me bodily in his arms. He carried me back into the room with +irresistible strength. I fought against him in vain. He laid me on +the sofa. He bent over me like a whirlwind and smothered me with hot +kisses. + +"My darling," he cried, "my darling, then this shock hasn't killed +you! It hasn't stunned you like the last! You're still your own dear +self! You've still strength to think and plan exactly what one would +expect from you. Oh! Una, my Una, you must wait and hear all. When +you've learned HOW it happened, you won't wish to act so rashly." + +I struggled to free myself, though his arms were hard and close like +a strong man's around me. + +"Let me go, Jack!" I cried feebly, trying to tear myself from his +grasp. "I love you better than I love my own life. If I would have +given YOU up, how much more must I give up myself, now I know it was +I who really did it!" + +He held me down by main force. He pinned me to the sofa. I suppose +it's because I'm a woman, and weak, and all that--but I liked even +then to feel how strong and how big he was, and how feeble I was +myself, like a child in his arms. And I resisted on purpose, just to +feel him hold me. Somehow, I couldn't realize, after all, that I was +indeed a murderess. It didn't seem possible. I couldn't believe it +was in me. + +"Jack," I said slowly, giving way at last, and letting him hold me +down with his small strong hands and slender iron wrist, "tell me, +if you will, how I came to do it. I'll sit here quite still, if only +you'll tell me. Am I really a murderess?" + +Jack recoiled like one shot. + +"YOU a murderess, my spotless Una!" he exclaimed, all aghast. "If +anyone else on earth but you had just asked such a thing in my +presence, I'd have leapt at the fellow's throat, and held him down +till I choked him!" + +"But I did it!" I cried wildly. "I remember now, I did it. It all +comes back to me at last. I fired at him, just so. I aimed the +loaded pistol point-blank at his heart, I can hear the din in my +ears. I can see the flash at the muzzle. And then I flung down the +pistol--like this--at my feet: and darkness came on; and I forgot +everything. Why, Dr. Marten knew that much! I remember now, he told +me he'd formed a very strong impression, from the nature of the +wound and the position of the various objects on the floor of the +room, who it was that did it! He must have seen it was _I_ who flung +down the pistol." + +Jack gazed at me in suspense. + +"He's a very good friend of yours, then," he murmured, "that Dr. +Marten. For he never said a word of all that at the inquest." + +"But I must give myself up!" I cried, in a fever of penitence for +what that other woman who once was ME had done. "Oh, Jack, do let +me! It's hateful to know I'm a murderess and to go unpunished. It's +hateful to draw back from the fate I'd have imposed on another. I'd +like to be hanged for it. I want to be hanged. It's the only +possible way to appease one's conscience." + +And yet, though I said it, I felt all the time it wasn't really I, +but that other strange girl who once lived at The Grange and looked +exactly like me. I remember it, to be sure; but it was in my Other +State: and, so far as my moral responsibility was concerned, my +Other State and I were two different people. + +For I knew in my heart I couldn't commit a murder. + +Jack rose without a word, and fetched me in some brandy. + +"Drink this," he said calmly, in his authoritative medical tone; +"drink this before you say another sentence." + +And, obedient to his order, I took it up and drank it. + +Then he sat down beside me, and took my hand in his, and with very +gentle words began to reason and argue with me. + +He was glad I'd struggled, he said, because that broke the first +force of the terrible shock for me. Action was always good for one +in any great crisis. It gave an outlet for the pent-up emotions, too +suddenly let loose with explosive force, and kept them from turning +inward and doing serious harm, as mine had done on that horrible +night of the accident. He called it always the accident, I noticed, +and never the murder. That gave me fresh hope. Could I really after +all have fired unintentionally? But no; when I came to look +inward,--to look backward on my past state,--I was conscious all the +time of some strong and fierce resentment smouldering deep in my +heart at the exact moment of firing. However it might have happened, +I was angry with the man with the long white beard: I fired at him +hastily, it is true, but with malice prepense and deliberate intent +to wound and hurt him. + +Jack went on, however, undeterred, in a low and quiet voice, +soothing my hand with his as he spoke, and very kind and gentle. My +spirit rebelled at the thought that I could ever for one moment have +imagined him a murderer. I said so in one wild burst. Jack held my +hand, and still reasoned with me. I like a man's reasoning; it's so +calm and impartial. It seems to overcome one by its mere display of +strength. If I'd changed my mind once, Jack said, I might change it +again, when further evidence on the point was again forthcoming. I +mustn't give myself up to the police till I understood much more. If +I did, I would commit a very grave mistake. There were reasons that +had led to the firing of the shot. Very grave reasons too. Couldn't +I restore and reconstruct them, now I knew the last stage of the +terrible history? If possible, he'd rather I should arrive at them +by myself than that he should tell me. + +I cast my mind back all in vain. + +"No, Jack," I said trustfully. "I can't remember anything one bit +like that. I can remember forward, sometimes, but never backwards. I +can remember now how I flung down the pistol, and how the servants +burst in. But not a word, not an item, of what went before. That's +all a pure blank to me." + +And then I went on to tell him in very brief outline how the first +thing I could recollect in all my life was the Australian scene with +the big blue-gum-trees; and how that had been recalled to me by the +picture at Jane's; and how one scene in that way had gradually +suggested another; and how I could often think ahead from a given +fact but never go back behind it and discover what led up to it. + +Jack drew his hand over his chin and reflected silently. + +"That's odd," he said, after a pause. "Yet very comprehensible. I +might almost have thought of that before: might have arrived at it +on general principles. Psychologically and physiologically it's +exactly what one would have expected from the nature of memory. And +yet it never occurred to me. Set up the train of thought in the +order in which it originally presented itself, and the links may +readily restore themselves in successive series. Try to trace it +backward in the inverse order, and the process is very much more +difficult and involved.--Well, we'll try things just so with you, +Una. We'll begin by reconstructing your first life as far as we can +from the very outset, with the aid of these stray hints of yours; +and then we'll see whether we can get you to remember all your past +up to the day of the accident more easily." + +I gazed up at him with gratitude. + +"Oh, Jack," I said, trembling, "in spite of this shock, I believe I +can do it now. I believe I can remember. The scales are falling from +my eyes. I'm becoming myself again. What you've said and what you've +shown me seems to have broken down a veil. I feel as if I could +reconstruct all now, when once the key's suggested to me." + +He smiled at me encouragingly. Oh, how could I ever have doubted +him? + +"That's right, darling," he answered. "I should have expected as +much, indeed. For now for the very first time since the accident +you've got really at the other side of the great blank in your +memory." + +I felt so happy, though I knew I was a murderess. I didn't mind now +whether I was hanged or not. To love Jack and be loved by him was +quite enough for me. When he called me "darling," I was in the +seventh heavens. It sounded so familiar. I knew he must have called +me so, often and often before, in the dim dead past that was just +beginning to recur to me. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +THE STRANGER FROM THE SEA + + +I held his hand tight. It was so pleasant to know I could love him +now with a clear conscience, even if I had to give myself up to the +police to-morrow. And indeed, being a woman, I didn't really much +care whether they took me or not, if only I could love Jack, and +know Jack loved me. + +"You must tell me everything--this minute--Jack," I said, clinging +to him like a child. "I can't bear this suspense. Begin telling me +at once. You'll do me more harm than good if you keep me waiting any +longer." + +Jack took instinctively a medical view of the situation. + +"So I think, my child," he said, looking lovingly at me. "Your +nerves are on the rack, and will be the better for unstringing. Oh, +Una, it's such a comfort that you know at last who I am! It's such a +comfort that I'm able to talk to you to-day just as we two used to +talk four years ago in Devonshire!" + +"Did I love you then, Jack?" I whispered, nestling still closer to +him, in spite of my horror. Or rather, my very horror made me feel +more acutely than ever the need for protection. I was no longer +alone in the world. I had a man to support me. + +"You told me so, darling," he answered, smoothing my hair with his +hand. "Have you forgotten all about it? Doesn't even that come back? +Can't you remember it now, when I've told you who I am and how it +all happened?" + +I shook my head. + +"All cloudy still," I replied, vaguely. "Some dim sense of +familiarity, perhaps,--as when people say they have a feeling of +having lived all this over somewhere else before,--but nothing more +certain, nothing more definite." + +"Then I must begin at the beginning," Jack answered, bracing himself +for his hard task, "and reconstruct your whole life for you, as far +as I know it, from your very childhood. I'm particularly anxious you +should not merely be TOLD what took place, but should remember the +past. There are gaps in my own knowledge I want you to eke out. +There are places I want you to help me myself over. And besides, +it'll be more satisfactory to yourself to remember than to be told +it." + +I leaned back, almost exhausted. Incredible as it may seem to you, +in spite of that awful photograph, I couldn't really believe even so +I had killed my father. And yet I knew very well now that Jack, at +least, hadn't done it. That was almost enough. But not quite. My +head swam round in terror. I waited and longed for Jack to explain +the whole thing to me. + +"You remember," he said, watching me close, "that when you lived as +a very little girl in Australia you had a papa who seems different +to you still from the papa in your later childish memories?" + +"I remember it very well," I replied. "It came back to me on the +Sarmatian. I think of him always now as the papa in the loose white +linen coat. The more I dwell on him, the more does he come out to me +as a different man from the other one--the father...I shot at The +Grange, at Woodbury. The father that lives with me in that +ineffaceable Picture." + +"He WAS a different man," Jack answered, with a sudden burst, as if +he knew all my story. "Una, I may as well relieve your mind all at +once on that formidable point. You shot that man"--he pointed to the +white-bearded person in the photograph,--"but it was not parricide: +it was not even murder. It was under grave provocation...in more +than self-defence...and he was NOT your father." + +"Not my father!" I cried, clasping my hands and leaning forward in +my profound suspense. "But I killed him all the same! Oh, Jack, how +terrible!" + +"You must quiet yourself, my child," he said, still soothing me +automatically. "I want your aid in this matter. You must listen to +me calmly, and bring your mind to bear on all I say to you." + +Then he began with a regular history of my early life, which came +back to me as fast as he spoke, scene by scene and year by year, in +long and familiar succession. I remembered everything, sometimes +only when he suggested it; but sometimes also, before he said the +words, my memory outran his tongue, and I put in a recollection or +two with my own tongue as they recurred to me under the stimulus of +this new birth of my dead nature. I recalled my early days in the +far bush in Australia; my journey home to England on the big steamer +with mamma; the way we travelled about for years from place to place +on the Continent. I remembered how I had been strictly enjoined, +too, never to speak of baby; and how my father used to watch my +mother just as closely as he watched me, always afraid, as it +appeared to me, she should make some verbal slip or let out some +great secret in an unguarded moment. He seemed relieved, I +recollected now, when my poor mother died: he grew less strict with +me then, but as far as I could judge, though he was careful of my +health, he never really loved me. + +Then Jack reminded me further of other scenes that came much later +in my forgotten life. He reminded me of my trip to Torquay, where I +first met him: and all at once the whole history of my old visits to +the Moores came back like a flood to me. The memory seemed to +inundate and overwhelm my brain. They were the happiest time of all +life, those delightful visits, when I met Jack and fell in love with +him, and half confided my love to my Cousin Minnie. Strange to say, +though at Torquay itself I'd forgotten it all, in that little +Canadian house, with Jack by my side to recall it, it rushed back +like a wave upon me. I'd fallen in love with Jack without my +father's knowledge or consent; and I knew very well my father would +never allow me to marry him. He had ideas of his own, my father, +about the sort of person I ought to marry: and I half suspected in +my heart of hearts he meant if possible always to keep me at home +single to take care of him and look after him. I didn't know, as +yet, he had sufficient reasons of his own for desiring me to remain +for ever unmarried. + +I remembered, too, that I never really loved my father. His nature +was hard, cold, reserved, unsympathetic. I only feared and obeyed +him. At times, my own strong character came out, I remembered, and I +defied him to his face, defied him openly. Then there were scenes in +the house, dreadful scenes, too hateful to dwell upon: and the +servants came up to my room at the end and comforted me. + +So, step by step, Jack reminded me of everything in my own past +life, up to the very night of the murder, from which my Second State +dated. I'd come back from Torquay a week or two before, very full +indeed of Jack, and determined at all costs, sooner or later, to +marry him. But though I had kept all quiet, papa had suspected my +liking on the day of the Berry Pomeroy athletics, and had forbidden +me to see Jack, or to write to him, or to have anything further to +say to him. He was determined, he told me, whoever I married, I +shouldn't at least marry a beggarly doctor. All that I remembered; +and also how, in spite of the prohibition, I wrote letters to Jack, +but could receive none in return--lest my father should see them. + +And still, the central mystery of the murder was no nearer solution. +I held my breath in terror. Had I really any sort of justification +in killing him? + +Dimly and instinctively, as Jack went on, a faint sense of +resentment and righteous indignation against the man with the white +beard rose up vaguely in my mind by slow degrees. I knew I had been +angry with him, I knew I had defied him, but how or why as yet I +knew not. + +Then Jack suddenly paused, and began in a different voice a new part +of his tale. It was nothing I remembered or could possibly remember, +he said; but it was necessary to the comprehension of what came +after, and would help me to recall it. About a week after I left +Torquay, it seemed, Jack was in his consulting-room at Babbicombe +one day, having just returned from a very long bicycle ride--for he +was a first-rate cyclist,--when the servant announced a new +patient; and a very worn-out old man came in to visit him. + +The man had a ragged grey beard and scanty white hair; he was clad +in poor clothes, and had tramped on foot all the way from London to +Babbicombe, where Jack used to practice. But Jack saw at once under +this rough exterior he had the voice and address of a cultivated +gentleman, though he was so broken down by want and long suffering +and exposure and illness that he looked like a beggar just let loose +from the workhouse. + +I held my breath as Jack showed me the poor old man's photograph. It +was a portrait taken after death--for Jack attended him to the end +through a fatal illness;--and it showed a face thin and worn, and +much lined by unspeakable hardships. But I burst out crying at once +the very moment I looked at it. For a second or two, I couldn't say +why: I suppose it was instinct. Blood is thicker than water, they +tell us; and I have the intuition of kindred very strong in me, I +believe. But at any rate, I cried silently, with big hot tears, +while I looked at that dead face of silent suffering, as I never had +cried over the photograph of the respectable-looking man who lay +dead on the floor of the library, and whom I was always taught to +consider my father. Then it came back to me, why... I gazed at it +and grew faint. I clutched Jack's arm for support. I knew what it +meant now. The poor worn old man who lay dead on the bed with that +look of mute agony on his features--was my first papa: the papa in +the loose white linen coat: the one I remembered with childlike love +and trustfulness in my earliest babyish Australian recollections! + +I couldn't mistake the face. It was burnt into my brain now. This +was he, though much older and sadder, and more scarred and lined by +age and weather. It was my very first papa. My own papa. I cried +silently still. I couldn't bear to look at it. Then the real truth +broke upon me once more. This, and this alone, was in very deed my +one real father! + +I seized the faded photograph and pressed it to my lips. + +"Oh, I know him!" I cried wildly. "It's my father! My father!" + +Some minutes passed before Jack could go on with his story. This +rush of emotions was too much for me for a while. I could hardly +hear him or attend to him, so deeply did it stir me. + +At last I calmed down, still holding that pathetic photograph on the +table before me. + +"Tell me all about him," I murmured, sobbing. "For, Jack, I remember +now, he was so good and kind, and I loved him--I loved him." + +Jack went on with his story, trying to soothe me and reassure me. +The old man introduced himself by very cautious degrees as a person +in want, not so much of money, though of that to be sure he had +none, as of kindness and sympathy in a very great sorrow. He was a +shipwrecked mariner, in a sense: shipwrecked on the sea of Life and +on the open Pacific as well. But once he had been a clergyman, and a +man of education, position, reputation, fortune. + +Gradually as he went on Jack began to grasp at the truth of this +curious tale. The worn and battered stranger had but lately landed +in London from a sailing vessel which had brought him over from a +remote Pacific islet: not a tropical islet of the kind with whose +palms and parrots we are all so familiar, but a cold and snowy rock, +away off far south, among the frosts and icebergs, near the +Antarctic continent. There for twenty long years that unhappy man +had lived by himself a solitary life. + +I started at the sound. + +"For twenty years!" I exclaimed. "Oh, Jack, you must be wrong; for +how could that be? I was only eighteen when all this happened. How +could my real father have been twenty years away from me, when I was +only eighteen, and I remember him so perfectly?" + +Jack looked at me and shook his head. + +"You've much to learn yet, Una," he answered. "The story's a long +one. You were NOT eighteen but twenty-two at the time. You've been +deliberately misled as to your own age all along. You developed +late, and were always short for your real years, not tall and +precocious as we all of us imagined. But you were four years older +than Mr. Callingham pretended. You're twenty-six now, not +twenty-two as you think. Wait, and in time you'll hear all about +it." + +He went on with his story. I listened, spell-bound. The unhappy +man explained to Jack how he had been wrecked on the voyage, and +escaped on a raft with one other passenger: how they had drifted far +south, before waves and current, till they were cast at last on this +wretched island: how they remained there for a month or two, picking +up a precarious living on roots and berries and eggs of sea-birds: +and how at last, one day, he had come back from hunting limpets and +sea-urchins on the shore of a lonely bay--to find, to his +amazement, his companion gone, and himself left alone on that +desolate island. His fellow-castaway, he knew then, had deceived and +deserted him! + +There was no room, indeed, to doubt the treachery of the wretched +being who had so basely treated him. As he looked, a ship under full +sail stood away to northward. In vain the unhappy man made wild +signals from the shore with his tattered garments. No notice was +taken of them. His companion must deliberately have suppressed the +other's existence, and pretended to be alone by himself on the +island. + +"And his name?" Jack asked of the poor old man, horrified. + +The stranger answered without a moment's pause: + +"His name, if you want it--was Vivian Callingham." + +"And yours?" Jack continued, as soon as he could recover from his +first shock of horror. + +"And mine," the poor castaway replied, "is Richard Wharton." + +As Jack told me those words, another strange thrill ran through me. + +"Richard Wharton was the name of mamma's first husband. Then I'm not +a Callingham at all!" I cried, unable to take it all in at first in +its full complexity. "I'm really a Wharton!" + +Jack nodded his head in assent. + +"Yes, you're really a Wharton," he said. "You're the baby that died, +as we all were told. Your true Christian name's Mary. But, Una, you +were always Una to all of us in England; and though the real Una +Callingham died when you were a little girl of three or four years +old, you'll be Una always now to Elsie and me. We can't think of you +as other than we've always called you." + +Then he went on to explain to me how the stranger had landed in +London, alone and friendless, twenty years later, from a passing +Australian merchant vessel which had picked him up on the island. +All those years he had waited, and fed himself on eggs of penguins. +He landed by himself, the crew having given him a suit of old +clothes, and subscribed to find him in immediate necessaries. He +began to inquire cautiously in London about his wife and family. At +first, he could learn little or nothing; for nobody remembered him, +and he feared to ask too openly, a sort of Enoch Arden terror +restraining him from proclaiming his personality till he knew +exactly what had happened in his long absence. But bit by bit, he +found out at last that his wife had married again, and was now long +dead: and that the man she had married was Vivian Callingham, his +own treacherous companion on the Crozet Islands. As soon as he +learned that, the full depth of the man's guilt burst upon him like +a thunderbolt. Richard Wharton understood now why Vivian Callingham +had left him alone on those desert rocks, and sailed away in the +ship without telling the captain of his fellow-castaway's plight. He +saw the whole vile plot the man had concocted at once, and the steps +he had taken to carry it into execution. + +Vivian Callingham, whom I falsely thought my father, had gone back +to Australia with pretended news of Richard Wharton's death. He had +sought my widowed mother in her own home up country, and told her a +lying tale of his devotion to her husband in his dying moments on +that remote ocean speck in the far Southern Pacific. By this story +he ingratiated himself. He knew she was rich: he knew she was worth +marrying: and to marry her, he had left my own real father, Richard +Wharton, to starve and languish for twenty years among rocks and +sea-fowl on a lonely island! + +My blood ran cold at such a tale of deadly treachery. I remembered +now to have heard some small part of it before. But much of it, as +Jack told it to me, was quite new and unexpected. No wonder I had +turned in horror that night from the man I long believed to be my +own father, when I learned by what vile and cruelly treacherous +means he had succeeded in imposing his supposed relationship upon +me! But still, all this brought me no nearer the real question of +questions--why did I shoot him? + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF + + +As Jack went on unfolding that strange tale of fraud and heartless +wrong, my interest every moment grew more and more absorbing. But I +can't recall it now exactly as Jack told me it. I can only give you +the substance of that terrible story. + +When Richard Wharton first learned of his wife's second marriage +during his own lifetime to that wicked wretch who had ousted and +supplanted him, he believed also, on the strength of Vivian +Callingham's pretences, that his own daughter had died in her +babyhood in Australia. He fancied, therefore, that no person of his +kin remained alive at all, and that he might proceed to denounce and +punish Vivian Callingham. With that object in view, he tramped down +all the way from London to Torquay, to make himself known to his +wife's relations, the Moores, and to their cousin, Courtenay Ivor of +Babbicombe--my Jack, as I called him. For various reasons of his +own, he called first on Jack, and proceeded to detail to him this +terrible family story. + +At first hearing, Jack could hardly believe such a tale was true--of +his Una's father, as he still thought Vivian Callingham. But a +strange chance happened to reveal a still further complication. It +came out in this way. I had given Jack a recent photograph of myself +in fancy dress, which hung up over his mantelpiece. As the +weather-worn visitor's eye fell on the picture, he started and grew +pale. + +"Why, that's her!" he cried with a sudden gasp. "That's my +daughter--Mary Wharton!" + +Well, naturally enough Jack thought, to begin with, this was a mere +mistake on his strange visitor's part. + +"That's her half-sister," he said, "Una Callingham--your wife's +child by her second marriage. She may be like her, no doubt, as +half-sisters often are. But Mary Wharton, I know, died some eighteen +years ago or so, when Una was quite a baby, I believe. I've heard +all about it, because, don't you see, I'm engaged to Una." + +The poor wreck of a clergyman, however, shook his head with profound +conviction. He knew better than that. + +"Oh no," he said decisively: "that's my child, Mary Wharton. Even +after all these years, I couldn't possibly be mistaken. Blood is +thicker than water: I'd know her among ten thousand. She'd be just +that age now, too. I see the creature's vile plot. His daughter died +young, and he's palmed off my Mary as his own child, to keep her +money in his hands. But never mind the money. Thank Heaven, she's +alive! That's her! That's my Mary!" + +The plot seemed too diabolical and too improbable for anybody to +believe. Jack could hardly think it possible when his new friend +told him. But the stranger persisted so--it's hard for me even to +think of him as quite really my father--that Jack at last brought +out two or three earlier photographs I'd given him some time before; +and his visitor recognised them at once, in all their stages, as his +own daughter. This roused Jack's curiosity. He determined to hunt +the matter up with his unknown connection. And he hunted it up +thenceforward with deliberate care, till he proved every word of it. + +Meanwhile, the poor broken-down man, worn out with his long tramp +and his terrible emotions, fell ill almost at once, in Jack's own +house, and became rapidly so feeble that Jack dared not question him +further. The return to civilisation was more fatal than his long +solitary banishment. At the end of a week he died, leaving on Jack's +mind a profound conviction that all he had said was true, and that I +was really Richard Wharton's daughter, not Vivian Callingham's. + +"For a week or two I made inquiries, Una," Jack said to me as we sat +there,--"inquiries which I won't detail to you in full just now, but +which gradually showed me the truth of the poor soul's belief. What +you yourself told me just now chimes in exactly with what I +discovered elsewhere, by inquiry and by letters from Australia. The +baby that died was the real Una Callingham. Shortly after its death, +your stepfather and your mother left the colony. All your real +father's money had been bequeathed to his child: and your mother's +also was settled on you. Mr. Callingham saw that if your mother +died, and you lived and married, he himself would be deprived of the +fortune for which he had so wickedly plotted. So he made up another +plot even more extraordinary and more diabolical still than the +first. He decided to pretend it was Mary Wharton that died, and to +palm you off on the world as his own child, Una Callingham. For if +Mary Wharton died, the property at once became absolutely your +mother's, and she could will it away to her husband or anyone else +she chose to." + +"But baby was so much younger than I!" I cried, going back on my +recollections once more. "How could he ever manage to make the dates +come right again?" + +"Quite true," Jack answered; "the baby was younger than you. But +your step-father--I've no other name by which I can call him--made a +clever plan to set that straight. He concealed from the people in +Australia which child had been ill, and he entered her death as Mary +Wharton. Then, to cover the falsification, he left Melbourne at +once, and travelled about for some years on the Continent in +out-of-the-way places till all had been forgotten. You went forth +upon the world as Una Callingham, with your true personality as Mary +Wharton all obscured even in your own memory. Fortunately for your +false father's plot, you were small for your age, and developed +slowly: he gave out, on the contrary, that you were big for your +years and had outgrown yourself, Australian-wise, both in wisdom and +stature." + +"But my mother!" I exclaimed, appalled. "How could she ever consent +to such a wicked deception?" + +"Mr. Callingham had your mother completely under his thumb," Jack +answered with promptitude. "She couldn't call her soul her own, your +poor mother--so I've heard: he cajoled her and terrified her till +she didn't dare to oppose him. Poor shrinking creature, she was +afraid of her life to do anything except as he bade her. He must +have persuaded her first to acquiesce passively in this hateful +plot, and then must have terrified her afterwards into full +compliance by threats of exposure." + +"He was a very unhappy man himself," I put in, casting back. "His +money did him no good. I can remember now how gloomy and moody he +was often, at The Grange." + +"Quite true," Jack replied. "He lived in perpetual fear of your real +father's return, or of some other breakdown to his complicated +system of successive deceptions. He never had a happy minute in his +whole life, I believe. Blind terrors surrounded him. He was afraid +of everything, and afraid of everybody. Only his scientific work +seemed ever to give him any relief. There, he became a free man. He +threw himself into that, heart and soul, on purpose, I fancy, +because it absorbed him while he was at it, and prevented him for +the time being from thinking of his position." + +"And how did you find it all out?" I asked eagerly, anxious to get +on to the end. + +"Well, that's long to tell," Jack replied. "Too long for one +sitting. I won't trouble you with it now. Discrepancies in facts and +dates, and inquiries among servants both in England and in Victoria, +first put me upon the track. But I said nothing at the time of my +suspicions to anyone. I waited till I could appeal to the man's own +conscience with success, as I hoped. And then, besides, I hardly +knew how to act for the best. I wanted to marry you; and therefore, +as far as was consistent with justice and honour, I wished to spare +your supposed father a complete exposure." + +"But why didn't you tell the police?" I asked. + +"Because I had really nothing definite in any way to go upon. +Realise the position to yourself, and you'll see how difficult it +was for me. Mr. Callingham suspected I was paying you attentions. +Clearly, under those circumstances, it was to my obvious interest +that you should get possession of all his property. Any claims I +might make for you would, therefore, be naturally regarded with +suspicion. The shipwrecked man had told nobody but myself. I hadn't +even an affidavit, a death-bed statement. All rested upon his word, +and upon mine as retailing it. He was dead, and there was nothing +but my narrative for what he told me. The story itself was too +improbable to be believed by the police on such dubious evidence. I +didn't even care to try. I wanted to make your step-father confess: +and I waited for that till I could compel confession." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +MY MEMORY RETURNS + + +"At last my chance came," Jack went on. "I'd found out almost +everything; not, of course, exactly by way of legal proof, but to my +own entire satisfaction: and I determined to lay the matter +definitely at once before Mr. Callingham. So I took a holiday for a +fortnight, to go bicycling in the Midlands I told my patients; and I +fixed my head-quarters at Wrode, which, as you probably remember, is +twenty miles off from Woodbury. + +"It was important for my scheme I should catch Mr. Callingham alone. +I had no idea of entrapping him. I wanted to work upon his +conscience and induce him to confess. My object was rather to move +him to remorse and restitution than to terrify or surprise him. + +"So on the day of the accident--call it murder, if you will--I rode +over on my machine, unannounced, to The Grange to see him. You knew +where I was staying, you recollect--" + +At the words, a burst of memory came suddenly over me. + +"Oh yes!" I cried. "I remember. It was at the Wilsons', at Wrode. I +wrote over there to tell you we were going to dine alone at six that +evening, as papa had got his electric apparatus home from his +instrument-maker, and was anxious to try his experiments early. +You'd written to me privately--a boy brought the note--that you +wanted to have an hour's talk alone with papa. I thought it was +about ME, and I was, oh, ever so nervous!" + +For it all came back to me now, as clear as yesterday. + +Jack looked at me hard. + +"I'm glad you remember that, dear," he said. "Now, Una, do try to +remember all you can as I go along with my story... Well, I rode +over alone, never telling anybody at Wrode where I was going, nor +giving your step-father any reason of any sort to expect me. I +trusted entirely to finding him busy with his new invention. When I +reached The Grange, I came up the drive unperceived, and looking in +at the library window, saw your father alone there. He was pottering +over his chemicals. That gave me the clue. I left my bicycle under +the window, tilted up against the wall, and walked in without +ringing, going straight to the library. Nobody saw me come: nobody +saw me return, except one old lady on the road, who seemed to have +forgotten all about it by the time of the inquest." + +(I nodded and gave a start. I knew that must have been Aunt Emma.) + +"Except yourself, Una, no human soul on earth ever seemed to suspect +me. And that wasn't odd; for you and your father, and perhaps Minnie +Moore, were the only people in the world who ever knew I was in love +with you or cared for you in any way." + +"Go on," I said, breathless. "And you went into the library." + +"I went into the library," Jack continued, "where I found your +father, just returned from enjoying his cigar on the lawn. He was +alone in the room--" + +"No, no!" I cried eagerly, putting in my share now; for I had a part +in the history. "He WASN'T alone, Jack, though you thought him so at +the time. I remember all, at last. It comes back to me like a flash. +Oh, heavens, how it comes back to me! Jack, Jack, I remember to-day +every word, every syllable of it!" + +He gazed at me in surprise. + +"Then tell me yourself, Una!" he exclaimed. "How did you come to be +there? For I knew you were there at last; but till you fired the +pistol, I hadn't the faintest idea you had heard or seen anything. +Tell me all about it, quick! There comes in MY mystery." + +In one wild rush of thought the whole picture rose up like a vision +before me. + +"Why, Jack," I cried, "there was a screen, a little screen in the +alcove! You remember the alcove at the west end of the room. It was +so small a screen, you'd hardly have thought it could hide me; but +it did--it did--and all, too, by accident. I'd gone in there after +dinner, not much thinking where I went, and was seated on the floor +by the little alcove window, reading a book by the twilight. It was +a book papa told me I wasn't to read, and I took it trembling from +the shelves, and was afraid he'd scold me--for you know how stern he +was. And I never was allowed to go alone into the library. But I got +interested in my book, and went on reading. So when he came in, I +went on sitting there very still, with the book hidden under my +skirt, for fear he should scold me. I thought perhaps before long +papa'd go out for a second, to get some plates for his photography +or something, and then I could slip away and never be noticed. The +big window towards the garden was open, you remember, and I meant to +jump out of it--as you did afterwards. It wasn't very high; and +though the book was only The Vicar of Wakefield, he'd forbidden me +to read it, and I was dreadfully afraid of him." + +"Then you were there all the time?" Jack cried interrogatively. "And +you heard our conversation--our whole conversation?" + +"I was there all the time, Jack," I cried, in a fever of exaltation: +"and I heard every word of it! It comes back to me now with a +vividness like yesterday. I see the room before my eyes. I remember +every syllable: I could repeat every sentence of it." + +Jack drew a deep sigh of intense relief. + +"Thank God for that!" he exclaimed, with profound gratitude. "Then +I'm saved, and you're saved. We can both understand one another in +that case. We know how it all happened!" + +"Perfectly," I answered. "I know all now. As I sat there and +cowered, I heard a knock at the door, and before papa could answer, +you entered hastily. Papa looked round, I could hear, and saw who it +was in a second. + +"'Oh, it's you!' he said, coldly. 'It's you, Dr. Ivor. And pray, +sir, what do you want here this evening?'" + +"Go on!" Jack cried, intensely relieved, I could feel. "Let me see +how much more you can remember, Una." + +"So you shut the door softly and said: + +"'Yes, it's I, Mr. Callingham,'" I continued all aglow, and looking +into his eyes for confirmation. "'And I've come to tell you a fact +that may surprise you. Prepare for strange news. Richard Wharton has +returned to England!' + +"I knew Richard Wharton was mamma's first husband, who was dead +before I was born, as I'd always been told: and I sat there aghast +at the news: it was so sudden, so crushing. I'd heard he'd been +wrecked, and I thought he'd come to life again; but as yet I didn't +suspect what was all the real meaning of it. + +"But papa drew back, I could hear, in a perfect frenzy of rage, +astonishment, and terror. + +"'Richard Wharton!' he hissed out between his teeth, springing away +like one stung. 'Richard Wharton come back! You liar! You sneak! +He's dead this twenty years! You're trying to frighten me.' + +"I never meant to overhear your conversation. But at that, it was so +strange, I drew back and cowered even closer. I was afraid of papa's +voice. I was afraid of his rage. He spoke just like a man who was +ready to murder you. + +"Then you began to talk with papa about strange things that +astonished me--strange things that I only half understood just then, +but that by the light of what you've told me to-day I quite +understand now--the history of my real father. + +"'I'm no liar,' you answered. 'Richard Wharton has come back. And by +the aid of what he's disclosed, I know the whole truth. The girl you +call your daughter, and whose money you've stolen, is not yours at +all. She's Richard Wharton's daughter Mary!' + +"Papa staggered back a pace or two, and came quite close to the +screen. I cowered behind it in alarm. I could see he was terrified. +For a minute or two you talked with him, and urged him to confess. +Bit by bit, as you went on, he recovered his nerve, and began to +bluster. He didn't deny what you said: he saw it was no use: he just +sneered and prevaricated. + +"As I listened to his words, I saw he admitted it all. A great +horror came over me. Then my life was one long lie! He was never my +father. He had concocted a vile plot. He had held me in this slavery +so many years to suit his own purposes. He had crushed my mother to +death, and robbed me of my birthright. Even before that night, I +never loved him. I thought it very wicked of me, but I never could +love him. As he spoke to you and grew cynical, I began to loathe and +despise him. I can't tell you how great a comfort it was to me to +know--to hear from his own lips I was not that man's daughter. + +"At last, after many recriminations, he looked across at you, and +said, half laughing, for he was quite himself again by that time: + +"'This is all very fine, Courtenay Ivor--all very fine in its way; +but how are you going to prove it? that's the real question. Do you +think any jury in England will believe, on your unsupported oath, +such a cock-and-bull story? Do you think, even if Richard Wharton's +come back, and you've got him on your side, I can't cross-examine +all the life out of his body?' + +"At that you said gravely--wanting to touch his conscience, I +suppose:-- + +"'Richard Wharton's come back, but you can't cross-examine him. For +Richard Wharton died some six or eight weeks since at my cottage at +Babbicombe, after revealing to me all this vile plot against himself +and his daughter.' + +"Then papa drew back with a loud laugh--a hateful laugh like a +demon's. I can't help calling him papa still, though it pains me +even to think of him. That loud laugh rings still in my ears to this +day. It was horrible, diabolical, like a wild beast's in triumph. + +"'You fool!' he said, with a sneer. 'And you come here to tell me +that! You infernal idiot! You come here to put yourself in my power +like this! Courtenay Ivor, I always knew you were an ass, but I +didn't ever know you were quite such a born idiot of a fellow as +that. Hold back there, you image!' With a rapid dart, before you +could see what he was doing, he passed a wire round your body and +thrust two knobs into your hands. 'You're in my power now!' he +exclaimed. 'You can't move or stir!' + +"I saw at once what he'd done. He'd pinned you to the spot with the +handles of his powerful electric apparatus. It was so strong that it +would hold one riveted to the spot in pain. You couldn't let go. You +could hardly even speak or cry aloud for help. He had pinned you +down irresistibly. I thought he meant to murder you. + +"Yet I was too terrified, even so, to scream aloud for the servants. +I only crouched there, rooted, and wondered what next would happen. + +"He went across to the door and turned the key in it. Then he opened +the cabinet and took out some things there. It was growing quite +dusk, and I could hardly see them. He returned with them where you +stood, struggling in vain to set yourself free. His voice was as +hard as adamant now. He spoke slowly and distinctly, in a voice like +a fiend's. Oh, Jack, no wonder that scene took away my reason!" + +"And you can remember what he said next, Una?" Jack asked, following +me eagerly. + +"Yes, I can remember what he said next," I went on. "He stood over +you threateningly. I could see then the thing he held in his right +hand was a loaded revolver. In his left was a bottle, a small +medical phial. + +"'If you stir, I'll shoot you,' he said; 'I'll shoot you like a dog! +You fool, you've sealed your own fate! What an idiot to let me know +Richard Wharton's dead! Now, hear your fate! Nobody saw you come +into this house to-night. Nobody shall see you leave. Look here, +sir, at this bottle. It's chloroform: do you understand? +Chloroform--chloroform--chloroform! I shall hold it to your +nose--so. I shall stifle you quietly--no blood, no fuss, no nasty +mess of any sort. And when I'm done,--do you see these flasks?--I +can reduce your damned carcase to a pound of ashes with chemicals in +half-an-hour! You've found out too much. But you've mistaken your +man! Courtenay Ivor, say your prayers and commend your soul to the +devil! You've driven me to bay, and I give you no quarter!'" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +THE FATAL SHOT + + +"Thank God, Una," Jack cried, "you remember it now even better than +I do!" + +"Remember it!" I answered, holding my brow with my hands to keep the +flood of thought from bursting it to fragments. "Remember it! Why, +it comes back to me like waves of fire and burns me. I remember +every word, every act, every gesture. I lifted my head slowly, Jack, +and looked over the screen at him. In the twilight, I saw him +there--the man I called my father--holding the bottle to your face, +that wicked bottle of chloroform, with his revolver in one hand, and +a calm smile like a fiend's playing hatefully and cruelly round that +grave-looking mouth of his. I never saw any man look so ghastly in +my life. I was rooted to the spot with awe and terror. I dared +hardly cry out or move. Yet I knew this was murder. He would kill +you! He would kill you! He was trying to poison you before my very +eyes. Oh, heaven, how I hated him! He was no father of mine. He had +never been my father. And he was murdering the man I loved best in +the world. For I loved you better than life, Jack! Oh, the strain of +it was terrible! I see it all now. I live it all over again. With +one wild bound I leapt forward, and, hardly knowing what I did, I +pressed the button, turned off the current from the battery, and +rushed wildly upon him. I suppose the knob I pressed not only +released you, but set the photographic machine at work automatically. +But I didn't know it then. At any rate, I remember now, in the +seconds that followed, flash came fast after flash. There was a +sudden illumination. The room was lighter than day. It grew alternately +bright as noon and then dark as pitch again by contrast. And by the +light of the flashes, I saw you, half-dazed with the chloroform, +standing helpless there. + +"I rushed up and caught the man's arm. He was never my father! He +dropped the bottle and struggled hard for possession of the pistol. +First he pointed it at you, then at me, then at you again. He meant +to shoot you. I was afraid it would go off. With a terrible effort I +twisted his wrist awry, in the mad force of passion, and wrenched +the revolver away from him. He jumped at my throat, still silent, +but fierce like a tiger at bay. I eluded him, and sprang back. Then +I remember no more, except that I stood with the pistol pointed at +him. Next, came a flash, a loud roar. And then, in a moment, the +Picture. He lay dead on the floor in his blood. And my Second State +began. And from that day, for months, I was like a little child +again." + +Jack looked at me as I paused. + +"And then?" he went on in a very low voice, half prompting me. + +"And then all I can remember," I said, "is how you got out of the +window. But I didn't know when I saw you, it was you or anyone else. +That was my Second State then. The shot seemed to end all. What +comes next is quite different. It belongs to the new world. There, +my life stopped dead short and began all over again." + +There was a moments silence. Jack was the first to break it. + +"And now will you give yourself up to the police, Una?" he asked me +quietly. + +The question brought me back to the present again with a bound. + +"Oh! what ought I to do?" I cried, wringing my hands. "I don't quite +know all yet. Jack, why did you run away that last moment and leave +me?" + +Jack took my hand very seriously. + +"Una, my child," he said, fixing his eyes on mine, "I hardly know +whether I can ever make you understand all that. I must ask you at +first at least just simply to believe me. I must ask you to trust me +and to accept my account. When you rushed upon me as I stood there, +all entangled in that hateful apparatus, and unable to move, I +didn't know where you had been; I didn't know how you'd come there. +But I felt sure you must have heard at least your false father's +last words--that he'd stifle me with the chloroform and burn my +body up afterwards to ashes with his chemicals. You seized the +pistol before I could quite recover from the effects of the fumes. +He lay dead at my feet before I realised what was happening. + +"Then, in a moment, as I looked at you, I took it all in, like a +flash of lightning. I saw how impossible it would be ever to +convince anybody else of the truth of our story. I saw if we both +told the truth, no one would ever believe us. There was no time then +to reflect, no time to hesitate. I had to make up my mind at once to +a plan of action, and to carry it out without a second's delay. In +one burst of inspiration, I saw that to stop would be to seal both +our fates. I didn't mind so much for myself; that was nothing, +nothing: but for your sake I felt I must dare and risk everything. +Then I turned round and looked at you. I saw at one glance the +horror of the moment had rendered you speechless and almost +senseless. The right plan came to me at once as if by magic. 'Una,' +I cried, 'stand back! Wait till the servants come!' For I knew the +report of the revolver would soon bring them up to the library. Then +I waited myself. As they reached the door, and forced it open, I +jumped up to the window. Just outside, my bicycle stood propped +against the wall. I let them purposely catch just a glimpse of my +back--an unfamiliar figure. They saw the pistol on the floor,--Mr. +Callingham dead--you, startled and horrified--a man unknown, +escaping in hot haste from the window. I risked my own life, so as +to save your name and honour. I let them see me escape, so as to +exonerate you from suspicion. If they hanged me, what matter? Then I +leapt down in a hurry, jumped lightly on my machine, and rode off +like the wind down the avenue to the high-road. For a second or two +they waited to look at you and your father. That second or two saved +us. By the time they'd come out to look, I was away down the +grounds, past the turn of the avenue, and well on for the high-road. +They'd seen a glimpse of the murderer, escaping by the window. They +would never suspect YOU. You were saved, and I was happy." + +"And for the same reason even now," I said, "you wouldn't tell the +police?" + +"Let sleeping dogs lie," Jack answered, in the same words as Dr. +Marten. "Why rake up this whole matter? It's finished for ever now, +and nobody but yourself is ever likely to reopen it. If we both told +our tale, we might run a great risk of being seriously misinterpreted. +You know it's true; so do I: but who else would believe us? No man's +bound to criminate himself. You shot him to save my life, at the very +moment when you first learned all his cruelty and his vileness. The +rest of the world could never be made to understand all that. They'd +say to the end, as it looks on the surface, 'She shot her father to +save her lover.'" + +"You're right," I said slowly. "I shall let this thing rest. But the +photographs, Jack--the apparatus--the affair of the inquest?" + +"That was all very simple," Jack answered. "For a day or two, of +course, I was in a frantic state of mind for fear you should be +suspected, or the revolver should betray you. But though I saw the +electric sparks, of course, I knew nothing about the photographs. I +wasn't even aware that the apparatus took negatives automatically. +And I was so full of the terrible reports in the newspapers about +your sudden loss of health, that I could think of nothing +else--least of all my own safety. As good luck would have it, +however, the clergyman at Wrode, who knew the Wilsons, happened to +speak to me of the murder--all England called it the murder and +talked of nothing else for at least a fortnight,--and in the course +of conversation he mentioned this apparatus of Mr. Callingham's +construction. 'What a pity,' he said, 'there didn't happen to be one +of them in the library at the time! If it was focussed towards the +persons, and had been set on by the victim, it would have +photographed the whole scene the murder, the murderer.' + +"That hint revealed much to me. As he spoke, I remembered suddenly +about those mysterious flashes when you burst all at once on my +sight from behind the screen. Till that moment, I thought of them +only as some result of your too suddenly turning off the electric +current. But then, it came home to me in a second that Mr. +Callingham must have set out his apparatus all ready for +experimenting--that the electric apparatus was there to put it in +working order. The button you turned must not only have stopped the +current that nailed me writhing to the spot: it must also have set +working the automatic photographic camera! + +"That thought, as you may imagine, filled me with speechless alarm: +for I remembered then that one of the flashes broke upon us at the +exact moment when you fired the pistol. Such a possibility was +horrible to contemplate. The photographs by themselves could give no +clue to our conversation or to the events that compelled you, almost +against your own will, to fire that fatal shot. If they were found +by the police, all would be up with both of us. They might hang ME +if they liked: except for Elsie's sake, I didn't mind much about +that: but for your safety, come what might, I felt I must manage to +get hold of them or to destroy them. + +"Were the negatives already in the hands of the police? That was now +the great question. I read the reports diligently, with all their +descriptions of the room, and noticed that while the table, the +alcove, the screen, the box, the electrical apparatus, were all +carefully mentioned, not a word was said anywhere about the +possession of the negatives. Reasoning further upon the description +of the supposed murderer as given by the servants, and placarded +broadcast in every town in England, I came to the conclusion that +the police couldn't yet have discovered the existence of these +negatives: for some of them must surely have photographed my face, +however little in focus; while the printed descriptions mentioned +only the man's back, as the servants saw him escaping from the +window. The papers said the room was being kept closed till the +inquest, for inspection in due time by the coroner's jury. I made up +my mind at once. When the room was opened for the jurors to view it, +I must get in there and carry them off, if they caught me in the +attempt. + +"It was no use trying before the jury had seen the room. But as soon +as that was all over, I judged the strictness of the watch upon the +premises would be relaxed, and the windows would probably be opened +a little to air the place. So on the morning of the inquest, I told +the Wilsons casually I'd met you at Torquay and had therefore a sort +of interest in learning the result of the coroner's deliberation. +Then I took my bicycle, and rode across to Woodbury. Leaning up my +machine against the garden wall, I walked carelessly in at the gate, +and up the walk to the library window, as if the place belonged to +me. Oh, how my heart beat as I looked in and wondered! The folding +halves were open, and the box stood on the table, still connected +with the wires that conducted the electrical current. I stood and +hesitated in alarm. Were the negatives still there, or had the +police discovered them? If they were gone, all was up with you. The +game was lost. No jury on earth, I felt sure, would believe my +story. + +"I vaulted up to the sill. Thank heaven, I was athletic. Not a soul +was about: but I heard a noise of muffled voices in the other rooms +behind. Treading cat-like across the floor, I turned the key in the +lock. A chalk mark still showed the position of the pistol on the +ground exactly as you flung it. The box was on the table, and I saw +at a glance, the wires which connected it with the battery had never +been disconnected. I was afraid of receiving a shock if I touched +them with my hands, and I had no time to waste in discovering +electrical attachments. So I pulled out my knife, and you can fancy +with what trembling hands I cut that wire on either side and +released the box from its dangerous connections. I knew only too +well the force of that current. Then I took the thing under my arm, +leaped from the window once more, and ran across the shrubbery +towards the spot where I'd left my bicycle. + +"On the way, the thought struck me that if I carried along the +camera, all would be up with me should I happen to be challenged. It +was the only one of the sort in existence at the time, and the wires +at the side would at once suffice to identify it and to arouse the +suspicion even of an English policeman. I paused for a moment behind +a thick clump of lilacs and tried to pull out the incriminating +negatives. Oh, Una, I did it for your sake; but there, terrified and +trembling, in hiding behind the bushes, and in danger of my life, +with that still more unspeakable danger for yours haunting me always +like a nightmare, can you wonder that for the moment I almost felt +myself a murderer? The very breezes in the trees made my heart give +a jump, and then stand still within me. I got out the first two or +three plates with some trifling difficulty, for I didn't understand +the automatic apparatus then as I understand it now: but the fourth +stuck hard for a minute; the fifth broke in two; and the +sixth--well, the sixth plate baffled me entirely by getting jammed +in the clockwork, and refusing to move, either backward or forward. + +"At that moment, I either heard or fancied I heard a loud noise of +pursuit, a hue and cry behind me. Zeal for your safety had made me +preternaturally nervous. I looked about me hurriedly, thrust the +negatives I'd recovered into my breast-pocket as fast as ever I +could, flung the apparatus away from me with the sixth plate jammed +hard in the groove, and made off at the top of my speed for the wall +behind me. For there, at that critical point, it occurred to me +suddenly that the sixth and last flash of the machine had come and +gone just as I stood poising myself on the ledge of the window-sill; +and I thought to myself--rightly as it turned out--this additional +evidence would only strengthen the belief in the public mind that +Mr. Callingham had been murdered by the man whom the servants saw +escaping from the window. + +"The rest, my child, you know pretty well already. In a panic on +your account, I scrambled over the wall, tearing my hands as I went +with that nasty-bottle glass, reached my bicycle outside, and made +off, not for the country, but for the inn where they were holding +the coroner's inquest. My left hand I had to hold, tied up in my +handkerchief to stop the bleeding, in the pocket of my jacket: but I +thought this the best way, all the same, to escape detection. And, +indeed, instead of being, as I feared, the only man there in +bicycling dress and knickerbockers, I found the occasion had +positively attracted all the cyclists of the neighbourhood. Each man +went there to show his own innocence of fear or suspicion. A good +dozen or two of bicyclists stood gathered already in the body of the +room in the same incriminating costume. So I found safety in +numbers. Even the servants who had seen me disappear through the +window, though their eyes lighted upon me more than once, never for +a moment seemed to suspect me. And I know very well why. When I +stand up, I'm the straightest and most perpendicular man that ever +walked erect. But when I poise to jump, I bend my spine so much that +I produce the impression of being almost hump-backed. It was that +attitude you recognised in me when I jumped from the window just +now." + +"Why, Jack," I cried clinging to him in a perfect whirlwind of +wonder, "one can hardly believe it--that was only an hour ago!" + +"That was only an hour ago," Jack answered, smiling. "But as for +you, I suppose you've lived half a lifetime again in it. And now you +know the whole secret of the Woodbury Mystery. And you won't want to +give yourself up to the police any longer." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + +"But why didn't you explain it all to me at the very first?" I +exclaimed, all tremulous. "When you met me at Quebec, I mean--why +didn't you tell me then? Did you and Elsie come there on purpose to +meet me?" + +"Yes, we came there to meet you," Jack answered. "But we were afraid +to make ourselves known to you all at once just at first, because, +you see, Una, I more than half suspected then, what I know now to be +the truth, that you were coming out to Canada on purpose to hunt me +up, not as your friend and future husband, but in enmity and +suspicion as your father's murderer. And in any case we were +uncertain which attitude you might adopt towards me. But I see I +must explain a little more even now. I haven't told you yet why I +came at all to Canada." + +"Tell me now," I answered. "I must know everything to-day. I can +never rest now till I've heard the whole story." + +"Well," Jack went on more calmly, "after the first excitement wore +off in the public mind, there came after a bit a lull of languid +interest; the papers began to forget the supposed facts of the +murder, and to dwell far more upon your own new role as a +psychological curiosity. They talked much about your strange new +life and its analogies elsewhere. I was anxious to see you, of +course, to satisfy myself of your condition; but the doctors who had +charge of you refused to let you mix for a while with anyone you had +known in your First State; and I now think wisely. It was best you +should recover your general health and faculties by slow degrees, +without being puzzled and distracted by constant upsetting +recollections and suggestions of your past history. + +"But for me, of course, at the time, the separation was terrible. +Each morning, I read with feverish interest the reports of your +health, and longed, day after day, to hear of some distinct +improvement. And yet at the same time, I was terrified at every +approach to complete convalescence: I feared that if you got better +at all, you might remember too quick, and that then the sudden rush +of recollection might kill you or upset your reason. But by-and-by, +it became clear to me you could remember nothing of the actual shot +itself. And I saw plainly why. It was the firing of the pistol that +obliterated, as it were, every trace of your past life in your +disorganised brain. And it obliterated ITSELF too. Your new life +began just one moment later, with the Picture of the dead man +stretched before you in his blood on the floor, and a figure in the +background disappearing through the window." + +How clever he was, to be sure! I saw in a moment Jack had +interpreted my whole frame of mind correctly and wonderfully. + +"Well, I went back to Babbicombe," Jack continued, "and, lest my +heart should break for want of human sympathy, I confided every word +of my terrible story to Elsie. Elsie can trust me; and Elsie +believed me. Gradually, as you began to recover, I realised the +soundness of your doctor's idea that you should be allowed to come +back to yourself by re-education from the very beginning, without +any too early intrusion of reminiscences from your previous life to +confuse and disturb you. But I couldn't go on with my profession, +all the same, while I waited. I couldn't attend as I ought to my +patients' wants and ailments: I was too concentrated upon you: the +strain was too great upon me. So I threw up my practice, came out to +Canada, bought a bit of land, and began farming here, and seeing a +few patients now and again locally, just to fill up my time with. I +felt confident in the end you would recover and remember me. I felt +confident you would come to yourself and marry me. But still, it was +very long work waiting. Every month, Elsie got news indirectly from +Minnie Moore or someone of your state of health; and I intended to +go back and try to see you as soon as ever you were in a condition +to bear the shock of re-living your previous life again. + +"Unfortunately, however, the police got hold of YOU before I could +carry my plan into execution. As soon as I heard that, I made up my +mind at once to go home by the first mail and break it all gently to +you. So Elsie and I started for Quebec, meaning to sail by the +Dominion steamer for England. But at the hotel at Quebec we saw the +telegrams announcing that you were then on your way out to Canada. +Well, of course we didn't feel sure whether you came as a friend or +an enemy. We were certain it was to seek me out you were coming to +America; but whether you remembered me still and still loved me, or +whether you'd found out some stray clue to the missing man, and were +anxious to hunt me down as your father's murderer, we hadn't the +slightest conception. So under those circumstances, we thought it +best not to meet you ourselves at the steamer, or to reveal our +identity too soon, for fear of a catastrophe. I knew it would be +better to wait and watch--to gain your confidence, if possible--in +any case, to find out how you were affected on first seeing us and +talking with us. + +"Well then, as the time came on for the Sarmatian to arrive, it +began to strike me by degrees that all Quebec was agog with +curiosity to see you. I dared not go down to meet you at the quay +myself; but the Chief Constable of Quebec, Major Tascherel, was an +old friend and fellow-officer of my father's; and when I explained +to him my fears that you might be mobbed by sightseers on your +arrival at the harbour, and told him how afraid I was of the shock +it might give you to meet an old friend unexpectedly at the +steamer's side, he very kindly consented to go down and see you safe +through the Custom House, It was so lucky I knew him. If it hadn't +been for that, you might have been horribly inconvenienced. + +"As you may imagine, when we first saw you get into the Pullman car, +both Elsie and I felt our hearts come up into our months with +suspense and anxiety. We'd arranged it all so on purpose, for we +felt sure you were on your way to Palmyra to find us: but when it +came to the actual crisis, we wondered most nervously what effect +the sight of us might have upon your system. But in a moment, I saw +you didn't remember us at all, or only vaguely attached to us some +faint sense of friendliness. That was well, because it enabled us to +gain your confidence easily. As we spoke with you, the sense of +friendly interest deepened. I knew that, all unconsciously to +yourself, you loved me still, and that in a very short time, if only +I could see you and be with you, I might bring all back to you." + +Jack paused and looked at me. As he paused, I felt my old self +revive again more completely than ever with a rush. + +"Oh, Jack," I cried, "so you HAVE done; so you HAVE brought all back +to me! My Second State's over: I'm the same girl you used to know at +Torquay once more. I remember everything--everything--such a +world--such a lifetime! I feel as if my head would burst with all +the things I remember. I don't know what to do with it. I'm so +tired, so weary." + +"Lay it here," Jack said simply. + +And I laid it on his shoulder, just as I used to do years ago, and +cried so long in silence, and was ever so much comforted. For I've +admitted all along that I'm only a woman. + +There we sat, hand in hand, for many minutes more, saying never +another word, but sympathising silently, till Elsie returned from +Palmyra. + +When she burst into the room, she called out lightly as she entered: + +"Well, I've got you your lemon, Una, and I do hope--" Then she broke +short suddenly. "Oh, Jack," she cried, faltering, and half guessing +the truth, "what's the meaning of this? Why, Una's been crying. You +bad boy, you've been frightening her. I oughtn't to have left her +ten minutes alone with you!" + +Jack rose and held up his hand in warning. + +"Don't talk to her at present, Elsie," he said. "You needn't be +afraid. Una's found out everything. She remembers all now. And she +knows how everything happened. And she's borne it so bravely, +without any more shock to her health and strength than was +absolutely inevitable.--Let her sleep if she can. It'll do her so +much good.--But, Elsie, there's one thing I want to say to you both +before I hand her over to you. After all that's happened, I don't +think Una'll want to hear that hateful name of Callingham any more. +It never was really hers, and it never shall be. We'll let bygones +be bygones in every other respect, and not rake up any details of +that hateful story. But she's been Una to us always, and she shall +be Una still. It's a very good name for her: for there's only one of +her. But next week, I propose, she shall be Una Ivor." + +I threw myself on his neck, and cried again like a child. + +"I accept, Jack," I said, sobbing. "Let it be Ivor, if you will. +Next week, then, I'll be your wife at last, my darling!" + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Recalled to Life, by Grant Allen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECALLED TO LIFE *** + +***** This file should be named 5832.txt or 5832.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/8/3/5832/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Recalled to Life + +Author: Grant Allen + +Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5832] +First Posted: September 10, 2002 +Last Updated: September 10, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECALLED TO LIFE *** + + +Etext produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + RECALLED TO LIFE + </h1> + <h2> + By Grant Allen + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. — UNA CALLINGHAM’S FIRST + RECOLLECTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. — BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. — AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. — THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. — I BECOME A WOMAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. — RELIVING MY LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. — THE GRANGE AT WOODBURY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. — A VISION OF DEAD YEARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. — HATEFUL SUSPICIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. — YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. — THE VISION RECURS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. — THE MOORES OF TORQUAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. — DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. — MY WELCOME TO CANADA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. — MY PLANS ALTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. — A STRANGE RECOGNITION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. — MURDER WILL OUT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. — THE REAL MURDERER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. — THE STRANGER FROM THE SEA + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. — THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. — MY MEMORY RETURNS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. — THE FATAL SHOT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. — ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS + WELL </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. — UNA CALLINGHAM’S FIRST RECOLLECTION + </h2> + <p> + It may sound odd to say so, but the very earliest fact that impressed + itself on my memory was a scene that took place—so I was told—when + I was eighteen years old, in my father’s house, The Grange, at + Woodbury. + </p> + <p> + My babyhood, my childhood, my girlhood, my school-days were all utterly + blotted out by that one strange shock of horror. My past life became + exactly as though it had never been. I forgot my own name. I forgot my + mother-tongue. I forgot everything I had ever done or known or thought + about. Except for the power to walk and stand and perform simple actions + of every-day use, I became a baby in arms again, with a nurse to take care + of me. The doctors told me, later, I had fallen into what they were + pleased to call “a Second State.” I was examined and reported + upon as a Psychological Curiosity. But at the time, I knew nothing of all + this. A thunderbolt, as it were, destroyed at one blow every relic, every + trace of my previous existence; and I began life all over again, with that + terrible scene of blood as my first birthday and practical starting point. + </p> + <p> + I remember it all even now with horrible distinctness. Each item in it + photographed itself vividly on my mind’s eye. I saw it as in a + picture—just as clearly, just as visually. And the effect, now I + look back upon it with a maturer judgment, was precisely like a photograph + in another way too. It was wholly unrelated in time and space: it stood + alone by itself, lighted up by a single spark, without rational connection + before or after it. What led up to it all, I hadn’t the very + faintest idea. I only knew the Event itself took place; and I, like a + statue, stood rooted in the midst of it. + </p> + <p> + And this was the Picture as, for many long months, it presented itself + incessantly to my startled brain, by day and by night, awake or asleep, in + colours more distinct than words can possibly paint them. + </p> + <p> + I saw myself standing in a large, square room—a very handsome old + room, filled with bookshelves like a library. On one side stood a table, + and on the table a box. A flash of light rendered the whole scene visible. + But it wasn’t light that came in through the window. It was rather + like lightning, so quick it was, and clear, and short-lived, and terrible. + Half-way to the door, I stood and looked in horror at the sight revealed + before my eyes by that sudden flash. A man lay dead in a little pool of + blood that gurgled by short jets from a wound on his left breast. I didn’t + even know at the moment the man was my father; though slowly, afterward, + by the concurrent testimony of others, I learnt to call him so. But his + relationship wasn’t part of the Picture to me. There, he was only in + my eyes a man—a man well past middle age, with a long white beard, + now dabbled with the thick blood that kept gurgling so hatefully from the + red spot in his waistcoat. He lay on his back, half-curled round toward + one arm, exactly as he fell. And the revolver he had been shot with lay on + the ground not far from him. + </p> + <p> + But that wasn’t all the Picture. The murderer was there as well as + the victim. Besides the table, and the box, and the wounded man, and the + pistol, I saw another figure behind, getting out of the window. It was the + figure of a man, I should say about twenty-five or thirty: he had just + raised himself to the ledge, and was poising to leap; for the room, as I + afterwards learned, though on the ground floor, stood raised on a basement + above the garden behind. I couldn’t see the man’s face, or any + part of him, indeed, except his stooping back, and his feet, and his neck, + and his elbows. But what little I saw was printed indelibly on the very + fibre of my nature. I could have recognised that man anywhere if I saw him + in the same attitude. I could have sworn to him in any court of justice on + the strength of his back alone, so vividly did I picture it. + </p> + <p> + He was tall and thin, but he stooped like a hunchback. + </p> + <p> + There were other points worth notice in that strange mental photograph. + The man was well-dressed, and had the bearing of a gentleman. Looking back + upon the scene long after, when I had learned once more what words and + things meant, I could feel instinctively this was no common burglar, no + vulgar murderer. Whatever might have been the man’s object in + shooting my father, I was certain from the very first it was not mere + robbery. But at the time, I’m confident, I never reasoned about his + motives or his actions in any way. I merely took in the scene, as it were, + passively, in a great access of horror, which rendered me incapable of + sense or thought or speech or motion. I saw the table, the box, the + apparatus by its side, the murdered man on the floor, the pistol lying + pointed with its muzzle towards his body, the pool of blood that soaked + deep into the Turkey carpet beneath, the ledge of the window, the young + man’s rounded back as he paused and hesitated. And I also saw, like + an instantaneous flash, one hand pushed behind him, waving me off, I + almost thought, with the gesture of one warning. + </p> + <p> + Why didn’t I remember the murderer’s face? That puzzled me + long after. I must have seen him before: I must surely have been there + when the crime was committed. I must have known at the moment everything + about it. But the blank that came over my memory, came over it with the + fatal shot. All that went before, was to me as though it were not. I + recollect vaguely, as the first point in my life, that my eyes were shut + hard, and darkness came over me. While they were so shut, I heard an + explosion. Next moment, I believe, I opened them, and saw this Picture. No + sensitive-plate could have photographed it more instantaneously, as by an + electric spark, than did my retina that evening, as for months after I saw + it all. In another moment, I shut my lids again, and all was over. There + was darkness once more, and I was alone with my Horror. + </p> + <p> + In years then to come, I puzzled my head much as to the meaning of the + Picture. Gradually, step by step, I worked some of it out, with the aid of + my friends, and of the evidence tendered at the coroner’s inquest. + But for the moment I knew nothing of all that. I was a newborn baby again. + Only with this important difference. They say our minds at birth are like + a sheet of white paper, ready to take whatever impressions may fall upon + them. Mine was like a sheet all covered and obscured by one hateful + picture. It was weeks, I fancy, before I knew or was conscious of anything + else but that. The Picture and a great Horror divided my life between + them. + </p> + <p> + Recollect, I didn’t even remember the murdered man was my father. I + didn’t recognise the room as one in our own old house at Woodbury. I + didn’t know anything at all except what I tell you here. I saw the + corpse, the blood, the box on the table, the wires by the side, the + bottles and baths and plates of an amateur photographer’s kit, + without knowing what they all meant. I saw even the books not as books but + as visible points of colour. It had something the effect on me that it + might have upon anyone else to be dropped suddenly on the stage of a + theatre at the very moment when a hideous crime was being committed, and + to believe it real, or rather, to know it by some vague sense as hateful + and actual. + </p> + <p> + Here my history began. I date from that Picture. My second babyhood was + passed in the shadow of the abiding Horror. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. — BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN + </h2> + <p> + What happened after is far more vague to me. Compared with the vividness + of that one initial Picture, the events of the next few months have only + the blurred indistinctness of all childish memories. For I was a child + once more, in all save stature, and had to learn to remember things just + like other children. + </p> + <p> + I will try to tell the whole tale over again exactly as it then struck me. + </p> + <p> + After the Picture, I told you, I shut my eyes in alarm for a second. When + I opened them once more there was a noise, a very great noise, and my + recollection is that people had burst wildly into the room, and were + lifting the dead body, and bending over it in astonishment, and speaking + loud to me, and staring at me. I believe they broke the door open, though + that’s rather inference than memory; I learnt it afterwards. Soon + some of them rushed to the open window and looked out into the garden. + Then, suddenly, a man gave a shout, and leaping on to the sill, jumped + down in pursuit, as I thought, of the murderer. As time went on, more + people flocked in; and some of them looked at the body and the pool of + blood; and some of them turned round and spoke to me. But what they said + or what they meant I hadn’t the slightest idea. The noise of the + pistol-shot still rang loud in my ears: the ineffable Horror still drowned + all my senses. + </p> + <p> + After a while, another man came in, with an air of authority, and felt my + pulse and my brow, and lifted me on to a sofa. But I didn’t even + remember there was such a thing as a doctor. I lay there for a while, + quite dazed; and the man, who was kindly-looking and close-shaven and + fatherly, gave me something in a glass: after which he turned round and + examined the body. He looked hard at the revolver, too, and chalked its + place on the ground. Then I saw no more, for two women lifted me in their + arms and took me up to bed; and with that, the first scene of my childhood + seemed to end entirely. + </p> + <p> + I lay in bed for a day or two, during which time I was dimly aware of much + commotion going on here and there in the house; and the doctor came night + and morning, and tended me carefully. I suppose I may call him the doctor + now, though at the time I didn’t call him so—I knew him merely + as a visible figure. I don’t believe I THOUGHT at all during those + earliest days, or gave things names in any known language. They rather + passed before me dreamily in long procession, like a vague panorama. When + people spoke to me, it was like the sound of a foreign tongue. I attached + no more importance to anything they said than to the cawing of the rooks + in the trees by the rectory. + </p> + <p> + At the end of five days, the doctor came once more, and watched me a great + deal, and spoke in a low voice with a woman in a white cap and a clean + white apron who waited on me daily. As soon as he was gone, my nurse, as I + learned afterwards to call her,—it’s so hard not to drop into + the language of everyday life when one has to describe things to other + people,—my nurse got me up, with much ado and solemnity, and dressed + me in a new black frock, very dismal and ugly, and put on me a black hat, + with a dreary-looking veil; and took me downstairs, with the aid of a man + who wore a suit of blue clothes and a queer kind of helmet. The man was of + the sort I now call a policeman. These pictures are far less definite in + my mind than the one that begins my second life; but still, in a vague + kind of way, I pretty well remember them. + </p> + <p> + On the ground floor, nurse made me walk; and I walked out to the door, + where a cab was in waiting, drawn slowly by a pair of horses. People were + looking on, on either side, between the door and the cab—great + crowds of people, peering eagerly forward; and two more men in blue suits + were holding them off by main force from surging against me and + incommoding me. I don’t think they wanted to hurt me: it was rather + curiosity than anger I saw in their faces. But I was afraid, and shrank + back. They were eager to see me, however, and pressed forward with loud + cries, so that the men in blue suits had hard work to prevent them. + </p> + <p> + I know now there were two reasons why they wanted to see me. I was the + murdered man’s daughter, and I was a Psychological Phenomenon. + </p> + <p> + We drove away, through green lanes, in the cab, nurse and I; and in spite + of the Horror, which surrounded me always, and the Picture, which recurred + every time I shut my eyes to think, I enjoyed that drive very much, with + all the fresh vividness of childish pleasure. Though I learnt later I was + eighteen years old at least, I was in my inner self just like a baby of + ten months, going ta-ta. At the end of the drive, we drew up sharp at a + house, where some more men stood about, with red bands on their caps, and + took boxes from the cab and put them into a van, while nurse and I got + into a different carriage, drawn quickly by a thing that went puff-puff, + puff-puff. I didn’t know it was a railway, and yet in a way I did. I + half forgot, half remembered it. Things that I’d seen in my previous + state seemed to come back to me, in fact, as soon as I saw them; or at + least to be more familiar to me than things I’d never seen before. + Especially afterwards. But while things were remembered, persons, I found + by-and-by, were completely forgotten. Or rather, while I remembered after + a while generalities, such as houses and men, recognising them in the + abstract as a house, or a man, or a horse, or a baby, I forgot entirely + particulars, such as the names of people and the places I had lived in. + Words soon came back to me: names and facts were lost: I knew the world as + a whole, not my own old part in it. + </p> + <p> + Well, not to make my story too long in these early childish stages, we + went on the train, as it seemed to me, a long way across fields to Aunt + Emma’s. I didn’t know she was Aunt Emma then for, indeed, I + had never seen her before; but I remember arriving there at her pretty + little cottage, and seeing a sweet old lady—barely sixty, I should + say, but with smooth white hair,—who stood on the steps of the house + and cried like a child, and held out her hands to me, and hugged me and + kissed me. And it was there that I learned my first word. A great many + times over, she spoke about “Una.” She said it so often, I + caught vaguely at the sound. And nurse, when she answered her, said + “Una” also. Then, when Aunt Emma called me, she always said + “Una.” So it came to me dimly that Una meant ME. But I didn’t + exactly recollect it had been my name before, though I learned in due time + afterwards that I’d always been called so. However, just at first, I + picked up the word as a child might pick it up; and when, some months + later, I began to talk easily, I spoke of myself always in the third + person as Una. I can remember with a smile now how I went one day to Aunt + Emma—I, a great girl of eighteen—and held up my skirt, that I’d + muddied in the street, and said to her, with great gravity: + </p> + <p> + “Una naughty girl: Una got her frock wet. Aunt Emma going to scold + poor Una for being so naughty!” + </p> + <p> + Not that I often smiled, in those days; for, in spite of Aunt Emma’s + kindness, my second girlhood, like my first, was a very unhappy one. The + Horror and the Picture pursued me too close. It was months and months + before I could get rid for a moment of that persistent nightmare. And yet + I had everything else on earth to make me happy. Aunt Emma lived in a + pretty east-coast town, with high bracken-clad downs, and breezy common + beyond; while in front stretched great sands, where I loved to race about + and to play cricket and tennis. It was the loveliest town that ever you + saw in your life, with a broken chancel to the grand old church, and a + lighthouse on a hill, with delicious views to seaward. The doctor had sent + me there (I know now) as soon as I was well enough to move, in order to + get me away from the terrible associations of The Grange at Woodbury. As + long as I lived in the midst of scenes which would remind me of poor + father, he said, and of his tragical death, there was no hope of my + recovery. The only chance for me to regain what I had lost in that moment + of shock was complete change of air, of life, of surroundings. Aunt Emma, + for her part, was only too glad to take me in: and as poor papa had died + intestate, Aunt Emma was now, of course, my legal guardian. + </p> + <p> + She was my mother’s sister, I learned as time went on; and there had + been feud while he lived between her and my father. Why, I couldn’t + imagine. She was the sweetest old soul I ever knew, indeed, and what on + earth he could have quarrelled with her about I never could fathom. She + tended me so carefully that as months went by, the Horror began to + decrease and my soul to become calm again. I grew gradually able to remain + in a room alone for a few minutes at a time, and to sleep at night in a + bed by myself, if only there was a candle, and nurse was in another bed in + the same room close by me. + </p> + <p> + Yet every now and again a fresh shivering fit came on. At such times I + would cover my head with the bedclothes and cower, and see the Picture + even so floating visibly in mid-air like a vision before me. + </p> + <p> + My second education must have been almost as much of a business as my + first had been, only rather less longsome. I had first to relearn the + English language, which came back to me by degrees, much quicker, of + course, than I had picked it up in my childhood. Then I had to begin again + with reading, writing, and arithmetic—all new to me in a way, and + all old in another. Whatever I learned and whatever I read seemed novel + while I learned it, but familiar the moment I had thoroughly grasped it. + To put it shortly, I could remember nothing of myself, but I could recall + many things, after a time, as soon as they were told me clearly. The + process was rather a process of reminding than of teaching, properly so + called. But it took some years for me to recall things, even when I was + reminded of them. + </p> + <p> + I spent four years at Aunt Emma’s, growing gradually to my own age + again. At the end of that time I was counted a girl of twenty-two, much + like any other. But I was older than my age; and the shadow of the Horror + pursued me incessantly. + </p> + <p> + All that time I knew, too, from what I heard said in the house that my + father’s murderer had never been caught, and that nobody even knew + who he was, or anything definite about him. The police gave him up as an + uncaught criminal. He was still at large, and might always be so. I knew + this from vague hints and from vague hints alone; for whenever I tried to + ask, I was hushed up at once with an air of authority. + </p> + <p> + “Una, dearest,” Aunt Emma would say, in her quiet fashion, + “you mustn’t talk about that night. I have Dr. Wade’s + strict orders that nothing must be said to you about it, and above all + nothing that could in any way excite or arouse you.” + </p> + <p> + So I was fain to keep my peace; for though Aunt Emma was kind, she ruled + me still in all things like a little girl, as I was when I came to her. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. — AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR + </h2> + <p> + One morning, after I’d been four whole years at Aunt Emma’s, I + heard a ring at the bell, and, looking over the stairs, saw a tall and + handsome man in a semi-military coat, who asked in a most audible voice + for Miss Callingham. + </p> + <p> + Maria, the housemaid, hesitated a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Callingham’s in, sir,” she answered in a somewhat + dubious tone; “but I don’t know whether I ought to let you see + her or not. My mistress is out; and I’ve strict orders that no + strangers are to call on Miss Callingham when her aunt’s not here.” + </p> + <p> + And she held the door ajar in her hand undecidedly. + </p> + <p> + The tall man smiled, and seemed to me to slip a coin quietly into Maria’s + palm. + </p> + <p> + “So much the better,” he answered, with unobtrusive + persistence; “I thought Miss Moore was out. That’s just why I’ve + come. I’m an officer from Scotland Yard, and I want to see Miss + Callingham—alone—most particularly.” + </p> + <p> + Maria drew herself up and paused. + </p> + <p> + My heart stood still within me at this chance of enlightenment. I guessed + what he meant; so I called over the stairs to her, in a tremor of + excitement: + </p> + <p> + “Show the gentleman into the drawing-room, Maria. I ‘ll come + down to him at once.” + </p> + <p> + For I was dying to know the explanation of the Picture that haunted me so + persistently; and as nobody at home would ever tell me anything worth + knowing about it, I thought this was as good an opportunity as I could get + for making a beginning towards the solution of the mystery. + </p> + <p> + Well, I ran into my own room as quick as quick could be, and set my front + hair straight, and slipped on a hat and jacket (for I was in my morning + dress), and then went down to the drawing-room to see the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + He rose as I entered. He was a gentleman, I felt at once. His manner was + as deferential, as kind, and as considerate to my sensitiveness, as + anything it’s possible for you to imagine in anyone. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry to have to trouble you, Miss Callingham,” he + said, with a very gentle smile; “but I daresay you can understand + yourself the object of my visit. I could have wished to come in a more + authorised way; but I’ve been in correspondence with Miss Moore for + some time past as to the desirability of reopening the inquiry with regard + to your father’s unfortunate death; and I thought the time might now + have arrived when it would be possible to put a few questions to you + personally upon that unhappy subject. Miss Moore objected to my plan. She + thought it would still perhaps be prejudicial to your health—a point + in which Dr. Wade, I must say, entirely agrees with her. Nevertheless, in + the interests of Justice, as the murderer is still at large, I’ve + ventured to ask you for this interview; because what I read in the + newspapers about the state of your health—.” + </p> + <p> + I interrupted him, astonished. + </p> + <p> + “What you read in the newspapers about the state of my health!” + I repeated, thunderstruck. “Why, surely they don’t put the + state of MY health in the newspapers!” + </p> + <p> + For I didn’t know then I was a Psychological Phenomenon. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector smiled blandly, and pulling out his pocket-book, selected a + cutting from a pile that apparently all referred to me. + </p> + <p> + “You’re mistaken,” he said, briefly. “The + newspapers, on the contrary, have treated your case at great length. See, + here’s the latest report. That’s clipped from last Wednesday’s + Telegraph.” + </p> + <p> + I remembered then that a paragraph of just that size had been carefully + cut out of Wednesday’s paper before I was allowed by Aunt Emma to + read it. Aunt Emma always glanced over the paper first, indeed, and often + cut out such offending paragraphs. But I never attached much importance to + their absence before, because I thought it was merely a little fussy + result of auntie’s good old English sense of maidenly modesty. I + supposed she merely meant to spare my blushes. I knew girls were often + prevented on particular days from reading the papers. + </p> + <p> + But now I seized the paragraph he handed me, and read it with deep + interest. It was the very first time I had seen my own name in a printed + newspaper. I didn’t know then how often it had figured there. + </p> + <p> + The paragraph was headed, “THE WOODBURY MURDER,” and it ran + something like this, as well as I can remember it: + </p> + <p> + “There are still hopes that the miscreant who shot Mr. Vivian + Callingham at The Grange, at Woodbury, some four years since, may be + tracked down and punished at last for his cowardly crime. It will be fresh + in everyone’s memory, as one of the most romantic episodes in that + extraordinary tragedy, that at the precise moment of her father’s + death, Miss Callingham, who was present in the room during the attack, and + who alone might have been a witness capable of recognising or describing + the wretched assailant, lost her reason on the spot, owing to the + appalling shock to her nervous system, and remained for some months in an + imbecile condition. Gradually, as we have informed our readers from time + to time, Miss Callingham’s intellect has become stronger and + stronger; and though she is still totally unable to remember spontaneously + any events that occurred before her father’s death, it is hoped it + may be possible, by describing vividly certain trains of previous + incidents, to recall them in some small degree to her imperfect memory. + Dr. Thornton, of Welbeck Street, who has visited her from time to time on + behalf of the Treasury, in conjunction with Dr. Wade, her own medical + attendant, went down to Barton-on-the-Sea on Monday, and once more + examined Miss Callingham’s intellect. Though the Doctor is + judiciously reticent as to the result of his visit, it is generally + believed at Barton that he thinks the young lady sufficiently recovered to + undergo a regular interrogatory; and in spite of the fact that Dr. Wade is + opposed to any such proceeding at present, as prejudicial to the lady’s + health, it is not unlikely that the Treasury may act upon their own + medical official’s opinion, and send down an Inspector from Scotland + Yard to make inquiries direct on the subject from Miss Callingham in + person.” + </p> + <p> + My head swam round. It was all like a dream to me. I held my forehead with + my hands, and gazed blankly at the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “You understand what all this means?” he said interrogatively, + leaning forward as he spoke. “You remember the murder?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” I answered him, trembling all over. “I + remember every detail of it. I could describe you exactly all the objects + in the room. The Picture it left behind has burned itself into my brain + like a flash of lightning!” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector drew his chair nearer. “Now, Miss Callingham,” + he said in a very serious voice, “that’s a remarkable + expression—like a flash of lightning.’ Bear in mind, this is a + matter of life and death to somebody somewhere. Somebody’s neck may + depend upon your answers. Will you tell me exactly how much you remember?” + </p> + <p> + I told him in a few words precisely how the scene had imprinted itself on + my memory. I recalled the room, the box, the green wires, the carpet; the + man who lay dead in his blood on the floor; the man who stood poised ready + to leap from the window. He let me go on unchecked till I’d finished + everything I had to say spontaneously. Then he took a photograph from his + pocket, which he didn’t show me. Looking at it attentively, he asked + me questions, one by one, about the different things in the room at the + time in very minute detail: Where exactly was the box? How did it stand + relatively to the unlighted lamp? What was the position of the pistol on + the floor? In which direction was my father’s head lying? Though it + brought back the Horror to me in a fuller and more terrible form than + ever, I answered all his questions to the very best of my ability. I could + picture the whole scene like a photograph to myself; and I didn’t + doubt the object he held in his hand was a photograph of the room as it + appeared after the murder. He checked my statements, one by one as I went + on, by reference to the photograph, murmuring half to himself now and + again: “Yes, yes, exactly so”; “That’s right”; + “That was so,” at each item I mentioned. + </p> + <p> + At the end of these inquiries, he paused and looked hard at me. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Miss Callingham,” he said again, peering deep into my + eyes, “I want you to concentrate your mind very much, not on this + Picture you carry so vividly in your own brain, but on the events that + went immediately before and after it. Pause long and think. Try hard to + remember. And first, you say there was a great flash of light. Now, answer + me this: was it one flash alone, or had there been several?” + </p> + <p> + I stopped and racked my brain. Blank, blank, as usual. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t remember,” I faltered out, longing terribly to + cry. “I can recall just that one scene, and nothing else in the + world before it.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me fixedly, jotting down a few words in his note-book as he + looked. Then he spoke again, still more slowly: + </p> + <p> + “Now, try once more,” he said, with an encouraging air. + “You saw this man’s back as he was getting out of the window. + But can’t you remember having seen his face before? Had he a beard? + a moustache? what eyes? what nose? Did you see the shot fired? And if so, + what sort of person was the man who fired it?” + </p> + <p> + Again I searched the pigeon-holes of my memory in vain, as I had done a + hundred times before by myself. + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use,” I cried helplessly, letting my hands drop + by my side. “I can’t remember a thing, except the Picture. I + don’t know whether I saw the shot fired or not. I don’t know + what the murderer looked like in the face. I’ve told you all I know. + I can recall nothing else. It’s all a great blank to me.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector hesitated a moment, as if in doubt what step to take next. + Then he drew himself up and said, still more gravely: + </p> + <p> + “This inability to assist us is really very singular. I had hoped, + after Dr. Thornton’s report, that we might at last count with some + certainty upon arriving at fresh results as to the actual murder. I can + see from what you tell me you’re a young lady of intelligence—much + above the average—and great strength of mind. It’s curious + your memory should fail you so pointedly just where we stand most in need + of its aid. Recollect, nobody else but you ever saw the murderer’s + face. Now, I’m going to presume you’re answering me honestly, + and try a bold means to arouse your dormant memory. Look hard, and hark + back.—Is that the room you recollect? Is that the picture that still + haunts and pursues you?” + </p> + <p> + He handed me the photograph he held in his fingers. I took it, all on + fire. The sight almost made me turn sick with horror. To my awe and + amazement, it was indeed the very scene I remembered so well. Only, of + course, it was taken from another point of view, and represented things in + rather different relative positions to those I figured them in. But it + showed my father’s body lying dead upon the floor; it showed his + poor corpse weltering helpless in its blood; it showed myself, as a girl + of eighteen, standing awestruck, gazing on in blank horror at the sight; + and in the background, half blurred by the summer evening light, it showed + the vague outline of a man’s back, getting out of the window. On one + side was the door: that formed no part of my mental picture, because it + was at my back; but in the photograph it too was indistinct, as if in the + very act of being burst open. The details were vague, in part—probably + the picture had never been properly focussed;—but the main figures + stood out with perfect clearness, and everything in the room was, allowing + for the changed point of view, exactly as I remembered it in my persistent + mental photograph. + </p> + <p> + I drew a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “That’s my Picture,” I said, slowly. “But it + recalls to me nothing new. I—I don’t understand it.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector stared at me hard once more. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” he asked, “how that photograph was + produced, and how it came into our possession?” + </p> + <p> + I trembled violently. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t,” I answered, reddening. “But—I + think it had something to do with the flash like lightning.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector jumped at those words like a cat upon a mouse. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right,” he cried briskly, as one who at last, after + long search, finds a hopeful clue where all seemed hopeless. “It had + to do with the flash. The flash produced it. This is a photograph taken by + your father’s process.... Of course you recollect your father’s + process?” + </p> + <p> + He eyed me close. The words, as he spoke them, seemed to call up dimly + some faint memory of my pre-natal days—of my First State, as I had + learned from the doctors to call it. But his scrutiny made me shrink. I + shut my eyes and looked back. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” I said slowly, rummaging my memory half in vain, + “I remember something about it. It had something to do with + photography, hadn’t it?...No, no, with the electric light....I can’t + exactly remember which. Will you tell me all about it?” + </p> + <p> + He leaned back in his chair, and, eyeing me all the time with that same + watchful glance, began to describe to me in some detail an apparatus which + he said my father had devised, for taking instantaneous photographs by the + electric light, with a clockwork mechanism. It was an apparatus that let + sensitive-plates revolve one after another opposite the lens of a camera; + and as each was exposed, the clockwork that moved it produced an electric + spark, so as to represent such a series of effects as the successive + positions of a horse in trotting. My father, it seemed, was of a scientific + turn, and had just perfected this new automatic machine before his sudden + death. I listened with breathless interest; for up to that time I had + never been allowed to hear anything about my father—anything about + the great tragedy with which my second life began. It was wonderful to me + even now to be allowed to speak and ask questions on it with anybody. So + hedged about had I been all my days with mystery. + </p> + <p> + As I listened, I saw the Inspector could tell by the answering flash in my + eye that his words recalled SOMETHING to me, however vaguely. As he + finished, I leant forward, and with a very flushed face, that I could feel + myself, I cried, in a burst of recollection: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes. I remember. And the box on the table—the box that’s + in my mental picture, and is not in the photograph—THAT was the + apparatus you’ve just been describing.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector turned upon me with a rapidity that fairly took my breath + away. + </p> + <p> + “Well, where are the other ones?” he asked, pouncing down upon + me quite fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “The other WHAT?” I repeated, amazed; for I didn’t + really understand him. + </p> + <p> + “Why, the other photographs!” he replied, as if trying to + surprise me. “There must have been more, you know. It held six + plates. Except for this one, the apparatus, when we found it, was empty.” + </p> + <p> + His manner seemed to crush out the faint spark of recollection that just + flickered within me. I collapsed at once. I couldn’t stand such + brusqueness. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean,” I answered in despair. + “I never saw the plates. I know nothing about them.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. — THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS + </h2> + <p> + The Inspector scanned me close for a few minutes in silence. He seemed + doubtful, suspicious. At last he made a new move. “I believe you, + Miss Callingham,” he said, more gently. “I can see this train + of thought distresses you too much. But I can see, too, our best chance + lies in supplying you with independent clues which you may work out for + yourself. You must re-educate your memory. You want to know all about this + murder, of course. Well, now, look over these papers. They’ll tell + you in brief what little we know about it. And they may succeed in + striking afresh some resonant chord in your memory.” + </p> + <p> + He handed me a book of pasted newspaper paragraphs, interspersed here and + there in red ink with little manuscript notes and comments. I began to + read it with profound interest. It was so strange for me thus to learn for + the first time the history of my own life; for I was quite ignorant as yet + of almost everything about my First State, and my father and mother. + </p> + <p> + The paragraphs told me the whole story of the crime, as far as it was + known to the world, from the very beginning. First of all, in the papers, + came the bald announcement that a murder had been committed in a country + town in Staffordshire; and that the victim was Mr. Vivian Callingham, a + gentleman of means, residing in his own house, The Grange, at Woodbury. + Mr. Callingham was the inventor of the acmegraphic process. The servants, + said the telegram to the London papers, had heard the sound of a + pistol-shot, about half-past eight at night, coming from the direction of + Mr. Callingham’s library. Aroused by the report, they rushed hastily + to the spot, and broke open the door, which was locked from within. As + they did so, a horrible sight met their astonished eyes. Mr. Callingham’s + dead body lay extended on the ground, shot right through the heart, and + weltering in its life-blood. Miss Callingham stood by his side, transfixed + with horror, and mute in her agony. On the floor lay the pistol that had + fired the fatal shot. And just as the servants entered, for one second of + time, the murderer who was otherwise wholly unknown, was seen to leap from + the window into the shrubbery below. The gardener rushed after him, and + jumped down at the same spot. But the murderer had disappeared as if by + magic. It was conjectured he must have darted down the road at full speed, + vaulted the gate, which was usually locked, and made off at a rapid run + for the open country. Up to date of going to press, the Telegraph said, he + was still at large and had not been apprehended. + </p> + <p> + That was the earliest account—bald, simple, unvarnished. Then came + mysterious messages from the Central Press about the absence of any clue + to identify the stranger. He hadn’t entered the house by any regular + way, it seemed; unless, indeed, Mr. Callingham had brought him home + himself and let him in with the latchkey. None of the servants had opened + the door that evening to any suspicious character; not a soul had they + seen, nor did any of them know a man was with their master in the library. + They heard voices, to be sure—voices, loud at times and angry,—but + they supposed it was Mr. Callingham talking with his daughter. Till roused + by the fatal pistol-shot, the gardener said, they had no cause for alarm. + Even the footmarks the stranger might have left as he leaped from the + window were obliterated by the prints of the gardener’s boots as he + jumped hastily after him. The only person who could cast any light upon + the mystery at all was clearly Miss Callingham, who was in the room at the + moment. But Miss Callingham’s mind was completely unhinged for the + present by the nervous shock she had received as her father fell dead + before her. They must wait a few days till she recovered consciousness, + and then they might confidently hope that the murderer would be + identified, or at least so described that the police could track him. + </p> + <p> + After that, I read the report of the coroner’s inquest. The facts + there elicited added nothing very new to the general view of the case. + Only, the servants remarked on examination, there was a strange smell of + chemicals in the room when they entered; and the doctors seemed to suggest + that the smell might be that of chloroform, mixed with another very + powerful drug known to affect the memory. Miss Callingham’s present + state, they thought, might thus perhaps in part be accounted for. + </p> + <p> + You can’t imagine how curious it was for me to see myself thus + impersonally discussed at such a distance of time, or to learn so long + after that for ten days or more I had been the central object of interest + to all reading England. My name was bandied about without the slightest + reserve. I trembled to see how cavalierly the press had treated me. + </p> + <p> + As I went on, I began to learn more and more about my father. He had made + money in Australia, it was said, and had come to live at Woodbury some + fourteen years earlier, where my mother had died when I was a child of + four; and some accounts said she was a widow of fortune. My father had + been interested in chemistry and photography, it seemed, and had lately + completed a new invention, the acmegraph, for taking successive + photographs at measured intervals of so many seconds by electric light. He + was a grave, stern man, the papers said, more feared than loved by his + servants and neighbours; but nobody about was known to have a personal + grudge against him. On the contrary, he lived at peace with all men. The + motive for the murder remained to the end a complete mystery. + </p> + <p> + On the second morning of the inquest, however, a curious thing happened. + The police, it appeared, had sealed up the room where the murder took + place, and allowed nobody to enter it till the inquiry was over. But after + the jury came round to view the room, the policeman in charge found the + window at the back of the house had been recently opened, and the box with + the photographic apparatus had been stolen from the library. Till that + moment nobody had attached any importance to the presence of this camera. + It hadn’t even been opened and examined by the police, who had + carefully noted everything else in the library. But as soon as the box was + missed strange questions began to be asked and conjecturally answered. The + police for the first time then observed that though it was half-past eight + at night when the murder occurred, and the lamp was not lighted, the + witnesses who burst first into the room described all they saw as if they + had seen it clearly. They spoke of things as they would be seen in a very + bright light, with absolute definiteness. This set up inquiry, and the + result of the inquiry was to bring out the fact, which in the excitement + of the moment had escaped the notice of all the servants, that as they + entered the room and stared about at the murder, the electric flash of the + apparatus was actually in operation. But the scene itself had diverted + their attention from the minor matter of the light that showed it. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector had been watching me narrowly as I read these extracts. When + I reached that point, he broke in with a word of explanation. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that put me on the track, you see,” he said, leaning + forward once more. “I thought to myself, if the light was acting, + then the whole apparatus must necessarily have been at work, and the scene + as it took place must have been photographed, act by act and step by step, + exactly as it happened. At the time the murderer, whoever he was, can’t + have known the meaning of the flashes. But later, he must have come to + learn in some way what the electric light meant, and must have realised, + sooner than we did, that therein the box, in the form of six successive + negatives of the stages in the crime, was the evidence that would + infallibly convict him of this murder.” He stroked his moustache + thoughtfully. “And to think, too,” he went on with a somewhat + sheepish air, “we should have had those photographs there in our + power all those days and nights, and have let them in the end slip like + that through our fingers! To think he should have found it out sooner than + we! To think that an amateur like the murderer should have outwitted us!” + </p> + <p> + “But how do you know,” I cried, “there was ever more + than one photograph? How do you know this wasn’t the only negative?” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” the Inspector answered quickly, pointing to a + figure in the corner of the proof, “do you see that six? Well, that + tells the tale. Each plate of the series was numbered so in the apparatus. + Number six could only fall into focus after numbers one, and two, and + three, and four, and five, had first been photographed. We’ve only + got the last—and least useful for our purpose. There must have been + five earlier ones, showing every stage of the crime, if only we’d + known it.” + </p> + <p> + I was worked up now to a strange pitch of excitement. + </p> + <p> + “And how did this one come into your possession?” I asked, all + breathless. “If you managed to lay your hands on one, why not on all + six of them?” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s the trouble!” he replied, still gazing at me + hard. “You see, it was this way. As soon as we found the camera was + missing, we came to the conclusion the murderer must have returned to The + Grange to fetch it. But it was a large and heavy box, and the only one of + its kind as yet manufactured; so, to carry it away in his hands would no + doubt have led to instant detection. I concluded, therefore, the man would + take off the box entire, so as to prevent the danger of removing the + plates on the spot; and as soon as he reached a place of safety in the + shrubbery, he’d fling away the camera, either destroying the + incriminating negatives then and there or carrying them off with him. The + details of the invention had already been explained to me by your father’s + instrument-maker, who set up the clockwork for him from his own designs; + and I knew that the removal of the plates from the box was a delicate, and + to some extent a difficult, operation. So I felt sure they could only have + been taken out in a place of comparative safety, not far from the house; + and I searched the shrubbery carefully, to find the camera.” + </p> + <p> + “And you found it at last?” I asked, unable to restrain my + agitation. + </p> + <p> + “I found it at last,” he answered, “near the far end of + the grounds, just flung into the deep grass, behind a clump of lilacs. The + camera was there intact, but five plates were missing. The sixth, from + which the positive you hold in your hand was taken, had got jammed in the + mechanism in the effort to remove it. Evidently the murderer had tried to + take out the plates in a very great hurry and with trembling hands, as was + not unnatural. He had succeeded with five, when the sixth stuck fast in + the groove of the clockwork. Just at that moment, as we judged, either an + alarm was raised in the rear, or some panic fear seized on him. Probably + the fellow judged right that the most incriminating pictures of all had by + that time been removed, and that the last would only show his back, if it + included him at all, or if he came into focus. Perhaps he had even been + able unconsciously to count the flashes at the moment, and knew that + before the sixth flash arrived he was on the ledge of the window. At any + rate, he clearly gave up the attempt to remove the sixth, and flung the + whole apparatus away from him in a sudden access of horror. We guessed as + much both from the appearance of the spot where the grass was trampled + down, and the way the angle of the camera was imbedded forcibly in the + soft ground of the shrubbery.” + </p> + <p> + “And he got away with the rest!” I exclaimed, following it up + like a story, but a story in which I was myself an unconscious character. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt,” the Inspector answered, stroking his chin + regretfully. “And what’s most annoying of all, we’ve + every reason to suppose the fellow stole the things only a few minutes + before we actually missed them. For we saw grounds for supposing he jumped + away from the spot, and climbed over the wall at the back, cutting his + hands as he went with the bottle-glass on the top to prevent intruders. + And what makes us think only a very short time must have elapsed between + the removal of the plates and the moment we came upon his tracks is this—the + blood from his cut hands was still fresh and wet upon the wall when we + found it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you only just missed him!” I exclaimed. “He got + off by the skin of his teeth. It’s wonderful, when you were so near, + you shouldn’t have managed to overtake him! One would have thought + you must have been able to track him to earth somehow!” + </p> + <p> + “One would have thought so,” the Inspector answered, rather + crestfallen. “But policemen, after all, are human like the rest of + us. We missed the one chance that might have led to an arrest. And now, + what I want to ask you once more is this: Reflecting over what you’ve + heard and read to-day, do you think you can recollect—a very small + matter—whether or not there were SEVERAL distinct flashes?” + </p> + <p> + I shut my eyes once more, and looked hard into the past. Slowly, as I + looked, a sort of dream seemed to come over me. I saw it vaguely now, or + thought I saw it. Flash, flash, flash, flash. Then the sound of the + pistol. Then the Picture, and the Horror, and the awful blank. I opened my + eyes again, and told the Inspector so. + </p> + <p> + “And once more,” he went on, in a very insinuating voice. + “Shut your eyes again, and look back upon that day. Can’t you + remember whether or not, just a moment before, you saw the murderer’s + face by the light of the flashes?” + </p> + <p> + I shut my eyes and thought. Again the flashes seemed to stand out clear + and distinct. But no detail supervened—no face came back to me. I + felt it was useless. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” I said shortly. “It only makes my head + swim. I can remember no further.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” the Inspector answered. “It’s just as Dr. + Wade said. Suggest a fact in your past history, and you may possibly + remember it; but ask you to recall anything not suggested or already + known, and all seems a mere blank to you! You haven’t the faintest + idea, then, who the murderer was or what he looked like?” + </p> + <p> + I rose up before him solemnly, and stared him full in the face. I was + wrought up by that time to a perfect pitch of excitement and interest. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the faintest idea,” I answered, feeling + myself a woman at last, and realising my freedom; “I know and + remember no more of it than you do. But from this moment forth, I shall + not rest until I’ve found him out and tracked him down, and punished + him. I shall never let my head rest in peace on my pillow until I’ve + discovered my father’s murderer!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s well,” the Inspector said sharply, shutting his + notes up to go. “If you persevere in that mind, and do as you say, + we shall soon get to the bottom of the Woodbury Mystery!” + </p> + <p> + And even as he spoke a key turned in the front door. I knew it was Aunt + Emma, come in from her marketing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. — I BECOME A WOMAN + </h2> + <p> + Aunt Emma burst into the room, all horror and astonishment. She looked at + the Inspector for a few seconds in breathless indignation; then she broke + out in a tone of fiery remonstrance which fairly surprised me: + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by this intrusion, sir? How dare you force your + way into my house in my absence? How dare you encourage my servants to + disobey my orders? How dare you imperil this young lady’s health by + coming here to talk with her?” + </p> + <p> + She turned round to me anxiously. I suppose I was very flushed with + excitement and surprise. + </p> + <p> + “My darling child,” she cried, growing pale all at once, + “Maria should never have allowed him to come inside the door! You + should have stopped upstairs! You should have refused to see him! I shall + have you ill again on my hands, as before, after this. He’ll have + undone all the good the last four years have done for you!” + </p> + <p> + But I was another woman now. I felt it in a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie dearest,” I answered, moving across to her, and laying + my hand on her shoulder to soothe her poor ruffled nerves, “don’t + be the least alarmed. It’s I who’m to blame, and not Maria. I + told her to let this gentleman in. He’s done me good, not harm. I’m + so glad to have been allowed at last to speak freely about it!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma shook all over, visibly to the naked eye. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have a relapse, my child!” she exclaimed, half + crying, and clinging to me in her terror. “You’ll forget all + you’ve learned: you’ll go back these four years again!—Leave + my house at once, sir! You should never have entered it!” + </p> + <p> + I stood between them like a statue. + </p> + <p> + “No, stop here a little longer,” I said, waving my hand + towards him imperiously. “I haven’t yet heard all it’s + right for me to hear.... Auntie, you mistake. I’m a woman at last. I + see what everything means. I’m beginning to remember again. For four + years that hateful Picture has haunted me night and day. I could never + shut my eyes for a minute without seeing it. I’ve longed to know + what it all meant; but whenever I’ve asked, I’ve been + repressed like a baby. I’m a baby no longer: I feel myself a woman. + What the Inspector here has told me already, half opens my eyes: I must + have them opened altogether now. I can’t stop at this point. I’m + going back to Woodbury.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma clung to me still harder in a perfect agony of passionate + terror. + </p> + <p> + “To Woodbury, my darling!” she cried. “Going back! Oh, + Una, it’ll kill you!” + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” the Inspector answered, with a very quiet + smile. “Miss Callingham has recovered, I venture to say, far more + profoundly than you imagine. This repression, our medical adviser tells + us, has been bad for her. If she’s allowed to visit freely the + places connected with her earlier life, it may all return again to her; + and the ends of Justice may thus at last be served for us. I notice + already one hopeful symptom: Miss Callingham speaks of going back to + Woodbury.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma looked up at him, horrified. All her firmness was gone now. + </p> + <p> + “It’s YOU who’ve put this into her head!” she + exclaimed, in a ferment of horror. “She’d never thought of it + herself. You’ve made her do it!” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, auntie,” I answered, feeling my ground grow + surer under me every moment as I spoke, “this gentleman has never + even by the merest hint suggested such an idea to my mind. It occurred to + me quite spontaneously. I MUST find out now who was my father’s + murderer! All the Inspector has told me seems to arouse in my brain some + vague, forgotten chords. It brings back to me faint shadows. I feel sure + if I went to Woodbury I should remember much more. And then, you must see + for yourself, there’s another reason, dear, that ought to make me + go. Nobody but I ever saw the murderer’s face. It’s a duty + imposed upon me from without, as it were, never to rest again in peace + till I’ve recognised him.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma collapsed into an easy-chair. Her face was deadly pale. Her + ringers trembled. + </p> + <p> + “If you go, Una,” she cried, playing nervously with her + gloves, “I must go with you too! I must take care of you: I must + watch over you!” + </p> + <p> + I took her quivering hand in mine and stroked it gently. It was a soft and + delicate white little hand, all marked inside with curious ragged scars + that I’d known and observed ever since I first knew her. I held it + in silence for a minute. Somehow I felt our positions were reversed + to-day. This interview had suddenly brought out what I know now to be my + own natural and inherent character—self-reliant, active, abounding + in initiative. For four years I had been as a child in her hands, through + mere force of circumstances. My true self came out now and asserted its + supremacy. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear,” I said, soothing her cheek; “I shall go + alone. I shall try what I can discover and remember myself without any + suggestion or explanation from others. I want to find out how things + really stand. I shall set to work on my own account to unravel this + mystery.” + </p> + <p> + “But how can you manage things by yourself?” Aunt Emma + exclaimed, wringing her hands despondently. “A girl of your age! + without even a maid! and all alone in the world! I shall be afraid to let + you go. Dr. Wade won’t allow it.” + </p> + <p> + I drew myself up very straight, and realised the position. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Emma,” I said plainly, in a decided voice, “I’m + a full-grown woman, over twenty-one years of age, mistress of my own acts, + and no longer a ward of yours. I can do as I like, and neither Dr. Wade + nor anybody else can prevent me. He may ADVICE me not to go: he has no + power to ORDER me. I’m my father’s heiress, and a person of + independent means. I’ve been a cipher too long. From to-day I take + my affairs wholly into my own hands. I ‘ll go round at once and see + your lawyer, your banker, your agent, your tradesmen, and tell them that + henceforth I draw my own rents, I receive my own dividends, I pay my own + bills, I keep my own banking account. And to-morrow or the next day I set + out for Woodbury.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector turned to Aunt Emma with a demonstrative smile. + </p> + <p> + “There, you see for yourself,” he said, well pleased, “what + this interview has done for her!” + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Emma only drew back, wrung her hands again in impotent despair, + and stared at him blankly like a wounded creature. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector took up his hat to leave. I followed him out to the door, + and shook hands with him cordially. The burden felt lighter on my + shoulders already. For four long years that mystery had haunted me day and + night, as a thing impenetrable, incomprehensible, not even to be inquired + about. The mere sense that I might now begin to ask what it meant seemed + to make it immediately less awful and less burdensome to me. + </p> + <p> + When I returned to the drawing-room, Aunt Emma sat there on the sofa, + crying silently, the very picture of misery. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” she said, without even raising her eyes to mine, + “the man may have done as he says: he may have restored you your + mind again; but what’s that to me? He’s lost me my child, my + darling, my daughter!” + </p> + <p> + I stooped down and kissed her. Dear, tender-hearted auntie! she had always + been very good to me. But I knew I was right, for all that, in becoming a + woman,—in asserting my years, my independence, my freedom, my duty. + To have shirked it any longer would have been sheer cowardice. So I just + kissed her silently, and went up to my own room—to put on my brown + hat, and go out to the banker’s. + </p> + <p> + From that moment forth, one fierce desire in life alone possessed me. The + brooding mystery that enveloped my life ceased to be passive, and became + an active goad, as it were, to push me forward incessantly on my search + for the runaway I was the creature of a fixed idea. A fiery energy spurred + me on all my time. I was determined now to find out my father’s + murderer. I was determined to shake off the atmosphere of doubt and + forgetfulness. I was determined to recall those first scenes of my life + that so eluded my memory. + </p> + <p> + Yet, strange to say, it was rather a burning curiosity and a deep sense of + duty that urged me on, than anything I could properly call affection—still + less, revenge or malice. I didn’t remember my father as alive at + all: the one thing I could recollect about him was the ghastly look of + that dead body, stretched at full length on the library floor, with its + white beard all dabbled in the red blood that clotted it. It was abstract + zeal for the discovery of the truth that alone pushed me on. This search + became to me henceforth an end and aim in itself. It stood out, as it + were, visibly in the imperative mood: “go here;” “go + there;” “do this;” “try that;” “leave + no stone unturned anywhere till you’ve tracked down the murderer!” + Those were the voices that now incessantly though inaudibly pursued me. + </p> + <p> + Next day I spent in preparations for my departure. I would hunt up + Woodbury now, though fifty Aunt Emma’s held their gentle old faces + up in solemn warning against me. The day after that again, I set out on my + task. The pull was hard. I had taken my own affairs entirely into my own + hands by that time, and had provided myself with money for a long stay at + Woodbury. But it was the very first railway journey I could ever remember + to have made alone; and I confess, when I found myself seated all by + myself in a first-class carriage, with no friend beside me, my resolution + for a moment almost broke down again. It was so terrible to feel oneself + boxed up there for an hour or two alone, with that awful Picture staring + one in the face all the time from every fence and field and wall and + hoarding. It obliterated Fry’s Cocoa; it fixed itself on the yellow + face of Colman’s Mustard. + </p> + <p> + I went by Liverpool Street, and drove across to Paddington. I had never, + to my knowledge, been in London before: and it was all so new to me. But + Liverpool Street was even newer to me than Paddington, I noticed. A faint + sense of familiarity seemed to hang about the Great Western line. And that + was not surprising, I thought, as I turned it over; for, of course, in the + old days, when we lived at Woodbury, I must often have come down from town + that way with my father. Yet I remembered nothing of it all definitely; + the most I could say was that I seemed dimly to recollect having been + there before—though when or where or how, I hadn’t the + faintest notion. + </p> + <p> + I was early at Paddington. The refreshment room somehow failed to attract + me. I walked up and down the platform, waiting for my train. As I did so, + a boy pasted a poster on a board: it was the contents-sheet of one of the + baser little Society papers. Something strange in it caught my eye. I + looked again in amazement. Oh, great heavens! what was this in big flaring + letters? + </p> + <p> + “MISS UNA CALLINGHAM AND THE WOODBURY MYSTERY! Is SHE SCREENING THE + MURDERER? A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION!” + </p> + <p> + The words took my breath away. They were too horrible to realise. I + positively couldn’t speak. I went up to the bookstall, laid down my + penny without moving my lips, and took the paper in my hand in tremulous + silence. + </p> + <p> + I dared not open it there and then, I confess. I waited till I was in the + train, and on my way to Woodbury. + </p> + <p> + When I did so, it was worse, even worse than my fears. The article was + short, but it was very hateful. It said nothing straight out—the + writer had evidently the fear of the law of libel before his eyes as he + wrote,—but it hinted and insinuated in a detestable undertone the + most vile innuendoes. A Treasury Doctor and a Police Inspector, it said, + had lately examined Miss Callingham again, and found her intellect in + every respect perfectly normal, except that she couldn’t remember + the face of her father’s murderer. Now, this was odd, because, you + see, Miss Callingham was in the room at the moment the shot was fired; + and, alone in the world, Miss Callingham had seen the face of the man who + fired it. Who was that man? and why was he there, unknown to the servants, + in a room with nobody but Mr. Callingham and his daughter? A correspondent + (who preferred to guard his incognito) had suggested in this matter some + very searching questions: Could the young man—for it was allowed he + was young—have been there with Miss Callingham when Mr. Callingham + entered? Could he have been on terms of close intimacy with the heroine of + The Grange Mystery, who was a young lady—as all the world knew from + her photographs—of great personal attractiveness, and who was also + the heiress to a considerable property? Could he have been there, then, by + appointment, without the father’s knowledge? Was this the common + case of a clandestine assignation? Could the father have returned to the + house unexpectedly, at an inopportune moment, and found his daughter + there, closeted with a stranger—perhaps with a man who had already, + for sufficient grounds, been forbidden the premises? Such things might be, + in this world that we live in: he would be a bold man who would deny them + categorically. Could an altercation have arisen on the father’s + return, and the fatal shot have been fired in the ensuing scuffle? And + could the young lady then have feigned this curious relapse into that + Second State we had all heard so much about, for no other reason than to + avoid giving evidence at a trial for murder against her guilty lover? + </p> + <p> + These were suggestions that deserved the closest consideration of the + Authorities charged with the repression of crime. Was it not high time + that the inquest on Mr. Callingham’s body should be formally + reopened, and that the young lady, now restored (as we gathered) to her + own seven senses, should be closely interrogated by trained legal + cross-examiners? + </p> + <p> + I laid down the paper with a burning face. I learned now, for the first + time, how closely my case had been watched, how eagerly my every act and + word had been canvassed. It was hateful to think of my photograph having + been exposed in every London shop-window, and of anonymous slanderers + being permitted to indite such scandal as this about an innocent woman. + But, at any rate, it had the effect of sealing my fate. If I meant even + before to probe this mystery to the bottom, I felt now no other course was + possibly open to me. For the sake of my own credit, for the sake of my own + good fame, I must find out and punish my father’s murderer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. — RELIVING MY LIFE + </h2> + <p> + Often, as you walk down a street, a man or woman passes you by. You look + up at them and say to yourself, “I seem to know that face”; + but you can put no name to it, attach to it no definite idea, no + associations of any sort. That was just how Woodbury struck me when I + first came back to it. The houses, the streets, the people, were in a way + familiar; yet I could no more have found my way alone from the station to + The Grange than I could find my way alone from here to Kamschatka. + </p> + <p> + So I drove up first in search of lodgings. At the station even several + people had bowed or shaken hands with me respectfully as I descended from + the train. They came up as if they thought I must recognise them at once: + there was recognition in their eyes; but when they met my blank stare, + they seemed to remember all about it, and merely murmured in strange + tones: + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, miss! So you’re here: glad to see you’ve + come back again at last to Woodbury.” + </p> + <p> + This reception dazzled me. It was so strange, so uncanny. I was glad to + get away in a fly by myself, and to be driven to lodgings in the clean + little High Street. For to me, it wasn’t really “coming back” + at all: it was coming to a strange town, where everyone knew me, and <i>I</i> + knew nobody. + </p> + <p> + “You’d like to go to Jane’s, of course,” the + driver said to me with a friendly nod as he reached the High Street: and + not liking to confess my forgetfulness of Jane, I responded with warmth + that Jane’s would, no doubt, exactly suit me. + </p> + <p> + We drew up at the door of a neat little house. The driver rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Una’s here,” he said, confidentially; “and + she’s looking for lodgings.” + </p> + <p> + It was inexpressibly strange and weird to me, this one-sided recognition, + this unfamiliar familiarity: it gave me a queer thrill of the supernatural + that I can hardly express to you. But I didn’t know what to do, when + a kindly-faced, middle-aged English upper-class servant rushed out at me, + open-armed, and hugging me hard to her breast, exclaimed with many loud + kisses: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Una, Miss Una! So it’s YOU, dear; so it is! Then you’ve + come back at last to us!” + </p> + <p> + I could hardly imagine what to say or do. The utmost I could assert with + truth was, Jane’s face wasn’t exactly and entirely in all ways + unfamiliar to me. Yet I could see Jane herself was so unfeignedly + delighted to see me again, that I hadn’t the heart to confess I’d + forgotten her very existence. So I took her two hands in mine—since + friendliness begets friendliness—and holding her off a little way, + for fear the kisses should be repeated, I said to her very gravely: + </p> + <p> + “You see, Jane, since those days I’ve had a terrible shock, + and you can hardly expect me to remember anything. It’s all like a + dream to me. You must forgive me if I don’t recall it just at once + as I ought to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, miss,” Jane answered, holding my hands in her + delight and weeping volubly. “We’ve read about all that, of + course, in the London newspapers. But there, I’m glad anyhow you + remembered to come and look for my lodgings. I think I should just have + sat down and cried if they told me Miss Una’d come back to Woodbury, + and never so much as asked to see me.” + </p> + <p> + I don’t think I ever felt so like a hypocrite in my life before. But + I realised at least that even if Jane’s lodgings were discomfort + embodied, I must take them and stop in them, while I remained there, now. + Nothing else was possible. I COULDN’T go elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately, however, the rooms turned out to be as neat as a new pin, and + as admirably kept as any woman in England could keep them. I gathered from + the very first, of course, that Jane had been one of the servants at The + Grange in the days of my First State; and while I drank my cup of tea, + Jane herself came in and talked volubly to me, disclosing to me, + parenthetically, the further fact that she was the parlour-maid at the + time of my father’s murder. That gave me a clue to her identity. + Then she was the witness Greenfield who gave evidence at the inquest! I + made a mental note of that, and determined to look up what she’d + said to the coroner, in the book of extracts the Inspector gave me, as + soon as I got alone in my bedroom that evening. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, however, Jane came in again, with the freedom of an old + servant, and talked to me much about the Woodbury Mystery. Gradually, as + time went on that night, though I remembered nothing definite of myself + about her, the sense of familiarity and friendliness came home to me more + vividly. The appropriate emotion seemed easier to rouse, I observed, than + the intellectual memory. I knew Jane and I had been on very good terms, + some time, somewhere. I talked with her easily, for I had a consciousness + of companionship. + </p> + <p> + By-and-by, without revealing to her how little I could recollect about her + own personality, I confessed to Jane, by slow degrees, that the whole past + was still gone utterly from my shattered memory. I told her I knew nothing + except the Picture and the facts it comprised; and to show her just how + small that knowledge really was, I showed her (imprudently enough) the + photograph the Inspector had left with me. + </p> + <p> + Jane looked at it long and slowly, with tears in her eyes. Then she said + at last, after a deep pause, in a very hushed voice: + </p> + <p> + “Why, how did you get this? It wasn’t put in the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I answered quietly, “it wasn’t put in the + papers. For reasons of their own, the police kept it unpublished.” + </p> + <p> + Jane gazed at the proof still closer. “They oughtn’t to have + done that,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “They ought to have sent it out everywhere broadcast—so that + anybody who knew the man could tell him by his back.” + </p> + <p> + That seemed to me such obvious good sense that I wondered to myself the + police hadn’t thought long since of it; but I supposed they had some + good ground of their own for holding it all this time in their own + possession. + </p> + <p> + Jane went on talking to me still for many minutes about the scene: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes; that was just how he lay, poor dear gentleman! And the + book on the chair, too! Well, did you ever in your life see anything so + like! And to think it was taken all by itself, as one might say, by magic. + But there! your poor papa was a wonderful clever man. Such things as he + used to invent! Such ideas and such machines! We were sorry for him, + though we always thought, to be sure, he was dreadful severe with you, + Miss Una. Such a gentleman to have his own way, too—so cold and + reserved like. But one mustn’t talk nothing but good about the dead, + they say. And if he was a bit hard, he was more than hard treated for it + in the end, poor gentleman!” + </p> + <p> + It interested me to get these half side-lights on my father’s + character. Knowing nothing of him, as I did, save the solitary fact that + he was the white-haired gentleman I saw dead in my Picture, I naturally + wanted to learn as much as I could from this old servant of ours as to the + family conditions. + </p> + <p> + “Then you thought him harsh, in the servants’-hall?” I + said tentatively to Jane. “You thought him hard and unbending?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there, Miss,” Jane ran on, putting a cushion to my back + tenderly—it was strange to be the recipient of so much delicate + attention from a perfect stranger,—“not exactly what you’d + call harsh to us ourselves, you know: he was a good master enough, as long + as one did what was ordered, though he was a little bit fidgetty. But to + you, we all thought he was always rather hard. People said so in Woodbury. + And yet, in a way, I don’t know how it was, he always seemed more’n + half afraid of you. He was careful about your health, and spoiled and + petted you for that; yet he was always pulling you up, you know, and + looking after what you did: and for one thing, I remember, there’s + many a time you were sent to bed when you were a good big girl for nothing + on earth else but because he heard you talking to us in the hall about + Australia.” + </p> + <p> + “Talking to you about Australia!” I cried, pricking my ears. + “Why, what harm was there in that? Why on earth didn’t he want + me to talk about Australia?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! what harm indeed?” Jane echoed blandly. “That’s + what we often used to say among ourselves downstairs. But Mr. Callingham, + he was always that way, miss—so strict and particular. He said he’d + forbidden you to say a word to anybody about that confounded country; and + you must do as you were told. He seemed to have a grudge against + Australia, though it was there he made his money. And he always would have + his own way, your father would.” + </p> + <p> + While she spoke, I looked hard at the white head in the photograph. Even + as I did so, a thought occurred to me that had never occurred before. Both + in my mental Picture, and in looking at the photograph when I saw it + first, the feeling that was uppermost in my mind was not sorrow, but + horror. I didn’t think with affection and regret and a deep sense of + bereavement about my father’s murder. The emotional accompaniment + that had stamped itself upon the very fibre of my soul, was not pain but + awe. I think my main feeling was a feeling that a foul crime had taken + place in the house, not a feeling that I had lost a very dear and near + relative. Rightly or wrongly, I drew from this the inference, which Jane’s + gossip confirmed, that I had probably rather feared than loved my father. + </p> + <p> + It was strange to be reduced to such indirect evidence on such a point as + that; but it was all I could get, and I had to be content with it. + </p> + <p> + Jane, leaning over my shoulder, looked hard at the photograph too. I could + see her eyes were fixed on the back of the man who was seen disappearing + through the open window. He was dressed like a gentleman, in + knickerbockers and jacket, as far as one could judge; for the evening + light rather blurred that part of the picture. One hand was just waved, + palm open, behind him. Jane regarded it hard. Then she gave an odd little + start: + </p> + <p> + “Why, just look at that hand!” she cried, with a tremor of + surprise. “Don’t you see what it is? Don’t you think it’s + a woman’s?” + </p> + <p> + I gazed back at her incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible,” I answered, shaking my head. “It belongs + as clear as day to the man you see in the photograph. How on earth could + his hand be a woman’s then, I’d like to know? I can see the + shirt-cuff.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” Jane answered, with simple common-sense: “it’s + DRESSED like a man, of course, and it’s a man to look at; but the + hand’s a woman’s, as true as I’m standing here. Why + mightn’t a woman dress in a man’s suit on purpose? And perhaps + it was just because they were so sure it was a man as did it, that the + police has gone wrong so long in trying to find the murderer.” + </p> + <p> + I looked hard at the hand myself. Then I shut my eyes, and thought of the + corresponding object in my mental Picture. The result fairly staggered me. + The impression in each case was exactly the same. It was a soft and + delicate hand, very white and womanlike. But was it really a woman’s? + I couldn’t feel quite sure in my own mind about that; but the very + warning Jane gave me seemed to me a most useful one. It would be well, + after all, to keep one’s mind sedulously open to every possible + explanation, and to take nothing for granted as to the murderer’s + personality. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. — THE GRANGE AT WOODBURY + </h2> + <p> + I stopped for three weeks in Jane’s lodgings; and before the end of + that time, Jane and I had got upon the most intimate footing. It was + partly her kindliness that endeared her to me, and her constant sense of + continuity with the earlier days which I had quite forgotten; but it was + partly too, I felt sure, a vague revival within my own breast of a + familiarity that had long ago subsisted between us. I was coming to myself + again, on one side of my nature. Day by day I grew more certain that while + facts had passed away from me, appropriate emotions remained vaguely + present. Among the Woodbury people that I met, I recognised none to say + that I knew them; but I knew almost at first sight that I liked this one + and disliked that one. And in every case alike, when I talked the matter + over afterwards with Jane, she confirmed my suspicion that in my First + State I had liked or disliked just those persons respectively. My brain + was upset, but my heart remained precisely the same as ever. + </p> + <p> + On my second morning I went up to The Grange with her. The house was still + unlet. Since the day of the murder, nobody cared to live in it. The garden + and shrubbery had been sadly neglected: Jane took me out of the way as we + walked up the path, to show me the place where the photographic apparatus + had been found embedded in the grass, and where the murderer had cut his + hands getting over the wall in his frantic agitation. The wall was pretty + high and protected with bottle-glass. I guessed he must have been tall to + scramble over it. That seemed to tell against Jane’s crude idea that + a woman might have done it. + </p> + <p> + But when I said so to Jane, she met me at once with the crushing reply: + “Perhaps it wasn’t the same person that came back for the box.” + I saw she was right again. I had jumped at a conclusion. In cases like + this, one must leave no hypothesis untried, jump at no conclusions of any + sort. Clearly, that woman ought to have been made a detective. + </p> + <p> + As I entered the house the weird sense of familiarity that pursued me + throughout rose to a very high pitch. I couldn’t fairly say, indeed, + that I remembered the different rooms. All I could say with certainty was + that I had seen them before. To this there were three exceptions—the + three that belonged to my Second State—the library, my bedroom, and + the hall and staircase. The first was indelibly printed on my memory as a + component part of the Picture, and I found my recollection of every object + in the room almost startling in its correctness. Only, there was an alcove + on one side that I’d quite forgotten, and I saw why most clearly. I + stood with my back to it as I looked at the Picture. The other two bits I + remembered as the room in which I had had my first great illness, and the + passage down which I had been carried or helped when I was taken to Aunt + Emma’s. + </p> + <p> + I had begun to recognise now that the emotional impression made upon me by + people and things was the only sure guide I still possessed as to their + connection or association with my past history. And the rooms at The + Grange had each in this way some distinctive characteristic. The library, + of course, was the chief home of the Horror which had hung upon my spirit + even during the days when I hardly knew in any intelligible sense the + cause of it. But the drawing-room and dining-room both produced upon my + mind a vague consciousness of constraint. I was dimly aware of being ill + at ease and uncomfortable in them. My own bedroom, on the contrary, gave + me a pleasant feeling of rest and freedom and security: while the servants’-hall + and the kitchen seemed perfect paradises of liberty. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! many’s the time, miss,” Jane said with a sigh, + looking over at the empty grate, “you’d come down here to make + cakes or puddings, and laugh and joke like a child with Mary an’ me. + I often used to say to Emily—her as was cook here before Ellen + Smith,—‘Miss Una’s never so happy as when she’s + down here in the kitchen.’ And ‘That’s true what you + say,’ says Emily to me, many a time and often.” + </p> + <p> + That was exactly the impression left upon my own mind. I began to + conclude, in a dim, formless way, that my father must have been a somewhat + stern and unsympathetic man; that I had felt constrained and uncomfortable + in his presence upstairs, and had often been pleased to get away from his + eye to the comparative liberty and ease of my own room or of the + maid-servants’ quarters. + </p> + <p> + At last, in the big attic that had once been the nursery, I paused and + looked at Jane. A queer sensation came over me. + </p> + <p> + “Jane,” I said slowly, hardly liking to frame the words, + “there’s something strange about this room. He wasn’t + cruel to me, was he?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no, miss,” Jane answered promptly. “He wasn’t + never what you might call exactly cruel. He was a very good father, and + looked after you well; but he was sort of stern and moody-like—would + have his own way, and didn’t pay no attention to fads and fancies, + he called ‘em. When you were little, many’s the time he sent + you up here for punishment—disobedience and such like.” + </p> + <p> + I took out the photograph and tried, as it were, to think of my father as + alive and with his eyes open. I couldn’t remember the eyes. Jane + told me they were blue; but I think what she said was the sort of + impression the face produced upon me. A man not unjust or harsh in his + dealings with myself, but very strong and masterful. A man who would have + his own way in spite of anybody. A father who ruled his daughter as a + vessel of his making, to be done as he would with, and be moulded to his + fashion. + </p> + <p> + Still, my visit to The Grange resulted in the end in casting very little + light upon the problem before me. It pained and distressed me greatly, but + it brought no new elements of the case into view: at best, it only + familiarised me with the scene of action of the tragedy. The presence of + the alcove was the one fresh feature. Nothing recalled to me as yet in any + way the murderer’s features. I racked my brain in vain; no fresh + image came up in it. I could recollect nothing about the man or his + antecedents. + </p> + <p> + I almost began to doubt that I would ever succeed in reconstructing my + past, when even the sight of the home in which I had spent my childish + days suggested so few new thoughts or ideas to me. + </p> + <p> + For a day or two after that I rested at Jane’s, lest I should + disturb my brain too much. Then I called once more on the doctor who had + made the post mortem on my father, and given evidence at the inquest, to + see if anything he could say might recall my lapsed memory. + </p> + <p> + The moment he came into the room—a man about fifty, close-shaven and + kindly-looking—I recognised him at once, and held out my hand to him + frankly. He surveyed me from head to foot with a good medical stare, and + then wrung my hand in return with extraordinary warmth and effusion. I + could see at once he retained a most pleasing recollection of my First + State, and was really glad to see me. + </p> + <p> + “What, you remember me then, Una!” he cried, with quite + fatherly delight. “You haven’t forgotten me, my dear, as you’ve + forgotten all the rest, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + It was startling to be called by one’s Christian name like that, and + by a complete stranger, too; but I was getting quite accustomed now to + these little incongruities. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I remember you perfectly,” I answered, half-grieved + to distress him, “though I shouldn’t have known your name, and + didn’t expect to see you. You’re the doctor who attended me in + my first great illness—the illness with which my present life began—just + after the murder.” + </p> + <p> + He drew back, a little crestfallen. + </p> + <p> + “Then that’s all you recollect, is it?” he asked. + “You don’t remember me before, dear? Not Dr. Marten, who used + to take you on his knee when you were a tiny little girl, and bring you + lollipops from town, to the great detriment of your digestion, and get + into rows with your poor father for indulging you and spoiling you? You + must surely remember me?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head slowly. I was sorry to disappoint him; but it was + necessary before all things to get at the bare truth. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid not,” I answered. “Do please forgive + me! You must have read in the papers, like everybody else, of the very + great change that has so long come over me. Bear in mind, I can’t + remember anything at all that occurred before the murder. That first + illness is to me the earliest recollection of childhood.” + </p> + <p> + He gazed across at me compassionately. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” he said in a low voice, like a very + affectionate friend, “it’s much better so. You have been + mercifully spared a great deal of pain. Una, when I first saw you at The + Grange after your father’s death, I thanked heaven you had been so + seized. I thanked heaven the world had become suddenly a blank to you. I + prayed hard you might never recover your senses again, or at least your + memory. And now that you’re slowly returned to life once more, + against all hope or fear, I’m heartily glad it’s in this + peculiar way. I’m heartily glad all the past’s blotted out for + you. You can’t understand that, my child? Ah, no, very likely not. + But I think it’s much best for you, all your first life should be + wholly forgotten.” He paused for a second. Then he added slowly: + “If you remembered it all, the sense of the tragedy would be far + more acute and poignant even than at present.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so,” I said resolutely; “but not the sense of + mystery. It’s THAT that appals me so! I’d rather know the + truth than be so wrapped up in the incomprehensible.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me pityingly once more. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” he said, in the same gentle and fatherly + voice, “you don’t wholly understand. It doesn’t all come + home to you. I can see clearly, from what Inspector Wolferstan told me, + after his visit to you the other day—” + </p> + <p> + I broke in, in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Inspector Wolferstan!” I cried. “Then he came down here + to see you, did he?” + </p> + <p> + It was horrible to find how all my movements were discussed and + chronicled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he came down here to see me and talk things over,” Dr. + Marten went on, as calmly as if it were mere matter of course. “And + I could see from what he said you were still spared much. For instance, + you remember it all only as an event that happened to an old man with a + long white beard. You don’t fully realise, except intellectually, + that it was your own father. You’re saved, as a daughter, the misery + and horror of thinking and feeling it was your father who lay dead there.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s quite true,” I answered. “I admit that I + can’t feel it all as deeply as I ought. But none the less, I’ve + come down here to make a violent effort. Let it cost what it may, I must + get at the truth. I wanted to see whether the sight of The Grange and of + Woodbury may help me to recall the lost scenes in my memory.” + </p> + <p> + To my immense surprise, Dr. Marten rose from his seat, and standing up + before me in a perfect agony of what seemed like terror, half mixed with + affection, exclaimed in a very earnest and resolute voice: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Una, my child, whatever you do—I beg of you—I + implore you—don’t try to recall the past at all! Don’t + attempt it! Don’t dream of it!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” I cried, astonished. “Surely it’s my + duty to try and find out my father’s murderer!” + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering me, he looked about him for half a minute in + suspense, as if doubtful what next to do or to say. Then he walked across + with great deliberation to the door of the room, and locked and + double-locked it with furtive alarm, as I interpreted his action. + </p> + <p> + So terrified did he seem, indeed, that for a moment the idea occurred to + me in a very vague way—Was I talking with the murderer? Had the man + who himself committed the crime conducted the post mortem, and put Justice + off the scent? And was I now practically at the mercy of the criminal I + was trying to track down? The thought for a second or two made me feel + terribly uncomfortable. But I glanced at his back and at his hands, and + reassured myself. That broad, short man was not the slim figure of my + Picture and of the photograph. Those large red hands were not the + originals of the small and delicate white palm just displayed at the back + in both those strange documents of the mysterious murder. + </p> + <p> + The doctor came over again, and drew his chair close to mine. + </p> + <p> + “Una, my child,” he said slowly, “I love you very much, + as if you were my own daughter. I always loved you and admired you, and + was sorry—oh, so sorry!—for you. You’ve quite forgotten + who I am; but I’ve not forgotten you. Take what I say as coming from + an old friend, from one who loves you and has your interest at heart. For + heaven’s sake, I implore you, my child, make no more inquiries. Try + to forget—not to remember. If you do recollect, you’ll be + sorry in the end for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so?” I asked, amazed, yet somehow feeling in my heart I + could trust him implicitly. “Why should the knowledge of the true + circumstances of the case make me more unhappy than I am at present?” + </p> + <p> + He gazed harder at me than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Because,” he replied in slow tones, weighing each word as he + spoke, “you may find that the murder was committed by some person or + persons you love or once loved very much indeed. You may find it will rend + your very heart-strings to see that person or those persons punished. You + may find the circumstances were wholly otherwise than you imagine them to + be.... Let sleeping dogs lie, my dear. Without your aid, nothing more can + be done. Don’t trouble yourself to put the blood-hounds on the track + of some unhappy creature who might otherwise escape. Don’t rake it + all up afresh. Bury it—bury it—bury it!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke so earnestly that he filled me with vague alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Marten,” I said solemnly, “answer me just one + question. Do you know who was the murderer?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” he exclaimed, starting once more. “Thank + heaven, I can’t tell you that! I don’t know. I know nothing. + Nobody on earth knows but the two who were present on the night of the + murder, I feel sure. And of those two, one’s unknown, and the other + has forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “But you suspect who he is?” I put in, probing the secret + curiously. + </p> + <p> + He trembled visibly. + </p> + <p> + “I suspect who he is,” he replied, after a moment’s + hesitation. “But I have never communicated, and will never + communicate, my suspicions to anybody, not even to you. I will only say + this: the person whom I suspect is one with whom you may now have + forgotten all your past relations, but whom you would be sorry to punish + if you recovered your memory. I formed a strong opinion at the time who + that person was. I formed it from the nature and disposition of the wound, + and the arrangement of the objects in the room when I was called in to see + your father’s body.” + </p> + <p> + “And you never said so at the inquest!” I cried, indignant. + </p> + <p> + He looked at me hard again. Then he spoke in a very slow and earnest + voice: + </p> + <p> + “For your sake, Una, and for the sake of your affections, I held my + peace,” he said. “My dear, the suspicion was but a very + slender one: I had nothing to go upon. And why should I have tried to + destroy your happiness?” + </p> + <p> + That horrible article in the penny Society paper came back to my mind once + more with hideous suggestiveness. I turned to him almost fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “So far as you know, Dr. Marten,” I asked, “was I ever + in love? Had I ever an admirer? Was I ever engaged to anyone?” + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders and smiled a sort of smile of relief. + </p> + <p> + “How should I know?” he answered. “Admirers?—yes, + dozens of them; I was one myself. Lovers?—who can say? But I advise + you not to push the inquiry further.” + </p> + <p> + I questioned him some minutes longer, but could get nothing more from him. + Then I rose to go. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Marten,” I said firmly, “if I remember all, and if + it wrings my heart to remember, I tell you I will give up that man to + justice all the same! I think I know myself well enough to know this much + at least, that I never, never could stoop either to love or to screen a + man who could commit such a foul and dastardly crime as this one.” + </p> + <p> + He took my hand fervently, raised it with warmth to his lips and kissed it + twice over. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” he said, with tears dropping down his gentle old + cheeks, “this is a very great mystery—a terrible mystery. But + I know you speak the truth. I can see you mean it. Therefore, all the more + earnestly do I beg and beseech you, go away from Woodbury at once, and as + long as you live think no more about it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. — A VISION OF DEAD YEARS + </h2> + <p> + The interview with Dr. Marten left me very much disquieted. But it wasn’t + the only disquieting thing that occurred at Woodbury. Before I left the + place I happened to go one day into Jane’s own little sitting-room. + Jane was anxious I should see it—she wanted me to know all her + house, she said, for the sake of old times: and for the sake of those old + times that I couldn’t remember, but when I knew she’d been + kind to me, I went in and looked at it. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing very peculiar about Jane’s little sitting-room: + just the ordinary English landlady’s parlour. You know the type:—square + table in the middle; bright blue vases on the mantelpiece; + chromo-lithograph from the Illustrated London News on the wall; rickety + whatnot with glass-shaded wax-flowers in the recess by the window. But + over in one corner I chanced to observe a framed photograph of early + execution, which hung faded and dim there. Perhaps it was because my + father was such a scientific amateur; but photography, I found out in + time, struck the key-note of my history in every chapter. I didn’t + know why, but this particular picture attracted me strangely. It came from + The Grange, Jane told me: she’d hunted it out in the attic over the + front bedroom after the house was shut up. It belonged to a lot of my + father’s early attempts that were locked in a box there. “He’d + always been trying experiments and things,” she said, “with + photography, poor gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + Faded and dim as it was, the picture riveted my eyes at once by some + unknown power of attraction. I gazed at it long and earnestly. It + represented a house of colonial aspect, square, wood-built, and + verandah-girt, standing alone among strange trees whose very names and + aspects were then unfamiliar to me, but which I nowadays know to be + Australian eucalyptuses. On the steps of the verandah sat a lady in deep + mourning. A child played by her side, and a collie dog lay curled up still + and sleepy in the foreground. The child, indeed, stirred no chord of any + sort in my troubled brain; but my heart came up into my mouth so at sight + of the lady, that I said to myself all at once in my awe, “That must + surely be my mother!” + </p> + <p> + The longer I looked at it, the more was I convinced I must have judged + aright. Not indeed that in any true sense I could say I remembered her + face or figure: I was so young when she died, according to everybody’s + account, that even if I’d remained in my First State I could hardly + have retained any vivid recollection of her. But both lady and house + brought up in me once more to some vague degree that strange consciousness + of familiarity I had noticed at The Grange: and what was odder still, the + sense of wont seemed even more marked in the Australian cottage than in + the case of the house which all probability would have inclined one + beforehand to think I must have remembered better. If this was indeed my + earliest home, then I seemed to recollect it far more readily than my + later one. + </p> + <p> + I turned trembling to Jane, hardly daring to frame the question that rose + first to my lips. + </p> + <p> + “Is that—my mother?” I faltered out slowly. + </p> + <p> + But there Jane couldn’t help me. She’d never seen the lady, + she said. + </p> + <p> + “When first I come to The Grange, miss, you see, your mother’d + been buried a year; there was only you and Mr. Callingham in family. And I + never saw that photograph, neither, till I picked it out of the box locked + up in the attic. The little girl might be you, like enough, when you look + at it sideways; and yet again it mightn’t. But the lady I don’t + know. I never saw your mother.” + </p> + <p> + So I was fain to content myself with pure conjecture. + </p> + <p> + All day long, however, the new picture haunted me almost as persistently + as the old one. + </p> + <p> + That night I went to sleep fast, and slept for some hours heavily. I woke + with a start. I had been dreaming very hard. And my dream was peculiarly + clear and lifelike. Never since the first night of my new life—the + night of the murder—had I dreamed such a dream, or seen dead objects + so vividly. It came out in clear colours, like the terrible Picture that + had haunted me so long. And it affected me strangely. It was a scene, + rather than a dream—a scene, as at the theatre; but a scene in which + I realised and recognised everything. + </p> + <p> + I stood on the steps of a house—a white wooden house, with a + green-painted verandah—the very house I had seen that afternoon in + the faded photograph in Jane’s little sitting-room. But I didn’t + think of it at first as the house in the old picture: I thought of it as + home—our own place—the cottage. The steps seemed to me very + high, as in childish recollection. A lady walked about on the verandah and + called to me: a lady in a white gown, like the lady in the photograph, + only younger and prettier, and dressed much more daintily. But I didn’t + think of her as that either: I called her mamma to myself: I looked up + into her face, oh, ever so much above me: I must have been very small + indeed when that picture first occurred to me. There was a gentleman, too, + in a white linen coat, who pinched my mamma’s ear, and talked softly + and musically. But I didn’t think of him quite so: I knew he was my + papa: I played about his knees, a little scampering child, and looked up + in his face, and teased him and laughed at him. My papa looked down at me, + and called me a little kitten, and rolled me over on my back, and fondled + me and laughed with me. There were trees growing all about, big trees with + long grey leaves: the same sort of trees as the ones in the photograph. + But I didn’t remember that at first: in my dream, and in the first + few minutes of my waking thought, I knew them at once as the big + blue-gum-trees. + </p> + <p> + I awoke in the midst of it: and the picture persisted. + </p> + <p> + Then, with a sudden burst of intuition, the truth flashed upon me all at + once. My dream was no mere dream, but a revelation in my sleep. It was my + intellect working unconsciously and spontaneously in an automatic + condition. For the very first time in my life, since the night of the + murder, I had really REMEMBERED something that occurred before it. + </p> + <p> + This was a scene of my First State. In all probability it was my earliest + true childish recollection. + </p> + <p> + I sat up in bed, appalled. I dared not call aloud or ring for Jane to come + to me. But if I’d seen a ghost, it could hardly have affected me + more profoundly than this ghost of my own dead life thus brought suddenly + back to me. Gazing away across some illimitable vista of dim years, I + remembered this one scene as something that once occurred, long ago, to my + very self, in my own experience. Then came a vast gulf, an unbridged + abyss: and after that, with a vividness as of yesterday, the murder. + </p> + <p> + I held my ears and crouched low, sitting up in my bed in the dark. But the + dream seemed to go on still: it remained with me distinctly. + </p> + <p> + The more I thought it over, the more certain it appeared as part of my own + experience. Putting two and two together, I made sure in my own mind this + was a genuine recollection of my life in Australia. I was born there, I + knew: that I had learned from everybody. But I could distinctly remember + having LIVED there now. It came back to me as memory. The dream had + reinstated it. + </p> + <p> + And it was the sight of the photograph that had produced the dream. This + was curious, very. A weird idea came across me. Had I begun, in all past + efforts to remember, at the wrong end? Instead of trying to recollect the + circumstances that immediately preceded the murder, ought I to have set + out by trying to reinstate my First Life, chapter by chapter and verse by + verse, from childhood upward? Ought I to start by recalling as far as + possible my very earliest recollections in my previous existence, and then + gradually work up through all my subsequent history to the date of the + murder? + </p> + <p> + The more I thought of it, the more convinced was I that that was the right + procedure. + </p> + <p> + It was certainly significant that this vague childish recollection of + something which might have happened when I was just about two years old + should be the very first thing to recur to my my memory. Yet so appalled + and alarmed was I by the weirdness of this sudden apparition, looming up, + as it were, all by itself in the depths of my consciousness, that I hardly + dared bring myself to think of trying to recall any other scenes of that + dead and past existence. The picture rose like an exhalation, hanging + unrelated in mid-air, a mere mental mirage: and it terrified me so much, + that I shrank unutterably from the effort of calling up another of like + sort to follow it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. — HATEFUL SUSPICIONS + </h2> + <p> + The rest of that night I lay awake in my bed, the scene in the verandah by + the big blue-gum-trees haunting me all the time, much as in earlier days + the Picture of the murder had pursued and haunted me. Early in the morning + I rose up, and went down to Jane in her little parlour. I longed for + society in my awe. I needed human presence. I couldn’t bear to be + left alone by myself with all these pressing and encompassing mysteries. + </p> + <p> + “Jane,” I said after a few minutes’ careless talk—for + I didn’t like to tell her about my wonderful dream,—“where + exactly did you find the picture of that house hanging over in the corner + there?” + </p> + <p> + “Lor’ bless your heart, miss,” Jane answered, “there’s + a whole boxful of them at The Grange. Nobody ever cared for them. They’re + up in the top attic. They were locked till your papa died, and then they + were opened by order of the executors. Some of ‘em’s faded + even worse than that one, and none of ‘em’s very good; but I + picked this one out because it was better worth framing for my room than + most of ‘em. The executors took no notice when they found what they was. + They opened the box to see if it was dockyments.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jane,” I said, “I shall go up and bring them + every one away with me. It’s possible they may help me to recollect + things a bit.” I drew my hand across my forehead. “It all + seems so hazy,” I went on. “Yet when I see things again, I + sometimes feel as if I almost recognised them.” + </p> + <p> + So that very morning we went up together (I wouldn’t go alone), and + got the rest of the photographs—very faded positives from + old-fashioned plates, most of them representing persons and places I had + never seen; and a few of them apparently not taken in England. + </p> + <p> + I didn’t look them all over at once just then. I thought it best not + to do so. I would give my memory every possible chance. Take a few at a + time, and see what effect they produced on me. Perhaps—though I + shrank from the bare idea with horror—they might rouse in my sleep + such another stray effort of spontaneous reconstruction. Yet the last one + had cost me much nervous wear and tear—much mental agony. + </p> + <p> + A few days after, I went away from Woodbury. I had learned for the moment, + I thought, all that Woodbury could teach me: and I longed to get free + again for a while from this pervading atmosphere of mystery. At Aunt Emma’s, + at least, all was plain and aboveboard. I would go back to + Barton-on-the-Sea, and rest there for a while, among the heathery hills, + before proceeding any further on my voyage of discovery. + </p> + <p> + But I took back Jane with me. I was fond of Jane now. In those two short + weeks I had learned to cling to her. Though I remembered her, strictly + speaking, no more than at first, yet the affection I must have borne her + in my First State seemed to revive in me very easily, like all other + emotions. I was as much at home with Jane, indeed, as if I had known her + for years. And this wasn’t strange; for I HAD known her for years, + in point of fact; and and though I’d forgotten most of those years, + the sense of familiarity they had inspired still lived on with me + unconsciously. I know now that memory resides chiefly in the brain, while + the emotions are a wider endowment of the nervous system in general; so + that while a great shock may obliterate whole tracts in the memory, no + power on earth can ever alter altogether the sentiments and feelings. + </p> + <p> + As for Jane, she was only too glad to come with me. There were no lodgers + at present, she said; and none expected. Her sister Elizabeth would take + care of the rooms, and if any stranger came, why, Lizzie’d telegraph + down at once for her. So I wrote to Aunt Emma to expect us both next day. + Aunt Emma’s, I knew, was a home where I or mine were always welcome. + </p> + <p> + Jane had never seen Aunt Emma. There had been feud between the families + while my father lived, so she didn’t visit The Grange after my + mother’s death. Aunt Emma had often explained to me in part how all + that happened. It was the one point in our family history on which she’d + ever been explicit: for she had a grievance there; and what woman on earth + can ever suppress her grievances? It’s our feminine way to air them + before the world, as it’s a man’s to bury them deep in his own + breast and brood over them. + </p> + <p> + My mother, she told me, had been a widow when my father married her—a + rich young widow. She had gone away, a mere girl, to Australia with her + first husband, a clergyman, who was lost at sea two or three years after, + on the voyage home to England without her. She had one little girl by her + first husband, but the child died quite young: and then she married my + father, who met her first in Australia while she waited for news of the + clergyman’s safety. Her family always disapproved of the second + marriage. My father had no money, it seemed; and mamma was well off, + having means of her own to start with, like Aunt Emma, and having + inherited also her first husband’s property, which was very + considerable. He had left it to his little girl, and after her to his + wife; so that first my father, and then I myself, came in, in the end, to + both the little estates, though my mother’s had been settled on the + children of the first marriage. Aunt Emma always thought my father had + married for money: and she said he had been hard and unkind to mamma: not + indeed cruel; he wasn’t a cruel man; but severe and wilful. He made + her do exactly as he wished about everything, in a masterful sort of way, + that no woman could stand against. He crushed her spirit entirely, Aunt + Emma told me; she had no will of her own, poor thing: his individuality + was so strong, that it overrode my mother’s weak nature rough-shod. + </p> + <p> + Not that he was rough. He never scolded her; he never illtreated her; but + he said to her plainly, “You are to do so and so;” and she + obeyed like a child. She never dared to question him. + </p> + <p> + So Aunt Emma had always said my mother was badly used, especially in money + matters—the money being all, when one came to think of it, her own + or her first husband’s;—and as a consequence, auntie was never + invited to The Grange during my father’s lifetime. + </p> + <p> + When we reached Barton-on-the-Sea, Jane and I, on our way from Woodbury, + Aunt Emma was waiting at the station to meet us. To my great + disappointment, I could see at first sight she didn’t care for Jane: + and I could also see at first sight Jane didn’t care for her. This + was a serious blow to me, for I leaned upon those two more than I leaned + upon anyone; and I had far too few friends in the world of my own, to + afford to do without any one of them. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, however, when I went up to my own room to bed, Jane came + up to help me as she always did at Woodbury. I began at once to tax her + with not liking Aunt Emma. With a little hesitation, Jane admitted that at + first sight she hadn’t felt by any means disposed to care for her. I + pressed her hard as to why. Jane held off and prevaricated. That roused my + curiosity:—you see, I’m a woman. I insisted upon knowing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, miss, I can’t tell you!” Jane cried, growing red in + the face, “I can’t bear to say it out. You oughtn’t to + ask. It’ll hurt you to know I even thought such a thing of her!” + </p> + <p> + “You MUST tell me, Jane,” I exclaimed, with a cold shudder of + terror, half guessing what she meant. “Don’t keep me in + suspense. Let me know what it is. I’m accustomed to shocks now. I + know I can stand them.” + </p> + <p> + Jane answered nothing directly. She only held out her coarse red hand and + asked me, with a face growing pale as she spoke: + </p> + <p> + “Where’s that picture of the murder?” + </p> + <p> + I produced it from my box, trembling inwardly all over. + </p> + <p> + Jane darted one finger demonstratively at a point in the photograph. + </p> + <p> + “Whose hand is THAT?” she asked with a strange earnestness, + putting her nail on the murderer’s. + </p> + <p> + The words escaped me in a cry of horror almost before I was aware of them: + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Emma’s!” I said, gasping. “I NEVER noticed + it before.” + </p> + <p> + Then I drew back and stared at it in speechless awe and consternation. + </p> + <p> + It was quite, quite true. No use in denying it. The figure that escaped + through the window was dressed in man’s clothes, to be sure, and as + far as one could judge from the foreshortening and the peculiar stoop, had + a man’s form and stature. But the hand was a woman’s—soft, + and white, and delicate: nay more, the hand, as I said in my haste, was + line for line Aunt Emma’s. + </p> + <p> + In a moment a terrible sinking came over me from head to foot. I trembled + like an aspen-leaf. Could this, then, be the meaning of Dr. Marten’s + warning, that I should let sleeping dogs lie, lest I should be compelled + to punish someone whom I loved most dearly? Had Fate been so cruel to me, + that I had learned to cling most in my Second State to the very criminal + whose act had blotted out my First? Had I grown to treat like a mother my + father’s murderer? + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma’s hand! Aunt Emma’s hand! That was Aunt Emma’s + hand, every touch and every line of it. But no! where were the marks, + those well-known marks on the palm? I took up the big magnifying-glass + with which I had often scanned that photograph close before. Not a sign or + a trace of them. I shut my eyes, and called up again the mental Picture of + the murder. I looked hard at the phantom-hand in it, that floated like a + vision, all distinct before my mind’s eye. It was flat and smooth + and white. Not a scar—not a sign on it. I turned round to Jane, that + too natural detective. + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” I cried hastily, with a quick tone of triumph. + “Aunt Emma’s hand is marked on the palm with great gashes and + cuts. This one’s smooth as smooth can be. And so’s the one I + can see in the Picture within me!” + </p> + <p> + Jane drew back with a startled air, and opened her mouth, all agog, to let + in a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “The wall!” she said slowly. “The bottle-glass, don’t + you know! The blood on the top! Whoever did it, climbed over and tore his + hands. Or HER hands, if it was a woman! That would account for the gashes.” + </p> + <p> + This was more than I could endure. The coincidence was too crushing. I + bent down my head on my arms and cried silently, bitterly. I hated Jane in + my heart for even suggesting it. Yet I couldn’t deny to myself for a + moment the strength and suggestiveness of her half-spoken argument. + </p> + <p> + Not that for a second I believed it true. I could never believe it. Aunt + Emma, so gentle, so kindly, so sweet: incapable of hurting any living + thing: the tenderest old lady that breathed upon earth: and my own mother’s + sister, whom I loved as I never before loved anyone! Aunt Emma the + murderess! The bare idea was preposterous! I couldn’t entertain it. + My whole nature revolted from it. + </p> + <p> + And indeed, how very slight, after all, was the mere scrap of evidence on + which Jane ventured to suggest so terrible a charge! A man—in man’s + clothes—fairly tall and slim, and apparently dark-haired, but + stooping so much that he looked almost hump-backed: how different from + Aunt Emma, with her womanly figure, and her upright gait, and her sweet + old white head! Why, it was clearly ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + And yet, the fact remained that as Jane pointed to the Picture and asked, + “Whose hand is that?” the answer came up all spontaneously to + my lips, without hesitation, “Aunt Emma’s!” + </p> + <p> + I sat there long in my misery, thinking it over to myself. I didn’t + know what to do. I couldn’t go and confide to Aunt Emma’s ear + this new and horrible doubt,—which was no doubt after all, for I + KNEW it was impossible. I hated Jane for suggesting it; I hated her for + telling me. Yet I couldn’t be left alone. I was far too terrified. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jane;” I cried, looking up to her, and yet despising + myself for saying it, “you must stop here to-night and sleep with + me. If I’m left by myself in the room alone, I know I shall go mad—I + can feel it—I’m sure of it!” + </p> + <p> + Jane stopped with me and soothed me. She was certainly very kind. Yet I + felt in a dim underhand sort of way it was treason to Aunt Emma to receive + her caresses at all after what she had said to me. Though to be sure, it + was I, not she, who spoke those hateful words. It was I myself who had + said the hand was Aunt Emma’s. + </p> + <p> + As I lay awake and thought, the idea flashed across me suddenly, could + Jane have any grudge of her own against Aunt Emma? Was this a deliberate + plot? What did she mean by her warnings that I should keep my mind open? + Why had she said from the very first it was a woman’s hand? Did she + want to set me against my aunt? And was Dr. Marten in league with her? In + my tortured frame of mind, I felt all alone in the world. I covered my + head and sobbed in my misery. I didn’t know who were my friends and + who were against me. + </p> + <p> + At last, after long watching, I dozed off into an uneasy sleep. Jane had + already been snoring long beside me. I woke up again with a start. I was + cold and shuddering. I had dreamed once more the same Australian dream. My + mamma as before stood gentle beside me. She stooped down and smoothed my + hair: I could see her face and her form distinctly. And I noticed now she + was like her sister, Aunt Emma, only younger and prettier, and ever so + much slighter. And her hand, too, was soft and white like auntie’s—very + gentle and delicate. + </p> + <p> + It was just there that I woke up—with the hand before my eyes. Oh, + how vividly I noted it! Aunt Emma’s hand, only younger, and + unscarred on the palm. The family hand, no doubt: the hand of the Moores. + I remembered, now, that Aunt Emma had spoken more than once of that family + peculiarity. It ran through the house, she said. But my hand was quite + different: not the Moore type at all: I supposed I must have taken it, as + was natural, from the Callinghams. + </p> + <p> + And then, in my utter horror and loneliness, a still more awful and + ghastly thought presented itself to me. This was my mother’s hand I + saw in the picture. Was it my mother, indeed, who wrought the murder? Was + she living or dead? Had my father put upon her some grievous wrong? Had he + pretended to get her out of the way? Had he buried her alive, so to speak, + in some prison or madhouse? Had she returned in disguise from the asylum + or the living grave to avenge herself and murder him? In my present frame + of mind, no idea was too wild or too strange for me to entertain. If this + strain continued much longer, I should go mad myself with suspense and + horror! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. — YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH + </h2> + <p> + Next morning my head ached. After all I’d suffered, I could hardly + bear to recur to the one subject that now always occupied my thoughts. And + yet, on the other hand, I couldn’t succeed in banishing it. To + relieve my mind a little, I took out the photographs I had brought from + the box at The Grange, and began to sort them over according to probable + date and subject. + </p> + <p> + They were of different periods, some old, some newer. I put them together + in series, as well as I could, by the nature of the surroundings. The most + recent of all were my father’s early attempts at instantaneous + electric photography—the attempts which led up at last to his + automatic machine, the acmegraph, that produced all unconsciously the + picture of the murder. Some of these comparatively recent proofs + represented men running and horses trotting: but the best of all, tied + together with a bit of tape, clearly belonged to a single set, and must + have been taken at the same time at an athletic meeting. There was one of + a flat race, viewed from a little in front, with the limbs of the runners + in seemingly ridiculous attitudes, so instantaneous and therefore so + grotesquely rigid were they. There was another of a high jump, seen from + one side at the very moment of clearing the pole, so that the figure + poised solid in mid-air as motionless as a statue. And there was a third, + equally successful, of a man throwing the hammer, in which the hammer, in + the same way, seemed to hang suspended of itself like Mahomet’s + coffin between earth and heaven. + </p> + <p> + But the one that attracted my attention the most was a photograph of an + obstacle-race, in which the runners had to mount and climb over a wagon + placed obtrusively sideways across the course on purpose to baffle them. + This picture was taken from a few yards in the rear; and the athletes were + seen in it in the most varied attitudes. Some of them were just climbing + up one side of the wagon: others had mounted to the top ledge of the body: + and one, standing on the further edge, was in the very act of leaping down + to the ground in front of him. He was bent double, to spring, with a stoop + like a hunchback, and balanced himself with one hand held tightly behind + him. + </p> + <p> + As my eye fell on that figure, a cold thrill ran through me. For a moment + I only knew something important had happened. Next instant I realised what + the thrill portended. I could only see the man’s back, to be sure, + but I knew him in a second. I had no doubt as to who it was. This was HIM—the + murderer! + </p> + <p> + Yes, yes! There could be no mistaking that arched round back that had + haunted me so long in my waking dreams. I knew him at sight. It was the + man I had seen on the night of the murder getting out of the window! + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I was overwrought. Perhaps my fancy ran away with me. But I didn’t + doubt for a second. I rose from my seat, and in a tremulous voice called + Jane into the room. Without one word I laid both pictures down before her + together. Jane glanced first at the one, then turned quickly to the other. + A sharp little cry broke from her lips all unbidden. She saw it as fast + and as instinctively as I had done. + </p> + <p> + “That’s him!” she exclaimed, aghast, and as pale as a + sheet. “That’s him, right enough, Miss Una. That’s the + very same back! That’s the very same hand! That’s the man! + That’s the murderer!” + </p> + <p> + And indeed, this unanimity was sufficiently startling. For nothing could + have been more different than the dress in the two cases. In the murder + scene, the man seemed to wear a tweed suit and knickerbockers,—he + was indistinct, as I said before, against the blurred light of the window: + while in the athletic scene, he wore just a thin jersey and + running-drawers, cut short at the knee, with his arms and legs bare, and + his muscles contracted. Yet for all that, we both knew him for the same + man at once. That stooping back was unmistakable; that position of the + hand was characteristic and unique. We were sure he was the same man. I + trembled with agitation. I had a clue to the murderer! + </p> + <p> + Yet, strange to say, that wasn’t the first thought that occurred to + my mind. In the relief of the moment, I looked up into Jane’s eyes, + and exclaimed with a sigh of profound relief: + </p> + <p> + “Then you see how mistaken you were about the hands and Aunt Emma!” + </p> + <p> + Jane looked close at the hand in the photograph once more. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s curious,” she said, slowly. “That’s + a man, sure enough: but he’d ought to be a Moore. The palm’s + your aunt’s as clear as ever you could paint it!” + </p> + <p> + I glanced over her shoulder. She was perfectly right. It was a man beyond + all doubt, the figure on the wagon. Yet the hand was Aunt Emma’s, + every line and every stroke of it; except, of course, the scars. Those, I + saw at a glance, were wholly wanting. + </p> + <p> + And now I had really a clue to the murderer. + </p> + <p> + Yet how slight a clue! Just a photograph of men’s backs. What men? + When and where? It was an athletic meeting. Of what club or society? That + was the next question now I had to answer. Instinctively I made up my mind + to answer it myself, without giving any notice to the police of my + discovery. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I should never have been able to answer it at all but for one of + the photographs which, as I thought, though lying loose by itself, formed + part of the same series. It represented the end of a hundred-yard race, + with the winners coming in at the tape by a pavilion with a flag-staff. On + the staff a big flag was flying loosely in the wind. The folds hid half of + the words on its centre from sight. But this much at least I could read: + </p> + <h3> + “ER...OM..OY...LETI...UB.” + </h3> + <p> + I gazed at them long and earnestly. After a minute or two of thought, I + made out the last two words. The inscription must surely be + Something-or-other Athletic Club. + </p> + <p> + But what was “Er... om.. oy...”? That question staggered me. + Gazing harder at it than ever, I could come to no conclusion. It was the + name of a place, no doubt: but what place, I knew not. + </p> + <p> + “Er”? No, “Ber”: just a suspicion of a B came + round the corner of a fold. If B was the first letter, I might possibly + identify it. + </p> + <p> + I took the photograph down to Aunt Emma, without telling her what I meant. + She couldn’t bear to think I was ever engaged in thinking of my + First State at all. + </p> + <p> + “Can you read the inscription on that flag, auntie?” I asked. + “It’s an old photograph I picked up in the attic at The + Grange, and I’d like to know, if I could, at what place it was + taken.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma gazed at it long and earnestly. Her colour never changed. Then + she shook her head quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know the place,” she said; “and I don’t + know the name. I can’t quite make it out. That’s E, and R, and + O. You see, the letters in between might be almost anything.” + </p> + <p> + I wasn’t going to be put off, however, with the port thus in sight. + One fact was almost certain. Wherever that pavilion might be, the murderer + was there on the day unknown when those photo-graphs were taken. And + whatever that day might be, my father and the murderer were there + together. That brought the two into connection, and brought me one step + nearer a solution than ever the police had been; for hitherto no one had + even pretended to have the slightest clue to the personality of the man + who jumped out of the window. + </p> + <p> + I went into the library and took down the big atlas. Opening the map of + England and Wales, I began a hopeless search, county by county, from + Northumberland downward, for any town or village that would fit these + mysterious letters. It was a wild and foolish idea. In the first place not + a quarter of the villages were marked in the map; and in the second place, + my brain soon got muddled and dazed with trying to fit in the names with + the letters on the flag. Two hours had passed away, and I’d only got + as far down as Lancashire and Durham. And, most probably even so, I would + never come upon it. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly, a bright idea broke on my brain at once. The Index! The + Index! Presumably, as no fold seemed to obscure the first words, the name + began with what looked like a B. That was always something. + </p> + <p> + A man would have thought of that at once, of course: but then, I have the + misfortune to be only a woman. + </p> + <p> + I turned to the Index in haste, and looked down it with hurried eyes. + Almost sooner than I could have hoped, the riddle unread itself. “Ber-, + Berb-, Berc-, Berd-,” I read out: “Berkshire: Berham: + Berhampore: that won’t do: Berlin: Berling: Bernina: Berry—what’s + that? Oh, great heavens!”—my brain reeled—“Berry + Pomeroy!” + </p> + <p> + It was as clear as day. How could I have missed it before? There it seemed + to stand out almost legible on the flagstaff. I read it now with ease: + “Berry Pomeroy Athletic Club.” + </p> + <p> + I looked up the map once more, following the lines with my fingers, till I + found the very place where the name was printed. A village in Devonshire, + not far from Torquay. Yes! That’s it; Berry Pomeroy. The murderer + was there on the day of that athletic meeting! + </p> + <p> + My heart came up into my mouth with mingled horror and triumph. I felt + like a bloodhound who gets on the trail of his man. I would track him down + now, no doubt—my father’s murderer! + </p> + <p> + I had no resentment against him, no desire for vengeance. But I had a + burning wish to free myself from this environing mystery. + </p> + <p> + I wouldn’t tell the police or the inspector, however, what clue I + had obtained. I’d find it all out for myself without anyone’s + help. I remembered what Dr. Marten had said, and determined to be wise. I’d + work on my own lines till all was found out: and then, be it who it might, + I sternly resolved I’d let justice be done on him. + </p> + <p> + So I said nothing even to Jane about the discovery I’d just made. I + said nothing to anybody till we sat down at dinner. Then, in the course of + conversation, I got on the subject of Devonshire. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie,” I ventured to ask at last, in a very casual way, + “did I ever, so far as you know, go anywhere near a place called + Berry Pomeroy?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma gave a start. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, why do you ask?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say you remember that, do you? What do you + want to know for, Una? You can’t possibly recollect your Torquay + visit, surely!” + </p> + <p> + I trembled all over. Then I was on the right track! + </p> + <p> + “Was I ever at Torquay?” I asked once more, as firmly as I + could. “And when I was there, did I go over one day to Berry + Pomeroy?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma grew all at once as white as death. + </p> + <p> + “This is wonderful!” she cried in an agitated voice. “This + is wonderful—wonderful! If you can remember that, my child, you can + remember anything.” + </p> + <p> + “I DON’T remember it auntie,” I answered, not liking to + deceive her. “To tell you the truth, I simply guessed at it. But + when and why was I at Torquay? Please tell me. And did I go to Berry + Pomeroy?” For I stuck to my point, and meant to get it out of her. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma gazed at me fixedly. + </p> + <p> + “You went to Torquay, dear,” she said in a very slow voice, + “in the spring of the same year your poor father was killed: that’s + more than four years ago. The Willie Moores live at Torquay, and several + more of your cousins. You went to stop with Willie’s wife, and you + stayed five weeks. I don’t know whether you ever went over to Berry + Pomeroy. You may have, and you mayn’t: it’s within an easy + driving distance. Minnie Moore has often written to ask me whether you + could go there again; Minnie was always fond of you, and thinks you’d + remember her: but I’ve been afraid to allow you, for fear it should + recall sad scenes. She’s about your own age, Minnie is; and she’s + a daughter of Willie Moore, who’s my own first cousin, and of course + your dear mother’s.” + </p> + <p> + I never hesitated a moment. I was strung up too tightly by that time. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie dear,” I said quietly, “I go to-morrow to + Torquay. I must know all now. I must hunt up these people.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie knew from my tone it was no use trying to stand in my way any + longer. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, dear,” she said resignedly. “I don’t + believe it’s good for you: but you must do as you like. You have + your father’s will, Una. You were always headstrong.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. — THE VISION RECURS + </h2> + <p> + I hated asking auntie questions, they seemed to worry and distress her so; + but that evening, in view of my projected visit to Torquay, I was obliged + to cross-examine her rather closely about many things. I wanted to know + about my Torquay relations, and as far as possible about my mother’s + family. In the end I learned that the Willie Moores were cousins of ours + on my mother’s side who had never quarrelled with my father, like + Aunt Emma, and through whom alone accordingly, in the days of my First + State, Aunt Emma was able to learn anything about me. They had a house at + Torquay, and connections all around; for the Moores were Devonshire + people. Aunt Emma was very anxious, if I went down there at all, I should + stop with Mrs. Moore: for Minnie would be so grieved, she said, if I went + to an hotel or took private lodgings. But I wouldn’t hear of that + myself. I knew nothing of the Moores—in my present condition—and + I didn’t like to trust myself in the hands of those who to me were + perfect strangers. So I decided on going to the Imperial Hotel, and + calling on the Moores quietly to pursue my investigation. + </p> + <p> + Another question I asked in the course of the evening. I had wondered + about it often, and now, in these last straits, curiosity overcame me. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Emma,” I said unexpectedly after a pause, without one + word of introduction, “how ever did you get those scars on your + hand? You’ve never told me.” + </p> + <p> + In a moment, Aunt Emma blushed suddenly crimson like a girl of eighteen. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” she answered very gravely, in a low strange tone, + “oh, don’t ask me about that, dear. Don’t ask me about + that. You could never understand it.... I got them... in climbing over a + high stone wall... a high stone wall, with bits of glass stuck on top of + it.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of her prohibition, I couldn’t help asking one virtual + question more. I gave a start of horror: + </p> + <p> + “Not the wall at The Grange!” I cried. “Oh, Aunt Emma, + how wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + She gazed at me, astonished. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the wall at The Grange,” she said simply. “But I + don’t know how you guessed it.... Oh, Una, don’t talk to me + any more about these things, I implore you. You can’t think how they + grieve me. They distress me unspeakably.” + </p> + <p> + Much as I longed to know, I couldn’t ask her again after that. She + was trembling like an aspen-leaf. For some minutes we sat and looked at + the fireplace in silence. + </p> + <p> + Then curiosity overcame me again. + </p> + <p> + “Only one question more, auntie,” I said. “When I came + to you first, you were at home here at Barton. You didn’t come to + Woodbury to fetch me after the murder. You didn’t attend the + inquest. I’ve often wondered at that. Why didn’t you bring me + yourself? Why didn’t you hurry to nurse me as soon as you heard they’d + shot my father?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma gazed at me again with a face like a sheet. + </p> + <p> + “Darling,” she said, quivering, “I was ill. I was in + bed. I was obliged to stay away. I’d hurt myself badly a little + before.... Oh, Una, leave off! If you go on like this, you’ll drive + me mad. Say no more, I implore of you.” + </p> + <p> + I couldn’t think what this meant; but as auntie wished it, I held my + peace, all inwardly trembling with suppressed excitement. + </p> + <p> + That night, when I went up to bed, I lay awake long, thinking to myself of + the Australian scene. In the silence of the night it came back to me + vividly. Rain pattered on the roof, and helped me to remember it. I could + see the blue-gum trees waving their long ribbon-like leaves in the wind: I + could see the cottage, the verandah, my mother, our dog: nay, even, I + remembered now, with a burst of recollection, his name was Carlo. The + effort was more truly a recollection than before: it was part of myself: I + felt aware it was really I myself, not another, who had seen all this, and + lived and moved in it. + </p> + <p> + Slowly I fell asleep, and passed from thinking to dreaming. My dream was + but a prolongation of the thoughts I had been turning over in my waking + mind. I was still in Australia; still on the verandah of our wooden house; + and my mamma was there, and papa beside her. I knew it was papa; for I + held his hand and played with him. But he was so much altered, so grave + and severe; though he smiled at me good-humouredly. Mamma was sitting + behind, with baby on her lap. It seemed to me quite natural she should be + there with baby. The scene was so distinct—very vivid and clear. It + persisted for many minutes, perhaps even hours. It burnt itself into my + brain. At last, it woke me up by its very intensity. + </p> + <p> + As I woke, a great many thoughts crowded in upon me all at once. This time + I knew instantly it was no mere dream, but a true recollection. Yet what a + strange recollection! how unexpected! how incomprehensible! How much in it + to settle! how much to investigate and hunt up and inquire about! + </p> + <p> + In the first place, though I was still in my dream a little girl, much + time must have elapsed since the earlier vision; for my papa looked far + older, and graver, and sterner. He had more hair about his face, too, a + long brown beard and heavy moustache; and when I gazed hard at him + mentally, I could recognise the likeness with the white-bearded man who + lay dead on the floor: while in my former recollection, I could scarcely + make out any resemblance of the features. This showed that the second + scene came long after the first: my father must by that time have begun to + resemble his later self. A weird feeling stole over me. Was I going to + relive my previous life, piecemeal? Was the past going to unroll itself in + slow but regular panorama to my sleeping vision? Was my First State to + become known like this in successive scenes to my Second? + </p> + <p> + But that wasn’t all. There were strange questions to decide, too, + about this new dream of dead days. What could be the meaning of that + mysterious baby? She seemed to be so vivid, so natural, so real; her + presence there was so much a pure matter of course to me, that I couldn’t + for a moment separate her from the rest of the Picture. I REMEMBERED the + baby, now; as I remembered my mother, and my father, and Australia. There + was no room for doubt as to that. The baby was an integral part of my real + recollection. Floating across the dim ocean of years, I was certain that + night I had once lived in such a scene, with my mamma, and baby. + </p> + <p> + Yet oh, what baby? I never had a brother or sister of my own, except the + half-sister that died—the clergyman’s child, Mary Wharton. And + Mary, from what I had learned from Aunt Emma and others, must have died + when I was only just five months old, immediately before we left + Australia. How, then, could I remember her, even in this exalted mental + state of trance or dream? And, above all, how could I remember a far + earlier scene, when my papa was younger, when his face was smooth, and + when there was no other baby? + </p> + <p> + This mystery only heightened the other mysteries which surrounded my life. + I was surfeited with them now. In very despair and listlessness, I turned + round on my side, and dozed dreamily off again, unable to grapple with it. + </p> + <p> + But still that scene haunted me. And still, even in sleep, I asked myself + over and over again, “How on earth can this be? What’s the + meaning of the baby?” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was a little sister that died young, whom I never had heard of. + And perhaps not. In a life such as mine, new surprises are always + possible. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. — THE MOORES OF TORQUAY + </h2> + <p> + Strange to say, in spite of everything, my sleep refreshed me. I woke up + in the morning strong and vigorous—thank goodness, I have physically + a magnificent constitution—and packed my box, with Jane’s + help, for my Torquay expedition. + </p> + <p> + I went up to London and down to Torquay alone, though Jane offered to + accompany me. I was learning to be self-reliant. It suited my plans + better. Nobody could bear this burden for me but myself; and the sooner I + learnt to bear it my own way, the happier for me. + </p> + <p> + At Torquay station, to my great surprise, a fresh-looking girl of my own + age rushed up to me suddenly, and kissed me without one word of warning. + She was a very pretty girl, pink-cheeked and hazel-eyed: and as she kissed + me, she seized both my hands in hers, and cried out to me frankly: + </p> + <p> + “Why, there you are, Una dear! Cousin Emma telegraphed us what train + you’d arrive by; so I’ve driven down to meet you. And now, you’re + coming up with us this very minute in the pony-carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re Minnie Moore, I suppose?” I said, gazing at her + admiringly. Her sweet, frank smile and apple-blossom cheek somehow + inspired me with confidence. + </p> + <p> + She looked back at me quite distressed. Tears rose at once into her eyes + with true Celtic suddenness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Una,” she cried, deeply hurt and drawing back into her + shell, “don’t tell me you don’t know me! Why, I’m + Minnie! Minnie!” + </p> + <p> + My heart went out to her at once. I took her hand in mine again. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie dear,” I said softly, quite remorseful for my mistake, + “you must remember what has happened to me, and not be angry. I’ve + forgotten everything, even my own past life. I’ve forgotten that I + ever before set eyes upon you. But, my dear, there’s one thing I’ve + NOT in a way forgotten; and that is, that I loved you and love you dearly. + And I ‘ll give you a proof of it. When I started, I knew none of + you; and I told Aunt Emma I wouldn’t go among strangers. The moment + I see you, I know you’re no stranger, but a very dear cousin. When I’ve + forgotten MYSELF, how can I remember YOU? But I’ll go up with you at + once. And I’ll countermand the room I ordered by telegram at the + Imperial.” + </p> + <p> + The tears stood fuller in Minnie’s eyes than before. She clasped my + hand hard. Her pretty lips trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Una darling,” she said, “we always were friends, and we + always shall be. If you love me, that’s all. You’re a darling. + I love you.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at her sweet face, and knew it was true. And oh, I was so glad to + have a new friend—an old friend, already! For somehow, as always, + while the intellectual recollection had faded, the emotion survived. I + felt as if I’d known Minnie Moore for years, though I never + remembered to have seen her in my life till that minute. + </p> + <p> + Well, I remained at the Moores’ for a week, and felt quite at home + there. They were all very nice, Cousin Willie, and Aunt Emily (she made me + call her aunt; she said I’d always done so), and Minnie, and all of + them. They were really dear people; and blood, after all, is thicker than + water. But I made no haste to push inquiries just at first. I preferred to + feel my way. I wanted to find out what they knew, if anything, about Berry + Pomeroy. + </p> + <p> + The first time I ventured to mention the subject to Minnie, she gave a + very queer smile—a smile of maidenly badinage. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you remember THAT, any way,” she said, in a teasing + little way, looking down at me and laughing. “I thought you’d + remember that. I must say you enjoyed yourself wonderfully at Berry + Pomeroy!” + </p> + <p> + “Remember what?” I cried, all eagerness; for I saw she + attached some special importance to the recollection. And yet, it was + terrible she should jest about the clue to my father’s murderer! + </p> + <p> + Minnie looked arch. When she looked arch, she was charming. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I never saw you prettier or more engaging in your life than + you were that day,” she said evasively, as if trying to pique me. + “And you flirted so much, too! And everybody admired you so. + Everybody on the grounds... especially one person!” + </p> + <p> + I looked up at her in surprise. I was in my own room, seated by the + dressing-table, late at night, when we’d gone up to bed; and Minnie + was beside me, standing up, with her bedroom candle in that pretty white + little hand of hers. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” I exclaimed eagerly. “Was it a dance—or + a picnic?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know very well,” Minnie went on teasingly, “though + you pretend you forget. HE was there, don’t you know. You must + remember HIM, if you’ve forgotten all the rest of your previous + life. You say you remember the appropriate emotions. Well, he was an + emotion: at least, you thought so. It was an Athletic Club Meeting: and + Dr. Ivor was there. He went across on his bicycle.” + </p> + <p> + I gave a start of surprise. Minnie looked down at me half maliciously. + </p> + <p> + “There, you see,” she said archly again, “at Dr. Ivor + you change colour. I told you you’d remember him!” + </p> + <p> + I grew pale with astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie dear,” I said, holding her hands very tight in my own, + “it wasn’t that, I assure you. I’ve forgotten him, + utterly. If ever I knew a Dr. Ivor, if ever I flirted with him, as you + seem to imply, he’s gone clean out of my head. His name stirs no + chord—recalls absolutely nothing. But I want to know about that + Athletic Meeting. Was my poor father there that day? And did he take a set + of photographs?” + </p> + <p> + Minnie clapped her hands triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “I KNEW you remembered!” she cried. “Of course, Cousin + Vivian was there. We drove over in a break. You MUST remember that. And he + took a whole lot of instantaneous photographs.” + </p> + <p> + My hand trembled violently in my cousin’s. I felt I was now on the + very eve of a great discovery. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie,” I said, tentatively, “do you think your papa + would drive us over some day and—and show us the place again?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he would, dear,” Minnie answered, with a gentle + pressure of my hand. “He’d be only too delighted. Whatever you + choose. You know you were always such a favourite of daddy’s.” + </p> + <p> + I knew nothing of the sort; but I was glad to learn it. I drew Minnie out + a little more about the Athletics and my visit to Berry Pomeroy. She + wouldn’t tell me much: she was too illusive and indefinite: she + never could get the notion out of her head, somehow, that I remembered all + about it, and was only pretending to forgetfulness. But I gathered from + what she said, that Dr. Ivor and I must have flirted a great deal; or, at + least, that he must have paid me a good lot of attention. My father didn’t + like it, Minnie said; he thought Dr. Ivor wasn’t well enough off to + marry me. He was a distant cousin of ours, of course—everything was + always “of course” with that dear bright Minnie—what, + didn’t I know that? Oh, yes, his mother was one of the Moores of + Barnstaple, cousin Edward’s people. His name was Courtenay Moore + Ivor, you know—though I knew nothing of the sort. And he was awfully + clever. And, oh, so handsome! + </p> + <p> + “Is he at Berry Pomeroy still?” I asked, trembling, thinking + this would be a good person to get information from about the people at + the Athletic Sports. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, no,” Minnie answered, looking hard at me, curiously. + “He was never at Berry Pomeroy. He had a practice at Babbicombe. He’s + in Canada now, you know. He went over six months after Cousin Vivian’s + death. I think, dear,”—she hesitated,—“he never + QUITE got over your entirely forgetting him, even if you forgot your whole + past history.” + </p> + <p> + This was a curious romance to me, that Minnie thus sprang on me—a + romance of my own past life of which I myself knew nothing. + </p> + <p> + We sat late talking, and I could see Minnie was very full indeed of Dr. + Ivor. Over and over again she recurred to his name, and always as though + she thought it might rouse some latent chord in my memory. But nothing + came of it. If ever I had cared for Dr. Ivor at all, that feeling had + passed away utterly with the rest of my experiences. + </p> + <p> + When Minnie rose to go, I took her hand once more in mine. As I did so, I + started. Something about it seemed strangely familiar. I looked at it + close with a keen glance. Why, this was curious! It was Aunt Emma’s + hand: it was my mother’s hand: it was the hand in my mental Picture: + it was the hand of the murderer! + </p> + <p> + “It’s just like auntie’s,” I said with an effort, + seeing Minnie noticed my start. + </p> + <p> + She looked at it and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “The Moore hand,” she said gaily. “We all have it, + except you. It’s awfully persistent.” + </p> + <p> + I turned it over in front and examined the palm. At sight of it my brain + reeled. This was surely magic! Minnie Moore’s hand, too, was scarred + over with cuts, exactly like Aunt Emma’s! + </p> + <p> + “Why, how on earth did you do that?” I cried, thunderstruck at + the discovery. + </p> + <p> + But Minnie only laughed again, a bright girlish laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Climbing over that beastly wall at The Grange,” she said with + a merry look. “Oh, what fun we did have! We climbed it together. We + were dreadful tomboys in those days, dear, you and I: but you were luckier + than I was, and didn’t cut yourself with the bottle-glass.” + </p> + <p> + This was too surprising to be passed over unnoticed. When Minnie was gone, + I lay awake and pondered about it. Had all the Moores got scars on their + hands, I wondered? And how many people, I asked myself, had cut themselves + time and again in climbing over that barricaded garden-wall of my father’s? + </p> + <p> + The Moore hand might be hereditary, but not surely the scars. Was the + murderer, then, a Moore, and was that the meaning of Dr. Marten’s + warning? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. — DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE + </h2> + <p> + Two days later, Cousin Willie drove us over to Berry Pomeroy. The lion of + the place is the castle, of course; but Minnie had told him beforehand I + wanted, for reasons of my own, to visit the cricket-field where the sports + were held “the year Dr. Ivor won the mile race, you remember.” + So we went there straight. As soon as we entered, I recognised the field + at once, and the pavilion, and the woods, as being precisely the same as + those presented in the photograph. But I got no further than that. The + captain of the cricket-club was on the ground that day, and I managed to + get into conversation with him, and strolled off in the grounds. There I + showed him the photograph, and asked if he could identify the man climbing + over the wagon: but he said he couldn’t recognise him. Somebody or + other from Torquay, perhaps; not a regular resident. The figures were so + small, and so difficult to make sure about. If I’d leave him the + photograph, perhaps—but at that I drew back, for I didn’t want + anybody, least of all at Torquay, to know what quest I was engaged upon. + </p> + <p> + We drove back, a merry party enough, in spite of my failure. Minnie was + always so jolly, and her mirth was contagious. She talked all the way + still of Dr. Ivor, half-teasing me. It was all very well my pretending not + to remember, she said; but why did I want to see the cricket-field if it + wasn’t for that? Poor Courtenay! if only he knew, how delighted he’d + be to know he wasn’t forgotten! For he really took it to heart, my + illness—she always called it my illness, and so I suppose it was. + From the day I lost my memory, nothing seemed to go right with him; and he + was never content till he went and buried himself somewhere in the wilds + of Canada. + </p> + <p> + That evening again, I sat with Minnie in my room. I was depressed and + distressed. I didn’t want to cry before Minnie, but I could have + cried with good heart for sheer vexation. Of course I couldn’t bear + to go showing the photograph to all the world, and letting everybody see I’d + made myself a sort of amateur detective. They would mistake my motives so. + And yet I didn’t know how I was ever to find out my man any other + way. It was that or nothing. I made up my mind I would ask Cousin Willie. + </p> + <p> + I took out the photograph, as if unintentionally, when I went to my box, + and laid it down with my curling-tongs on the table close by Minnie. + Minnie took it up abstractedly and looked at it with an indefinite gaze. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this is the cricket-field!” she cried, as soon as she + collected her senses. “One of your father’s experiments. The + earliest acmegraphs. How splendidly they come out! See, that’s Sir + Everard at the bottom; and there’s little Jack Hillier above; and + this on one side’s Captain Brooks; and there, in front of all—well, + you know HIM anyhow, Una. Now, don’t pretend you forget! That’s + Courtenay Ivor!” + </p> + <p> + Her finger was on the man who stood poised ready to jump. With an awful + recoil, I drew back and suppressed a scream. It was on the tip of my + tongue to cry out, “Why, that’s my father’s murderer!” + </p> + <p> + But, happily, with a great effort of will I restrained myself. I saw it + all at a glance. That, then, was the meaning of Dr. Marten’s + warning! No wonder, I thought, the shock had disorganised my whole brain. + If Minnie was right, I was in love once with that man. And I must have + seen my lover murder my father! + </p> + <p> + For I didn’t doubt, from what Minnie said, I had really once loved + Dr. Ivor. Horrible and ghastly as it might be to realise it, I didn’t + doubt it was the truth. I had once loved the very man I was now bent on + pursuing as a criminal and a murderer! + </p> + <p> + “You’re sure that’s him, Minnie?” I cried, trying + to conceal my agitation. “You’re sure that’s Courtenay + Ivor, the man stooping on the wagon-top?” + </p> + <p> + Minnie looked at me, smiling. She thought I was asking for a very + different reason. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s him, right enough, dear,” she said. “I + could tell him among a thousand. Why, the Moore hand alone would be quite + enough to know him by. It’s just like my own. We’ve all of us + got it—except yourself. I always said you weren’t one of us. + You’re a regular born Callingham.” + </p> + <p> + I gazed at her fixedly. I could hardly speak. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Minnie!” I cried once more, “have you ... have you + any photograph of him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, we haven’t, dear,” Minnie answered. + </p> + <p> + “That was a fad of Courtenay’s, you know. Wherever he went, he’d + never be photographed. He was annoyed that day that your father should + have taken him unawares. He hated being ‘done,’ he said. He’s + so handsome and so nice, but he’s not a bit conceited. And he was + such a splendid bicyclist! He rode over and back on his bicycle that day, + and then ran in all the races as if it were nothing.” + </p> + <p> + A light burst over me at once. This was circumstantial evidence. The + murderer who disappeared as if by magic the moment his crime was committed + must have come and gone all unseen, no doubt, on his bicycle. He must have + left it under the window till his vile deed was done, and then leapt out + upon it in a second and dashed off whence he came like a flash of + lightning. + </p> + <p> + It was a premeditated crime, in that case, not the mere casual result of a + sudden quarrel. + </p> + <p> + I must find out this man now, were it only to relieve my own sense of + mystery. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie,” I said once more, screwing up my courage to ask, + “where’s Dr. Ivor now? I mean—that is to say—in + what part of Canada?” + </p> + <p> + Minnie looked at me and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “There, I told you so!” she said, merrily. “It’s + not the least bit of use your pretending you’re not in love with + him, Una. Why, just look how you tremble! You’re as white as a + ghost! And then you say you don’t care for poor Courtenay! I forget + the exact name of the place where he lives, but I’ve got it in my + desk, and I can tell you to-morrow.—Oh, yes; it’s Palmyra, on + the Canada Pacific. I suppose you want to write to him. Or perhaps you + mean to go out and offer yourself bodily.” + </p> + <p> + It was awful having to bottle up the truth in one’s own heart, and + to laugh and jest like this; but I endured it somehow. + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s not that,” I said gravely. “I’ve + other reasons of my own for asking his address, Minnie. I want to go out + there, it’s true; but not because I cherish the faintest pleasing + recollection of Dr. Ivor in any way.” + </p> + <p> + Minnie scanned me over in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how you ARE altered, Una!” she cried. “I love + you, dear, and like you every bit as much as ever. But you’ve + changed so much. I don’t think you’re at all what you used to + be. You’re so grave and sombre.” + </p> + <p> + “No wonder, Minnie,” I exclaimed, bursting gladly into tears—the + excuse was such a relief—“no wonder, when you think how much I’ve + passed through!” + </p> + <p> + Minnie flung her arms around my neck, and kissed me over and over again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear!” she cried, melting. “What have I done? What + have I said? I ought never to have spoken so. It was cruel of me—cruel, + Una dear. I shall stop here to-night, and sleep with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you, darling!” I cried. “Minnie, that IS good + of you. I’m so awfully glad. For to-morrow I must be thinking of + getting ready for Canada.” + </p> + <p> + “Canada!” Minnie exclaimed, alarmed. “You’re not + really going to Canada! Oh, Una, you’re joking! You don’t mean + to say you’re going out there to find him!” + </p> + <p> + I took her hand in mine, and held it up in the air above her head + solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “Dear cousin,” I said, “I love you. But you must promise + me this one thing. Whatever may happen, give me your sacred word of honour + you’ll never tell anybody what we’ve said here to-night. You’ll + kill me if you do. I don’t want any living soul on earth to know of + it.” + </p> + <p> + I spoke so seriously, Minnie felt it was important. + </p> + <p> + “I promise you,” she answered, growing suddenly far graver + than her wont. “Oh, Una, I haven’t the faintest idea what you + mean, but no torture on earth shall ever wring a word of it from me!” + </p> + <p> + So I went to bed in her arms, and cried myself to sleep, thinking with my + latest breath, in a tremor of horror, that I’d found it at last. + Courtenay Ivor was the name of my father’s murderer! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. — MY WELCOME TO CANADA + </h2> + <p> + The voyage across the Atlantic was long and uneventful. No whales, no + icebergs, no excitement of any sort. My fellow-passengers said it was as + dull as it was calm. But as for me, I had plenty to occupy my mind + meanwhile. Strange things had happened in the interval, and were happening + to me on the way. Strange things, in part, of my own internal history. + </p> + <p> + For before I left England, as I sat with Aunt Emma in her little + drawing-room at Barton-on-the-Sea, discussing my plans and devising routes + westward, she made me, quite suddenly, an unexpected confession. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” she said, after a long pause, “you haven’t + told me, my dear, why you’re going to Canada. And I don’t want + to ask you. I know pretty well. We needn’t touch upon that. You’re + going to hunt up some supposed clue to the murderer.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so, Auntie,” I said oracularly: “and perhaps + not.” + </p> + <p> + For I didn’t want it to get talked about and be put into all the + newspapers. And I knew now if I wanted to keep it out, I must first be + silent. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Emma drew nearer and took my hand in hers. At the same time, she held + up the other scarred and lacerated palm. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know when I got that, Una?” she asked with a sudden + burst. “Well, I’ll tell you, my child.... It was the night of + your father’s death. And I got it climbing over the wall at The + Grange, to escape detection.” + </p> + <p> + My blood ran cold once more. What on earth could this mean? Had Auntie—? + But no. I had the evidence of my own senses that it was Courtenay Ivor. I’d + tracked him down now. There was no room for doubt. The man on the wagon + was the man who fired the shot. I could have sworn to that bent back, of + my own knowledge, among a thousand. + </p> + <p> + I hadn’t long to wait, however. Auntie went on after a short pause. + </p> + <p> + “I was there,” she said, “by accident, trying for once + to see you.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at her fixedly still, and still I said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I was stopping with friends at the time, ten miles off from + Woodbury,” Aunt Emma went on, smoothing my hand with hers, “and + I longed so to see you. I came over by train that day, and stopped late + about the town in hopes I might meet you in the street. But I was + disappointed. Towards evening I ventured even to go into the grounds of + The Grange, and look about everywhere on the chance that I might see you. + Perhaps your father might be out. I went round towards the window, which I + now know to be the library. As I went, I saw a bicycle leaning up against + the wall by the window. I thought that must be some visitor, but still I + went on. But just as I reached the window, I saw a flash of electric + light; and by the light, I could make out your father’s head and + beard. He looked as if he were talking angrily and loudly to somebody. The + window was open. I was afraid to stop longer. In a sudden access of fear, + I ran across the shrubbery towards the garden-wall. To tell you the truth, + I was horribly frightened. Why, I don’t know; for nothing had + happened as yet. I suppose it was just the dusk and the mean sense of + intrusion.” + </p> + <p> + She paused and wiped her brow. I sat still, and listened eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Presently,” she went on, very low, “as I ran and ran, I + heard behind me a loud crash—a sound as of a pistol-shot. That + terrified me still more. I thought I was being pursued. Perhaps they took + me for a burglar. In the agony of my terror, I rushed at the wall in mad + haste, and climbed over it anyhow. In climbing, I tore my hand, as you + see, and made myself bleed, oh, terribly! However, I persevered, and got + down on the other side, with my clothes very little the worse for the + scramble. And, fortunately, I was carrying a small light dust-cloak: I put + it on at once, and it covered up everything. Then I began to walk along + the road as fast as I could in the direction of the station. As I did so, + a bicycle shot out from the gate in the opposite direction, going as hard + as it could spin, simply flying towards Whittingham. Three minutes later, + a man came up to me, breathless. It was the gardener at The Grange, I + believe. + </p> + <p> + “‘Have you seen anybody go this way?’ he asked. ‘A + young man, running hard? A young man in knickerbockers?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘N—no,’ I answered, trembling; for I was afraid + to confess. ‘Not a soul has gone past!’ + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I didn’t know of the murder as yet; and I only + wanted to get off unperceived to the station. + </p> + <p> + “I’d bound up my hand in my handkerchief by that time, and + held it tight under my cloak. I went back by train unnoticed, and returned + to my friends’ house. I hadn’t even told them I was going to + Woodbury at all. I pretended I’d been spending the day at + Whittingham. Next morning, I read in the paper of your father’s + murder.” + </p> + <p> + I stared hard at Aunt Emma. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you tell me this long ago?” I cried, in an + agony of suspense. “Why didn’t you give evidence and say so at + the inquest?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I?” Aunt Emma answered, looking back at me + appealingly. “The circumstances were too suspicious. As it was, + everybody was running after the young man in knickerbockers. Nobody took + any notice of a little old lady in a long grey dust-cloak. But if once I’d + confessed and shown my wounded hand, who would ever have believed I’d + nothing to do with the murder?—except you, perhaps, Una. Oh no: I + came back here to my own home as fast as ever I could; for I was really + ill. I took to my bed at once. And as nobody called me to give evidence at + the inquest, I said nothing to anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “But the bicycle!” I cried. “The bicycle! You ought to + have mentioned that. You were the only one who saw it. It was a clue to + the murderer.” + </p> + <p> + “If I’d told,” Aunt Emma answered, “I should never + have been allowed to take charge of you at all. I thought my one clear + duty was to my sister’s child: it was to take care of your health in + your shattered condition. And even now, Una, I tell you only for this: if + you find out anything new, in Canada or here, try not to drag me into it. + I couldn’t stand the strain. Cross-examination would kill me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll remember it, auntie,” I said, wearied out with + excitement. “But I think you did wrong, all the same. In a case like + this, it’s everybody’s first duty to tell all he knows, in the + interests of justice.” + </p> + <p> + However, this confession of Aunt Emma’s rendered one thing more + certain to me than ever before. I was sure I was on the right track now, + after Courtenay Ivor. The bicycle clinched the proof. + </p> + <p> + But I said nothing as yet to the police, or to my friendly Inspector. I + was determined to hunt the whole thing up on my own account first, and + then deliver my criminal, when fully secured, to the laws of my country. + </p> + <p> + Not that I was vindictive. Not that I wanted to punish the man. No; I + shrank terribly from the task. But to relieve myself from this persistent + sense of surrounding mystery, and to free others from suspicion, I felt + compelled to discover him. It seemed to me like a duty laid upon me from + without. I dared not shirk it. + </p> + <p> + On the way out to Quebec, the sea seemed to revive strange memories. I had + never crossed it before, except long, long ago, on my way home from + Australia. And now that I sat on deck, in a wicker-chair, and looked at + the deep dark waves by myself, I began once more, in vague snatches, to + recall that earlier voyage. It came back to me all of itself. And that was + quite in keeping with my previous recollections. My past life, I felt + sure, was unfolding itself slowly to me in regular succession, from + childhood onward. + </p> + <p> + Sitting there on the quarter-deck, gazing hard at the waves, I remembered + how I had played on a similar ship years and years before, a little girl + in short frocks, with my mamma in a long folding-chair beside me. I could + see my mamma, with a sort of frightened smile on her poor pale face; and + she looked so unhappy. My papa was there too, somewhat older and greyer—very + unlike the papa of my first Australian picture. His face was so much + hairier. Mamma cried a good deal at times, and papa tried to comfort her. + Besides, what struck me most, there was no more baby. I wasn’t even + allowed to speak about baby. That subject was tabooed—perhaps + because it always made mamma cry so much, and press me hard to her bosom. + At any rate, I remembered how once I spoke of baby to some + fellow-passenger in the saloon, and papa was very angry, and caught me up + in his arms and took me down to my berth; and there I had to stop all day + by myself (though it was rolling hard) and could have no fruit for dinner, + because I’d been naughty. I was strictly enjoined never to mention + baby to anyone again, either then or at any time. I was to forget all + about her. + </p> + <p> + Day after day, as we sailed on, reminiscences of the same sort crowded + thicker and thicker upon me. Never reminiscences of my later life, but + always early scenes brought up by distinct suggestion of that Australian + voyage. When we passed a ship, it burst upon me how we’d passed such + ships before: when there was fire-drill on deck, I remembered having + assisted years earlier at just such fire-drill. The whole past came back + like a dream, so that I could reconstruct now the first five or six years + of my life almost entirely. And yet, even so there was a gap, a puzzle, a + difficulty somehow. I couldn’t make the chronology of this + slow-returning memory fit in as it ought with the chronology of the facts + given to me by Aunt Emma and the Moores of Torquay. There was a constant + discrepancy. It seemed to me that I must be a year or two older at least + than they made me out. I remembered the voyage home far too well for my + age. I fancied I went back further in my Australian recollections than + would be possible from the dates Aunt Emma assigned me. + </p> + <p> + Slowly, as I compared these mental pictures of my first childhood one with + the other, a strange fact seemed to loom forth, incomprehensible, + incredible. When first it struck me, all unnerved as I was, my reason + staggered before it. But it was true, none the less: quite true, I felt + certain. Had I had two papas, then?—for the pictures differed so. + Was one, clean-shaven, trim, and in a linen coat, the same as the other, + older, graver, and sterner, with much hair on his face, and a rough sort + of look, whom I saw more persistently in my later childish memories? I + could hardly believe it. One man couldn’t alter so greatly in a few + short years. Yet I thought of them both alike quite unquestioningly as + papa: I thought of them too, I fancied, in a dim sort of way, as one and + the same person. + </p> + <p> + These fresh mysteries occupied my mind for the greater part of that + uneventful voyage. To throw them off, I laughed and talked as much as + possible with the rest of the passengers. Indeed, I gained the reputation + of being “an awfully jolly girl,” so heartily did I throw + myself into all the games and amusements, to escape from the burden of my + pressing thoughts: and I believe many old ladies on board were thoroughly + scandalised that a woman whose father had been brutally murdered should + ever be able to seem so bright and lively again. How little they knew! And + what a world of mystery seemed to oppress and surround me! + </p> + <p> + At last, early one morning, we reached the Gulf, and took in our pilot off + the Straits of Belleisle. I was on deck at the time, playing a game called + “Shovelboard.” As the pilot reached the ship, he took the + captain’s hand, and, to my immense surprise, said in an audible + voice: + </p> + <p> + “So you’ve the famous Miss Callingham for a passenger, I hear, + this voyage. There’s the latest Quebec papers. You’ll see you’re + looked for. Our people are expecting her.” + </p> + <p> + I rushed forward, fiery hot, and with a trembling hand took one of the + papers he was distributing all round, right and left, to the people on + deck. It was unendurable that the memory of that one event should thus dog + me through life with such ubiquitous persistence. I tore open the sheet. + There, with horrified eyes, I read this hateful paragraph, in the + atrociously vulgar style of Transatlantic journalism: + </p> + <p> + “The Sarmatian, expected off Belleisle to-morrow morning, brings + among her passengers, as we learn by telegram, the famous Una Callingham, + whose connection with the so-called Woodbury Mystery is now a matter of + historical interest. The mysterious two-souled lady possesses, at present, + all her faculties intact, as before the murder, and is indeed, people say, + a remarkably spry and intelligent young person; but she has most + conveniently forgotten all the events of her past life, and more + particularly the circumstances of her father’s death, which is + commonly conjectured to have been due to the pistol of some unknown lover. + Such freaks of memory are common, we all know, in the matter of small + debts and of newspaper subscriptions, but they seldom extend quite so far + as the violent death of a near relation. However, Una knows her own + business best. The Sarmatian is due alongside the Bonsecours Quay at 10 + a.m. on Wednesday, the 10th; and all Quebec will, no doubt, be assembled + at the landing-stage to say ‘Good-morning’ to the two-souled + lady.” + </p> + <p> + The paper dropped from my hand. This was too horrible for anything! How I + was ever to go through the ordeal of the landing at Quebec after that, I + hadn’t the faintest conception. And was I to be dogged and annoyed + like this through all my Canadian trip by anonymous scribblers? Had these + people no hearts? no consideration for the sensitiveness of an English + lady? + </p> + <p> + I looked over the side of the ship at the dark-blue water. Oh, how I + longed to plunge into it and be released for ever from this abiding + nightmare! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + </h2> + <p> + The moment we reached the quay at Quebec, some two days later, a dozen + young men, with little notebooks in their hands, jumped on board all at + once. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Callingham!” they cried with one accord, making a dash + for the quarter-deck. “Which is she? Oh, this!—If you please, + Miss Callingham, I should like to have ten minutes of your time to + interview you!” + </p> + <p> + I clapped my hands to my ears, and stood back, all horrified. What I + should have done, I don’t know, but for a very kind man in a big + rough overcoat, who had jumped on board at the same time, and made over to + me like the reporters. He stepped up to me at once, pushed aside the young + men, and said in a most friendly tone: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Callingham, I think? You’d better come with me, then. + These people are all sharks. Everybody in Quebec’s agog to see the + Two-souled Lady. Answer no questions at all. Take not the least notice of + them. Just follow me to the Custom House. Let them rave, but don’t + speak to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” I asked blindly, clinging to his arm in my + terror. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a policeman in plain clothes,” my new friend + answered; “and I’ve been specially detailed by order for this + duty. I’m here to look after you. You’ve friends in Canada, + though you may have quite forgotten them. They’ve sent me to help + you. Those are two of my chums there, standing aside by the gangway. We’ll + walk you off between us. Don’t be afraid.—Here, you sir, + there; make way!—No one shall come near you.” + </p> + <p> + I was so nervous, and so ashamed that I accepted my strange escort without + inquiry or remonstrance. He helped me, with remarkable politeness for a + common policeman, across to the Custom House, where I sat waiting for my + luggage. Reporters and sightseers, meanwhile, pressed obtrusively around + me. My protector held them back. I was half wild with embarrassment. I’m + naturally a reserved and somewhat sensitive girl, and this American + publicity made me crimson with bashfulness. + </p> + <p> + As I sat there waiting, however, the two other policemen to whom my + champion had beckoned sat one on each side of me, keeping off the idle + crowd, while my first friend looked after the luggage and saw it safely + through the Customs for me. He must be an Inspector, I fancied, or some + other superior officer, the officials were so deferential to him. I gave + him my keys, and he looked after everything himself. I had nothing, for my + part, to do but to sit and wait patiently for him. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had finished, he called a porter to his side. + </p> + <p> + “Vite!” he cried, in a tone of authority, to the man. “Un + fiacre!” + </p> + <p> + And the porter called one. + </p> + <p> + I started to find that I knew what he meant. Till that moment, in my + Second State, I had learned no French, and didn’t know I could speak + any. But I recognised the words quite well as soon as he uttered them. My + lost knowledge reasserted itself. + </p> + <p> + They bundled on my boxes. The crowd still stood around and gaped at me, + open-mouthed. I got into the cab, more dead than alive. + </p> + <p> + “Allez!” my policeman cried to the French-Canadian driver, + seating himself by my side. + </p> + <p> + “A la gare du chemin de fer Pacific! Aussi vite que possible!” + </p> + <p> + I understood every word. This was wonderful. My memory was coming back + again. + </p> + <p> + The man tore along the streets to the Pacific railway station. By the time + we reached it we had distanced the sightseers, though some of them gave + chase. My policeman got out. + </p> + <p> + “The train’s just going!” he said sharply. “Don’t + take a ticket for Palmyra, if you don’t want to be followed and + tracked out all the way. They’ll telegraph on your destination. Book + to Kingston instead, and then change at Sharbot Lake, and take a second + ticket on from there to Palmyra.” + </p> + <p> + I listened, half dazed. Palmyra was the place where Dr. Ivor lived. Yet, + even in the hurry of the moment, I wondered much to myself how the + policeman knew I wanted to go to Palmyra. + </p> + <p> + There was no time to ask questions, however, or to deliberate on my plans. + I took my ticket as desired, in a turmoil of feelings, and jumped on to + the train. I trusted by this time I had eluded detection. I ought to have + come, I saw now, under a feigned name. This horrid publicity was more than + I could endure. My policeman helped me in with his persistent politeness, + and saw my boxes checked as far as Sharbot Lake for me. Then he handed me + the checks. + </p> + <p> + “Go in the Pullman,” he said quietly. “It’s a long + journey, you know: four-and-twenty hours. You’ve only just caught + it. But if you’d stopped in Quebec, you’d never have been able + to give the sightseers the slip. You’d have been pestered all + through. I think you’re safe now. It was this or nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you so much!” I cried, with heartfelt gratitude, + leaning out of the window as the train was on the point of starting. I + pulled out my purse, and drew timidly forth a sovereign. “I’ve + only English money,” I said, hesitating, for I didn’t know + whether he’d be offended or not at the offer of a tip—he + seemed such a perfect gentleman. “But if that’s any use to you—” + </p> + <p> + He smiled a broad smile and shook his head, much amused. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you,” he said, half laughing, with a very curious + air. “I’m a policeman, as I told you. But I don’t need + tips. I’m the Chief Constable of Quebec—there’s my card; + Major Tascherel,—and I’m glad to be of use, I’m sure, to + any friend of Dr. Ivor’s.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his hat with the inborn grace of a high-born gentleman. I + coloured and bowed. The train steamed out of the station. As it went, I + fell back, half fainting, in the comfortable armchair of the Pullman car, + hardly able to speak with surprise and horror. It was all so strange, so + puzzling, so bewildering! Then I owed my escape from the stenographic + myrmidons of the Canadian Press to the polite care and attention of my + father’s murderer! + </p> + <p> + Major Tascherel was a friend, he said, of Dr. Ivor’s! + </p> + <p> + Then Dr. Ivor knew I had come. He knew I was going to Palmyra to find him. + And yet he had written to Quebec, apparently, expecting this crush, and + asking his friend the Chief Constable to protect and befriend me. Had he + murdered my father, and was he in love with me still? Did he think I’d + come out, not to track him down, but to look for him? Strange, horrible + questions! My heart stood still within me at this extraordinary + revelation. Yet I was so frightened at the moment, alone in a strange + land, that I felt almost grateful to the murderer himself for his kindness + in thinking of me and providing for my reception. + </p> + <p> + As I settled in my seat and had time to realise what these things meant, + it dawned upon me by degrees that all this was less remarkable, after all, + than I first thought it. For they had telegraphed from England that I + sailed on the Sarmatian; and Dr. Ivor, like everybody else, must have read + the telegram. He might naturally conclude I would be half-mobbed by + reporters; and as it was clear he had once been fond of me—hateful + as I felt it even to admit the fact to myself—he might really have + desired to save me annoyance and trouble. It was degrading, to be sure, + even to think I owed anything of any sort to such a wretch as that + murderer; yet in a certain corner of my heart I couldn’t help being + thankful to him. But how strange to feel I had come there on purpose to + hunt him down! How horrible that I must so repay good with evil! + </p> + <p> + Then a still more ghastly thought surged up suddenly in my mind. Why on + earth did he think I was going to Palmyra? Was it possible he fancied I + loved him still—that I wanted to marry him? Could he imagine I’d + come out just to fling myself at his feet and ask him to take me? Could he + suppose I’d forgotten all the rest of my past life, and his vile act + as well, and yet remembered alone what little love, if any, I ever had + borne him? It was incredible that any man, however wicked, however + conceited, should think such folly as that—that a girl would marry + her father’s murderer; and yet what might not one expect from a man + who, after having shot my father, had still the inconceivable and + unbelievable audacity to take deliberate steps for securing my own comfort + and happiness? From such a wretch as that, one might look for almost + anything! + </p> + <p> + For ten minutes or more, as we whirled along the line in the Pullman car, + I was too dazed and confused to notice anything around me. My brain swam + vaguely, filled full with wild whirling thoughts; the strange drama of my + life, always teeming with mysteries, seemed to culminate in this reception + in an unknown land by people who appeared almost to know more about my + business than I myself did. I gazed out of the window blankly. In some + vague dim way I saw we were passing between rocky hills, pine-clad and + beautiful, with deep glimpses now and then into the riven gorge of a noble + river. But I didn’t even realise to myself that these were Canadian + hills—those were the heights of Abraham—that was the silver + St. Lawrence. It all passed by like a living dream. I sat still in my + chair, as one stunned and faint; I gazed out, more dead than alive, on the + unfamiliar scene that unrolled itself in exquisite panorama before me. + Quebec and the Laurentian hills were to me half unreal: the inner senses + alone were awake and conscious. + </p> + <p> + Presently a gentle voice at my side broke, not at all unpleasantly, the + current of my reflections. It was a lady’s voice, very sweet and + musical. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid,” it said kindly, with an air of tender + solicitude, “you only just caught the train, and were hurried and + worried and flurried at the last at the station. You look so white and + tired. How your breath comes and goes! And I think you’re new to our + Canadian ways. I saw you didn’t understand about the checks for the + baggage. Let me take away this bag and put it up in the rack for you. Here’s + a footstool for your feet; that’ll make you more comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + At the first sound of her sweet voice, I turned to look at the speaker. + She was a girl, perhaps a year or two younger than myself, very slender + and graceful, and with eyes like a mother’s. She wasn’t + exactly pretty, but her face was so full of intelligence and expression + that it was worth a great deal more than any doll-like prettiness. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was pleasure at being spoken to kindly at all in this land of + strangers; perhaps it was revulsion from the agony of shame and modesty I + had endured at Quebec; but, at any rate, I felt drawn at first sight to my + sweet-voiced fellow-traveller. Besides, she reminded me somewhat of Minnie + Moore, and that resemblance alone was enough to attract me. I looked up at + her gratefully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you so much!” I cried, putting my bag in her hand. + “I’ve only just come out from England; and I’d hardly + time at Quebec to catch the train; and the people crowded around so, that + I was flustered at landing; and everything somehow seems to be going + against me.” + </p> + <p> + And with that my poor overwrought nerves gave way all at once, and without + any more ado I just burst out crying. + </p> + <p> + The lady by my side leant over me tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “There—cry, dear,” she said, as if she’d known me + for years, stooping down and almost caressing me. “Jack,”—and + she turned to a tall gentleman at her side,—“quick! you’ve + got my black bag; get me out the sal volatile. She’s quite faint, + poor thing; we must look after her instantly.” + </p> + <p> + The person to whom she spoke, and who was apparently her husband or her + brother, took down the black bag from the rack hastily, and got out the + sal volatile, as my friend directed him. He poured a little into a tumbler + and held it quietly to my lips. I liked his manner, as I’d liked the + lady’s. He was so very brotherly. Besides, there was something + extremely soothing about his quick, noiseless way. He did it all so fast, + yet without the faintest sign of agitation. I couldn’t help thinking + what a good nurse he would make; he was so rapid and effective, yet so + gentle and so quiet. He seemed perfectly accustomed to the ways of nervous + women. + </p> + <p> + I dried my eyes after a while, and looked up in his face. He was very + good-looking, and had a charming soft smile. How lucky I should have + tumbled upon such pleasant travelling companions! In my present mental + state, I had need of sympathy. And, indeed, they took as much care of me, + and coddled me up as tenderly, as if they’d known me for years. I + was almost tempted to make a clean breast of my personality to them, and + tell them why it was I had been so worried and upset by my reception at + Quebec: but I shrank from confessing it. I hated my own name, almost, it + seemed to bring me such very unpleasant notoriety. + </p> + <p> + In a very few minutes, I felt quite at home with my new friends. I + explained to them that when I landed I had no intention of going on West + by train at once, but that news which I received on the way had compelled + me to push forward by the very first chance; and that I had to change my + ticket at a place called Sharbot Lake, whose very position or distance I + hadn’t had time to discover. The lady smiled sweetly, and calmed my + fears by telling me we wouldn’t reach Sharbot Lake till mid-day + to-morrow, and that I would have plenty of time there to book on to my + destination. + </p> + <p> + Thus encouraged, I went on to tell them I had no Canadian money, having + brought out what I needed for travelling expenses and hotels in Bank of + England 20 pound notes. The lady smiled again, and said in the friendliest + way: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my brother’ll get them changed for you at Montreal as we + pass, won’t you, Jack? or at least as much as you need till you get + to”—she checked herself—“the end of your journey.” + </p> + <p> + I noticed how she pulled herself up, though at the moment I attached no + particular importance to it. + </p> + <p> + So he was her brother, not her husband, then! Well, he was a very nice + fellow, either way, and nobody could be kinder or more sympathetic than he’d + been to me so far. + </p> + <p> + We fell into conversation, which soon by degrees grew quite intimate. + </p> + <p> + “How far West are you going?” the man she called Jack asked + after a little time, tentatively. + </p> + <p> + And I answered, all unsuspiciously: + </p> + <p> + “To a place called Palmyra.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, we live not far from Palmyra,” the sister replied, with + a smile. “We’re going that way now. Our station’s + Adolphus Town, the very next village.” + </p> + <p> + I hadn’t yet learned to join the wisdom of the serpent to the + innocence of the dove, I’m afraid. Remember, though in some ways I + was a woman full grown, in others I was little more than a four-year-old + baby. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a Dr. Ivor there?” I asked eagerly, leaning + forward. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, quite well,” the lady answered, arranging my + footstool more comfortably as she spoke. “He’s got a farm out + there now, and hardly practises at all. How queer it is! One always finds + one knows people in common. Is Dr. Ivor a friend of yours?” + </p> + <p> + I recoiled at the stray question almost as if I’d been shot. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” I cried, horrified at the bare idea of such treason. + “He’s anything but a friend... I—I only wanted to know + about him.” + </p> + <p> + The lady looked at Jack, and Jack looked at the lady. Were they + telegraphing signs? I fancied somehow they gave one another very meaning + glances. Jack was the first to speak, breaking an awkward silence. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t expect everyone to know your own friends, or to + like them either, Elsie,” he said slowly, with his eyes fixed hard + on her, as if he expected her to flare up. + </p> + <p> + My heart misgave me. A hateful idea arose in it. Could my sweet travelling + companion be engaged—to my father’s murderer? + </p> + <p> + “But he’s a dear good fellow, for all that, Jack,” Elsie + said stoutly; and strange as it sounds to say so, I admired her for + sticking up for her friend Dr. Ivor, if she really liked him. “I won’t + hear him run down by anybody, not even by YOU. If this lady knew him + better, I’m sure she’d like him, as we all do.” + </p> + <p> + Jack turned the conversation abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “But if you’re going to Palmyra,” he asked, “where + do you mean to stop? Have you thought about lodgings? You mustn’t + imagine it’s a place like an English town, with an inn or hotel or + good private apartments. There’s nowhere you can put up at in these + brand-new villages. Are you going to friends, or did you expect to find + quarters as easily as in England?” + </p> + <p> + This was a difficulty which, indeed, had never even occurred to me till + that moment. I stammered and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said slowly, “to tell you the truth, I haven’t + thought about that. The landing at Quebec was such a dreadful surprise to + me, and”—tears came into my eyes again—“I had a + great shock there—and I had to come on so quick, I didn’t ask + about anything but catching the train. I meant to stop a night or two + either at Quebec or in Montreal, and to make all inquiries: but + circumstances, you see, have prevented that. So I really don’t know + what I’d better do when I get to Palmyra.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” my new friend answered quickly, her soft sweet voice + having quite a decisive ring in it. “You’d better not go on to + Palmyra at all. There’s no sort of accommodation there, except a + horrid drinking-saloon. You’d better stop short at Adolphus Town and + spend the night with us; and then you can look about you next day, if you + like, and see what chance there may be of finding decent quarters. Old + Mrs. Wilkins might take her in, Jack, or the Blacks at the tannery.” + </p> + <p> + I smiled, and felt touched. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how good of you!” I cried. “But I really couldn’t + think of it. Thank you ever so much, though, for your kind thought, all + the same. It’s so good and sweet of you. But you don’t even + know who I am. I have no introduction.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re your own best introduction,” Elsie said, with a + pretty nod: I thought of her somehow from the very first moment I heard + her name as Elsie. “And as to your not knowing us, never mind about + that. We know YOU at first sight. It’s the Canadian way to entertain + Angels unawares. Out here, you know, hospitality’s the rule of the + country.” + </p> + <p> + Well, I demurred for a long time; I fought off their invitation as well as + I could: I couldn’t bear thus to quarter myself upon utter + strangers. But they both were so pressing, and brought up so many cogent + arguments why I couldn’t go alone to the one village saloon—a + mere whisky-drinking public-house, they said, of very bad character,—that + in the long run I was fain almost to acquiesce in their kind plan for my + temporary housing. Besides, after my horrid experience at Quebec, it was + such a positive relief to me to meet anybody nice and delicate, that I + couldn’t find it in my heart to refuse these dear people. And then, + perhaps it was best not to go quite on to Palmyra at once, for fear of + unexpectedly running against my father’s murderer. If I met him in + the street, and he recognised me and spoke to me, what on earth could I + do? My head was all in a whirl, indeed, as to what he might intend or + expect: for I felt sure he expected me. I made one last despairing effort. + </p> + <p> + “If I stop at your house, though,” I said, half ashamed of + myself for venturing to make conditions, “there’s one promise + you must make me—that I sha’n’t see Dr. Ivor unless you + let me know and get my consent beforehand.” + </p> + <p> + Jack, as I called him to myself, answered gaily back with a rather curious + smile: + </p> + <p> + “If you like, you need see nobody but our own two selves. We’ll + promise not to introduce anybody to you without due leave, and to let you + do as you like in that and in everything.” + </p> + <p> + So I yielded at last. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must know your name,” I said tentatively. + </p> + <p> + And Jack, looking queerly at me with an inquiring air, said: + </p> + <p> + “My sister’s name’s Elsie; mine’s John Cheriton.” + </p> + <p> + “And yours?” Elsie asked, glancing timidly down at me. + </p> + <p> + My heart beat hard. I was face to face with a dilemma. These were friends + of Courtenay Ivor’s, and I had given myself away to them. I was + going to their house, to accept their hospitality—and to betray + their friend! Never in my life did I feel so guilty before. Oh! what on + earth was I to do? I had told them too much; I had gone to work foolishly. + If I said my real name, I should let out my whole secret. I must brazen it + out now. With tremulous lips and flushed cheek, I answered quickly, + “Julia Marsden.” + </p> + <p> + Elsie drew back, all abashed. In a moment her cheek grew still redder, I + felt sure, than my own. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Marsden!” she cried, eyeing me close. “Why, I + thought you were Miss Callingham!” + </p> + <p> + “How on earth did you know that?” I exclaimed, terrified + almost out of my life. Was I never for one moment to escape my own + personality? + </p> + <p> + “Why, they put it in the papers that you were coming,” Elsie + answered, looking tenderly at me, more in sympathy than in anger. “And + it’s written on your bag, you know, that Jack put up in the rack + there... That’s why we were so sorry for you, and so grieved at the + way you must have been hustled on the quay. And that’s also why we + wanted you to come to us... But don’t be a bit afraid. We quite + understand you want to travel incognita. After the sort of reception you + got at Quebec, no wonder you’re afraid of these hateful + sightseers!... Very well, dear,” she took my hand with the air of an + old friend, “your disguise shall be respected while you stop at our + house. Miss Marsden let it be. You can make any inquiries you like about + Dr. Ivor. We will be secrecy itself. We’ll say nothing to anyone. + And my brother’ll take your ticket at Sharbot Lake for Adolphus + Town.” + </p> + <p> + I broke down once more. I fairly cried at such kindness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how good you are!” I said. “How very, very good. + This is more than one could ever have expected from strangers.” + </p> + <p> + She held my hand and stroked it. + </p> + <p> + “We’re not strangers,” she answered. “We’re + English ourselves. We sympathise deeply with you in this new, strange + country. You must treat us exactly like a brother and sister. We liked you + at first sight, and we’re sure we’ll get on with you.” + </p> + <p> + I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “And I liked you also,” I said, “and your brother, too. + You’re both so good and kind. How can I ever sufficiently thank you?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. — MY PLANS ALTER + </h2> + <p> + The rest of that day we spent chatting very amicably in our Pullman + arm-chairs. I couldn’t understand it myself—when I had a + moment to think, I was shocked and horrified at it. I was so terribly at + home with them. These were friends of Dr. Ivor’s—friends of my + father’s murderer! I had come out to Canada to track him, to deliver + him over, if I could, to the strong hand of Justice. And yet, there I was + talking away with his neighbours and friends as if I had known them all my + life, and loved them dearly. Nay, what was more, I couldn’t in my + heart of hearts help liking them. They were really sweet people—so + kind and sympathetic, so perceptive of my sensitiveness. They asked no + questions that could hurt me in any way. They showed no curiosity about + the object of my visit or my relation to Dr. Ivor. They were kindness and + courtesy itself. I could see Mr. Cheriton was a gentleman in fibre, and + Elsie was as sweet as any woman on earth could be. + </p> + <p> + By-and-by, the time came for the Pullman saloon to be transformed for the + night into a regular sleeping-car. All this was new to me, and I watched + it with interest. As soon as the beds were made up, I crept into my berth, + and my new friend Elsie took her place on the sofa below me. I lay awake + long and thought over the situation. The more I thought of it, the + stranger it all seemed. I tried hard to persuade myself I was running some + great danger in accepting the Cheritons’ invitation. Certainly, I + had behaved with consummate imprudence. Canada is a country, I said to + myself, where they kidnap and murder well-to-do young Englishmen. How much + easier, then, to kidnap and murder a poor weak stray English girl! I was + entirely at the mercy of the Cheritons, that was clear: and the Cheritons + were Dr. Ivor’s friends. As I thought all the circumstances over, + the full folly of my own conduct came home to me more and more. I had let + these people suppose I was travelling under an assumed name. I had let + them know my ticket was not for Palmyra but for Kingston, where I didn’t + mean to go. I had told them I meant to change it at Sharbot Lake. So they + were aware that no one on earth but themselves had any idea where I had + gone. And I had further divulged to them the important fact that I had + plenty of ready money in Bank of England notes! I stood aghast at my own + silliness. But still, I did NOT distrust them. + </p> + <p> + No, I did NOT distrust them. I felt I ought to be distrustful. I felt it + might be expected of me. But they were so gentle-mannered and so + sweet-natured, that I couldn’t distrust them. I tried very hard, but + distrust wouldn’t come to me. That kind fellow Jack—I thought + of him, just so, as Jack already—couldn’t hurt a fly, much + less kill a woman. It grieved me to think I would have to hurt his + feelings. + </p> + <p> + For now that I came to look things squarely in the face in my berth by + myself, I began to see how utterly impossible it would be for me after all + to go and stop with the Cheritons. How I could ever have dreamt it + feasible I could hardly conceive. I ought to have refused at once. I ought + to have been braver. I ought to have said outright, “I’ll have + nothing to do or say with anyone who is a friend or an acquaintance of + Courtenay Ivor’s.” And yet, to have said so would have been to + give up the game for lost. It would have been to proclaim that I had come + out to Canada as Courtenay Ivor’s enemy. + </p> + <p> + I wasn’t fit, that was the fact, for my self-imposed task of private + detective. + </p> + <p> + A good part of that night I lay awake in my berth, bitterly reproaching + myself for having come on this wild-goose chase without the aid of a man—an + experienced officer. Next morning, I rose and breakfasted in the car. The + Cheritons breakfasted with me, and, sad to say, seemed more charming than + ever. That good fellow Jack was so attentive and kind, I almost felt + ashamed to have to refuse his hospitality; and as for Elsie, she couldn’t + have treated me more nicely or cordially if she’d been my own + sister. It wasn’t what they said that touched my heart: it was what + they didn’t say or do—their sweet, generous reticence. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast, I steeled myself for the task, and broke it to them + gently that, thinking it over in the night, I’d come to the + conclusion I couldn’t consistently accept their proffered welcome. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how to say NO to you,” I cried, “after + you’ve been so wonderfully kind and nice; but reasons which I can’t + fully explain just now make me feel it would be wrong of me to think of + stopping with you. It would hamper my independence of action to be in + anybody else’s house. I must shift for myself, and try if I can’t + find board and lodging somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Find it with us then!” Elsie put in eagerly. “If that’s + all that’s the matter, I’m sure we’re not proud—are + we, Jack?—not a bit. Sooner than you should go elsewhere and be + uncomfortable in your rooms, I’d take you in myself, and board you + and look after you. You could pay what you like; and then you’d + retain your independence, you see, as much as ever you wanted.” + </p> + <p> + But her brother interrupted her with a somewhat graver air: + </p> + <p> + “It goes deeper than that, I’m afraid, Elsie,” he said, + turning his eye full upon her. “If Miss Callingham feels she couldn’t + be happy in stopping with us, she’d better try elsewhere. Though + where on earth we can put her, I haven’t just now the very slightest + idea. But we’ll turn it over in our own minds before we reach + Adolphus Town.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sweet reasonableness about Jack that attracted me greatly. I + could see he entered vaguely into the real nature of my feelings. But he + wouldn’t cross-question me: he was too much of a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Callingham knows her own motives best,” he said more + than once, when Elsie tried to return to the charge. “If she feels + she can’t come to us, we must be content to do the best we can for + her with our neighbours. Perhaps Mrs. Walters would take her in: she’s + our clergyman’s wife, Miss Callingham, and you mightn’t feel + the same awkwardness with her as with my sister.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she know—Dr. Ivor?” I faltered out, unable to + conceal my real reasons entirely. + </p> + <p> + “Not so intimately as we do,” Jack answered, with a quick + glance at his sister. “We might ask her at any rate. There are so + few houses in Palmyra or the neighbourhood where you could live as you’re + accustomed, that we mustn’t be particular. But at least you’ll + spend one night with us, and then we can arrange all the other things + afterward.” + </p> + <p> + My mind was made up. + </p> + <p> + “No, not even one night,” I said. I couldn’t accept + hospitality from Dr. Ivor’s friends. Between his faction and mine + there could be nothing now but the bitterest enmity. How dare I even + parley with people who were friends of my father’s murderer? + </p> + <p> + Yet I was sorry to disappoint that good fellow, Jack, all the same. Did he + want me to sleep one night at his house on purpose to rob me and murder + me? Girl as I was, and rendered timorous in some ways by the terrible + shocks I had received, I couldn’t for one moment believe it. I KNEW + he was good: I KNEW he was honourable, gentle, a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + So, journeying on all morning, we reached Sharbot Lake, still with nothing + decided. At the little junction station, Jack got me my ticket. That was + the turning point in my career. The die was cast. There I lost my + identity. A crowd lounged around the platform, and surged about the + Pullman car, calling to see “Una Callingham.” But no Una + Callingham appeared on the scene. I went, on in the same train, without a + word to anyone, all unknown save to the two Cheritons, and as an + unrecognised unit of common humanity. I had cast that horrid identity + clean behind me. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon was pleasant. In spite of my uncertainty, it gave me a sense + of pleased confidence to be in the Cheritons’ company. I had taken + to them at once: and the more I talked with them, the better I liked them. + Especially Jack, that nice brotherly Jack, who seemed almost like an old + friend to me. You get to know people so well on a long railway journey. I + was quite sorry to think that by five o’clock that afternoon we + should reach Adolphus Town, and so part company. + </p> + <p> + About ten minutes to five, we were collecting our scattered things, and + putting our front-hair straight by the mirror in the ladies’ + compartment. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss Cheriton,” I said warmly, longing to kiss her as I + spoke, “I shall never forget how kind you two have been to me. I do + wish so much I hadn’t to leave you like this. But it’s quite + inevitable. I don’t see really how I could ever endure—” + </p> + <p> + I said no more, for just at that moment, as the words trembled on my lips, + a terrible jar thrilled suddenly through the length and breadth of the + carriage. Something in front seemed to rush into us with a deep thud. + There was a crash, a fierce grating, a dull hiss, a clatter. Broken glass + was flying about. The very earth beneath the wheels seemed to give way + under us. Next instant, all was blank. I just knew I was lying, bruised + and stunned and bleeding, on a bare dry bank, with my limbs aching + painfully. + </p> + <p> + I guessed what it all meant. A collision, no doubt. But I lay faint and + ill, and knew nothing for the moment as to what had become of my + fellow-passengers. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. — A STRANGE RECOGNITION + </h2> + <p> + Gradually I was aware of somebody moistening my temples. A soft palm held + my hand. Elsie was leaning over me. I opened my eyes with a start. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Elsie,” I cried, “how kind of you!” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to me quite natural to call her Elsie. + </p> + <p> + Even as I spoke, somebody else raised my head and poured something down my + throat. I swallowed it with a gulp. Then I opened my eyes again. + </p> + <p> + “And Jack, too,” I murmured. + </p> + <p> + It seemed as if he’d been “Jack” to me for years and + years already. + </p> + <p> + “She knows us!” Elsie cried, clasping her hands. “She’s + much better—much better. Quick, Jack, more brandy! And make haste + there—a stretcher!” + </p> + <p> + There was a noise close by. Unseen hands lifted me up, and Jack laid me on + the stretcher. Half-an-hour at least must have elapsed, I felt since the + first shock of the accident. I had been unconscious meanwhile. The actual + crash came and went like lightning. And my memory of all else was blotted + out for the moment. + </p> + <p> + Next, as I lay still, two men took the stretcher and carried me off at a + slow pace, under Jack’s direction. They walked single-file along the + line, and turned down a rough road that led off near a river. I didn’t + ask where they were going: I was too weak and feeble. At last they came to + a house, a small white wooden cottage, very colonial and simple, but neat + and pretty. There was a garden in front, full of old-fashioned flowering + shrubs; and a verandah ran round the house, about whose posts clambered + sweet English creepers. + </p> + <p> + They carried me in, and laid me down on a bed, in a sweet little room, + very plain but dainty. It was panelled with polished pitchpine, and roses + peeped in at the open window. Everything about the cottage bore the + impress of native good taste. I knew it was Jack’s home. It was just + such a room as I should have expected from Elsie. + </p> + <p> + The bed on which they placed me was neat and soft. I lay there dozing with + pain. Elsie sat by my side, her own arm in a sling. By-and-by, an Irish + maid came in and undressed me carefully under Elsie’s direction. + Then Elsie said to me, half shrinking: + </p> + <p> + “Now you must see the doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Not Dr. Ivor!” I cried, waking up to a full sense of this new + threatened horror. “Whatever I do, dear, I WON’T see Dr. Ivor!” + </p> + <p> + Jack had come in while she spoke, and was standing by the bed, I saw now. + The servant had gone out. He lifted my arm, and held my wrist in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a doctor myself, Miss Callingham,” he said softly, + with that quiet, reassuring voice of his. “Don’t be alarmed at + that; nobody but myself and Elsie need come near you in any way.” + </p> + <p> + I smiled at his words, well pleased. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m so glad you’re a doctor!” I cried, much + relieved at the news; “for I’m not the least little bit in the + world afraid of YOU. I don’t mind your attending me. I like to have + you with me.” For I had always a great fancy for doctors, somehow. + </p> + <p> + “That’s well,” he said, smiling at me such a sweet + sympathetic smile as he felt my pulse with his finger. “Confidence + is the first great requisite in a patient: it’s half the battle. You’re + not seriously hurt, I hope, but you’re very much shaken. Whether you + like it or not, you’ll have to stop here now for some days at least, + till you’re thoroughly recovered.” + </p> + <p> + I’m ashamed to write it down; but I was really pleased to hear it. + Nothing would have induced me to go voluntarily to their house with the + intention of stopping there—for they were friends of Dr. Ivor’s. + But when you’re carried on a stretcher to the nearest convenient + house, you’re not responsible for your own actions. And they were + both so nice and kind, it was a pleasure to be near them. So I was almost + thankful for that horrid accident, which had cut the Gordian knot of my + perplexity as to a house to lodge in. + </p> + <p> + It was a fortnight before I was well enough to get out of bed and lie + comfortably on the sofa. All that time Jack and Elsie tended me with + unsparing devotion. Elsie had a little bed made up in my room; and Jack + came to see me two or three times a day, and sat for whole hours with me. + It was so nice he was a doctor! A doctor, you know, isn’t a man—in + some ways. And it soothed me so to have him sitting there with Elsie by my + bedside. + </p> + <p> + They were “Jack” and “Elsie” to me, to their + faces, before three days were out; and I was plain “Una” to + them: it sounded so sweet and sisterly. Elsie slipped it out the second + morning as naturally as could be. + </p> + <p> + “Una’d like a cup of tea, Jack;” then as red as fire all + at once, she corrected herself, and added, “I mean, Miss Callingham.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do call me Una!” I cried; “it’s so much nicer + and more natural.... But how did you come to know my name was Una at all?” + For she slipped it out as glibly as if she’d always called me so. + </p> + <p> + “Why, everybody knows that.” Elsie answered, amused. “The + whole world speaks of you always as Una Callingham. You forget you’re + a celebrity. Doctors have read memoirs about you at Medical Congresses. + You’ve been discussed in every paper in Europe and America.” + </p> + <p> + I paused and sighed. This was very humiliating. It was unpleasant to rank + in the public mind somewhere between Constance Kent and Laura Bridgman. + But I had to put up with it. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” I said, with a deep breath, “if those I don’t + care for call me so behind my back, let me at least have the pleasure of + hearing myself called so by those I love, like you, Elsie.” + </p> + <p> + She leant over me and kissed my forehead with a burst of genuine delight. + </p> + <p> + “Then you love me, Una!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “How can I help it?” I answered. “I love you dearly + already.” And I might have added with truth, “And your brother + also.” + </p> + <p> + For Jack was really, without any exception, the most lovable man I ever + met in my life—at once so strong and manly, and yet so womanly and + so gentle. Every day I stopped there, I liked him better and better. I was + glad when he came into my room, and sorry when he went away again to work + on the farm: for he worked very hard; his hand was all horny with common + agricultural labour. It was sad to think of such a man having to do such + work. And yet he was so clever, and such a capital doctor. I wondered he + hadn’t done well and stayed in England. But Elsie told me he’d + had great disappointments, and failed in his profession through no fault + of his own. I could never understand that: he had such a delightful + manner. Though, perhaps I was prejudiced; for, in point of fact, I began + to feel I was really in love with Jack Cheriton. + </p> + <p> + And Jack was in love with me too. This was a curious result of my voyage + to Canada in search of Dr. Ivor! Instead of hunting up the criminal, I had + stopped to fall in love with one of his friends and neighbours. And I + found it so delicious: I won’t pretend to deny it. I was absolutely + happy when Jack sat by my bedside and held my hand in his. I didn’t + know what it would lead to, or whether it would ever lead to anything at + all; but I was happy meanwhile just to love and be loved by him. I think + when you’re really in love, that’s quite enough. Jack never + proposed to me: he never asked me to marry him. He just sat by my bedside + and held my hand; and once, when Elsie went out to fetch my beef-tea, he + stooped hastily down and kissed, me, oh, so tenderly! I don’t know + why, but I wasn’t the least surprised. It seemed to me quite natural + that Jack should kiss me. + </p> + <p> + So I went idly on for a fortnight, in a sort of lazy lotus-land, never + thinking of the future, but as happy and as much at home as if I’d + lived all my life with Jack and Elsie. I hated even to think I would soon + be well; for then I’d have to go and look out for Courtenay Ivor. + </p> + <p> + At last one afternoon I was sufficiently strong to be lifted out of bed, + and dressed in a morning robe, and laid out on the sofa in the little + drawing-room. It looked out upon the verandah, which was high above the + ground; and Jack came in and sat with me, alone without Elsie. My heart + throbbed high at that: I liked to be alone for half-an-hour with Jack. + Perhaps... But who knows? Well, at any rate, even if he didn’t, it + was nice to have the chance of a good long, quiet chat with him. I loved + Elsie dearly; but at a moment like this, why, I liked to have Jack all to + myself without even Elsie. + </p> + <p> + So I was pleased when Jack told me Elsie was going into Palmyra with the + buggy to get the English letters. Then she’d be gone a good long + time! Oh, how lovely! How beautiful! + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything you’d like from the town?” he asked, + as Elsie drove past the window. “Anything Elsie could get for you? + If so, please say so.” + </p> + <p> + I hesitated a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think,” I asked at last, for I didn’t want to be + troublesome, “she could get me a lemon?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly,” Jack answered; “there she goes in the + buggy! Here, wait a moment, Una! I’ll run after her to the gate this + minute and tell her.” + </p> + <p> + He sprang lightly on to the parapet of the verandah. Then, with one hand + held behind him to poise himself, palm open backward, he leapt with a + bound to the road, and darted after her hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + My heart stood still within me. That action revealed him. The back, the + open hand, the gesture, the bend—I would have known them anywhere. + With a horrible revulsion I recognised the truth. This was my father’s + murderer! This was Courtenay Ivor! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. — MURDER WILL OUT + </h2> + <p> + He was gone but for three minutes. Meanwhile, I buried my face in my + burning hands, and cried to myself in unspeakable misery. + </p> + <p> + For, horrible as it sounds to say so, I knew perfectly well now that Jack + was Dr. Ivor: yet, in spite of that knowledge, I loved him still. He was + my father’s murderer; and I couldn’t help loving him! + </p> + <p> + It was that that filled up the cup of my misery to overflowing. I loved + the man well: and I must turn to denounce him. + </p> + <p> + He came back, flushed and hot, expecting thanks for his pains. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she’ll get you the lemon, Una,” he said, panting. + “I overtook her by the big tulip-tree.” + </p> + <p> + I gazed at him fixedly, taking my hands from my face, with the tears still + wet on my burning cheek. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve deceived me!” I cried sternly. “Jack, you’ve + given me a false name. I know who you are, now. You’re no Jack at + all. You’re Courtenay Ivor!” + </p> + <p> + He drew back, quite amazed. Yet he didn’t seem thunderstruck. Not + fear but surprise was the leading note on his features. + </p> + <p> + “So you’ve found that out at last, Una!” he exclaimed, + staring hard at me. “Then you remember me after all, darling! You + know who I am. You haven’t quite forgotten me. And you recall what + has gone, do you?” + </p> + <p> + I rose from the sofa, ill as I was, in my horror. + </p> + <p> + “You dare to speak to me like that, sir!” I cried. “You, + whom I’ve tracked out to your hiding-place and discovered! You, whom + I’ve come across the ocean to hunt down! You, whom I mean to give up + this very day to Justice! Let me go from your house at once! How dare you + ever bring me here? How dare you stand unabashed before the daughter of + the man you so cruelly murdered?” + </p> + <p> + He drew back like one stung. + </p> + <p> + “The daughter of the man I murdered!” he faltered out slowly, + as in a turmoil of astonishment. “The man <i>I</i> murdered! Oh, + Una, is it possible you’ve forgotten so much, and yet remember me + myself? I can’t believe it, darling. Sit down, my child, and think. + Surely, surely the rest will come back to you gradually.” + </p> + <p> + His calmness unnerved me. What could he mean by these words? No actor on + earth could dissemble like this. His whole manner was utterly unlike the + manner of a man just detected in a terrible crime. He seemed rather to + reproach me, indeed, than to crouch; to be shocked and indignant. + </p> + <p> + “Explain yourself,” I said coldly, in a very chilly voice. + “Courtenay Ivor, I give you three minutes to explain. At the end of + that time, if you can’t exonerate yourself, I walk out of this house + to give you up, as I ought, to the arm of Justice!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me, all pity, yet inexpressibly reproachful. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Una,” he cried, clasping his hands—those small + white hands of his—Aunt Emma’s hands—the murderer’s + hands—how had I never before noticed them?—“and I, who + have suffered so much for you! I, who have wrecked my whole life for you, + ungrudgingly, willingly! I, who have sacrificed even Elsie’s + happiness and Elsie’s future for you! This is too, too hard! Una, + Una, spare me!” + </p> + <p> + A strange trembling seized me. It was in my heart to rush forward and + clasp him to my breast. Murderer or no murderer, his look, his voice, cut + me sharply to the heart. Words trembled on the tip of my tongue: “Oh, + Jack, I love you!” But with a violent effort, I repressed them + sternly. This horrible revulsion seemed to tear me in two. I loved him so + much. Though till the moment of the discovery, I never quite realised how + deeply I loved him. + </p> + <p> + “Courtenay Ivor,” I said slowly, steeling myself once more for + a hard effort, “I knew who you were at once when I saw you poise + yourself on the parapet. Once before in my life I saw you like that, and + the picture it produced has burned itself into the very fibre and marrow + of my being. As long as I live, I can never get rid of it. It was when you + leapt from the window at The Grange, at Woodbury, after murdering my + father!” + </p> + <p> + He started once more. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” he said solemnly, in a very clear voice, “there’s + some terrible error somewhere. You’re utterly mistaken about what + took place that night. But oh, great heavens! how am I ever to explain the + misconception to YOU? If you still think thus, it would be cruel to + undeceive you. I daren’t tell you the whole truth. It would kill + you! It would kill you!” + </p> + <p> + I drew myself up like a pillar of ice. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” I said, in a hard voice; for I saw he had something + to say. “Don’t mind for my heart. Tell me the truth. I can + stand it.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated for a minute or two. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t!” he cried huskily. “Dear Una, don’t + ask me! Won’t you trust me, without? Won’t you believe me when + I tell you, I never did it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I can’t,” I answered with sullen resolution, though + my eyes belied my words. “I can’t disbelieve the evidence of + my own senses. I SAW you escape that night. I see you still. I’ve + seen you for years. I KNOW it was you, and you only, who did it!” + </p> + <p> + He flung himself down in a chair, and let his arms drop listlessly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! what can I ever do to disillusion you?” he cried in + despair. “Oh! what can I ever do? This is too, too terrible!” + </p> + <p> + I moved towards the door. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going,” I said, with a gulp. “You’ve + deceived me, Jack. You’ve lied to me. You have given me feigned + names. You have decoyed me to your house under false pretences. And I + recognise you now. I know you in all your baseness. You’re my father’s + murderer! Don’t hope to escape by playing on my feelings. I’d + deserve to be murdered myself, if I could act like that! I’m on my + way to the police-office, to give you in custody on the charge of + murdering Vivian Callingham at Woodbury!” + </p> + <p> + He jumped up again, all anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you mustn’t walk!” he cried, laying his hand + upon my arm. “Give me up, if you like; but wait till the buggy comes + back, and Elsie’ll drive you round with me. You’re not fit to + go a step as you are at present... Oh! what shall I ever do, though. You’re + so weak and ill. Elsie’ll never allow it.” + </p> + <p> + “Elsie’ll never allow WHAT?” I asked; though I felt it + was rather more grotesque than undignified and inconsistent thus to parley + and make terms with my father’s murderer. Though, to be sure, it was + Jack, and I couldn’t bear to refuse him. + </p> + <p> + He kept his hand on my arm with an air of authority. + </p> + <p> + “Una, my child,” he said, thrusting me back—and even at + that moment of supreme horror, a thrill ran all through my body at his + touch and his words—“you MUSTN’T go out of this house as + you are this minute. I refuse to allow it. I’m your doctor, and I + forbid it. You’re under my charge, and I won’t let you stir. + If I did, I’d be responsible.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed me gently into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “I gave you but one false name,” he said slowly—“the + name of Cheriton. To be sure I, was never christened John, but I’m + Jack to my intimates. It was my nickname from a baby. Jack’s what I’ve + always been called at home—Jack’s what, in the dear old days + at Torquay, you always called me. But I saw if I let you know who I was at + once, there’d be no chance of recalling the past, and so saving you + from yourself. To save you, I consented to that one mild deception. It + succeeded in bringing you here, and in keeping you here till Elsie and I + were once more what we’d always been to you. I meant to tell you all + in the end, when the right time came. Now, you’ve forced my hand, + and I don’t know how I can any longer refrain from telling you.” + </p> + <p> + “Telling me WHAT?” I said icily. “What do you mean by + your words? Why all these dark hints? If you’ve anything to say, why + not say it like a man?” + </p> + <p> + For I loved him so much that in my heart of hearts, I half hoped there + might still be some excuse, some explanation. + </p> + <p> + He looked at me solemnly. Then he leant back in his chair and drew his + hand across his brow. I could see now why I hadn’t recognised that + delicate hand before: white as it was by nature, hard work on the farm had + long bronzed and distorted it. But I saw also, for the first time, that + the palm was scarred with cuts and rents—exactly like Minnie Moore’s, + exactly like Aunt Emma’s. + </p> + <p> + “Una,” he began slowly, in a very puzzled tone, “if I + could, I’d give myself up and be tried, and be found guilty and + executed for your sake, sooner than cause you any further distress, or + expose you to the shock of any more disclosures. But I can’t do + that, on Elsie’s account. Even if I decided to put Elsie to that + shame and disgrace—which would hardly be just, which would hardly be + manly of me—Elsie knows all, and Elsie’d never consent to it. + She’d never let her brother be hanged for a crime of which (as she + knows) he’s entirely innocent. And she’d tell out all in full + court—every fact, every detail—which would be worse for you + ten thousand times in the end than learning it here quietly.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me all,” I said, growing stony, yet trembling from head + to foot. “Oh, Jack,”—I seized his hand,—“I + don’t know what you mean! But I somehow trust you. I want to know + all. I can bear anything—anything—better than this suspense. + You MUST tell me! You MUST explain to me!” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” he said slowly, looking hard into my eyes, and + feeling my pulse half unconsciously with his finger as he spoke. “Una + darling, you must make up your mind now for a terrible shock. I won’t + tell you in words, for you’d never believe it. I’ll SHOW you + who it was that fired the shot at Mr. Callingham.” + </p> + <p> + He moved over to the other side of the room, and unlocking drawer after + drawer, took a bundle of photographs from the inmost secret cabinet of a + desk in the corner. + </p> + <p> + “There, Una,” he said, selecting one of them and holding it up + before my eyes. “Prepare yourself, darling. That’s the person + who pulled the trigger that night in the library!” + </p> + <p> + I looked at it and fell back with a deadly shriek of horror. It was an + instantaneous photograph. It represented a scene just before the one the + Inspector gave me. And there, in its midst, I saw myself as a girl, with a + pistol in my hand. The muzzle flashed and smoked. I knew the whole truth. + It was I myself who held the pistol and fired at my father! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. — THE REAL MURDERER + </h2> + <p> + For some seconds I sat there, leaning back in my chair and gazing close at + that incredible, that accusing document. I knew it couldn’t lie: I + knew it must be the very handiwork of unerring Nature. Then slowly a + recollection began to grow up in my mind. I knew of my own memory it was + really true. I remembered it so, now, as in a glass, darkly. I remembered + having stood, with the pistol in my hand, pointing it straight at the + breast of the man with the long white beard whom they called my father. A + new mental picture rose up before me like a vision. I remembered it all as + something that once really occurred to me. + </p> + <p> + Yet I remembered it, as I had long remembered the next scene in the + series, merely as so much isolated and unrelated fact, without connection + of any sort to link it to the events that preceded or followed it. It was + <i>I</i> who shot my father! I realised that now with a horrid gulp. But + what on earth did I ever shoot him for? + </p> + <p> + And I had hunted down Jack for the crime I had committed myself! I had + threatened to give him up for my own dreadful parricide! + </p> + <p> + After a minute, I rose, and staggered feebly to the door. I saw the path + of duty clear as daylight before me. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” Jack faltered out, watching me close + with anxious eyes, lest I should stumble or faint. + </p> + <p> + And I answered aloud, in a hollow voice: + </p> + <p> + “To the police-station, of course,—to give myself into custody + for the murder of my father.” + </p> + <p> + When I thought it was Jack, though I loved him better than I loved my own + life, I would have given him up to justice as a sacred duty. Now I knew it + was myself, how could I possibly do otherwise? How could I love my own + life better than I loved dear Jack’s, who had given up everything to + save me and protect me? + </p> + <p> + With a wild bound of horror, Jack sprang upon me at once. He seized me + bodily in his arms. He carried me back into the room with irresistible + strength. I fought against him in vain. He laid me on the sofa. He bent + over me like a whirlwind and smothered me with hot kisses. + </p> + <p> + “My darling,” he cried, “my darling, then this shock + hasn’t killed you! It hasn’t stunned you like the last! You’re + still your own dear self! You’ve still strength to think and plan + exactly what one would expect from you. Oh! Una, my Una, you must wait and + hear all. When you’ve learned HOW it happened, you won’t wish + to act so rashly.” + </p> + <p> + I struggled to free myself, though his arms were hard and close like a + strong man’s around me. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go, Jack!” I cried feebly, trying to tear myself from + his grasp. “I love you better than I love my own life. If I would + have given YOU up, how much more must I give up myself, now I know it was + I who really did it!” + </p> + <p> + He held me down by main force. He pinned me to the sofa. I suppose it’s + because I’m a woman, and weak, and all that—but I liked even + then to feel how strong and how big he was, and how feeble I was myself, + like a child in his arms. And I resisted on purpose, just to feel him hold + me. Somehow, I couldn’t realize, after all, that I was indeed a + murderess. It didn’t seem possible. I couldn’t believe it was + in me. + </p> + <p> + “Jack,” I said slowly, giving way at last, and letting him + hold me down with his small strong hands and slender iron wrist, “tell + me, if you will, how I came to do it. I’ll sit here quite still, if + only you’ll tell me. Am I really a murderess?” + </p> + <p> + Jack recoiled like one shot. + </p> + <p> + “YOU a murderess, my spotless Una!” he exclaimed, all aghast. + “If anyone else on earth but you had just asked such a thing in my + presence, I’d have leapt at the fellow’s throat, and held him + down till I choked him!” + </p> + <p> + “But I did it!” I cried wildly. “I remember now, I did + it. It all comes back to me at last. I fired at him, just so. I aimed the + loaded pistol point-blank at his heart, I can hear the din in my ears. I + can see the flash at the muzzle. And then I flung down the pistol—like + this—at my feet: and darkness came on; and I forgot everything. Why, + Dr. Marten knew that much! I remember now, he told me he’d formed a + very strong impression, from the nature of the wound and the position of + the various objects on the floor of the room, who it was that did it! He + must have seen it was <i>I</i> who flung down the pistol.” + </p> + <p> + Jack gazed at me in suspense. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a very good friend of yours, then,” he murmured, + “that Dr. Marten. For he never said a word of all that at the + inquest.” + </p> + <p> + “But I must give myself up!” I cried, in a fever of penitence + for what that other woman who once was ME had done. “Oh, Jack, do + let me! It’s hateful to know I’m a murderess and to go + unpunished. It’s hateful to draw back from the fate I’d have + imposed on another. I’d like to be hanged for it. I want to be + hanged. It’s the only possible way to appease one’s + conscience.” + </p> + <p> + And yet, though I said it, I felt all the time it wasn’t really I, + but that other strange girl who once lived at The Grange and looked + exactly like me. I remember it, to be sure; but it was in my Other State: + and, so far as my moral responsibility was concerned, my Other State and I + were two different people. + </p> + <p> + For I knew in my heart I couldn’t commit a murder. + </p> + <p> + Jack rose without a word, and fetched me in some brandy. + </p> + <p> + “Drink this,” he said calmly, in his authoritative medical + tone; “drink this before you say another sentence.” + </p> + <p> + And, obedient to his order, I took it up and drank it. + </p> + <p> + Then he sat down beside me, and took my hand in his, and with very gentle + words began to reason and argue with me. + </p> + <p> + He was glad I’d struggled, he said, because that broke the first + force of the terrible shock for me. Action was always good for one in any + great crisis. It gave an outlet for the pent-up emotions, too suddenly let + loose with explosive force, and kept them from turning inward and doing + serious harm, as mine had done on that horrible night of the accident. He + called it always the accident, I noticed, and never the murder. That gave + me fresh hope. Could I really after all have fired unintentionally? But + no; when I came to look inward,—to look backward on my past state,—I + was conscious all the time of some strong and fierce resentment + smouldering deep in my heart at the exact moment of firing. However it + might have happened, I was angry with the man with the long white beard: I + fired at him hastily, it is true, but with malice prepense and deliberate + intent to wound and hurt him. + </p> + <p> + Jack went on, however, undeterred, in a low and quiet voice, soothing my + hand with his as he spoke, and very kind and gentle. My spirit rebelled at + the thought that I could ever for one moment have imagined him a murderer. + I said so in one wild burst. Jack held my hand, and still reasoned with + me. I like a man’s reasoning; it’s so calm and impartial. It + seems to overcome one by its mere display of strength. If I’d + changed my mind once, Jack said, I might change it again, when further + evidence on the point was again forthcoming. I mustn’t give myself + up to the police till I understood much more. If I did, I would commit a + very grave mistake. There were reasons that had led to the firing of the + shot. Very grave reasons too. Couldn’t I restore and reconstruct + them, now I knew the last stage of the terrible history? If possible, he’d + rather I should arrive at them by myself than that he should tell me. + </p> + <p> + I cast my mind back all in vain. + </p> + <p> + “No, Jack,” I said trustfully. “I can’t remember + anything one bit like that. I can remember forward, sometimes, but never + backwards. I can remember now how I flung down the pistol, and how the + servants burst in. But not a word, not an item, of what went before. That’s + all a pure blank to me.” + </p> + <p> + And then I went on to tell him in very brief outline how the first thing I + could recollect in all my life was the Australian scene with the big + blue-gum-trees; and how that had been recalled to me by the picture at + Jane’s; and how one scene in that way had gradually suggested + another; and how I could often think ahead from a given fact but never go + back behind it and discover what led up to it. + </p> + <p> + Jack drew his hand over his chin and reflected silently. + </p> + <p> + “That’s odd,” he said, after a pause. “Yet very + comprehensible. I might almost have thought of that before: might have + arrived at it on general principles. Psychologically and physiologically + it’s exactly what one would have expected from the nature of memory. + And yet it never occurred to me. Set up the train of thought in the order + in which it originally presented itself, and the links may readily restore + themselves in successive series. Try to trace it backward in the inverse + order, and the process is very much more difficult and involved.—Well, + we’ll try things just so with you, Una. We’ll begin by + reconstructing your first life as far as we can from the very outset, with + the aid of these stray hints of yours; and then we’ll see whether we + can get you to remember all your past up to the day of the accident more + easily.” + </p> + <p> + I gazed up at him with gratitude. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jack,” I said, trembling, “in spite of this shock, + I believe I can do it now. I believe I can remember. The scales are + falling from my eyes. I’m becoming myself again. What you’ve + said and what you’ve shown me seems to have broken down a veil. I + feel as if I could reconstruct all now, when once the key’s + suggested to me.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled at me encouragingly. Oh, how could I ever have doubted him? + </p> + <p> + “That’s right, darling,” he answered. “I should + have expected as much, indeed. For now for the very first time since the + accident you’ve got really at the other side of the great blank in + your memory.” + </p> + <p> + I felt so happy, though I knew I was a murderess. I didn’t mind now + whether I was hanged or not. To love Jack and be loved by him was quite + enough for me. When he called me “darling,” I was in the + seventh heavens. It sounded so familiar. I knew he must have called me so, + often and often before, in the dim dead past that was just beginning to + recur to me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. — THE STRANGER FROM THE SEA + </h2> + <p> + I held his hand tight. It was so pleasant to know I could love him now + with a clear conscience, even if I had to give myself up to the police + to-morrow. And indeed, being a woman, I didn’t really much care + whether they took me or not, if only I could love Jack, and know Jack + loved me. + </p> + <p> + “You must tell me everything—this minute—Jack,” I + said, clinging to him like a child. “I can’t bear this + suspense. Begin telling me at once. You’ll do me more harm than good + if you keep me waiting any longer.” + </p> + <p> + Jack took instinctively a medical view of the situation. + </p> + <p> + “So I think, my child,” he said, looking lovingly at me. + “Your nerves are on the rack, and will be the better for + unstringing. Oh, Una, it’s such a comfort that you know at last who + I am! It’s such a comfort that I’m able to talk to you to-day + just as we two used to talk four years ago in Devonshire!” + </p> + <p> + “Did I love you then, Jack?” I whispered, nestling still + closer to him, in spite of my horror. Or rather, my very horror made me + feel more acutely than ever the need for protection. I was no longer alone + in the world. I had a man to support me. + </p> + <p> + “You told me so, darling,” he answered, smoothing my hair with + his hand. “Have you forgotten all about it? Doesn’t even that + come back? Can’t you remember it now, when I’ve told you who I + am and how it all happened?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + “All cloudy still,” I replied, vaguely. “Some dim sense + of familiarity, perhaps,—as when people say they have a feeling of + having lived all this over somewhere else before,—but nothing more + certain, nothing more definite.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I must begin at the beginning,” Jack answered, bracing + himself for his hard task, “and reconstruct your whole life for you, + as far as I know it, from your very childhood. I’m particularly + anxious you should not merely be TOLD what took place, but should remember + the past. There are gaps in my own knowledge I want you to eke out. There + are places I want you to help me myself over. And besides, it’ll be + more satisfactory to yourself to remember than to be told it.” + </p> + <p> + I leaned back, almost exhausted. Incredible as it may seem to you, in + spite of that awful photograph, I couldn’t really believe even so I + had killed my father. And yet I knew very well now that Jack, at least, + hadn’t done it. That was almost enough. But not quite. My head swam + round in terror. I waited and longed for Jack to explain the whole thing + to me. + </p> + <p> + “You remember,” he said, watching me close, “that when + you lived as a very little girl in Australia you had a papa who seems + different to you still from the papa in your later childish memories?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember it very well,” I replied. “It came back to + me on the Sarmatian. I think of him always now as the papa in the loose + white linen coat. The more I dwell on him, the more does he come out to me + as a different man from the other one—the father...I shot at The + Grange, at Woodbury. The father that lives with me in that ineffaceable + Picture.” + </p> + <p> + “He WAS a different man,” Jack answered, with a sudden burst, + as if he knew all my story. “Una, I may as well relieve your mind + all at once on that formidable point. You shot that man”—he + pointed to the white-bearded person in the photograph,—“but it + was not parricide: it was not even murder. It was under grave + provocation...in more than self-defence...and he was NOT your father.” + </p> + <p> + “Not my father!” I cried, clasping my hands and leaning + forward in my profound suspense. “But I killed him all the same! Oh, + Jack, how terrible!” + </p> + <p> + “You must quiet yourself, my child,” he said, still soothing + me automatically. “I want your aid in this matter. You must listen + to me calmly, and bring your mind to bear on all I say to you.” + </p> + <p> + Then he began with a regular history of my early life, which came back to + me as fast as he spoke, scene by scene and year by year, in long and + familiar succession. I remembered everything, sometimes only when he + suggested it; but sometimes also, before he said the words, my memory + outran his tongue, and I put in a recollection or two with my own tongue + as they recurred to me under the stimulus of this new birth of my dead + nature. I recalled my early days in the far bush in Australia; my journey + home to England on the big steamer with mamma; the way we travelled about + for years from place to place on the Continent. I remembered how I had + been strictly enjoined, too, never to speak of baby; and how my father + used to watch my mother just as closely as he watched me, always afraid, + as it appeared to me, she should make some verbal slip or let out some + great secret in an unguarded moment. He seemed relieved, I recollected + now, when my poor mother died: he grew less strict with me then, but as + far as I could judge, though he was careful of my health, he never really + loved me. + </p> + <p> + Then Jack reminded me further of other scenes that came much later in my + forgotten life. He reminded me of my trip to Torquay, where I first met + him: and all at once the whole history of my old visits to the Moores came + back like a flood to me. The memory seemed to inundate and overwhelm my + brain. They were the happiest time of all life, those delightful visits, + when I met Jack and fell in love with him, and half confided my love to my + Cousin Minnie. Strange to say, though at Torquay itself I’d + forgotten it all, in that little Canadian house, with Jack by my side to + recall it, it rushed back like a wave upon me. I’d fallen in love + with Jack without my father’s knowledge or consent; and I knew very + well my father would never allow me to marry him. He had ideas of his own, + my father, about the sort of person I ought to marry: and I half suspected + in my heart of hearts he meant if possible always to keep me at home + single to take care of him and look after him. I didn’t know, as + yet, he had sufficient reasons of his own for desiring me to remain for + ever unmarried. + </p> + <p> + I remembered, too, that I never really loved my father. His nature was + hard, cold, reserved, unsympathetic. I only feared and obeyed him. At + times, my own strong character came out, I remembered, and I defied him to + his face, defied him openly. Then there were scenes in the house, dreadful + scenes, too hateful to dwell upon: and the servants came up to my room at + the end and comforted me. + </p> + <p> + So, step by step, Jack reminded me of everything in my own past life, up + to the very night of the murder, from which my Second State dated. I’d + come back from Torquay a week or two before, very full indeed of Jack, and + determined at all costs, sooner or later, to marry him. But though I had + kept all quiet, papa had suspected my liking on the day of the Berry + Pomeroy athletics, and had forbidden me to see Jack, or to write to him, + or to have anything further to say to him. He was determined, he told me, + whoever I married, I shouldn’t at least marry a beggarly doctor. All + that I remembered; and also how, in spite of the prohibition, I wrote + letters to Jack, but could receive none in return—lest my father + should see them. + </p> + <p> + And still, the central mystery of the murder was no nearer solution. I + held my breath in terror. Had I really any sort of justification in + killing him? + </p> + <p> + Dimly and instinctively, as Jack went on, a faint sense of resentment and + righteous indignation against the man with the white beard rose up vaguely + in my mind by slow degrees. I knew I had been angry with him, I knew I had + defied him, but how or why as yet I knew not. + </p> + <p> + Then Jack suddenly paused, and began in a different voice a new part of + his tale. It was nothing I remembered or could possibly remember, he said; + but it was necessary to the comprehension of what came after, and would + help me to recall it. About a week after I left Torquay, it seemed, Jack + was in his consulting-room at Babbicombe one day, having just returned + from a very long bicycle ride—for he was a first-rate cyclist,—when + the servant announced a new patient; and a very worn-out old man came in + to visit him. + </p> + <p> + The man had a ragged grey beard and scanty white hair; he was clad in poor + clothes, and had tramped on foot all the way from London to Babbicombe, + where Jack used to practice. But Jack saw at once under this rough + exterior he had the voice and address of a cultivated gentleman, though he + was so broken down by want and long suffering and exposure and illness + that he looked like a beggar just let loose from the workhouse. + </p> + <p> + I held my breath as Jack showed me the poor old man’s photograph. It + was a portrait taken after death—for Jack attended him to the end + through a fatal illness;—and it showed a face thin and worn, and + much lined by unspeakable hardships. But I burst out crying at once the + very moment I looked at it. For a second or two, I couldn’t say why: + I suppose it was instinct. Blood is thicker than water, they tell us; and + I have the intuition of kindred very strong in me, I believe. But at any + rate, I cried silently, with big hot tears, while I looked at that dead + face of silent suffering, as I never had cried over the photograph of the + respectable-looking man who lay dead on the floor of the library, and whom + I was always taught to consider my father. Then it came back to me, why... + I gazed at it and grew faint. I clutched Jack’s arm for support. I + knew what it meant now. The poor worn old man who lay dead on the bed with + that look of mute agony on his features—was my first papa: the papa + in the loose white linen coat: the one I remembered with childlike love + and trustfulness in my earliest babyish Australian recollections! + </p> + <p> + I couldn’t mistake the face. It was burnt into my brain now. This + was he, though much older and sadder, and more scarred and lined by age + and weather. It was my very first papa. My own papa. I cried silently + still. I couldn’t bear to look at it. Then the real truth broke upon + me once more. This, and this alone, was in very deed my one real father! + </p> + <p> + I seized the faded photograph and pressed it to my lips. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know him!” I cried wildly. “It’s my father! + My father!” + </p> + <p> + Some minutes passed before Jack could go on with his story. This rush of + emotions was too much for me for a while. I could hardly hear him or + attend to him, so deeply did it stir me. + </p> + <p> + At last I calmed down, still holding that pathetic photograph on the table + before me. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me all about him,” I murmured, sobbing. “For, + Jack, I remember now, he was so good and kind, and I loved him—I + loved him.” + </p> + <p> + Jack went on with his story, trying to soothe me and reassure me. The old + man introduced himself by very cautious degrees as a person in want, not + so much of money, though of that to be sure he had none, as of kindness + and sympathy in a very great sorrow. He was a shipwrecked mariner, in a + sense: shipwrecked on the sea of Life and on the open Pacific as well. But + once he had been a clergyman, and a man of education, position, + reputation, fortune. + </p> + <p> + Gradually as he went on Jack began to grasp at the truth of this curious + tale. The worn and battered stranger had but lately landed in London from + a sailing vessel which had brought him over from a remote Pacific islet: + not a tropical islet of the kind with whose palms and parrots we are all + so familiar, but a cold and snowy rock, away off far south, among the + frosts and icebergs, near the Antarctic continent. There for twenty long + years that unhappy man had lived by himself a solitary life. + </p> + <p> + I started at the sound. + </p> + <p> + “For twenty years!” I exclaimed. “Oh, Jack, you must be + wrong; for how could that be? I was only eighteen when all this happened. + How could my real father have been twenty years away from me, when I was + only eighteen, and I remember him so perfectly?” + </p> + <p> + Jack looked at me and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve much to learn yet, Una,” he answered. “The + story’s a long one. You were NOT eighteen but twenty-two at the + time. You’ve been deliberately misled as to your own age all along. + You developed late, and were always short for your real years, not tall + and precocious as we all of us imagined. But you were four years older + than Mr. Callingham pretended. You’re twenty-six now, not twenty-two + as you think. Wait, and in time you’ll hear all about it.” + </p> + <p> + He went on with his story. I listened, spell-bound. The unhappy man + explained to Jack how he had been wrecked on the voyage, and escaped on a + raft with one other passenger: how they had drifted far south, before + waves and current, till they were cast at last on this wretched island: + how they remained there for a month or two, picking up a precarious living + on roots and berries and eggs of sea-birds: and how at last, one day, he + had come back from hunting limpets and sea-urchins on the shore of a + lonely bay—to find, to his amazement, his companion gone, and + himself left alone on that desolate island. His fellow-castaway, he knew + then, had deceived and deserted him! + </p> + <p> + There was no room, indeed, to doubt the treachery of the wretched being + who had so basely treated him. As he looked, a ship under full sail stood + away to northward. In vain the unhappy man made wild signals from the + shore with his tattered garments. No notice was taken of them. His + companion must deliberately have suppressed the other’s existence, + and pretended to be alone by himself on the island. + </p> + <p> + “And his name?” Jack asked of the poor old man, horrified. + </p> + <p> + The stranger answered without a moment’s pause: + </p> + <p> + “His name, if you want it—was Vivian Callingham.” + </p> + <p> + “And yours?” Jack continued, as soon as he could recover from + his first shock of horror. + </p> + <p> + “And mine,” the poor castaway replied, “is Richard + Wharton.” + </p> + <p> + As Jack told me those words, another strange thrill ran through me. + </p> + <p> + “Richard Wharton was the name of mamma’s first husband. Then I’m + not a Callingham at all!” I cried, unable to take it all in at first + in its full complexity. “I’m really a Wharton!” + </p> + <p> + Jack nodded his head in assent. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’re really a Wharton,” he said. “You’re + the baby that died, as we all were told. Your true Christian name’s + Mary. But, Una, you were always Una to all of us in England; and though + the real Una Callingham died when you were a little girl of three or four + years old, you’ll be Una always now to Elsie and me. We can’t + think of you as other than we’ve always called you.” + </p> + <p> + Then he went on to explain to me how the stranger had landed in London, + alone and friendless, twenty years later, from a passing Australian + merchant vessel which had picked him up on the island. All those years he + had waited, and fed himself on eggs of penguins. He landed by himself, the + crew having given him a suit of old clothes, and subscribed to find him in + immediate necessaries. He began to inquire cautiously in London about his + wife and family. At first, he could learn little or nothing; for nobody + remembered him, and he feared to ask too openly, a sort of Enoch Arden + terror restraining him from proclaiming his personality till he knew + exactly what had happened in his long absence. But bit by bit, he found + out at last that his wife had married again, and was now long dead: and + that the man she had married was Vivian Callingham, his own treacherous + companion on the Crozet Islands. As soon as he learned that, the full + depth of the man’s guilt burst upon him like a thunderbolt. Richard + Wharton understood now why Vivian Callingham had left him alone on those + desert rocks, and sailed away in the ship without telling the captain of + his fellow-castaway’s plight. He saw the whole vile plot the man had + concocted at once, and the steps he had taken to carry it into execution. + </p> + <p> + Vivian Callingham, whom I falsely thought my father, had gone back to + Australia with pretended news of Richard Wharton’s death. He had + sought my widowed mother in her own home up country, and told her a lying + tale of his devotion to her husband in his dying moments on that remote + ocean speck in the far Southern Pacific. By this story he ingratiated + himself. He knew she was rich: he knew she was worth marrying: and to + marry her, he had left my own real father, Richard Wharton, to starve and + languish for twenty years among rocks and sea-fowl on a lonely island! + </p> + <p> + My blood ran cold at such a tale of deadly treachery. I remembered now to + have heard some small part of it before. But much of it, as Jack told it + to me, was quite new and unexpected. No wonder I had turned in horror that + night from the man I long believed to be my own father, when I learned by + what vile and cruelly treacherous means he had succeeded in imposing his + supposed relationship upon me! But still, all this brought me no nearer + the real question of questions—why did I shoot him? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. — THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF + </h2> + <p> + As Jack went on unfolding that strange tale of fraud and heartless wrong, + my interest every moment grew more and more absorbing. But I can’t + recall it now exactly as Jack told me it. I can only give you the + substance of that terrible story. + </p> + <p> + When Richard Wharton first learned of his wife’s second marriage + during his own lifetime to that wicked wretch who had ousted and + supplanted him, he believed also, on the strength of Vivian Callingham’s + pretences, that his own daughter had died in her babyhood in Australia. He + fancied, therefore, that no person of his kin remained alive at all, and + that he might proceed to denounce and punish Vivian Callingham. With that + object in view, he tramped down all the way from London to Torquay, to + make himself known to his wife’s relations, the Moores, and to their + cousin, Courtenay Ivor of Babbicombe—my Jack, as I called him. For + various reasons of his own, he called first on Jack, and proceeded to + detail to him this terrible family story. + </p> + <p> + At first hearing, Jack could hardly believe such a tale was true—of + his Una’s father, as he still thought Vivian Callingham. But a + strange chance happened to reveal a still further complication. It came + out in this way. I had given Jack a recent photograph of myself in fancy + dress, which hung up over his mantelpiece. As the weather-worn visitor’s + eye fell on the picture, he started and grew pale. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that’s her!” he cried with a sudden gasp. “That’s + my daughter—Mary Wharton!” + </p> + <p> + Well, naturally enough Jack thought, to begin with, this was a mere + mistake on his strange visitor’s part. + </p> + <p> + “That’s her half-sister,” he said, “Una Callingham—your + wife’s child by her second marriage. She may be like her, no doubt, + as half-sisters often are. But Mary Wharton, I know, died some eighteen + years ago or so, when Una was quite a baby, I believe. I’ve heard + all about it, because, don’t you see, I’m engaged to Una.” + </p> + <p> + The poor wreck of a clergyman, however, shook his head with profound + conviction. He knew better than that. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no,” he said decisively: “that’s my child, + Mary Wharton. Even after all these years, I couldn’t possibly be + mistaken. Blood is thicker than water: I’d know her among ten + thousand. She’d be just that age now, too. I see the creature’s + vile plot. His daughter died young, and he’s palmed off my Mary as + his own child, to keep her money in his hands. But never mind the money. + Thank Heaven, she’s alive! That’s her! That’s my Mary!” + </p> + <p> + The plot seemed too diabolical and too improbable for anybody to believe. + Jack could hardly think it possible when his new friend told him. But the + stranger persisted so—it’s hard for me even to think of him as + quite really my father—that Jack at last brought out two or three + earlier photographs I’d given him some time before; and his visitor + recognised them at once, in all their stages, as his own daughter. This + roused Jack’s curiosity. He determined to hunt the matter up with + his unknown connection. And he hunted it up thenceforward with deliberate + care, till he proved every word of it. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, the poor broken-down man, worn out with his long tramp and his + terrible emotions, fell ill almost at once, in Jack’s own house, and + became rapidly so feeble that Jack dared not question him further. The + return to civilisation was more fatal than his long solitary banishment. + At the end of a week he died, leaving on Jack’s mind a profound + conviction that all he had said was true, and that I was really Richard + Wharton’s daughter, not Vivian Callingham’s. + </p> + <p> + “For a week or two I made inquiries, Una,” Jack said to me as + we sat there,—“inquiries which I won’t detail to you in + full just now, but which gradually showed me the truth of the poor soul’s + belief. What you yourself told me just now chimes in exactly with what I + discovered elsewhere, by inquiry and by letters from Australia. The baby + that died was the real Una Callingham. Shortly after its death, your + stepfather and your mother left the colony. All your real father’s + money had been bequeathed to his child: and your mother’s also was + settled on you. Mr. Callingham saw that if your mother died, and you lived + and married, he himself would be deprived of the fortune for which he had + so wickedly plotted. So he made up another plot even more extraordinary + and more diabolical still than the first. He decided to pretend it was + Mary Wharton that died, and to palm you off on the world as his own child, + Una Callingham. For if Mary Wharton died, the property at once became + absolutely your mother’s, and she could will it away to her husband + or anyone else she chose to.” + </p> + <p> + “But baby was so much younger than I!” I cried, going back on + my recollections once more. “How could he ever manage to make the + dates come right again?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true,” Jack answered; “the baby was younger than + you. But your step-father—I’ve no other name by which I can + call him—made a clever plan to set that straight. He concealed from + the people in Australia which child had been ill, and he entered her death + as Mary Wharton. Then, to cover the falsification, he left Melbourne at + once, and travelled about for some years on the Continent in + out-of-the-way places till all had been forgotten. You went forth upon the + world as Una Callingham, with your true personality as Mary Wharton all + obscured even in your own memory. Fortunately for your false father’s + plot, you were small for your age, and developed slowly: he gave out, on + the contrary, that you were big for your years and had outgrown yourself, + Australian-wise, both in wisdom and stature.” + </p> + <p> + “But my mother!” I exclaimed, appalled. “How could she + ever consent to such a wicked deception?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Callingham had your mother completely under his thumb,” + Jack answered with promptitude. “She couldn’t call her soul + her own, your poor mother—so I’ve heard: he cajoled her and + terrified her till she didn’t dare to oppose him. Poor shrinking + creature, she was afraid of her life to do anything except as he bade her. + He must have persuaded her first to acquiesce passively in this hateful + plot, and then must have terrified her afterwards into full compliance by + threats of exposure.” + </p> + <p> + “He was a very unhappy man himself,” I put in, casting back. + “His money did him no good. I can remember now how gloomy and moody + he was often, at The Grange.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true,” Jack replied. “He lived in perpetual fear + of your real father’s return, or of some other breakdown to his + complicated system of successive deceptions. He never had a happy minute + in his whole life, I believe. Blind terrors surrounded him. He was afraid + of everything, and afraid of everybody. Only his scientific work seemed + ever to give him any relief. There, he became a free man. He threw himself + into that, heart and soul, on purpose, I fancy, because it absorbed him + while he was at it, and prevented him for the time being from thinking of + his position.” + </p> + <p> + “And how did you find it all out?” I asked eagerly, anxious to + get on to the end. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s long to tell,” Jack replied. “Too + long for one sitting. I won’t trouble you with it now. Discrepancies + in facts and dates, and inquiries among servants both in England and in + Victoria, first put me upon the track. But I said nothing at the time of + my suspicions to anyone. I waited till I could appeal to the man’s + own conscience with success, as I hoped. And then, besides, I hardly knew + how to act for the best. I wanted to marry you; and therefore, as far as + was consistent with justice and honour, I wished to spare your supposed + father a complete exposure.” + </p> + <p> + “But why didn’t you tell the police?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Because I had really nothing definite in any way to go upon. + Realise the position to yourself, and you’ll see how difficult it + was for me. Mr. Callingham suspected I was paying you attentions. Clearly, + under those circumstances, it was to my obvious interest that you should + get possession of all his property. Any claims I might make for you would, + therefore, be naturally regarded with suspicion. The shipwrecked man had + told nobody but myself. I hadn’t even an affidavit, a death-bed + statement. All rested upon his word, and upon mine as retailing it. He was + dead, and there was nothing but my narrative for what he told me. The + story itself was too improbable to be believed by the police on such + dubious evidence. I didn’t even care to try. I wanted to make your + step-father confess: and I waited for that till I could compel confession.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. — MY MEMORY RETURNS + </h2> + <p> + “At last my chance came,” Jack went on. “I’d found + out almost everything; not, of course, exactly by way of legal proof, but + to my own entire satisfaction: and I determined to lay the matter + definitely at once before Mr. Callingham. So I took a holiday for a + fortnight, to go bicycling in the Midlands I told my patients; and I fixed + my head-quarters at Wrode, which, as you probably remember, is twenty + miles off from Woodbury. + </p> + <p> + “It was important for my scheme I should catch Mr. Callingham alone. + I had no idea of entrapping him. I wanted to work upon his conscience and + induce him to confess. My object was rather to move him to remorse and + restitution than to terrify or surprise him. + </p> + <p> + “So on the day of the accident—call it murder, if you will—I + rode over on my machine, unannounced, to The Grange to see him. You knew + where I was staying, you recollect—” + </p> + <p> + At the words, a burst of memory came suddenly over me. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes!” I cried. “I remember. It was at the Wilsons’, + at Wrode. I wrote over there to tell you we were going to dine alone at + six that evening, as papa had got his electric apparatus home from his + instrument-maker, and was anxious to try his experiments early. You’d + written to me privately—a boy brought the note—that you wanted + to have an hour’s talk alone with papa. I thought it was about ME, + and I was, oh, ever so nervous!” + </p> + <p> + For it all came back to me now, as clear as yesterday. + </p> + <p> + Jack looked at me hard. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you remember that, dear,” he said. “Now, + Una, do try to remember all you can as I go along with my story... Well, I + rode over alone, never telling anybody at Wrode where I was going, nor + giving your step-father any reason of any sort to expect me. I trusted + entirely to finding him busy with his new invention. When I reached The + Grange, I came up the drive unperceived, and looking in at the library + window, saw your father alone there. He was pottering over his chemicals. + That gave me the clue. I left my bicycle under the window, tilted up + against the wall, and walked in without ringing, going straight to the + library. Nobody saw me come: nobody saw me return, except one old lady on + the road, who seemed to have forgotten all about it by the time of the + inquest.” + </p> + <p> + (I nodded and gave a start. I knew that must have been Aunt Emma.) + </p> + <p> + “Except yourself, Una, no human soul on earth ever seemed to suspect + me. And that wasn’t odd; for you and your father, and perhaps Minnie + Moore, were the only people in the world who ever knew I was in love with + you or cared for you in any way.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” I said, breathless. “And you went into the + library.” + </p> + <p> + “I went into the library,” Jack continued, “where I + found your father, just returned from enjoying his cigar on the lawn. He + was alone in the room—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” I cried eagerly, putting in my share now; for I had + a part in the history. “He WASN’T alone, Jack, though you + thought him so at the time. I remember all, at last. It comes back to me + like a flash. Oh, heavens, how it comes back to me! Jack, Jack, I remember + to-day every word, every syllable of it!” + </p> + <p> + He gazed at me in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Then tell me yourself, Una!” he exclaimed. “How did you + come to be there? For I knew you were there at last; but till you fired + the pistol, I hadn’t the faintest idea you had heard or seen + anything. Tell me all about it, quick! There comes in MY mystery.” + </p> + <p> + In one wild rush of thought the whole picture rose up like a vision before + me. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Jack,” I cried, “there was a screen, a little + screen in the alcove! You remember the alcove at the west end of the room. + It was so small a screen, you’d hardly have thought it could hide + me; but it did—it did—and all, too, by accident. I’d + gone in there after dinner, not much thinking where I went, and was seated + on the floor by the little alcove window, reading a book by the twilight. + It was a book papa told me I wasn’t to read, and I took it trembling + from the shelves, and was afraid he’d scold me—for you know + how stern he was. And I never was allowed to go alone into the library. + But I got interested in my book, and went on reading. So when he came in, + I went on sitting there very still, with the book hidden under my skirt, + for fear he should scold me. I thought perhaps before long papa’d go + out for a second, to get some plates for his photography or something, and + then I could slip away and never be noticed. The big window towards the + garden was open, you remember, and I meant to jump out of it—as you + did afterwards. It wasn’t very high; and though the book was only + The Vicar of Wakefield, he’d forbidden me to read it, and I was + dreadfully afraid of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you were there all the time?” Jack cried + interrogatively. “And you heard our conversation—our whole + conversation?” + </p> + <p> + “I was there all the time, Jack,” I cried, in a fever of + exaltation: “and I heard every word of it! It comes back to me now + with a vividness like yesterday. I see the room before my eyes. I remember + every syllable: I could repeat every sentence of it.” + </p> + <p> + Jack drew a deep sigh of intense relief. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for that!” he exclaimed, with profound gratitude. + “Then I’m saved, and you’re saved. We can both + understand one another in that case. We know how it all happened!” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” I answered. “I know all now. As I sat there + and cowered, I heard a knock at the door, and before papa could answer, + you entered hastily. Papa looked round, I could hear, and saw who it was + in a second. + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, it’s you!’ he said, coldly. ‘It’s + you, Dr. Ivor. And pray, sir, what do you want here this evening?’” + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” Jack cried, intensely relieved, I could feel. “Let + me see how much more you can remember, Una.” + </p> + <p> + “So you shut the door softly and said: + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes, it’s I, Mr. Callingham,’” I continued + all aglow, and looking into his eyes for confirmation. “‘And I’ve + come to tell you a fact that may surprise you. Prepare for strange news. + Richard Wharton has returned to England!’ + </p> + <p> + “I knew Richard Wharton was mamma’s first husband, who was + dead before I was born, as I’d always been told: and I sat there + aghast at the news: it was so sudden, so crushing. I’d heard he’d + been wrecked, and I thought he’d come to life again; but as yet I + didn’t suspect what was all the real meaning of it. + </p> + <p> + “But papa drew back, I could hear, in a perfect frenzy of rage, + astonishment, and terror. + </p> + <p> + “‘Richard Wharton!’ he hissed out between his teeth, + springing away like one stung. ‘Richard Wharton come back! You liar! + You sneak! He’s dead this twenty years! You’re trying to + frighten me.’ + </p> + <p> + “I never meant to overhear your conversation. But at that, it was so + strange, I drew back and cowered even closer. I was afraid of papa’s + voice. I was afraid of his rage. He spoke just like a man who was ready to + murder you. + </p> + <p> + “Then you began to talk with papa about strange things that + astonished me—strange things that I only half understood just then, + but that by the light of what you’ve told me to-day I quite + understand now—the history of my real father. + </p> + <p> + “‘I’m no liar,’ you answered. ‘Richard + Wharton has come back. And by the aid of what he’s disclosed, I know + the whole truth. The girl you call your daughter, and whose money you’ve + stolen, is not yours at all. She’s Richard Wharton’s daughter + Mary!’ + </p> + <p> + “Papa staggered back a pace or two, and came quite close to the + screen. I cowered behind it in alarm. I could see he was terrified. For a + minute or two you talked with him, and urged him to confess. Bit by bit, + as you went on, he recovered his nerve, and began to bluster. He didn’t + deny what you said: he saw it was no use: he just sneered and + prevaricated. + </p> + <p> + “As I listened to his words, I saw he admitted it all. A great + horror came over me. Then my life was one long lie! He was never my + father. He had concocted a vile plot. He had held me in this slavery so + many years to suit his own purposes. He had crushed my mother to death, + and robbed me of my birthright. Even before that night, I never loved him. + I thought it very wicked of me, but I never could love him. As he spoke to + you and grew cynical, I began to loathe and despise him. I can’t + tell you how great a comfort it was to me to know—to hear from his + own lips I was not that man’s daughter. + </p> + <p> + “At last, after many recriminations, he looked across at you, and + said, half laughing, for he was quite himself again by that time: + </p> + <p> + “‘This is all very fine, Courtenay Ivor—all very fine in + its way; but how are you going to prove it? that’s the real + question. Do you think any jury in England will believe, on your + unsupported oath, such a cock-and-bull story? Do you think, even if + Richard Wharton’s come back, and you’ve got him on your side, + I can’t cross-examine all the life out of his body?’ + </p> + <p> + “At that you said gravely—wanting to touch his conscience, I + suppose:— + </p> + <p> + “‘Richard Wharton’s come back, but you can’t + cross-examine him. For Richard Wharton died some six or eight weeks since + at my cottage at Babbicombe, after revealing to me all this vile plot + against himself and his daughter.’ + </p> + <p> + “Then papa drew back with a loud laugh—a hateful laugh like a + demon’s. I can’t help calling him papa still, though it pains + me even to think of him. That loud laugh rings still in my ears to this + day. It was horrible, diabolical, like a wild beast’s in triumph. + </p> + <p> + “‘You fool!’ he said, with a sneer. ‘And you come + here to tell me that! You infernal idiot! You come here to put yourself in + my power like this! Courtenay Ivor, I always knew you were an ass, but I + didn’t ever know you were quite such a born idiot of a fellow as + that. Hold back there, you image!’ With a rapid dart, before you + could see what he was doing, he passed a wire round your body and thrust + two knobs into your hands. ‘You’re in my power now!’ he + exclaimed. ‘You can’t move or stir!’ + </p> + <p> + “I saw at once what he’d done. He’d pinned you to the + spot with the handles of his powerful electric apparatus. It was so strong + that it would hold one riveted to the spot in pain. You couldn’t let + go. You could hardly even speak or cry aloud for help. He had pinned you + down irresistibly. I thought he meant to murder you. + </p> + <p> + “Yet I was too terrified, even so, to scream aloud for the servants. + I only crouched there, rooted, and wondered what next would happen. + </p> + <p> + “He went across to the door and turned the key in it. Then he opened + the cabinet and took out some things there. It was growing quite dusk, and + I could hardly see them. He returned with them where you stood, struggling + in vain to set yourself free. His voice was as hard as adamant now. He + spoke slowly and distinctly, in a voice like a fiend’s. Oh, Jack, no + wonder that scene took away my reason!” + </p> + <p> + “And you can remember what he said next, Una?” Jack asked, + following me eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I can remember what he said next,” I went on. “He + stood over you threateningly. I could see then the thing he held in his + right hand was a loaded revolver. In his left was a bottle, a small + medical phial. + </p> + <p> + “‘If you stir, I’ll shoot you,’ he said; ‘I’ll + shoot you like a dog! You fool, you’ve sealed your own fate! What an + idiot to let me know Richard Wharton’s dead! Now, hear your fate! + Nobody saw you come into this house to-night. Nobody shall see you leave. + Look here, sir, at this bottle. It’s chloroform: do you understand? + Chloroform—chloroform—chloroform! I shall hold it to your nose—so. + I shall stifle you quietly—no blood, no fuss, no nasty mess of any + sort. And when I’m done,—do you see these flasks?—I can + reduce your damned carcase to a pound of ashes with chemicals in + half-an-hour! You’ve found out too much. But you’ve mistaken + your man! Courtenay Ivor, say your prayers and commend your soul to the + devil! You’ve driven me to bay, and I give you no quarter!’” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. — THE FATAL SHOT + </h2> + <p> + “Thank God, Una,” Jack cried, “you remember it now even + better than I do!” + </p> + <p> + “Remember it!” I answered, holding my brow with my hands to + keep the flood of thought from bursting it to fragments. “Remember + it! Why, it comes back to me like waves of fire and burns me. I remember + every word, every act, every gesture. I lifted my head slowly, Jack, and + looked over the screen at him. In the twilight, I saw him there—the + man I called my father—holding the bottle to your face, that wicked + bottle of chloroform, with his revolver in one hand, and a calm smile like + a fiend’s playing hatefully and cruelly round that grave-looking + mouth of his. I never saw any man look so ghastly in my life. I was rooted + to the spot with awe and terror. I dared hardly cry out or move. Yet I + knew this was murder. He would kill you! He would kill you! He was trying + to poison you before my very eyes. Oh, heaven, how I hated him! He was no + father of mine. He had never been my father. And he was murdering the man + I loved best in the world. For I loved you better than life, Jack! Oh, the + strain of it was terrible! I see it all now. I live it all over again. + With one wild bound I leapt forward, and, hardly knowing what I did, I + pressed the button, turned off the current from the battery, and rushed + wildly upon him. I suppose the knob I pressed not only released you, but + set the photographic machine at work automatically. But I didn’t + know it then. At any rate, I remember now, in the seconds that followed, + flash came fast after flash. There was a sudden illumination. The room was + lighter than day. It grew alternately bright as noon and then dark as + pitch again by contrast. And by the light of the flashes, I saw you, + half-dazed with the chloroform, standing helpless there. + </p> + <p> + “I rushed up and caught the man’s arm. He was never my father! + He dropped the bottle and struggled hard for possession of the pistol. + First he pointed it at you, then at me, then at you again. He meant to + shoot you. I was afraid it would go off. With a terrible effort I twisted + his wrist awry, in the mad force of passion, and wrenched the revolver + away from him. He jumped at my throat, still silent, but fierce like a + tiger at bay. I eluded him, and sprang back. Then I remember no more, + except that I stood with the pistol pointed at him. Next, came a flash, a + loud roar. And then, in a moment, the Picture. He lay dead on the floor in + his blood. And my Second State began. And from that day, for months, I was + like a little child again.” + </p> + <p> + Jack looked at me as I paused. + </p> + <p> + “And then?” he went on in a very low voice, half prompting me. + </p> + <p> + “And then all I can remember,” I said, “is how you got + out of the window. But I didn’t know when I saw you, it was you or + anyone else. That was my Second State then. The shot seemed to end all. + What comes next is quite different. It belongs to the new world. There, my + life stopped dead short and began all over again.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moments silence. Jack was the first to break it. + </p> + <p> + “And now will you give yourself up to the police, Una?” he + asked me quietly. + </p> + <p> + The question brought me back to the present again with a bound. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! what ought I to do?” I cried, wringing my hands. “I + don’t quite know all yet. Jack, why did you run away that last + moment and leave me?” + </p> + <p> + Jack took my hand very seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Una, my child,” he said, fixing his eyes on mine, “I + hardly know whether I can ever make you understand all that. I must ask + you at first at least just simply to believe me. I must ask you to trust + me and to accept my account. When you rushed upon me as I stood there, all + entangled in that hateful apparatus, and unable to move, I didn’t + know where you had been; I didn’t know how you’d come there. + But I felt sure you must have heard at least your false father’s + last words—that he’d stifle me with the chloroform and burn my + body up afterwards to ashes with his chemicals. You seized the pistol + before I could quite recover from the effects of the fumes. He lay dead at + my feet before I realised what was happening. + </p> + <p> + “Then, in a moment, as I looked at you, I took it all in, like a + flash of lightning. I saw how impossible it would be ever to convince + anybody else of the truth of our story. I saw if we both told the truth, + no one would ever believe us. There was no time then to reflect, no time + to hesitate. I had to make up my mind at once to a plan of action, and to + carry it out without a second’s delay. In one burst of inspiration, + I saw that to stop would be to seal both our fates. I didn’t mind so + much for myself; that was nothing, nothing: but for your sake I felt I + must dare and risk everything. Then I turned round and looked at you. I + saw at one glance the horror of the moment had rendered you speechless and + almost senseless. The right plan came to me at once as if by magic. + ‘Una,’ I cried, ‘stand back! Wait till the servants + come!’ For I knew the report of the revolver would soon bring them + up to the library. Then I waited myself. As they reached the door, and + forced it open, I jumped up to the window. Just outside, my bicycle stood + propped against the wall. I let them purposely catch just a glimpse of my + back—an unfamiliar figure. They saw the pistol on the floor,—Mr. + Callingham dead—you, startled and horrified—a man unknown, + escaping in hot haste from the window. I risked my own life, so as to save + your name and honour. I let them see me escape, so as to exonerate you + from suspicion. If they hanged me, what matter? Then I leapt down in a + hurry, jumped lightly on my machine, and rode off like the wind down the + avenue to the high-road. For a second or two they waited to look at you + and your father. That second or two saved us. By the time they’d + come out to look, I was away down the grounds, past the turn of the + avenue, and well on for the high-road. They’d seen a glimpse of the + murderer, escaping by the window. They would never suspect YOU. You were + saved, and I was happy.” + </p> + <p> + “And for the same reason even now,” I said, “you wouldn’t + tell the police?” + </p> + <p> + “Let sleeping dogs lie,” Jack answered, in the same words as + Dr. Marten. “Why rake up this whole matter? It’s finished for + ever now, and nobody but yourself is ever likely to reopen it. If we both + told our tale, we might run a great risk of being seriously + misinterpreted. You know it’s true; so do I: but who else would + believe us? No man’s bound to criminate himself. You shot him to + save my life, at the very moment when you first learned all his cruelty + and his vileness. The rest of the world could never be made to understand + all that. They’d say to the end, as it looks on the surface, ‘She + shot her father to save her lover.’” + </p> + <p> + “You’re right,” I said slowly. “I shall let this + thing rest. But the photographs, Jack—the apparatus—the affair + of the inquest?” + </p> + <p> + “That was all very simple,” Jack answered. “For a day or + two, of course, I was in a frantic state of mind for fear you should be + suspected, or the revolver should betray you. But though I saw the + electric sparks, of course, I knew nothing about the photographs. I wasn’t + even aware that the apparatus took negatives automatically. And I was so + full of the terrible reports in the newspapers about your sudden loss of + health, that I could think of nothing else—least of all my own + safety. As good luck would have it, however, the clergyman at Wrode, who + knew the Wilsons, happened to speak to me of the murder—all England + called it the murder and talked of nothing else for at least a fortnight,—and + in the course of conversation he mentioned this apparatus of Mr. + Callingham’s construction. ‘What a pity,’ he said, + ‘there didn’t happen to be one of them in the library at the + time! If it was focussed towards the persons, and had been set on by the + victim, it would have photographed the whole scene the murder, the + murderer.’ + </p> + <p> + “That hint revealed much to me. As he spoke, I remembered suddenly + about those mysterious flashes when you burst all at once on my sight from + behind the screen. Till that moment, I thought of them only as some result + of your too suddenly turning off the electric current. But then, it came + home to me in a second that Mr. Callingham must have set out his apparatus + all ready for experimenting—that the electric apparatus was there to + put it in working order. The button you turned must not only have stopped + the current that nailed me writhing to the spot: it must also have set + working the automatic photographic camera! + </p> + <p> + “That thought, as you may imagine, filled me with speechless alarm: + for I remembered then that one of the flashes broke upon us at the exact + moment when you fired the pistol. Such a possibility was horrible to + contemplate. The photographs by themselves could give no clue to our + conversation or to the events that compelled you, almost against your own + will, to fire that fatal shot. If they were found by the police, all would + be up with both of us. They might hang ME if they liked: except for Elsie’s + sake, I didn’t mind much about that: but for your safety, come what + might, I felt I must manage to get hold of them or to destroy them. + </p> + <p> + “Were the negatives already in the hands of the police? That was now + the great question. I read the reports diligently, with all their + descriptions of the room, and noticed that while the table, the alcove, + the screen, the box, the electrical apparatus, were all carefully + mentioned, not a word was said anywhere about the possession of the + negatives. Reasoning further upon the description of the supposed murderer + as given by the servants, and placarded broadcast in every town in + England, I came to the conclusion that the police couldn’t yet have + discovered the existence of these negatives: for some of them must surely + have photographed my face, however little in focus; while the printed + descriptions mentioned only the man’s back, as the servants saw him + escaping from the window. The papers said the room was being kept closed + till the inquest, for inspection in due time by the coroner’s jury. + I made up my mind at once. When the room was opened for the jurors to view + it, I must get in there and carry them off, if they caught me in the + attempt. + </p> + <p> + “It was no use trying before the jury had seen the room. But as soon + as that was all over, I judged the strictness of the watch upon the + premises would be relaxed, and the windows would probably be opened a + little to air the place. So on the morning of the inquest, I told the + Wilsons casually I’d met you at Torquay and had therefore a sort of + interest in learning the result of the coroner’s deliberation. Then + I took my bicycle, and rode across to Woodbury. Leaning up my machine + against the garden wall, I walked carelessly in at the gate, and up the + walk to the library window, as if the place belonged to me. Oh, how my + heart beat as I looked in and wondered! The folding halves were open, and + the box stood on the table, still connected with the wires that conducted + the electrical current. I stood and hesitated in alarm. Were the negatives + still there, or had the police discovered them? If they were gone, all was + up with you. The game was lost. No jury on earth, I felt sure, would + believe my story. + </p> + <p> + “I vaulted up to the sill. Thank heaven, I was athletic. Not a soul + was about: but I heard a noise of muffled voices in the other rooms + behind. Treading cat-like across the floor, I turned the key in the lock. + A chalk mark still showed the position of the pistol on the ground exactly + as you flung it. The box was on the table, and I saw at a glance, the + wires which connected it with the battery had never been disconnected. I + was afraid of receiving a shock if I touched them with my hands, and I had + no time to waste in discovering electrical attachments. So I pulled out my + knife, and you can fancy with what trembling hands I cut that wire on + either side and released the box from its dangerous connections. I knew + only too well the force of that current. Then I took the thing under my + arm, leaped from the window once more, and ran across the shrubbery + towards the spot where I’d left my bicycle. + </p> + <p> + “On the way, the thought struck me that if I carried along the + camera, all would be up with me should I happen to be challenged. It was + the only one of the sort in existence at the time, and the wires at the + side would at once suffice to identify it and to arouse the suspicion even + of an English policeman. I paused for a moment behind a thick clump of + lilacs and tried to pull out the incriminating negatives. Oh, Una, I did + it for your sake; but there, terrified and trembling, in hiding behind the + bushes, and in danger of my life, with that still more unspeakable danger + for yours haunting me always like a nightmare, can you wonder that for the + moment I almost felt myself a murderer? The very breezes in the trees made + my heart give a jump, and then stand still within me. I got out the first + two or three plates with some trifling difficulty, for I didn’t + understand the automatic apparatus then as I understand it now: but the + fourth stuck hard for a minute; the fifth broke in two; and the sixth—well, + the sixth plate baffled me entirely by getting jammed in the clockwork, + and refusing to move, either backward or forward. + </p> + <p> + “At that moment, I either heard or fancied I heard a loud noise of + pursuit, a hue and cry behind me. Zeal for your safety had made me + preternaturally nervous. I looked about me hurriedly, thrust the negatives + I’d recovered into my breast-pocket as fast as ever I could, flung + the apparatus away from me with the sixth plate jammed hard in the groove, + and made off at the top of my speed for the wall behind me. For there, at + that critical point, it occurred to me suddenly that the sixth and last + flash of the machine had come and gone just as I stood poising myself on + the ledge of the window-sill; and I thought to myself—rightly as it + turned out—this additional evidence would only strengthen the belief + in the public mind that Mr. Callingham had been murdered by the man whom + the servants saw escaping from the window. + </p> + <p> + “The rest, my child, you know pretty well already. In a panic on + your account, I scrambled over the wall, tearing my hands as I went with + that nasty-bottle glass, reached my bicycle outside, and made off, not for + the country, but for the inn where they were holding the coroner’s + inquest. My left hand I had to hold, tied up in my handkerchief to stop + the bleeding, in the pocket of my jacket: but I thought this the best way, + all the same, to escape detection. And, indeed, instead of being, as I + feared, the only man there in bicycling dress and knickerbockers, I found + the occasion had positively attracted all the cyclists of the + neighbourhood. Each man went there to show his own innocence of fear or + suspicion. A good dozen or two of bicyclists stood gathered already in the + body of the room in the same incriminating costume. So I found safety in + numbers. Even the servants who had seen me disappear through the window, + though their eyes lighted upon me more than once, never for a moment + seemed to suspect me. And I know very well why. When I stand up, I’m + the straightest and most perpendicular man that ever walked erect. But + when I poise to jump, I bend my spine so much that I produce the + impression of being almost hump-backed. It was that attitude you + recognised in me when I jumped from the window just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Jack,” I cried clinging to him in a perfect whirlwind of + wonder, “one can hardly believe it—that was only an hour ago!” + </p> + <p> + “That was only an hour ago,” Jack answered, smiling. “But + as for you, I suppose you’ve lived half a lifetime again in it. And + now you know the whole secret of the Woodbury Mystery. And you won’t + want to give yourself up to the police any longer.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. — ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + </h2> + <p> + “But why didn’t you explain it all to me at the very first?” + I exclaimed, all tremulous. “When you met me at Quebec, I mean—why + didn’t you tell me then? Did you and Elsie come there on purpose to + meet me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we came there to meet you,” Jack answered. “But we + were afraid to make ourselves known to you all at once just at first, + because, you see, Una, I more than half suspected then, what I know now to + be the truth, that you were coming out to Canada on purpose to hunt me up, + not as your friend and future husband, but in enmity and suspicion as your + father’s murderer. And in any case we were uncertain which attitude + you might adopt towards me. But I see I must explain a little more even + now. I haven’t told you yet why I came at all to Canada.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me now,” I answered. “I must know everything + to-day. I can never rest now till I’ve heard the whole story.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Jack went on more calmly, “after the first + excitement wore off in the public mind, there came after a bit a lull of + languid interest; the papers began to forget the supposed facts of the + murder, and to dwell far more upon your own new role as a psychological + curiosity. They talked much about your strange new life and its analogies + elsewhere. I was anxious to see you, of course, to satisfy myself of your + condition; but the doctors who had charge of you refused to let you mix + for a while with anyone you had known in your First State; and I now think + wisely. It was best you should recover your general health and faculties + by slow degrees, without being puzzled and distracted by constant + upsetting recollections and suggestions of your past history. + </p> + <p> + “But for me, of course, at the time, the separation was terrible. + Each morning, I read with feverish interest the reports of your health, + and longed, day after day, to hear of some distinct improvement. And yet + at the same time, I was terrified at every approach to complete + convalescence: I feared that if you got better at all, you might remember + too quick, and that then the sudden rush of recollection might kill you or + upset your reason. But by-and-by, it became clear to me you could remember + nothing of the actual shot itself. And I saw plainly why. It was the + firing of the pistol that obliterated, as it were, every trace of your + past life in your disorganised brain. And it obliterated ITSELF too. Your + new life began just one moment later, with the Picture of the dead man + stretched before you in his blood on the floor, and a figure in the + background disappearing through the window.” + </p> + <p> + How clever he was, to be sure! I saw in a moment Jack had interpreted my + whole frame of mind correctly and wonderfully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I went back to Babbicombe,” Jack continued, “and, + lest my heart should break for want of human sympathy, I confided every + word of my terrible story to Elsie. Elsie can trust me; and Elsie believed + me. Gradually, as you began to recover, I realised the soundness of your + doctor’s idea that you should be allowed to come back to yourself by + re-education from the very beginning, without any too early intrusion of + reminiscences from your previous life to confuse and disturb you. But I + couldn’t go on with my profession, all the same, while I waited. I + couldn’t attend as I ought to my patients’ wants and ailments: + I was too concentrated upon you: the strain was too great upon me. So I + threw up my practice, came out to Canada, bought a bit of land, and began + farming here, and seeing a few patients now and again locally, just to + fill up my time with. I felt confident in the end you would recover and + remember me. I felt confident you would come to yourself and marry me. But + still, it was very long work waiting. Every month, Elsie got news + indirectly from Minnie Moore or someone of your state of health; and I + intended to go back and try to see you as soon as ever you were in a + condition to bear the shock of re-living your previous life again. + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately, however, the police got hold of YOU before I could + carry my plan into execution. As soon as I heard that, I made up my mind + at once to go home by the first mail and break it all gently to you. So + Elsie and I started for Quebec, meaning to sail by the Dominion steamer + for England. But at the hotel at Quebec we saw the telegrams announcing + that you were then on your way out to Canada. Well, of course we didn’t + feel sure whether you came as a friend or an enemy. We were certain it was + to seek me out you were coming to America; but whether you remembered me + still and still loved me, or whether you’d found out some stray clue + to the missing man, and were anxious to hunt me down as your father’s + murderer, we hadn’t the slightest conception. So under those + circumstances, we thought it best not to meet you ourselves at the + steamer, or to reveal our identity too soon, for fear of a catastrophe. I + knew it would be better to wait and watch—to gain your confidence, + if possible—in any case, to find out how you were affected on first + seeing us and talking with us. + </p> + <p> + “Well then, as the time came on for the Sarmatian to arrive, it + began to strike me by degrees that all Quebec was agog with curiosity to + see you. I dared not go down to meet you at the quay myself; but the Chief + Constable of Quebec, Major Tascherel, was an old friend and fellow-officer + of my father’s; and when I explained to him my fears that you might + be mobbed by sightseers on your arrival at the harbour, and told him how + afraid I was of the shock it might give you to meet an old friend + unexpectedly at the steamer’s side, he very kindly consented to go + down and see you safe through the Custom House, It was so lucky I knew + him. If it hadn’t been for that, you might have been horribly + inconvenienced. + </p> + <p> + “As you may imagine, when we first saw you get into the Pullman car, + both Elsie and I felt our hearts come up into our months with suspense and + anxiety. We’d arranged it all so on purpose, for we felt sure you + were on your way to Palmyra to find us: but when it came to the actual + crisis, we wondered most nervously what effect the sight of us might have + upon your system. But in a moment, I saw you didn’t remember us at + all, or only vaguely attached to us some faint sense of friendliness. That + was well, because it enabled us to gain your confidence easily. As we + spoke with you, the sense of friendly interest deepened. I knew that, all + unconsciously to yourself, you loved me still, and that in a very short + time, if only I could see you and be with you, I might bring all back to + you.” + </p> + <p> + Jack paused and looked at me. As he paused, I felt my old self revive + again more completely than ever with a rush. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jack,” I cried, “so you HAVE done; so you HAVE + brought all back to me! My Second State’s over: I’m the same + girl you used to know at Torquay once more. I remember everything—everything—such + a world—such a lifetime! I feel as if my head would burst with all + the things I remember. I don’t know what to do with it. I’m so + tired, so weary.” + </p> + <p> + “Lay it here,” Jack said simply. + </p> + <p> + And I laid it on his shoulder, just as I used to do years ago, and cried + so long in silence, and was ever so much comforted. For I’ve + admitted all along that I’m only a woman. + </p> + <p> + There we sat, hand in hand, for many minutes more, saying never another + word, but sympathising silently, till Elsie returned from Palmyra. + </p> + <p> + When she burst into the room, she called out lightly as she entered: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ve got you your lemon, Una, and I do hope—” + Then she broke short suddenly. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, + faltering, and half guessing the truth, “what’s the meaning of + this? Why, Una’s been crying. You bad boy, you’ve been + frightening her. I oughtn’t to have left her ten minutes alone with + you!” + </p> + <p> + Jack rose and held up his hand in warning. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk to her at present, Elsie,” he said. “You + needn’t be afraid. Una’s found out everything. She remembers + all now. And she knows how everything happened. And she’s borne it + so bravely, without any more shock to her health and strength than was + absolutely inevitable.—Let her sleep if she can. It’ll do her + so much good.—But, Elsie, there’s one thing I want to say to + you both before I hand her over to you. After all that’s happened, I + don’t think Una’ll want to hear that hateful name of + Callingham any more. It never was really hers, and it never shall be. We’ll + let bygones be bygones in every other respect, and not rake up any details + of that hateful story. But she’s been Una to us always, and she + shall be Una still. It’s a very good name for her: for there’s + only one of her. But next week, I propose, she shall be Una Ivor.” + </p> + <p> + I threw myself on his neck, and cried again like a child. + </p> + <p> + “I accept, Jack,” I said, sobbing. “Let it be Ivor, if + you will. Next week, then, I’ll be your wife at last, my darling!” + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Recalled to Life, by Grant Allen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECALLED TO LIFE *** + +***** This file should be named 5832-h.htm or 5832-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/8/3/5832/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Recalled to Life + +Author: Grant Allen + +Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5832] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 10, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, RECALLED TO LIFE *** + + + + +Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + +RECALLED TO LIFE + +BY GRANT ALLEN + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + + + +I. UNA CALLINGHAM'S FIRST RECOLLECTION + +II. BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN + +III. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR + +IV. THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS + +V. I BECOME A WOMAN + +VI. RE-LIVING MY LIFE + +VII. THE GRANGE AT WOODBURY + +VIII. A VISION OF DEAD YEARS + +IX. HATEFUL SUSPICIONS + +X. YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH + +XI. THE VISION RECURS + +XII. THE MOORES OF TORQUAY + +XIII. DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE + +XIV. MY WELCOME TO CANADA + +XV. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + +XVI. MY PLANS ALTER + +XVII. A STRANGE RECOGNITION + +XVIII. MURDER WILL OUT + +XIX. THE REAL MURDERER + +XX. THE STRANGER FROM THE SEA + +XXI. THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF + +XXII. MY MEMORY RETURNS + +XXIII. THE FATAL SHOT + +XXIV. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +UNA CALLINGHAM'S FIRST RECOLLECTION + + + + + +It may sound odd to say so, but the very earliest fact that +impressed itself on my memory was a scene that took place--so I was +told--when I was eighteen years old, in my father's house, The +Grange, at Woodbury. + +My babyhood, my childhood, my girlhood, my school-days were all +utterly blotted out by that one strange shock of horror. My past +life became exactly as though it had never been. I forgot my own +name. I forgot my mother-tongue. I forgot everything I had ever done +or known or thought about. Except for the power to walk and stand +and perform simple actions of every-day use, I became a baby in arms +again, with a nurse to take care of me. The doctors told me, later, +I had fallen into what they were pleased to call "a Second State." I +was examined and reported upon as a Psychological Curiosity. But at +the time, I knew nothing of all this. A thunderbolt, as it were, +destroyed at one blow every relic, every trace of my previous +existence; and I began life all over again, with that terrible scene +of blood as my first birthday and practical starting point. + +I remember it all even now with horrible distinctness. Each item in +it photographed itself vividly on my mind's eye. I saw it as in a +picture--just as clearly, just as visually. And the effect, now I +look back upon it with a maturer judgment, was precisely like a +photograph in another way too. It was wholly unrelated in time and +space: it stood alone by itself, lighted up by a single spark, +without rational connection before or after it. What led up to it +all, I hadn't the very faintest idea. I only knew the Event itself +took place; and I, like a statue, stood rooted in the midst of it. + +And this was the Picture as, for many long months, it presented +itself incessantly to my startled brain, by day and by night, awake +or asleep, in colours more distinct than words can possibly paint +them. + +I saw myself standing in a large, square room--a very handsome old +room, filled with bookshelves like a library. On one side stood a +table, and on the table a box. A flash of light rendered the whole +scene visible. But it wasn't light that came in through the window. +It was rather like lightning, so quick it was, and clear, and +short-lived, and terrible. Half-way to the door, I stood and looked +in horror at the sight revealed before my eyes by that sudden flash. +A man lay dead in a little pool of blood that gurgled by short jets +from a wound on his left breast. I didn't even know at the moment +the man was my father; though slowly, afterward, by the concurrent +testimony of others, I learnt to call him so. But his relationship +wasn't part of the Picture to me. There, he was only in my eyes a +man--a man well past middle age, with a long white beard, now +dabbled with the thick blood that kept gurgling so hatefully from +the red spot in his waistcoat. He lay on his back, half-curled round +toward one arm, exactly as he fell. And the revolver he had been +shot with lay on the ground not far from him. + +But that wasn't all the Picture. The murderer was there as well as +the victim. Besides the table, and the box, and the wounded man, and +the pistol, I saw another figure behind, getting out of the window. +It was the figure of a man, I should say about twenty-five or +thirty: he had just raised himself to the ledge, and was poising to +leap; for the room, as I afterwards learned, though on the ground +floor, stood raised on a basement above the garden behind. I +couldn't see the man's face, or any part of him, indeed, except his +stooping back, and his feet, and his neck, and his elbows. But what +little I saw was printed indelibly on the very fibre of my nature. I +could have recognised that man anywhere if I saw him in the same +attitude. I could have sworn to him in any court of justice on the +strength of his back alone, so vividly did I picture it. + +He was tall and thin, but he stooped like a hunchback. + +There were other points worth notice in that strange mental +photograph. The man was well-dressed, and had the bearing of a +gentleman. Looking back upon the scene long after, when I had +learned once more what words and things meant, I could feel +instinctively this was no common burglar, no vulgar murderer. +Whatever might have been the man's object in shooting my father, I +was certain from the very first it was not mere robbery. But at the +time, I'm confident, I never reasoned about his motives or his +actions in any way. I merely took in the scene, as it were, +passively, in a great access of horror, which rendered me incapable +of sense or thought or speech or motion. I saw the table, the box, +the apparatus by its side, the murdered man on the floor, the pistol +lying pointed with its muzzle towards his body, the pool of blood +that soaked deep into the Turkey carpet beneath, the ledge of the +window, the young man's rounded back as he paused and hesitated. And +I also saw, like an instantaneous flash, one hand pushed behind him, +waving me off, I almost thought, with the gesture of one warning. + +Why didn't I remember the murderer's face? That puzzled me long +after. I must have seen him before: I must surely have been there +when the crime was committed. I must have known at the moment +everything about it. But the blank that came over my memory, came +over it with the fatal shot. All that went before, was to me as +though it were not. I recollect vaguely, as the first point in my +life, that my eyes were shut hard, and darkness came over me. While +they were so shut, I heard an explosion. Next moment, I believe, I +opened them, and saw this Picture. No sensitive-plate could have +photographed it more instantaneously, as by an electric spark, than +did my retina that evening, as for months after I saw it all. In +another moment, I shut my lids again, and all was over. There was +darkness once more, and I was alone with my Horror. + +In years then to come, I puzzled my head much as to the meaning of +the Picture. Gradually, step by step, I worked some of it out, with +the aid of my friends, and of the evidence tendered at the coroner's +inquest. But for the moment I knew nothing of all that. I was a +newborn baby again. Only with this important difference. They say +our minds at birth are like a sheet of white paper, ready to take +whatever impressions may fall upon them. Mine was like a sheet all +covered and obscured by one hateful picture. It was weeks, I fancy, +before I knew or was conscious of anything else but that. The +Picture and a great Horror divided my life between them. + +Recollect, I didn't even remember the murdered man was my father. I +didn't recognise the room as one in our own old house at Woodbury. I +didn't know anything at all except what I tell you here. I saw the +corpse, the blood, the box on the table, the wires by the side, the +bottles and baths and plates of an amateur photographer's kit, +without knowing what they all meant. I saw even the books not as +books but as visible points of colour. It had something the effect +on me that it might have upon anyone else to be dropped suddenly on +the stage of a theatre at the very moment when a hideous crime was +being committed, and to believe it real, or rather, to know it by +some vague sense as hateful and actual. + +Here my history began. I date from that Picture. My second babyhood +was passed in the shadow of the abiding Horror. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN + + + + + +Wha happened after is far more vague to me. Compared with the +vividness of that one initial Picture, the events of the next few +months have only the blurred indistinctness of all childish +memories. For I was a child once more, in all save stature, and had +to learn to remember things just like other children. + +I will try to tell the whole tale over again exactly as it then +struck me. + +After the Picture, I told you, I shut my eyes in alarm for a second. +When I opened them once more there was a noise, a very great noise, +and my recollection is that people had burst wildly into the room, +and were lifting the dead body, and bending over it in astonishment, +and speaking loud to me, and staring at me. I believe they broke the +door open, though that's rather inference than memory; I learnt it +afterwards. Soon some of them rushed to the open window and looked +out into the garden. Then, suddenly, a man gave a shout, and leaping +on to the sill, jumped down in pursuit, as I thought, of the +murderer. As time went on, more people flocked in; and some of them +looked at the body and the pool of blood; and some of them turned +round and spoke to me. But what they said or what they meant I +hadn't the slightest idea. The noise of the pistol-shot still rang +loud in my ears: the ineffable Horror still drowned all my senses. + +After a while, another man came in, with an air of authority, and +felt my pulse and my brow, and lifted me on to a sofa. But I didn't +even remember there was such a thing as a doctor. I lay there for a +while, quite dazed; and the man, who was kindly-looking and +close-shaven and fatherly, gave me something in a glass: after which +he turned round and examined the body. He looked hard at the +revolver, too, and chalked its place on the ground. Then I saw no +more, for two women lifted me in their arms and took me up to bed; +and with that, the first scene of my childhood seemed to end +entirely. + +I lay in bed for a day or two, during which time I was dimly aware +of much commotion going on here and there in the house; and the +doctor came night and morning, and tended me carefully. I suppose I +may call him the doctor now, though at the time I didn't call him +so--I knew him merely as a visible figure. I don't believe I THOUGHT +at all during those earliest days, or gave things names in any known +language. They rather passed before me dreamily in long procession, +like a vague panorama. When people spoke to me, it was like the +sound of a foreign tongue. I attached no more importance to anything +they said than to the cawing of the rooks in the trees by the +rectory. + +At the end of five days, the doctor came once more, and watched me a +great deal, and spoke in a low voice with a woman in a white cap and +a clean white apron who waited on me daily. As soon as he was gone, +my nurse, as I learned afterwards to call her,--it's so hard not to +drop into the language of everyday life when one has to describe +things to other people,--my nurse got me up, with much ado and +solemnity, and dressed me in a new black frock, very dismal and +ugly, and put on me a black hat, with a dreary-looking veil; and +took me downstairs, with the aid of a man who wore a suit of blue +clothes and a queer kind of helmet. The man was of the sort I now +call a policeman. These pictures are far less definite in my mind +than the one that begins my second life; but still, in a vague kind +of way, I pretty well remember them. + +On the ground floor, nurse made me walk; and I walked out to the +door, where a cab was in waiting, drawn slowly by a pair of horses. +People were looking on, on either side, between the door and the +cab--great crowds of people, peering eagerly forward; and two more +men in blue suits were holding them off by main force from surging +against me and incommoding me. I don't think they wanted to hurt me: +it was rather curiosity than anger I saw in their faces. But I was +afraid, and shrank back. They were eager to see me, however, and +pressed forward with loud cries, so that the men in blue suits had +hard work to prevent them. + +I know now there were two reasons why they wanted to see me. I was +the murdered man's daughter, and I was a Psychological Phenomenon. + +We drove away, through green lanes, in the cab, nurse and I; and in +spite of the Horror, which surrounded me always, and the Picture, +which recurred every time I shut my eyes to think, I enjoyed that +drive very much, with all the fresh vividness of childish pleasure. +Though I learnt later I was eighteen years old at least, I was in my +inner self just like a baby of ten months, going ta-ta. At the end +of the drive, we drew up sharp at a house, where some more men stood +about, with red bands on their caps, and took boxes from the cab and +put them into a van, while nurse and I got into a different +carriage, drawn quickly by a thing that went puff-puff, puff-puff. I +didn't know it was a railway, and yet in a way I did. I half forgot, +half remembered it. Things that I'd seen in my previous state seemed +to come back to me, in fact, as soon as I saw them; or at least to +be more familiar to me than things I'd never seen before. Especially +afterwards. But while things were remembered, persons, I found +by-and-by, were completely forgotten. Or rather, while I remembered +after a while generalities, such as houses and men, recognising them +in the abstract as a house, or a man, or a horse, or a baby, I +forgot entirely particulars, such as the names of people and the +places I had lived in. Words soon came back to me: names and facts +were lost: I knew the world as a whole, not my own old part in it. + +Well, not to make my story too long in these early childish stages, +we went on the train, as it seemed to me, a long way across fields +to Aunt Emma's. I didn't know she was Aunt Emma then for, indeed, I +had never seen her before; but I remember arriving there at her +pretty little cottage, and seeing a sweet old lady--barely sixty, I +should say, but with smooth white hair,--who stood on the steps of +the house and cried like a child, and held out her hands to me, and +hugged me and kissed me. And it was there that I learned my first +word. A great many times over, she spoke about "Una." She said it so +often, I caught vaguely at the sound. And nurse, when she answered +her, said "Una" also. Then, when Aunt Emma called me, she always +said "Una." So it came to me dimly that Una meant ME. But I didn't +exactly recollect it had been my name before, though I learned in +due time afterwards that I'd always been called so. However, just at +first, I picked up the word as a child might pick it up; and when, +some months later, I began to talk easily, I spoke of myself always +in the third person as Una. I can remember with a smile now how I +went one day to Aunt Emma--I, a great girl of eighteen--and held up +my skirt, that I'd muddied in the street, and said to her, with +great gravity: + +"Una naughty girl: Una got her frock wet. Aunt Emma going to scold +poor Una for being so naughty!" + +Not that I often smiled, in those days; for, in spite of Aunt Emma's +kindness, my second girlhood, like my first, was a very unhappy one. +The Horror and the Picture pursued me too close. It was months and +months before I could get rid for a moment of that persistent +nightmare. And yet I had everything else on earth to make me happy. +Aunt Emma lived in a pretty east-coast town, with high bracken-clad +downs, and breezy common beyond; while in front stretched great +sands, where I loved to race about and to play cricket and tennis. +It was the loveliest town that ever you saw in your life, with a +broken chancel to the grand old church, and a lighthouse on a hill, +with delicious views to seaward. The doctor had sent me there (I +know now) as soon as I was well enough to move, in order to get me +away from the terrible associations of The Grange at Woodbury. As +long as I lived in the midst of scenes which would remind me of poor +father, he said, and of his tragical death, there was no hope of my +recovery. The only chance for me to regain what I had lost in that +moment of shock was complete change of air, of life, of +surroundings. Aunt Emma, for her part, was only too glad to take me +in: and as poor papa had died intestate, Aunt Emma was now, of +course, my legal guardian. + +She was my mother's sister, I learned as time went on; and there had +been feud while he lived between her and my father. Why, I couldn't +imagine. She was the sweetest old soul I ever knew, indeed, and what +on earth he could have quarrelled with her about I never could +fathom. She tended me so carefully that as months went by, the +Horror began to decrease and my soul to become calm again. I grew +gradually able to remain in a room alone for a few minutes at a +time, and to sleep at night in a bed by myself, if only there was a +candle, and nurse was in another bed in the same room close by me. + +Yet every now and again a fresh shivering fit came on. At such times +I would cover my head with the bedclothes and cower, and see the +Picture even so floating visibly in mid-air like a vision before me. + +My second education must have been almost as much of a business as +my first had been, only rather less longsome. I had first to relearn +the English language, which came back to me by degrees, much +quicker, of course, than I had picked it up in my childhood. Then I +had to begin again with reading, writing, and arithmetic--all new +to me in a way, and all old in another. Whatever I learned and +whatever I read seemed novel while I learned it, but familiar the +moment I had thoroughly grasped it. To put it shortly, I could +remember nothing of myself, but I could recall many things, after a +time, as soon as they were told me clearly. The process was rather a +process of reminding than of teaching, properly so called. But it +took some years for me to recall things, even when I was reminded of +them. + +I spent four years at Aunt Emma's, growing gradually to my own age +again. At the end of that time I was counted a girl of twenty-two, +much like any other. But I was older than my age; and the shadow of +the Horror pursued me incessantly. + +All that time I knew, too, from what I heard said in the house that +my father's murderer had never been caught, and that nobody even +knew who he was, or anything definite about him. The police gave him +up as an uncaught criminal. He was still at large, and might always +be so. I knew this from vague hints and from vague hints alone; for +whenever I tried to ask, I was hushed up at once with an air of +authority. + +"Una, dearest," Aunt Emma would say, in her quiet fashion, "you +mustn't talk about that night. I have Dr. Wade's strict orders that +nothing must be said to you about it, and above all nothing that +could in any way excite or arouse you." + +So I was fain to keep my peace; for though Aunt Emma was kind, she +ruled me still in all things like a little girl, as I was when I +came to her. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR + + + + + +One morning, after I'd been four whole years at Aunt Emma's, I heard +a ring at the bell, and, looking over the stairs, saw a tall and +handsome man in a semi-military coat, who asked in a most audible +voice for Miss Callingham. + +Maria, the housemaid, hesitated a moment. + +"Miss Callingham's in, sir," she answered in a somewhat dubious +tone; "but I don't know whether I ought to let you see her or not. +My mistress is out; and I've strict orders that no strangers are to +call on Miss Callingham when her aunt's not here." + +And she held the door ajar in her hand undecidedly. + +The tall man smiled, and seemed to me to slip a coin quietly into +Maria's palm. + +"So much the better," he answered, with unobtrusive persistence; "I +thought Miss Moore was out. That's just why I've come. I'm an officer +from Scotland Yard, and I want to see Miss Callingham--alone--most +particularly." + +Maria drew herself up and paused. + +My heart stood still within me at this chance of enlightenment. I +guessed what he meant; so I called over the stairs to her, in a +tremor of excitement: + +"Show the gentleman into the drawing-room, Maria. I 'll come down to +him at once." + +For I was dying to know the explanation of the Picture that haunted +me so persistently; and as nobody at home would ever tell me +anything worth knowing about it, I thought this was as good an +opportunity as I could get for making a beginning towards the +solution of the mystery. + +Well, I ran into my own room as quick as quick could be, and set my +front hair straight, and slipped on a hat and jacket (for I was in +my morning dress), and then went down to the drawing-room to see the +Inspector. + +He rose as I entered. He was a gentleman, I felt at once. His manner +was as deferential, as kind, and as considerate to my sensitiveness, +as anything it's possible for you to imagine in anyone. + +"I'm sorry to have to trouble you, Miss Callingham," he said, with a +very gentle smile; "but I daresay you can understand yourself the +object of my visit. I could have wished to come in a more authorised +way; but I've been in correspondence with Miss Moore for some time +past as to the desirability of reopening the inquiry with regard to +your father's unfortunate death; and I thought the time might now +have arrived when it would be possible to put a few questions to you +personally upon that unhappy subject. Miss Moore objected to my +plan. She thought it would still perhaps be prejudicial to your +health--a point in which Dr. Wade, I must say, entirely agrees with +her. Nevertheless, in the interests of Justice, as the murderer is +still at large, I've ventured to ask you for this interview; because +what I read in the newspapers about the state of your health--." + +I interrupted him, astonished. + +"What you read in the newspapers about the state of my health!" I +repeated, thunderstruck. "Why, surely they don't put the state of MY +health in the newspapers!" + +For I didn't know then I was a Psychological Phenomenon. + +The Inspector smiled blandly, and pulling out his pocket-book, +selected a cutting from a pile that apparently all referred to me. + +"You're mistaken," he said, briefly. "The newspapers, on the +contrary, have treated your case at great length. See, here's the +latest report. That's clipped from last Wednesday's Telegraph." + +I remembered then that a paragraph of just that size had been +carefully cut out of Wednesday's paper before I was allowed by Aunt +Emma to read it. Aunt Emma always glanced over the paper first, +indeed, and often cut out such offending paragraphs. But I never +attached much importance to their absence before, because I thought +it was merely a little fussy result of auntie's good old English +sense of maidenly modesty. I supposed she merely meant to spare my +blushes. I knew girls were often prevented on particular days from +reading the papers. + +But now I seized the paragraph he handed me, and read it with deep +interest. It was the very first time I had seen my own name in a +printed newspaper. I didn't know then how often it had figured +there. + +The paragraph was headed, "THE WOODBURY MURDER," and it ran +something like this, as well as I can remember it: + +"There are still hopes that the miscreant who shot Mr. Vivian +Callingham at The Grange, at Woodbury, some four years since, may be +tracked down and punished at last for his cowardly crime. It will be +fresh in everyone's memory, as one of the most romantic episodes in +that extraordinary tragedy, that at the precise moment of her +father's death, Miss Callingham, who was present in the room during +the attack, and who alone might have been a witness capable of +recognising or describing the wretched assailant, lost her reason on +the spot, owing to the appalling shock to her nervous system, and +remained for some months in an imbecile condition. Gradually, as we +have informed our readers from time to time, Miss Callingham's +intellect has become stronger and stronger; and though she is still +totally unable to remember spontaneously any events that occurred +before her father's death, it is hoped it may be possible, by +describing vividly certain trains of previous incidents, to recall +them in some small degree to her imperfect memory. Dr. Thornton, of +Welbeck Street, who has visited her from time to time on behalf of +the Treasury, in conjunction with Dr. Wade, her own medical +attendant, went down to Barton-on-the-Sea on Monday, and once more +examined Miss Callingham's intellect. Though the Doctor is +judiciously reticent as to the result of his visit, it is generally +believed at Barton that he thinks the young lady sufficiently +recovered to undergo a regular interrogatory; and in spite of the +fact that Dr. Wade is opposed to any such proceeding at present, as +prejudicial to the lady's health, it is not unlikely that the +Treasury may act upon their own medical official's opinion, and send +down an Inspector from Scotland Yard to make inquiries direct on the +subject from Miss Callingham in person." + +My head swam round. It was all like a dream to me. I held my +forehead with my hands, and gazed blankly at the Inspector. + +"You understand what all this means?" he said interrogatively, +leaning forward as he spoke. "You remember the murder?" + +"Perfectly," I answered him, trembling all over. "I remember every +detail of it. I could describe you exactly all the objects in the +room. The Picture it left behind has burned itself into my brain +like a flash of lightning!" + +The Inspector drew his chair nearer. "Now, Miss Callingham," he said +in a very serious voice, "that's a remarkable expression--like a +flash of lightning.' Bear in mind, this is a matter of life and +death to somebody somewhere. Somebody's neck may depend upon your +answers. Will you tell me exactly how much you remember?" + +I told him in a few words precisely how the scene had imprinted +itself on my memory. I recalled the room, the box, the green wires, +the carpet; the man who lay dead in his blood on the floor; the man +who stood poised ready to leap from the window. He let me go on +unchecked till I'd finished everything I had to say spontaneously. +Then he took a photograph from his pocket, which he didn't show me. +Looking at it attentively, he asked me questions, one by one, about +the different things in the room at the time in very minute detail: +Where exactly was the box? How did it stand relatively to the +unlighted lamp? What was the position of the pistol on the floor? In +which direction was my father's head lying? Though it brought back +the Horror to me in a fuller and more terrible form than ever, I +answered all his questions to the very best of my ability. I could +picture the whole scene like a photograph to myself; and I didn't +doubt the object he held in his hand was a photograph of the room as +it appeared after the murder. He checked my statements, one by one +as I went on, by reference to the photograph, murmuring half to +himself now and again: "Yes, yes, exactly so"; "That's right"; "That +was so," at each item I mentioned. + +At the end of these inquiries, he paused and looked hard at me. + +"Now, Miss Callingham," he said again, peering deep into my eyes, "I +want you to concentrate your mind very much, not on this Picture you +carry so vividly in your own brain, but on the events that went +immediately before and after it. Pause long and think. Try hard to +remember. And first, you say there was a great flash of light. Now, +answer me this: was it one flash alone, or had there been several?" + +I stopped and racked my brain. Blank, blank, as usual. + +"I can't remember," I faltered out, longing terribly to cry. "I can +recall just that one scene, and nothing else in the world before +it." + +He looked at me fixedly, jotting down a few words in his note-book +as he looked. Then he spoke again, still more slowly: + +"Now, try once more," he said, with an encouraging air. "You saw +this man's back as he was getting out of the window. But can't you +remember having seen his face before? Had he a beard? a moustache? +what eyes? what nose? Did you see the shot fired? And if so, what +sort of person was the man who fired it?" + +Again I searched the pigeon-holes of my memory in vain, as I had +done a hundred times before by myself. + +"It's no use," I cried helplessly, letting my hands drop by my side. +"I can't remember a thing, except the Picture. I don't know whether +I saw the shot fired or not. I don't know what the murderer looked +like in the face. I've told you all I know. I can recall nothing +else. It's all a great blank to me." + +The Inspector hesitated a moment, as if in doubt what step to take +next. Then he drew himself up and said, still more gravely: + +"This inability to assist us is really very singular. I had hoped, +after Dr. Thornton's report, that we might at last count with some +certainty upon arriving at fresh results as to the actual murder. I +can see from what you tell me you're a young lady of +intelligence--much above the average--and great strength of mind. +It's curious your memory should fail you so pointedly just where we +stand most in need of its aid. Recollect, nobody else but you ever +saw the murderer's face. Now, I'm going to presume you're answering +me honestly, and try a bold means to arouse your dormant memory. +Look hard, and hark back.--Is that the room you recollect? Is that +the picture that still haunts and pursues you?" + +He handed me the photograph he held in his fingers. I took it, all +on fire. The sight almost made me turn sick with horror. To my awe +and amazement, it was indeed the very scene I remembered so well. +Only, of course, it was taken from another point of view, and +represented things in rather different relative positions to those I +figured them in. But it showed my father's body lying dead upon the +floor; it showed his poor corpse weltering helpless in its blood; it +showed myself, as a girl of eighteen, standing awestruck, gazing on +in blank horror at the sight; and in the background, half blurred by +the summer evening light, it showed the vague outline of a man's +back, getting out of the window. On one side was the door: that +formed no part of my mental picture, because it was at my back; but +in the photograph it too was indistinct, as if in the very act of +being burst open. The details were vague, in part--probably the +picture had never been properly focussed;--but the main figures +stood out with perfect clearness, and everything in the room was, +allowing for the changed point of view, exactly as I remembered it +in my persistent mental photograph. + +I drew a deep breath. + +"That's my Picture," I said, slowly. "But it recalls to me nothing +new. I--I don't understand it." + +The Inspector stared at me hard once more. + +"Do you know," he asked, "how that photograph was produced, and how +it came into our possession?" + +I trembled violently. + +"No, I don't," I answered, reddening. "But--I think it had something +to do with the flash like lightning." + +The Inspector jumped at those words like a cat upon a mouse. + +"Quite right," he cried briskly, as one who at last, after long +search, finds a hopeful clue where all seemed hopeless. "It had to +do with the flash. The flash produced it. This is a photograph taken +by your father's process.... Of course you recollect your father's +process?" + +He eyed me close. The words, as he spoke them, seemed to call up +dimly some faint memory of my pre-natal days--of my First State, as +I had learned from the doctors to call it. But his scrutiny made me +shrink. I shut my eyes and looked back. + +"I think," I said slowly, rummaging my memory half in vain, "I +remember something about it. It had something to do with +photography, hadn't it?...No, no, with the electric light....I +can't exactly remember which. Will you tell me all about it?" + +He leaned back in his chair, and, eyeing me all the time with that +same watchful glance, began to describe to me in some detail an +apparatus which he said my father had devised, for taking +instantaneous photographs by the electric light, with a clockwork +mechanism. It was an apparatus that let sensitive-plates revolve one +after another opposite the lens of a camera; and as each was +exposed, the clockwork that moved it produced an electric spark, so +as to represent such a series of effects as the successive positions +of a horse in trotting. My father, it seemed, was of a scientific +turn, and had just perfected this new automatic machine before his +sudden death. I listened with breathless interest; for up to that +time I had never been allowed to hear anything about my +father--anything about the great tragedy with which my second life +began. It was wonderful to me even now to be allowed to speak and +ask questions on it with anybody. So hedged about had I been all my +days with mystery. + +As I listened, I saw the Inspector could tell by the answering flash +in my eye that his words recalled SOMETHING to me, however vaguely. +As he finished, I leant forward, and with a very flushed face, that +I could feel myself, I cried, in a burst of recollection: + +"Yes, yes. I remember. And the box on the table--the box that's in +my mental picture, and is not in the photograph--THAT was the +apparatus you've just been describing." + +The Inspector turned upon me with a rapidity that fairly took my +breath away. + +"Well, where are the other ones?" he asked, pouncing down upon me +quite fiercely. + +"The other WHAT?" I repeated, amazed; for I didn't really understand +him. + +"Why, the other photographs!" he replied, as if trying to surprise +me. "There must have been more, you know. It held six plates. Except +for this one, the apparatus, when we found it, was empty." + +His manner seemed to crush out the faint spark of recollection that +just flickered within me. I collapsed at once. I couldn't stand such +brusqueness. + +"I don't know what you mean," I answered in despair. "I never saw +the plates. I know nothing about them." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS + + + + + +The Inspector scanned me close for a few minutes in silence. He +seemed doubtful, suspicious. At last he made a new move. "I believe +you, Miss Callingham," he said, more gently. "I can see this train +of thought distresses you too much. But I can see, too, our best +chance lies in supplying you with independent clues which you may +work out for yourself. You must re-educate your memory. You want to +know all about this murder, of course. Well, now, look over these +papers. They'll tell you in brief what little we know about it. And +they may succeed in striking afresh some resonant chord in your +memory." + +He handed me a book of pasted newspaper paragraphs, interspersed +here and there in red ink with little manuscript notes and comments. +I began to read it with profound interest. It was so strange for me +thus to learn for the first time the history of my own life; for I +was quite ignorant as yet of almost everything about my First State, +and my father and mother. + +The paragraphs told me the whole story of the crime, as far as it +was known to the world, from the very beginning. First of all, in +the papers, came the bald announcement that a murder had been +committed in a country town in Staffordshire; and that the victim +was Mr. Vivian Callingham, a gentleman of means, residing in his own +house, The Grange, at Woodbury. Mr. Callingham was the inventor of +the acmegraphic process. The servants, said the telegram to the +London papers, had heard the sound of a pistol-shot, about half-past +eight at night, coming from the direction of Mr. Callingham's +library. Aroused by the report, they rushed hastily to the spot, and +broke open the door, which was locked from within. As they did so, a +horrible sight met their astonished eyes. Mr. Callingham's dead body +lay extended on the ground, shot right through the heart, and +weltering in its life-blood. Miss Callingham stood by his side, +transfixed with horror, and mute in her agony. On the floor lay the +pistol that had fired the fatal shot. And just as the servants +entered, for one second of time, the murderer who was otherwise +wholly unknown, was seen to leap from the window into the shrubbery +below. The gardener rushed after him, and jumped down at the same +spot. But the murderer had disappeared as if by magic. It was +conjectured he must have darted down the road at full speed, vaulted +the gate, which was usually locked, and made off at a rapid run for +the open country. Up to date of going to press, the Telegraph said, +he was still at large and had not been apprehended. + +That was the earliest account--bald, simple, unvarnished. Then came +mysterious messages from the Central Press about the absence of any +clue to identify the stranger. He hadn't entered the house by any +regular way, it seemed; unless, indeed, Mr. Callingham had brought +him home himself and let him in with the latchkey. None of the +servants had opened the door that evening to any suspicious +character; not a soul had they seen, nor did any of them know a man +was with their master in the library. They heard voices, to be +sure--voices, loud at times and angry,--but they supposed it was Mr. +Callingham talking with his daughter. Till roused by the fatal +pistol-shot, the gardener said, they had no cause for alarm. Even +the footmarks the stranger might have left as he leaped from the +window were obliterated by the prints of the gardener's boots as he +jumped hastily after him. The only person who could cast any light +upon the mystery at all was clearly Miss Callingham, who was in the +room at the moment. But Miss Callingham's mind was completely +unhinged for the present by the nervous shock she had received as +her father fell dead before her. They must wait a few days till she +recovered consciousness, and then they might confidently hope that +the murderer would be identified, or at least so described that the +police could track him. + +After that, I read the report of the coroner's inquest. The facts +there elicited added nothing very new to the general view of the +case. Only, the servants remarked on examination, there was a +strange smell of chemicals in the room when they entered; and the +doctors seemed to suggest that the smell might be that of +chloroform, mixed with another very powerful drug known to affect +the memory. Miss Callingham's present state, they thought, might +thus perhaps in part be accounted for. + +You can't imagine how curious it was for me to see myself thus +impersonally discussed at such a distance of time, or to learn so +long after that for ten days or more I had been the central object +of interest to all reading England. My name was bandied about +without the slightest reserve. I trembled to see how cavalierly the +press had treated me. + +As I went on, I began to learn more and more about my father. He had +made money in Australia, it was said, and had come to live at +Woodbury some fourteen years earlier, where my mother had died when +I was a child of four; and some accounts said she was a widow of +fortune. My father had been interested in chemistry and photography, +it seemed, and had lately completed a new invention, the acmegraph, +for taking successive photographs at measured intervals of so many +seconds by electric light. He was a grave, stern man, the papers +said, more feared than loved by his servants and neighbours; but +nobody about was known to have a personal grudge against him. On the +contrary, he lived at peace with all men. The motive for the murder +remained to the end a complete mystery. + +On the second morning of the inquest, however, a curious thing +happened. The police, it appeared, had sealed up the room where the +murder took place, and allowed nobody to enter it till the inquiry +was over. But after the jury came round to view the room, the +policeman in charge found the window at the back of the house had +been recently opened, and the box with the photographic apparatus +had been stolen from the library. Till that moment nobody had +attached any importance to the presence of this camera. It hadn't +even been opened and examined by the police, who had carefully noted +everything else in the library. But as soon as the box was missed +strange questions began to be asked and conjecturally answered. The +police for the first time then observed that though it was half-past +eight at night when the murder occurred, and the lamp was not +lighted, the witnesses who burst first into the room described all +they saw as if they had seen it clearly. They spoke of things as +they would be seen in a very bright light, with absolute +definiteness. This set up inquiry, and the result of the inquiry was +to bring out the fact, which in the excitement of the moment had +escaped the notice of all the servants, that as they entered the +room and stared about at the murder, the electric flash of the +apparatus was actually in operation. But the scene itself had +diverted their attention from the minor matter of the light that +showed it. + +The Inspector had been watching me narrowly as I read these +extracts. When I reached that point, he broke in with a word of +explanation. + +"Well, that put me on the track, you see," he said, leaning forward +once more. "I thought to myself, if the light was acting, then the +whole apparatus must necessarily have been at work, and the scene as +it took place must have been photographed, act by act and step by +step, exactly as it happened. At the time the murderer, whoever he +was, can't have known the meaning of the flashes. But later, he must +have come to learn in some way what the electric light meant, and +must have realised, sooner than we did, that therein the box, in the +form of six successive negatives of the stages in the crime, was the +evidence that would infallibly convict him of this murder." He +stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "And to think, too," he went on +with a somewhat sheepish air, "we should have had those photographs +there in our power all those days and nights, and have let them in +the end slip like that through our fingers! To think he should have +found it out sooner than we! To think that an amateur like the +murderer should have outwitted us!" + +"But how do you know," I cried, "there was ever more than one +photograph? How do you know this wasn't the only negative?" + +"Because," the Inspector answered quickly, pointing to a figure in +the corner of the proof, "do you see that six? Well, that tells the +tale. Each plate of the series was numbered so in the apparatus. +Number six could only fall into focus after numbers one, and two, +and three, and four, and five, had first been photographed. We've +only got the last--and least useful for our purpose. There must have +been five earlier ones, showing every stage of the crime, if only +we'd known it." + +I was worked up now to a strange pitch of excitement. + +"And how did this one come into your possession?" I asked, all +breathless. "If you managed to lay your hands on one, why not on all +six of them?" + +The Inspector drew a long breath. + +"Ah, that's the trouble!" he replied, still gazing at me hard. "You +see, it was this way. As soon as we found the camera was missing, we +came to the conclusion the murderer must have returned to The Grange +to fetch it. But it was a large and heavy box, and the only one of +its kind as yet manufactured; so, to carry it away in his hands +would no doubt have led to instant detection. I concluded, +therefore, the man would take off the box entire, so as to prevent +the danger of removing the plates on the spot; and as soon as he +reached a place of safety in the shrubbery, he'd fling away the +camera, either destroying the incriminating negatives then and there +or carrying them off with him. The details of the invention had +already been explained to me by your father's instrument-maker, who +set up the clockwork for him from his own designs; and I knew that +the removal of the plates from the box was a delicate, and to some +extent a difficult, operation. So I felt sure they could only have +been taken out in a place of comparative safety, not far from the +house; and I searched the shrubbery carefully, to find the camera." + +"And you found it at last?" I asked, unable to restrain my +agitation. + +"I found it at last," he answered, "near the far end of the grounds, +just flung into the deep grass, behind a clump of lilacs. The camera +was there intact, but five plates were missing. The sixth, from +which the positive you hold in your hand was taken, had got jammed +in the mechanism in the effort to remove it. Evidently the murderer +had tried to take out the plates in a very great hurry and with +trembling hands, as was not unnatural. He had succeeded with five, +when the sixth stuck fast in the groove of the clockwork. Just at +that moment, as we judged, either an alarm was raised in the rear, +or some panic fear seized on him. Probably the fellow judged right +that the most incriminating pictures of all had by that time been +removed, and that the last would only show his back, if it included +him at all, or if he came into focus. Perhaps he had even been able +unconsciously to count the flashes at the moment, and knew that +before the sixth flash arrived he was on the ledge of the window. At +any rate, he clearly gave up the attempt to remove the sixth, and +flung the whole apparatus away from him in a sudden access of +horror. We guessed as much both from the appearance of the spot +where the grass was trampled down, and the way the angle of the +camera was imbedded forcibly in the soft ground of the shrubbery." + +"And he got away with the rest!" I exclaimed, following it up like a +story, but a story in which I was myself an unconscious character. + +"No doubt," the Inspector answered, stroking his chin regretfully. +"And what's most annoying of all, we've every reason to suppose the +fellow stole the things only a few minutes before we actually missed +them. For we saw grounds for supposing he jumped away from the spot, +and climbed over the wall at the back, cutting his hands as he went +with the bottle-glass on the top to prevent intruders. And what +makes us think only a very short time must have elapsed between the +removal of the plates and the moment we came upon his tracks is +this--the blood from his cut hands was still fresh and wet upon the +wall when we found it." + +"Then you only just missed him!" I exclaimed. "He got off by the +skin of his teeth. It's wonderful, when you were so near, you +shouldn't have managed to overtake him! One would have thought you +must have been able to track him to earth somehow!" + +"One would have thought so," the Inspector answered, rather +crestfallen. "But policemen, after all, are human like the rest of +us. We missed the one chance that might have led to an arrest. And +now, what I want to ask you once more is this: Reflecting over what +you've heard and read to-day, do you think you can recollect--a +very small matter--whether or not there were SEVERAL distinct +flashes?" + +I shut my eyes once more, and looked hard into the past. Slowly, as +I looked, a sort of dream seemed to come over me. I saw it vaguely +now, or thought I saw it. Flash, flash, flash, flash. Then the sound +of the pistol. Then the Picture, and the Horror, and the awful +blank. I opened my eyes again, and told the Inspector so. + +"And once more," he went on, in a very insinuating voice. "Shut your +eyes again, and look back upon that day. Can't you remember whether +or not, just a moment before, you saw the murderer's face by the +light of the flashes?" + +I shut my eyes and thought. Again the flashes seemed to stand out +clear and distinct. But no detail supervened--no face came back to +me. I felt it was useless. + +"Impossible!" I said shortly. "It only makes my head swim. I can +remember no further." + +"I see," the Inspector answered. "It's just as Dr. Wade said. +Suggest a fact in your past history, and you may possibly remember +it; but ask you to recall anything not suggested or already known, +and all seems a mere blank to you! You haven't the faintest idea, +then, who the murderer was or what he looked like?" + +I rose up before him solemnly, and stared him full in the face. I +was wrought up by that time to a perfect pitch of excitement and +interest. + +"I haven't the faintest idea," I answered, feeling myself a woman at +last, and realising my freedom; "I know and remember no more of it +than you do. But from this moment forth, I shall not rest until I've +found him out and tracked him down, and punished him. I shall never +let my head rest in peace on my pillow until I've discovered my +father's murderer!" + +"That's well," the Inspector said sharply, shutting his notes up to +go. "If you persevere in that mind, and do as you say, we shall soon +get to the bottom of the Woodbury Mystery!" + +And even as he spoke a key turned in the front door. I knew it was +Aunt Emma, come in from her marketing. + + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +I BECOME A WOMAN + + + + + +Aunt Emma burst into the room, all horror and astonishment. She +looked at the Inspector for a few seconds in breathless indignation; +then she broke out in a tone of fiery remonstrance which fairly +surprised me: + +"What do you mean by this intrusion, sir? How dare you force your +way into my house in my absence? How dare you encourage my servants +to disobey my orders? How dare you imperil this young lady's health +by coming here to talk with her?" + +She turned round to me anxiously. I suppose I was very flushed with +excitement and surprise. + +"My darling child," she cried, growing pale all at once, "Maria +should never have allowed him to come inside the door! You should +have stopped upstairs! You should have refused to see him! I shall +have you ill again on my hands, as before, after this. He'll have +undone all the good the last four years have done for you!" + +But I was another woman now. I felt it in a moment. + +"Auntie dearest," I answered, moving across to her, and laying my +hand on her shoulder to soothe her poor ruffled nerves, "don't be +the least alarmed. It's I who'm to blame, and not Maria. I told her +to let this gentleman in. He's done me good, not harm. I'm so glad +to have been allowed at last to speak freely about it!" + +Aunt Emma shook all over, visibly to the naked eye. + +"You'll have a relapse, my child!" she exclaimed, half crying, and +clinging to me in her terror. "You'll forget all you've learned: +you'll go back these four years again!--Leave my house at once, sir! +You should never have entered it!" + +I stood between them like a statue. + +"No, stop here a little longer," I said, waving my hand towards him +imperiously. "I haven't yet heard all it's right for me to hear.... +Auntie, you mistake. I'm a woman at last. I see what everything +means. I'm beginning to remember again. For four years that hateful +Picture has haunted me night and day. I could never shut my eyes for +a minute without seeing it. I've longed to know what it all meant; +but whenever I've asked, I've been repressed like a baby. I'm a baby +no longer: I feel myself a woman. What the Inspector here has told +me already, half opens my eyes: I must have them opened altogether +now. I can't stop at this point. I'm going back to Woodbury." + +Aunt Emma clung to me still harder in a perfect agony of passionate +terror. + +"To Woodbury, my darling!" she cried. "Going back! Oh, Una, it'll +kill you!" + +"I think not," the Inspector answered, with a very quiet smile. +"Miss Callingham has recovered, I venture to say, far more +profoundly than you imagine. This repression, our medical adviser +tells us, has been bad for her. If she's allowed to visit freely the +places connected with her earlier life, it may all return again to +her; and the ends of Justice may thus at last be served for us. I +notice already one hopeful symptom: Miss Callingham speaks of going +back to Woodbury." + +Aunt Emma looked up at him, horrified. All her firmness was gone +now. + +"It's YOU who've put this into her head!" she exclaimed, in a +ferment of horror. "She'd never thought of it herself. You've made +her do it!" + +"On the contrary, auntie," I answered, feeling my ground grow surer +under me every moment as I spoke, "this gentleman has never even by +the merest hint suggested such an idea to my mind. It occurred to me +quite spontaneously. I MUST find out now who was my father's +murderer! All the Inspector has told me seems to arouse in my brain +some vague, forgotten chords. It brings back to me faint shadows. I +feel sure if I went to Woodbury I should remember much more. And +then, you must see for yourself, there's another reason, dear, that +ought to make me go. Nobody but I ever saw the murderer's face. It's +a duty imposed upon me from without, as it were, never to rest again +in peace till I've recognised him." + +Aunt Emma collapsed into an easy-chair. Her face was deadly pale. +Her ringers trembled. + +"If you go, Una," she cried, playing nervously with her gloves, "I +must go with you too! I must take care of you: I must watch over +you!" + +I took her quivering hand in mine and stroked it gently. It was a +soft and delicate white little hand, all marked inside with curious +ragged scars that I'd known and observed ever since I first knew +her. I held it in silence for a minute. Somehow I felt our positions +were reversed to-day. This interview had suddenly brought out what I +know now to be my own natural and inherent character--self-reliant, +active, abounding in initiative. For four years I had been as a +child in her hands, through mere force of circumstances. My true +self came out now and asserted its supremacy. + +"No, dear," I said, soothing her cheek; "I shall go alone. I shall +try what I can discover and remember myself without any suggestion +or explanation from others. I want to find out how things really +stand. I shall set to work on my own account to unravel this +mystery." + +"But how can you manage things by yourself?" Aunt Emma exclaimed, +wringing her hands despondently. "A girl of your age! without even a +maid! and all alone in the world! I shall be afraid to let you go. +Dr. Wade won't allow it." + +I drew myself up very straight, and realised the position. + +"Aunt Emma," I said plainly, in a decided voice, "I'm a full-grown +woman, over twenty-one years of age, mistress of my own acts, and no +longer a ward of yours. I can do as I like, and neither Dr. Wade nor +anybody else can prevent me. He may ADVICE me not to go: he has no +power to ORDER me. I'm my father's heiress, and a person of +independent means. I've been a cipher too long. From to-day I take +my affairs wholly into my own hands. I 'll go round at once and see +your lawyer, your banker, your agent, your tradesmen, and tell them +that henceforth I draw my own rents, I receive my own dividends, I +pay my own bills, I keep my own banking account. And to-morrow or +the next day I set out for Woodbury." + +The Inspector turned to Aunt Emma with a demonstrative smile. + +"There, you see for. yourself," he said, well pleased, "what this +interview has done for her!" + +But Aunt Emma only drew back, wrung her hands again in impotent +despair, and stared at him blankly like a wounded creature. + +The Inspector took up his hat to leave. I followed him out to the +door, and shook hands with him cordially. The burden felt lighter on +my shoulders already. For four long years that mystery had haunted +me day and night, as a thing impenetrable, incomprehensible, not +even to be inquired about. The mere sense that I might now begin to +ask what it meant seemed to make it immediately less awful and less +burdensome to me. + +When I returned to the drawing-room, Aunt Emma sat there on the +sofa, crying silently, the very picture of misery. + +"Una," she said, without even raising her eyes to mine, "the man may +have done as he says: he may have restored you your mind again; but +what's that to me? He's lost me my child, my darling, my daughter!" + +I stooped down and kissed her. Dear, tender-hearted auntie! she had +always been very good to me. But I knew I was right, for all that, +in becoming a woman,--in asserting my years, my independence, my +freedom, my duty. To have shirked it any longer would have been +sheer cowardice. So I just kissed her silently, and went up to my +own room--to put on my brown hat, and go out to the banker's. + +From that moment forth, one fierce desire in life alone possessed +me. The brooding mystery that enveloped my life ceased to be +passive, and became an active goad, as it were, to push me forward +incessantly on my search for the runaway I was the creature of a +fixed idea. A fiery energy spurred me on all my time. I was +determined now to find out my father's murderer. I was determined to +shake off the atmosphere of doubt and forgetfulness. I was +determined to recall those first scenes of my life that so eluded my +memory. + +Yet, strange to say, it was rather a burning curiosity and a deep +sense of duty that urged me on, than anything I could properly call +affection--still less, revenge or malice. I didn't remember my +father as alive at all: the one thing I could recollect about him +was the ghastly look of that dead body, stretched at full length on +the library floor, with its white beard all dabbled in the red blood +that clotted it. It was abstract zeal for the discovery of the truth +that alone pushed me on. This search became to me henceforth an end +and aim in itself. It stood out, as it were, visibly in the +imperative mood: "go here;" "go there;" "do this;" "try that;" +"leave no stone unturned anywhere till you've tracked down the +murderer!" Those were the voices that now incessantly though +inaudibly pursued me. + +Next day I spent in preparations for my departure. I would hunt up +Woodbury now, though fifty Aunt Emma's held their gentle old faces +up in solemn warning against me. The day after that again, I set out +on my task. The pull was hard. I had taken my own affairs entirely +into my own hands by that time, and had provided myself with money +for a long stay at Woodbury. But it was the very first railway +journey I could ever remember to have made alone; and I confess, +when I found myself seated all by myself in a first-class carriage, +with no friend beside me, my resolution for a moment almost broke +down again. It was so terrible to feel oneself boxed up there for an +hour or two alone, with that awful Picture staring one in the face +all the time from every fence and field and wall and hoarding. It +obliterated Fry's Cocoa; it fixed itself on the yellow face of +Colman's Mustard. + +I went by Liverpool Street, and drove across to Paddington. I had +never, to my knowledge, been in London before: and it was all so new +to me. But Liverpool Street was even newer to me than Paddington, I +noticed. A faint sense of familiarity seemed to hang about the Great +Western line. And that was not surprising, I thought, as I turned it +over; for, of course, in the old days, when we lived at Woodbury, I +must often have come down from town that way with my father. Yet I +remembered nothing of it all definitely; the most I could say was +that I seemed dimly to recollect having been there before--though +when or where or how, I hadn't the faintest notion. + +I was early at Paddington. The refreshment room somehow failed to +attract me. I walked up and down the platform, waiting for my train. +As I did so, a boy pasted a poster on a board: it was the +contents-sheet of one of the baser little Society papers. Something +strange in it caught my eye. I looked again in amazement. Oh, great +heavens! what was this in big flaring letters? + +"MISS UNA CALLINGHAM AND THE WOODBURY MYSTERY! Is SHE SCREENING THE +MURDERER? A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION!" + +The words took my breath away. They were too horrible to realise. I +positively couldn't speak. I went up to the bookstall, laid down my +penny without moving my lips, and took the paper in my hand in +tremulous silence. + +I dared not open it there and then, I confess. I waited till I was +in the train, and on my way to Woodbury. + +When I did so, it was worse, even worse than my fears. The article +was short, but it was very hateful. It said nothing straight +out--the writer had evidently the fear of the law of libel before +his eyes as he wrote,--but it hinted and insinuated in a detestable +undertone the most vile innuendoes. A Treasury Doctor and a Police +Inspector, it said, had lately examined Miss Callingham again, and +found her intellect in every respect perfectly normal, except that +she couldn't remember the face of her father's murderer. Now, this +was odd, because, you see, Miss Callingham was in the room at the +moment the shot was fired; and, alone in the world, Miss Callingham +had seen the face of the man who fired it. Who was that man? and why +was he there, unknown to the servants, in a room with nobody but Mr. +Callingham and his daughter? A correspondent (who preferred to guard +his incognito) had suggested in this matter some very searching +questions: Could the young man--for it was allowed he was +young--have been there with Miss Callingham when Mr. Callingham +entered? Could he have been on terms of close intimacy with the +heroine of The Grange Mystery, who was a young lady--as all the +world knew from her photographs--of great personal attractiveness, +and who was also the heiress to a considerable property? Could he +have been there, then, by appointment, without the father's +knowledge? Was this the common case of a clandestine assignation? +Could the father have returned to the house unexpectedly, at an +inopportune moment, and found his daughter there, closeted with a +stranger--perhaps with a man who had already, for sufficient +grounds, been forbidden the premises? Such things might be, in this +world that we live in: he would be a bold man who would deny them +categorically. Could an altercation have arisen on the father's +return, and the fatal shot have been fired in the ensuing scuffle? +And could the young lady then have feigned this curious relapse into +that Second State we had all heard so much about, for no other +reason than to avoid giving evidence at a trial for murder against +her guilty lover? + +These were suggestions that deserved the closest consideration of +the Authorities charged with the repression of crime. Was it not +high time that the inquest on Mr. Callingham's body should be +formally reopened, and that the young lady, now restored (as we +gathered) to her own seven senses, should be closely interrogated by +trained legal cross-examiners? + +I laid down the paper with a burning face. I learned now, for the +first time, how closely my case had been watched, how eagerly my +every act and word had been canvassed. It was hateful to think of my +photograph having been exposed in every London shop-window, and of +anonymous slanderers being permitted to indite such scandal as this +about an innocent woman. But, at any rate, it had the effect of +sealing my fate. If I meant even before to probe this mystery to the +bottom, I felt now no other course was possibly open to me. For the +sake of my own credit, for the sake of my own good fame, I must find +out and punish my father's murderer. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +RELIVING MY LIFE + + + + + +Often, as you walk down a street, a man or woman passes you by. You +look up at them and say to yourself, "I seem to know that face"; but +you can put no name to it, attach to it no definite idea, no +associations of any sort. That was just how Woodbury struck me when +I first came back to it. The houses, the streets, the people, were +in a way familiar; yet I could no more have found my way alone from +the station to The Grange than I could find my way alone from here +to Kamschatka. + +So I drove up first in search of lodgings. At the station even +several people had bowed or shaken hands with me respectfully as I +descended from the train. They came up as if they thought I must +recognise them at once: there was recognition in their eyes; but +when they met my blank stare, they seemed to remember all about it, +and merely murmured in strange tones: + +"Good-morning, miss! So you're here: glad to see you've come back +again at last to Woodbury." + +This reception dazzled me. It was so strange, so uncanny. I was glad +to get away in a fly by myself, and to be driven to lodgings in the +clean little High Street. For to me, it wasn't really "coming back" +at all: it was coming to a strange town, where everyone knew me, and +_I_ knew nobody. + +"You'd like to go to Jane's, of course," the driver said to me with +a friendly nod as he reached the High Street: and not liking to +confess my forgetfulness of Jane, I responded with warmth that +Jane's would, no doubt, exactly suit me. + +We drew up at the door of a neat little house. The driver rang the +bell. + +"Miss Una's here," he said, confidentially; "and she's looking for +lodgings." + +It was inexpressibly strange and weird to me, this one-sided +recognition, this unfamiliar familiarity: it gave me a queer thrill +of the supernatural that I can hardly express to you. But I didn't +know what to do, when a kindly-faced, middle-aged English +upper-class servant rushed out at me, open-armed, and hugging me +hard to her breast, exclaimed with many loud kisses: + +"Miss Una, Miss Una! So it's YOU, dear; so it is! Then you've come +back at last to us!" + +I could hardly imagine what to say or do. The utmost I could assert +with truth was, Jane's face wasn't exactly and entirely in all ways +unfamiliar to me. Yet I could see Jane herself was so unfeignedly +delighted to see me again, that I hadn't the heart to confess I'd +forgotten her very existence. So I took her two hands in mine-- +since friendliness begets friendliness--and holding her off a little +way, for fear the kisses should be repeated, I said to her very +gravely: + +"You see, Jane, since those days I've had a terrible shock, and you +can hardly expect me to remember anything. It's all like a dream to +me. You must forgive me if I don't recall it just at once as I ought +to do." + +"Oh! yes, miss," Jane answered, holding my hands in her delight and +weeping volubly. "We've read about all that, of course, in the +London newspapers. But there, I'm glad anyhow you remembered to come +and look for my lodgings. I think I should just have sat down and +cried if they told me Miss Una'd come back to Woodbury, and never so +much as asked to see me." + +I don't think I ever felt so like a hypocrite in my life before. But +I realised at least that even if Jane's lodgings were discomfort +embodied, I must take them and stop in them, while I remained there, +now. Nothing else was possible. I COULDN'T go elsewhere. + +Fortunately, however, the rooms turned out to be as neat as a new +pin, and as admirably kept as any woman in England could keep them. +I gathered from the very first, of course, that Jane had been one of +the servants at The Grange in the days of my First State; and while +I drank my cup of tea, Jane herself came in and talked volubly to +me, disclosing to me, parenthetically, the further fact that she was +the parlour-maid at the time of my father's murder. That gave me a +clue to her identity. Then she was the witness Greenfield who gave +evidence at the inquest! I made a mental note of that, and +determined to look up what she'd said to the coroner, in the book of +extracts the Inspector gave me, as soon as I got alone in my bedroom +that evening. + +After dinner, however, Jane came in again, with the freedom of an +old servant, and talked to me much about the Woodbury Mystery. +Gradually, as time went on that night, though I remembered nothing +definite of myself about her, the sense of familiarity and +friendliness came home to me more vividly. The appropriate emotion +seemed easier to rouse, I observed, than the intellectual memory. I +knew Jane and I had been on very good terms, some time, somewhere. I +talked with her easily, for I had a consciousness of companionship. + +By-and-by, without revealing to her how little I could recollect +about her own personality, I confessed to Jane, by slow degrees, +that the whole past was still gone utterly from my shattered memory. +I told her I knew nothing except the Picture and the facts it +comprised; and to show her just how small that knowledge really was, +I showed her (imprudently enough) the photograph the Inspector had +left with me. + +Jane looked at it long and slowly, with tears in her eyes. Then she +said at last, after a deep pause, in a very hushed voice: + +"Why, how did you get this? It wasn't put in the papers." + +"No," I answered quietly, "it wasn't put in the papers. For reasons +of their own, the police kept it unpublished." + +Jane gazed at the proof still closer. "They oughtn't to have done +that," she said. + +"They ought to have sent it out everywhere broadcast--so that +anybody who knew the man could tell him by his back." + +That seemed to me such obvious good sense that I wondered to myself +the police hadn't thought long since of it; but I supposed they had +some good ground of their own for holding it all this time in their +own possession. + +Jane went on talking to me still for many minutes about the scene: + +"Ah, yes; that was just how he lay, poor dear gentleman! And the +book on the chair, too! Well, did you ever in your life see anything +so like! And to think it was taken all by itself, as one might say, +by magic. But there! your poor papa was a wonderful clever man. Such +things as he used to invent! Such ideas and such machines! We were +sorry for him, though we always thought, to be sure, he was dreadful +severe with you, Miss Una. Such a gentleman to have his own way, too +--so cold and reserved like. But one mustn't talk nothing but good +about the dead, they say. And if he was a bit hard, he was more than +hard treated for it in the end, poor gentleman!" + +It interested me to get these half side-lights on my father's +character. Knowing nothing of him, as I did, save the solitary fact +that he was the white-haired gentleman I saw dead in my Picture, I +naturally wanted to learn as much as I could from this old servant +of ours as to the family conditions. + +"Then you thought him harsh, in the servants'-hall?" I said +tentatively to Jane. "You thought him hard and unbending?" + +"Well, there, Miss," Jane ran on, putting a cushion to my back +tenderly--it was strange to be the recipient of so much delicate +attention from a perfect stranger,--"not exactly what you'd call +harsh to us ourselves, you know: he was a good master enough, as +long as one did what was ordered, though he was a little bit +fidgetty. But to you, we all thought he was always rather hard. +People said so in Woodbury. And yet, in a way, I don't know how it +was, he always seemed more'n half afraid of you. He was careful +about your health, and spoiled and petted you for that; yet he was +always pulling you up, you know, and looking after what you did: and +for one thing, I remember, there's many a time you were sent to bed +when you were a good big girl for nothing on earth else but because +he heard you talking to us in the hall about Australia." + +"Talking to you about Australia!" I cried, pricking my ears. "Why, +what harm was there in that? Why on earth didn't he want me to talk +about Australia?" + +"Ah! what harm indeed?" Jane echoed blandly. "That's what we often +used to say among ourselves downstairs. But Mr. Callingham, he was +always that way, miss--so strict and particular. He said he'd +forbidden you to say a word to anybody about that confounded +country; and you must do as you were told. He seemed to have a +grudge against Australia, though it was there he made his money. And +he always would have his own way, your father would." + +While she spoke, I looked hard at the white head in the photograph. +Even as I did so, a thought occurred to me that had never occurred +before. Both in my mental Picture, and in looking at the photograph +when I saw it first, the feeling that was uppermost in my mind was +not sorrow, but horror. I didn't think with affection and regret and +a deep sense of bereavement about my father's murder. The emotional +accompaniment that had stamped itself upon the very fibre of my +soul, was not pain but awe. I think my main feeling was a feeling +that a foul crime had taken place in the house, not a feeling that I +had lost a very dear and near relative. Rightly or wrongly, I drew +from this the inference, which Jane's gossip confirmed, that I had +probably rather feared than loved my father. + +It was strange to be reduced to such indirect evidence on such a +point as that; but it was all I could get, and I had to be content +with it. + +Jane, leaning over my shoulder, looked hard at the photograph too. I +could see her eyes were fixed on the back of the man who was seen +disappearing through the open window. He was dressed like a +gentleman, in knickerbockers and jacket, as far as one could judge; +for the evening light rather blurred that part of the picture. One +hand was just waved, palm open, behind him. Jane regarded it hard. +Then she gave an odd little start: + +"Why, just look at that hand!" she cried, with a tremor of surprise. +"Don't you see what it is? Don't you think it's a woman's?" + +I gazed back at her incredulously. + +"Impossible," I answered, shaking my head. "It belongs as clear as +day to the man you see in the photograph. How on earth could his +hand be a woman's then, I'd like to know? I can see the shirt-cuff." + +"Why, yes," Jane answered, with simple common-sense: "it's DRESSED +like a man, of course, and it's a man to look at; but the hand's a +woman's, as true as I'm standing here. Why mightn't a woman dress in +a man's suit on purpose? And perhaps it was just because they were +so sure it was a man as did it, that the police has gone wrong so +long in trying to find the murderer." + +I looked hard at the hand myself. Then I shut my eyes, and thought +of the corresponding object in my mental Picture. The result fairly +staggered me. The impression in each case was exactly the same. It +was a soft and delicate hand, very white and womanlike. But was it +really a woman's? I couldn't feel quite sure in my own mind about +that; but the very warning Jane gave me seemed to me a most useful +one. It would be well, after all, to keep one's mind sedulously open +to every possible explanation, and to take nothing for granted as to +the murderer's personality. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE GRANGE AT WOODBURY + + + + + +I stopped for three weeks in Jane's lodgings; and before the end of +that time, Jane and I had got upon the most intimate footing. It was +partly her kindliness that endeared her to me, and her constant +sense of continuity with the earlier days which I had quite +forgotten; but it was partly too, I felt sure, a vague revival +within my own breast of a familiarity that had long ago subsisted +between us. I was coming to myself again, on one side of my nature. +Day by day I grew more certain that while facts had passed away from +me, appropriate emotions remained vaguely present. Among the +Woodbury people that I met, I recognised none to say that I knew +them; but I knew almost at first sight that I liked this one and +disliked that one. And in every case alike, when I talked the matter +over afterwards with Jane, she confirmed my suspicion that in my +First State I had liked or disliked just those persons respectively. +My brain was upset, but my heart remained precisely the same as +ever. + +On my second morning I went up to The Grange with her. The house was +still unlet. Since the day of the murder, nobody cared to live in +it. The garden and shrubbery had been sadly neglected: Jane took me +out of the way as we walked up the path, to show me the place where +the photographic apparatus had been found embedded in the grass, and +where the murderer had cut his hands getting over the wall in his +frantic agitation. The wall was pretty high and protected with +bottle-glass. I guessed he must have been tall to scramble over it. +That seemed to tell against Jane's crude idea that a woman might +have done it. + +But when I said so to Jane, she met me at once with the crushing +reply: "Perhaps it wasn't the same person that came back for the +box." I saw she was right again. I had jumped at a conclusion. In +cases like this, one must leave no hypothesis untried, jump at no +conclusions of any sort. Clearly, that woman ought to have been made +a detective. + +As I entered the house the weird sense of familiarity that pursued +me throughout rose to a very high pitch. I couldn't fairly say, +indeed, that I remembered the different rooms. All I could say with +certainty was that I had seen them before. To this there were three +exceptions--the three that belonged to my Second State--the library, +my bedroom, and the hall and staircase. The first was indelibly +printed on my memory as a component part of the Picture, and I found +my recollection of every object in the room almost startling in its +correctness. Only, there was an alcove on one side that I'd quite +forgotten, and I saw why most clearly. I stood with my back to it as +I looked at the Picture. The other two bits I remembered as the room +in which I had had my first great illness, and the passage down +which I had been carried or helped when I was taken to Aunt Emma's. + +I had begun to recognise now that the emotional impression made upon +me by people and things was the only sure guide I still possessed as +to their connection or association with my past history. And the +rooms at The Grange had each in this way some distinctive +characteristic. The library, of course, was the chief home of the +Horror which had hung upon my spirit even during the days when I +hardly knew in any intelligible sense the cause of it. But the +drawing-room and dining-room both produced upon my mind a vague +consciousness of constraint. I was dimly aware of being ill at ease +and uncomfortable in them. My own bedroom, on the contrary, gave me +a pleasant feeling of rest and freedom and security: while the +servants'-hall and the kitchen seemed perfect paradises of liberty. + +"Ah! many's the time, miss," Jane said with a sigh, looking over at +the empty grate, "you'd come down here to make cakes or puddings, +and laugh and joke like a child with Mary an' me. I often used to +say to Emily--her as was cook here before Ellen Smith,--'Miss Una's +never so happy as when she's down here in the kitchen.' And 'That's +true what you say,' says Emily to me, many a time and often." + +That was exactly the impression left upon my own mind. I began to +conclude, in a dim, formless way, that my father must have been a +somewhat stern and unsympathetic man; that I had felt constrained +and uncomfortable in his presence upstairs, and had often been +pleased to get away from his eye to the comparative liberty and ease +of my own room or of the maid-servants' quarters. + +At last, in the big attic that had once been the nursery, I paused +and looked at Jane. A queer sensation came over me. + +"Jane," I said slowly, hardly liking to frame the words, "there's +something strange about this room. He wasn't cruel to me, was he?" + +"Oh! no, miss," Jane answered promptly. "He wasn't never what you +might call exactly cruel. He was a very good father, and looked +after you well; but he was sort of stern and moody-like--would have +his own way, and didn't pay no attention to fads and fancies, he +called 'em. When you were little, many's the time he sent you up +here for punishment--disobedience and such like." + +I took out the photograph and tried, as it were, to think of my +father as alive and with his eyes open. I couldn't remember the +eyes. Jane told me they were blue; but I think what she said was the +sort of impression the face produced upon me. A man not unjust or +harsh in his dealings with myself, but very strong and masterful. A +man who would have his own way in spite of anybody. A father who +ruled his daughter as a vessel of his making, to be done as he would +with, and be moulded to his fashion. + +Still, my visit to The Grange resulted in the end in casting very +little light upon the problem before me. It pained and distressed me +greatly, but it brought no new elements of the case into view: at +best, it only familiarised me with the scene of action of the +tragedy. The presence of the alcove was the one fresh feature. +Nothing recalled to me as yet in any way the murderer's features. I +racked my brain in vain; no fresh image came up in it. I could +recollect nothing about the man or his antecedents. + +I almost began to doubt that I would ever succeed in reconstructing +my past, when even the sight of the home in which I had spent my +childish days suggested so few new thoughts or ideas to me. + +For a day or two after that I rested at Jane's, lest I should +disturb my brain too much. Then I called once more on the doctor who +had made the post mortem on my father, and given evidence at the +inquest, to see if anything he could say might recall my lapsed +memory. + +The moment he came into the room--a man about fifty, close-shaven +and kindly-looking--I recognised him at once, and held out my hand +to him frankly. He surveyed me from head to foot with a good medical +stare, and then wrung my hand in return with extraordinary warmth +and effusion. I could see at once he retained a most pleasing +recollection of my First State, and was really glad to see me. + +"What, you remember me then, Una!" he cried, with quite fatherly +delight. "You haven't forgotten me, my dear, as you've forgotten all +the rest, haven't you?" + +It was startling to be called by one's Christian name like that, and +by a complete stranger, too; but I was getting quite accustomed now +to these little incongruities. + +"Oh, yes; I remember you perfectly," I answered, half-grieved to +distress him, "though I shouldn't have known your name, and didn't +expect to see you. You're the doctor who attended me in my first +great illness--the illness with which my present life began--just +after the murder." + +He drew back, a little crestfallen. + +"Then that's all you recollect, is it?" he asked. "You don't +remember me before, dear? Not Dr. Marten, who used to take you on +his knee when you were a tiny little girl, and bring you lollipops +from town, to the great detriment of your digestion, and get into +rows with your poor father for indulging you and spoiling you? You +must surely remember me?" + +I shook my head slowly. I was sorry to disappoint him; but it was +necessary before all things to get at the bare truth. + +"I'm afraid not," I answered. "Do please forgive me! You must have +read in the papers, like everybody else, of the very great change +that has so long come over me. Bear in mind, I can't remember +anything at all that occurred before the murder. That first illness +is to me the earliest recollection of childhood." + +He gazed across at me compassionately. + +"My poor child," he said in a low voice, like a very affectionate +friend, "it's much better so. You have been mercifully spared a +great deal of pain. Una, when I first saw you at The Grange after +your father's death, I thanked heaven you had been so seized. I +thanked heaven the world had become suddenly a blank to you. I +prayed hard you might never recover your senses again, or at least +your memory. And now that you're slowly returned to life once more, +against all hope or fear, I'm heartily glad it's in this peculiar +way. I'm heartily glad all the past's blotted out for you. You can't +understand that, my child? Ah, no, very likely not. But I think it's +much best for you, all your first life should be wholly forgotten." +He paused for a second. Then he added slowly: "If you remembered it +all, the sense of the tragedy would be far more acute and poignant +even than at present." + +"Perhaps so," I said resolutely; "but not the sense of mystery. It's +THAT that appals me so! I'd rather know the truth than be so wrapped +up in the incomprehensible." + +He looked at me pityingly once more. + +"My poor child," he said, in the same gentle and fatherly voice, +"you don't wholly understand. It doesn't all come home to you. I can +see clearly, from what Inspector Wolferstan told me, after his visit +to you the other day--" + +I broke in, in surprise. + +"Inspector Wolferstan!" I cried. "Then he came down here to see you, +did he?" + +It was horrible to find how all my movements were discussed and +chronicled. + +"Yes, he came down here to see me and talk things over," Dr. Marten +went on, as calmly as if it were mere matter of course. "And I could +see from what he said you were still spared much. For instance, you +remember it all only as an event that happened to an old man with a +long white beard. You don't fully realise, except intellectually, +that it was your own father. You're saved, as a daughter, the misery +and horror of thinking and feeling it was your father who lay dead +there." + +"That's quite true," I answered. "I admit that I can't feel it all +as deeply as I ought. But none the less, I've come down here to make +a violent effort. Let it cost what it may, I must get at the truth. +I wanted to see whether the sight of The Grange and of Woodbury may +help me to recall the lost scenes in my memory." + +To my immense surprise, Dr. Marten rose from his seat, and standing +up before me in a perfect agony of what seemed like terror, half +mixed with affection, exclaimed in a very earnest and resolute +voice: + +"Oh, Una, my child, whatever you do--I beg of you--I implore +you--don't try to recall the past at all! Don't attempt it! Don't +dream of it!" + +"Why not?" I cried, astonished. "Surely it's my duty to try and find +out my father's murderer!" + +Instead of answering me, he looked about him for half a minute in +suspense, as if doubtful what next to do or to say. Then he walked +across with great deliberation to the door of the room, and locked +and double-locked it with furtive alarm, as I interpreted his +action. + +So terrified did he seem, indeed, that for a moment the idea +occurred to me in a very vague way--Was I talking with the murderer? +Had the man who himself committed the crime conducted the post +mortem, and put Justice off the scent? And was I now practically at +the mercy of the criminal I was trying to track down? The thought +for a second or two made me feel terribly uncomfortable. But I +glanced at his back and at his hands, and reassured myself. That +broad, short man was not the slim figure of my Picture and of the +photograph. Those large red hands were not the originals of the +small and delicate white palm just displayed at the back in both +those strange documents of the mysterious murder. + +The doctor came over again, and drew his chair close to mine. + +"Una, my child," he said slowly, "I love you very much, as if you +were my own daughter. I always loved you and admired you, and was +sorry--oh, so sorry!--for you. You've quite forgotten who I am; but +I've not forgotten you. Take what I say as coming from an old +friend, from one who loves you and has your interest at heart. For +heaven's sake, I implore you, my child, make no more inquiries. Try +to forget--not to remember. If you do recollect, you'll be sorry in +the end for it." + +"Why so?" I asked, amazed, yet somehow feeling in my heart I could +trust him implicitly. "Why should the knowledge of the true +circumstances of the case make me more unhappy than I am at +present?" + +He gazed harder at me than ever. + +"Because," he replied in slow tones, weighing each word as he spoke, +"you may find that the murder was committed by some person or +persons you love or once loved very much indeed. You may find it +will rend your very heart-strings to see that person or those +persons punished. You may find the circumstances were wholly +otherwise than you imagine them to be.... Let sleeping dogs lie, my +dear. Without your aid, nothing more can be done. Don't trouble +yourself to put the blood-hounds on the track of some unhappy +creature who might otherwise escape. Don't rake it all up afresh. +Bury it--bury it--bury it!" + +He spoke so earnestly that he filled me with vague alarm. + +"Dr. Marten," I said solemnly, "answer me just one question. Do you +know who was the murderer?" + +"No, no!" he exclaimed, starting once more. "Thank heaven, I can't +tell you that! I don't know. I know nothing. Nobody on earth knows +but the two who were present on the night of the murder, I feel +sure. And of those two, one's unknown, and the other has forgotten." + +"But you suspect who he is?" I put in, probing the secret curiously. + +He trembled visibly. + +"I suspect who he is," he replied, after a moment's hesitation. "But +I have never communicated, and will never communicate, my suspicions +to anybody, not even to you. I will only say this: the person whom I +suspect is one with whom you may now have forgotten all your past +relations, but whom you would be sorry to punish if you recovered +your memory. I formed a strong opinion at the time who that person +was. I formed it from the nature and disposition of the wound, and +the arrangement of the objects in the room when I was called in to +see your father's body." + +"And you never said so at the inquest!" I cried, indignant. + +He looked at me hard again. Then he spoke in a very slow and earnest +voice: + +"For your sake, Una, and for the sake of your affections, I held my +peace," he said. "My dear, the suspicion was but a very slender one: +I had nothing to go upon. And why should I have tried to destroy +your happiness?" + +That horrible article in the penny Society paper came back to my +mind once more with hideous suggestiveness. I turned to him almost +fiercely. + +"So far as you know, Dr. Marten," I asked, "was I ever in love? Had +I ever an admirer? Was I ever engaged to anyone?" + +He shrugged his shoulders and smiled a sort of smile of relief. + +"How should I know?" he answered. "Admirers?--yes, dozens of them; +I was one myself. Lovers?--who can say? But I advise you not to +push the inquiry further." + +I questioned him some minutes longer, but could get nothing more +from him. Then I rose to go. + +"Dr. Marten," I said firmly, "if I remember all, and if it wrings my +heart to remember, I tell you I will give up that man to justice all +the same! I think I know myself well enough to know this much at +least, that I never, never could stoop either to love or to screen a +man who could commit such a foul and dastardly crime as this one." + +He took my hand fervently, raised it with warmth to his lips and +kissed it twice over. + +"My dear," he said, with tears dropping down his gentle old cheeks, +"this is a very great mystery--a terrible mystery. But I know you +speak the truth. I can see you mean it. Therefore, all the more +earnestly do I beg and beseech you, go away from Woodbury at once, +and as long as you live think no more about it." + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +A VISION OF DEAD YEARS + + + + + +The interview with Dr. Marten left me very much disquieted. But it +wasn't the only disquieting thing that occurred at Woodbury. Before +I left the place I happened to go one day into Jane's own little +sitting-room. Jane was anxious I should see it--she wanted me to +know all her house, she said, for the sake of old times: and for the +sake of those old times that I couldn't remember, but when I knew +she'd been kind to me, I went in and looked at it. + +There was nothing very peculiar about Jane's little sitting-room: +just the ordinary English landlady's parlour. You know the +type:--square table in the middle; bright blue vases on the +mantelpiece; chromo-lithograph from the Illustrated London News on +the wall; rickety whatnot with glass-shaded wax-flowers in the +recess by the window. But over in one corner I chanced to observe a +framed photograph of early execution, which hung faded and dim +there. Perhaps it was because my father was such a scientific +amateur; but photography, I found out in time, struck the key-note +of my history in every chapter. I didn't know why, but this +particular picture attracted me strangely. It came from The Grange, +Jane told me: she'd hunted it out in the attic over the front +bedroom after the house was shut up. It belonged to a lot of my +father's early attempts that were locked in a box there. "He'd +always been trying experiments and things," she said, "with +photography, poor gentleman." + +Faded and dim as it was, the picture riveted my eyes at once by some +unknown power of attraction. I gazed at it long and earnestly. It +represented a house of colonial aspect, square, wood-built, and +verandah-girt, standing alone among strange trees whose very names +and aspects were then unfamiliar to me, but which I nowadays know to +be Australian eucalyptuses. On the steps of the verandah sat a lady +in deep mourning. A child played by her side, and a collie dog lay +curled up still and sleepy in the foreground. The child, indeed, +stirred no chord of any sort in my troubled brain; but my heart came +up into my mouth so at sight of the lady, that I said to myself all +at once in my awe, "That must surely be my mother!" + +The longer I looked at it, the more was I convinced I must have +judged aright. Not indeed that in any true sense I could say I +remembered her face or figure: I was so young when she died, +according to everybody's account, that even if I'd remained in my +First State I could hardly have retained any vivid recollection of +her. But both lady and house brought up in me once more to some +vague degree that strange consciousness of familiarity I had noticed +at The Grange: and what was odder still, the sense of wont seemed +even more marked in the Australian cottage than in the case of the +house which all probability would have inclined one beforehand to +think I must have remembered better. If this was indeed my earliest +home, then I seemed to recollect it far more readily than my later +one. + +I turned trembling to Jane, hardly daring to frame the question that +rose first to my lips. + +"Is that--my mother?" I faltered out slowly. + +But there Jane couldn't help me. She'd never seen the lady, she +said. + +"When first I come to The Grange, miss, you see, your mother'd been +buried a year; there was only you and Mr. Callingham in family. And +I never saw that photograph, neither, till I picked it out of the +box locked up in the attic. The little girl might be you, like +enough, when you look at it sideways; and yet again it mightn't. But +the lady I don't know. I never saw your mother." + +So I was fain to content myself with pure conjecture. + +All day long, however, the new picture haunted me almost as +persistently as the old one. + +That night I went to sleep fast, and slept for some hours heavily. I +woke with a start. I had been dreaming very hard. And my dream was +peculiarly clear and lifelike. Never since the first night of my new +life--the night of the murder--had I dreamed such a dream, or seen +dead objects so vividly. It came out in clear colours, like the +terrible Picture that had haunted me so long. And it affected me +strangely. It was a scene, rather than a dream--a scene, as at the +theatre; but a scene in which I realised and recognised everything. + +I stood on the steps of a house--a white wooden house, with a +green-painted verandah--the very house I had seen that afternoon in +the faded photograph in Jane's little sitting-room. But I didn't +think of it at first as the house in the old picture: I thought of +it as home--our own place--the cottage. The steps seemed to me very +high, as in childish recollection. A lady walked about on the +verandah and called to me: a lady in a white gown, like the lady in +the photograph, only younger and prettier, and dressed much more +daintily. But I didn't think of her as that either: I called her +mamma to myself: I looked up into her face, oh, ever so much above +me: I must have been very small indeed when that picture first +occurred to me. There was a gentleman, too, in a white linen coat, +who pinched my mamma's ear, and talked softly and musically. But I +didn't think of him quite so: I knew he was my papa: I played about +his knees, a little scampering child, and looked up in his face, and +teased him and laughed at him. My papa looked down at me, and called +me a little kitten, and rolled me over on my back, and fondled me +and laughed with me. There were trees growing all about, big trees +with long grey leaves: the same sort of trees as the ones in the +photograph. But I didn't remember that at first: in my dream, and in +the first few minutes of my waking thought, I knew them at once as +the big blue-gum-trees. + +I awoke in the midst of it: and the picture persisted. + +Then, with a sudden burst of intuition, the truth flashed upon me +all at once. My dream was no mere dream, but a revelation in my +sleep. It was my intellect working unconsciously and spontaneously +in an automatic condition. For the very first time in my life, since +the night of the murder, I had really REMEMBERED something that +occurred before it. + +This was a scene of my First State. In all probability it was my +earliest true childish recollection. + +I sat up in bed, appalled. I dared not call aloud or ring for Jane +to come to me. But if I'd seen a ghost, it could hardly have +affected me more profoundly than this ghost of my own dead life thus +brought suddenly back to me. Gazing away across some illimitable +vista of dim years, I remembered this one scene as something that +once occurred, long ago, to my very self, in my own experience. Then +came a vast gulf, an unbridged abyss: and after that, with a +vividness as of yesterday, the murder. + +I held my ears and crouched low, sitting up in my bed in the dark. +But the dream seemed to go on still: it remained with me distinctly. + +The more I thought it over, the more certain it appeared as part of +my own experience. Putting two and two together, I made sure in my +own mind this was a genuine recollection of my life in Australia. I +was born there, I knew: that I had learned from everybody. But I +could distinctly remember having LIVED there now. It came back to me +as memory. The dream had reinstated it. + +And it was the sight of the photograph that had produced the dream. +This was curious, very. A weird idea came across me. Had I begun, in +all past efforts to remember, at the wrong end? Instead of trying to +recollect the circumstances that immediately preceded the murder, +ought I to have set out by trying to reinstate my First Life, +chapter by chapter and verse by verse, from childhood upward? Ought +I to start by recalling as far as possible my very earliest +recollections in my previous existence, and then gradually work up +through all my subsequent history to the date of the murder? + +The more I thought of it, the more convinced was I that that was the +right procedure. + +It was certainly significant that this vague childish recollection +of something which might have happened when I was just about two +years old should be the very first thing to recur to my my memory. +Yet so appalled and alarmed was I by the weirdness of this sudden +apparition, looming up, as it were, all by itself in the depths of +my consciousness, that I hardly dared bring myself to think of +trying to recall any other scenes of that dead and past existence. +The picture rose like an exhalation, hanging unrelated in mid-air, a +mere mental mirage: and it terrified me so much, that I shrank +unutterably from the effort of calling up another of like sort to +follow it. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +HATEFUL SUSPICIONS + + + + + +The rest of that night I lay awake in my bed, the scene in the +verandah by the big blue-gum-trees haunting me all the time, much as +in earlier days the Picture of the murder had pursued and haunted +me. Early in the morning I rose up, and went down to Jane in her +little parlour. I longed for society in my awe. I needed human +presence. I couldn't bear to be left alone by myself with all these +pressing and encompassing mysteries. + +"Jane," I said after a few minutes' careless talk--for I didn't +like to tell her about my wonderful dream,--"where exactly did you +find the picture of that house hanging over in the corner there?" + +"Lor' bless your heart, miss," Jane answered, "there's a whole +boxful of them at The Grange. Nobody ever cared for them. They're up +in the top attic. They were locked till your papa died, and then +they were opened by order of the executors. Some of 'em's faded even +worse than that one, and none of 'em's very good; but I picked this +one out because it was better worth framing for my room than most of +'em. The executors took no notice when they found what they was. +They opened the box to see if it was dockyments." + +"Well, Jane," I said, "I shall go up and bring them every one away +with me. It's possible they may help me to recollect things a bit." +I drew my hand across my forehead. "It all seems so hazy," I went +on. "Yet when I see things again, I sometimes feel as if I almost +recognised them." + +So that very morning we went up together (I wouldn't go alone), and +got the rest of the photographs--very faded positives from +old-fashioned plates, most of them representing persons and places I +had never seen; and a few of them apparently not taken in England. + +I didn't look them all over at once just then. I thought it best not +to do so. I would give my memory every possible chance. Take a few +at a time, and see what effect they produced on me. Perhaps--though +I shrank from the bare idea with horror--they might rouse in my +sleep such another stray effort of spontaneous reconstruction. Yet +the last one had cost me much nervous wear and tear--much mental +agony. + +A few days after, I went away from Woodbury. I had learned for the +moment, I thought, all that Woodbury could teach me: and I longed to +get free again for a while from this pervading atmosphere of +mystery. At Aunt Emma's, at least, all was plain and aboveboard. I +would go back to Barton-on-the-Sea, and rest there for a while, +among the heathery hills, before proceeding any further on my voyage +of discovery. + +But I took back Jane with me. I was fond of Jane now. In those two +short weeks I had learned to cling to her. Though I remembered her, +strictly speaking, no more than at first, yet the affection I must +have borne her in my First State seemed to revive in me very easily, +like all other emotions. I was as much at home with Jane, indeed, as +if I had known her for years. And this wasn't strange; for I HAD +known her for years, in point of fact; and and though I'd forgotton +most of those years, the sense of familiarity they had inspired +still lived on with me unconsciously. I know now that memory resides +chiefly in the brain, while the emotions are a wider endowment of +the nervous system in general; so that while a great shock may +obliterate whole tracts in the memory, no power on earth can ever +alter altogether the sentiments and feelings. + +As for Jane, she was only too glad to come with me. There were no +lodgers at present, she said; and none expected. Her sister +Elizabeth would take care of the rooms, and if any stranger came, +why, Lizzie'd telegraph down at once for her. So I wrote to Aunt +Emma to expect us both next day. Aunt Emma's, I knew, was a home +where I or mine were always welcome. + +Jane had never seen Aunt Emma. There had been feud between the +families while my father lived, so she didn't visit The Grange after +my mother's death. Aunt Emma had often explained to me in part how +all that happened. It was the one point in our family history on +which she'd ever been explicit: for she had a grievance there; and +what woman on earth can ever suppress her grievances? It's our +feminine way to air them before the world, as it's a man's to bury +them deep in his own breast and brood over them. + +My mother, she told me, had been a widow when my father married +her--a rich young widow. She had gone away, a mere girl, to +Australia with her first husband, a clergyman, who was lost at sea +two or three years after, on the voyage home to England without her. +She had one little girl by her first husband, but the child died +quite young: and then she married my father, who met her first in +Australia while she waited for news of the clergyman's safety. Her +family always disapproved of the second marriage. My father had no +money, it seemed; and mamma was well off, having means of her own to +start with, like Aunt Emma, and having inherited also her first +husband's property, which was very considerable. He had left it to +his little girl, and after her to his wife; so that first my father, +and then I myself, came in, in the end, to both the little estates, +though my mother's had been settled on the children of the first +marriage. Aunt Emma always thought my father had married for money: +and she said he had been hard and unkind to mamma: not indeed cruel; +he wasn't a cruel man; but severe and wilful. He made her do exactly +as he wished about everything, in a masterful sort of way, that no +woman could stand against. He crushed her spirit entirely, Aunt Emma +told me; she had no will of her own, poor thing: his individuality +was so strong, that it overrode my mother's weak nature rough-shod. + +Not that he was rough. He never scolded her; he never illtreated +her; but he said to her plainly, "You are to do so and so;" and she +obeyed like a child. She never dared to question him. + +So Aunt Emma had always said my mother was badly used, especially in +money matters--the money being all, when one came to think of it, +her own or her first husband's;--and as a consequence, auntie was +never invited to The Grange during my father's lifetime. + +When we reached Barton-on-the-Sea, Jane and I, on our way from +Woodbury, Aunt Emma was waiting at the station to meet us. To my +great disappointment, I could see at first sight she didn't care for +Jane: and I could also see at first sight Jane didn't care for her. +This was a serious blow to me, for I leaned upon those two more than +I leaned upon anyone; and I had far too few friends in the world of +my own, to afford to do without any one of them. + +In the evening, however, when I went up to my own room to bed, Jane +came up to help me as she always did at Woodbury. I began at once to +tax her with not liking Aunt Emma. With a little hesitation, Jane +admitted that at first sight she hadn't felt by any means disposed +to care for her. I pressed her hard as to why. Jane held off and +prevaricated. That roused my curiosity:--you see, I'm a woman. I +insisted upon knowing. + +"Oh, miss, I can't tell you!" Jane cried, growing red in the face, +"I can't bear to say it out. You oughtn't to ask. It'll hurt you to +know I even thought such a thing of her!" + +"You MUST tell me, Jane," I exclaimed, with a cold shudder of +terror, half guessing what she meant. "Don't keep me in suspense. +Let me know what it is. I'm accustomed to shocks now. I know I can +stand them." + +Jane answered nothing directly. She only held out her coarse red +hand and asked me, with a face growing pale as she spoke: + +"Where's that picture of the murder?" + +I produced it from my box, trembling inwardly all over. + +Jane darted one finger demonstratively at a point in the photograph. + +"Whose hand is THAT?" she asked with a strange earnestness, putting +her nail on the murderer's. + +The words escaped me in a cry of horror almost before I was aware of +them: + +"Aunt Emma's!" I said, gasping. "I NEVER noticed it before." + +Then I drew back and stared at it in speechless awe and +consternation. + +It was quite, quite true. No use in denying it. The figure that +escaped through the window was dressed in man's clothes, to be sure, +and as far as one could judge from the foreshortening and the +peculiar stoop, had a man's form and stature. But the hand was a +woman's--soft, and white, and delicate: nay more, the hand, as I +said in my haste, was line for line Aunt Emma's. + +In a moment a terrible sinking came over me from head to foot. I +trembled like an aspen-leaf. Could this, then, be the meaning of Dr. +Marten's warning, that I should let sleeping dogs lie, lest I should +be compelled to punish someone whom I loved most dearly? Had Fate +been so cruel to me, that I had learned to cling most in my Second +State to the very criminal whose act had blotted out my First? Had I +grown to treat like a mother my father's murderer? + +Aunt Emma's hand! Aunt Emma's hand! That was Aunt Emma's hand, every +touch and every line of it. But no! where were the marks, those +well-known marks on the palm? I took up the big magnifying-glass +with which I had often scanned that photograph close before. Not a +sign or a trace of them. I shut my eyes, and called up again the +mental Picture of the murder. I looked hard at the phantom-hand in +it, that floated like a vision, all distinct before my mind's eye. +It was flat and smooth and white. Not a scar--not a sign on it. I +turned round to Jane, that too natural detective. + +"No, no!" I cried hastily, with a quick tone of triumph. "Aunt +Emma's hand is marked on the palm with great gashes and cuts. This +one's smooth as smooth can be. And so's the one I can see in the +Picture within me!" + +Jane drew back with a startled air, and opened her mouth, all agog, +to let in a deep breath. + +"The wall!" she said slowly. "The bottle-glass, don't you know! The +blood on the top! Whoever did it, climbed over and tore his hands. +Or HER hands, if it was a woman! That would account for the gashes." + +This was more than I could endure. The coincidence was too crushing. +I bent down my head on my arms and cried silently, bitterly. I hated +Jane in my heart for even suggesting it. Yet I couldn't deny to +myself for a moment the strength and suggestiveness of her +half-spoken argument. + +Not that for a second I believed it true. I could never believe it. +Aunt Emma, so gentle, so kindly, so sweet: incapable of hurting any +living thing: the tenderest old lady that breathed upon earth: and +my own mother's sister, whom I loved as I never before loved anyone! +Aunt Emma the murderess! The bare idea was preposterous! I couldn't +entertain it. My whole nature revolted from it. + +And indeed, how very slight, after all, was the mere scrap of +evidence on which Jane ventured to suggest so terrible a charge! A +man--in man's clothes--fairly tall and slim, and apparently dark- +haired, but stooping so much that he looked almost hump-backed: how +different from Aunt Emma, with her womanly figure, and her upright +gait, and her sweet old white head! Why, it was clearly ridiculous. + +And yet, the fact remained that as Jane pointed to the Picture and +asked, "Whose hand is that?" the answer came up all spontaneously to +my lips, without hesitation, "Aunt Emma's!" + +I sat there long in my misery, thinking it over to myself. I didn't +know what to do. I couldn't go and confide to Aunt Emma's ear this +new and horrible doubt,--which was no doubt after all, for I KNEW it +was impossible. I hated Jane for suggesting it; I hated her for +telling me. Yet I couldn't be left alone. I was far too terrified. + +"Oh, Jane;" I cried, looking up to her, and yet despising myself for +saying it, "you must stop here to-night and sleep with me. If I'm +left by myself in the room alone, I know I shall go mad--I can feel +it--I'm sure of it!" + +Jane stopped with me and soothed me. She was certainly very kind. +Yet I felt in a dim underhand sort of way it was treason to Aunt +Emma to receive her caresses at all after what she had said to me. +Though to be sure, it was I, not she, who spoke those hateful words. +It was I myself who had said the hand was Aunt Emma's. + +As I lay awake and thought, the idea flashed across me suddenly, +could Jane have any grudge of her own against Aunt Emma? Was this a +deliberate plot? What did she mean by her warnings that I should +keep my mind open? Why had she said from the very first it was a +woman's hand? Did she want to set me against my aunt? And was Dr. +Marten in league with her? In my tortured frame of mind, I felt all +alone in the world. I covered my head and sobbed in my misery. I +didn't know who were my friends and who were against me. + +At last, after long watching, I dozed off into an uneasy sleep. Jane +had already been snoring long beside me. I woke up again with a +start. I was cold and shuddering. I had dreamed once more the same +Australian dream. My mamma as before stood gentle beside me. She +stooped down and smoothed my hair: I could see her face and her form +distinctly. And I noticed now she was like her sister, Aunt Emma, +only younger and prettier, and ever so much slighter. And her hand, +too, was soft and white like auntie's--very gentle and delicate. + +It was just there that I woke up--with the hand before my eyes. Oh, +how vividly I noted it! Aunt Emma's hand, only younger, and +unscarred on the palm. The family hand, no doubt: the hand of the +Moores. I remembered, now, that Aunt Emma had spoken more than once +of that family peculiarity. It ran through the house, she said. But +my hand was quite different: not the Moore type at all: I supposed I +must have taken it, as was natural, from the Callinghams. + +And then, in my utter horror and loneliness, a still more awful and +ghastly thought presented itself to me. This was my mother's hand I +saw in the picture. Was it my mother, indeed, who wrought the +murder? Was she living or dead? Had my father put upon her some +grievous wrong? Had he pretended to get her out of the way? Had he +buried her alive, so to speak, in some prison or madhouse? Had she +returned in disguise from the asylum or the living grave to avenge +herself and murder him? In my present frame of mind, no idea was too +wild or too strange for me to entertain. If this strain continued +much longer, I should go mad myself with suspense and horror! + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH + + + + + +Next morning my head ached. After all I'd suffered, I could hardly +bear to recur to the one subject that now always occupied my +thoughts. And yet, on the other hand, I couldn't succeed in +banishing it. To relieve my mind a little, I took out the +photographs I had brought from the box at The Grange, and began to +sort them over according to probable date and subject. + +They were of different periods, some old, some newer. I put them +together in series, as well as I could, by the nature of the +surroundings. The most recent of all were my father's early attempts +at instantaneous electric photography--the attempts which led up at +last to his automatic machine, the acmegraph, that produced all +unconsciously the picture of the murder. Some of these comparatively +recent proofs represented men running and horses trotting: but the +best of all, tied together with a bit of tape, clearly belonged to a +single set, and must have been taken at the same time at an athletic +meeting. There was one of a flat race, viewed from a little in +front, with the limbs of the runners in seemingly ridiculous +attitudes, so instantaneous and therefore so grotesquely rigid were +they. There was another of a high jump, seen from one side at the +very moment of clearing the pole, so that the figure poised solid in +mid-air as motionless as a statue. And there was a third, equally +successful, of a man throwing the hammer, in which the hammer, in +the same way, seemed to hang suspended of itself like Mahomet's +coffin between earth and heaven. + +But the one that attracted my attention the most was a photograph of +an obstacle-race, in which the runners had to mount and climb over a +wagon placed obtrusively sideways across the course on purpose to +baffle them. This picture was taken from a few yards in the rear; +and the athletes were seen in it in the most varied attitudes. Some +of them were just climbing up one side of the wagon: others had +mounted to the top ledge of the body: and one, standing on the +further edge, was in the very act of leaping down to the ground in +front of him. He was bent double, to spring, with a stoop like a +hunchback, and balanced himself with one hand held tightly behind +him. + +As my eye fell on that figure, a cold thrill ran through me. For a +moment I only knew something important had happened. Next instant I +realised what the thrill portended. I could only see the man's back, +to be sure, but I knew him in a second. I had no doubt as to who it +was. This was HIM--the murderer! + +Yes, yes! There could be no mistaking that arched round back that +had haunted me so long in my waking dreams. I knew him at sight. It +was the man I had seen on the night of the murder getting out of the +window! + +Perhaps I was overwrought. Perhaps my fancy ran away with me. But I +didn't doubt for a second. I rose from my seat, and in a tremulous +voice called Jane into the room. Without one word I laid both +pictures down before her together. Jane glanced first at the one, +then turned quickly to the other. A sharp little cry broke from her +lips all unbidden. She saw it as fast and as instinctively as I had +done. + +"That's him!" she exclaimed, aghast, and as pale as a sheet. "That's +him, right enough, Miss Una. That's the very same back! That's the +very same hand! That's the man! That's the murderer!" + +And indeed, this unanimity was sufficiently startling. For nothing +could have been more different than the dress in the two cases. In +the murder scene, the man seemed to wear a tweed suit and +knickerbockers,--he was indistinct, as I said before, against the +blurred light of the window: while in the athletic scene, he wore +just a thin jersey and running-drawers, cut short at the knee, with +his arms and legs bare, and his muscles contracted. Yet for all +that, we both knew him for the same man at once. That stooping back +was unmistakable; that position of the hand was characteristic and +unique. We were sure he was the same man. I trembled with agitation. +I had a clue to the murderer! + +Yet, strange to say, that wasn't the first thought that occurred to +my mind. In the relief of the moment, I looked up into Jane's eyes, +and exclaimed with a sigh of profound relief: + +"Then you see how mistaken you were about the hands and Aunt Emma!" + +Jane looked close at the hand in the photograph once more. + +"Well, it's curious," she said, slowly. "That's a man, sure enough: +but he'd ought to be a Moore. The palm's your aunt's as clear as +ever you could paint it!" + +I glanced over her shoulder. She was perfectly right. It was a man +beyond all doubt, the figure on the wagon. Yet the hand was Aunt +Emma's, every line and every stroke of it; except, of course, the +scars. Those, I saw at a glance, were wholly wanting. + +And now I had really a clue to the murderer. + +Yet how slight a clue! Just a photograph of men's backs. What men? +When and where? It was an athletic meeting. Of what club or society? +That was the next question now I had to answer. Instinctively I made +up my mind to answer it myself, without giving any notice to the +police of my discovery. + +Perhaps I should never have been able to answer it at all but for +one of the photographs which, as I thought, though lying loose by +itself, formed part of the same series. It represented the end of a +hundred-yard race, with the winners coming in at the tape by a +pavilion with a flag-staff. On the staff a big flag was flying +loosely in the wind. The folds hid half of the words on its centre +from sight. But this much at least I could read: + +"ER...OM..OY...LETI...UB." + +I gazed at them long and earnestly. After a minute or two of +thought, I made out the last two words. The inscription must surely +be Something-or-other Athletic Club. + +But what was "Er... om.. oy..."? That question staggered me. Gazing +harder at it than ever, I could come to no conclusion. It was the +name of a place, no doubt: but what place, I knew not. + +"Er"? No, "Ber": just a suspicion of a B came round the corner of a +fold. If B was the first letter, I might possibly identify it. + +I took the photograph down to Aunt Emma, without telling her what I +meant. She couldn't bear to think I was ever engaged in thinking of +my First State at all. + +"Can you read the inscription on that flag, auntie?" I asked. "It's +an old photograph I picked up in the attic at The Grange, and I'd +like to know, if I could, at what place it was taken." + +Aunt Emma gazed at it long and earnestly. Her colour never changed. +Then she shook her head quietly. + +"I don't know the place," she said; "and I don't know the name. I +can't quite make it out. That's E, and R, and O. You see, the +letters in between might be almost anything." + +I wasn't going to be put off, however, with the port thus in sight. +One fact was almost certain. Wherever that pavilion might be, the +murderer was there on the day unknown when those photo-graphs were +taken. And whatever that day might be, my father and the murderer +were there together. That brought the two into connection, and +brought me one step nearer a solution than ever the police had been; +for hitherto no one had even pretended to have the slightest clue to +the personality of the man who jumped out of the window. + +I went into the library and took down the big atlas. Opening the map +of England and Wales, I began a hopeless search, county by county, +from Northumberland downward, for any town or village that would fit +these mysterious letters. It was a wild and foolish idea. In the +first place not a quarter of the villages were marked in the map; +and in the second place, my brain soon got muddled and dazed with +trying to fit in the names with the letters on the flag. Two hours +had passed away, and I'd only got as far down as Lancashire and +Durham. And, most probably even so, I would never come upon it. + +Then suddenly, a bright idea broke on my brain at once. The Index! +The Index! Presumably, as no fold seemed to obscure the first words, +the name began with what looked like a B. That was always something. + +A man would have thought of that at once, of course: but then, I +have the misfortune to be only a woman. + +I turned to the Index in haste, and looked down it with hurried +eyes. Almost sooner than I could have hoped, the riddle unread +itself. "Ber-, Berb-, Berc-, Berd-," I read out: "Berkshire: Berham: +Berhampore: that won't do: Berlin: Berling: Bernina: Berry--what's +that? Oh, great heavens!"--my brain reeled--"Berry Pomeroy!" + +It was as clear as day. How could I have missed it before? There it +seemed to stand out almost legible on the flagstaff. I read it now +with ease: "Berry Pomeroy Athletic Club." + +I looked up the map once more, following the lines with my fingers, +till I found the very place where the name was printed. A village in +Devonshire, not far from Torquay. Yes! That's it; Berry Pomeroy. The +murderer was there on the day of that athletic meeting! + +My heart came up into my mouth with mingled horror and triumph. I +felt like a bloodhound who gets on the trail of his man. I would +track him down now, no doubt--my father's murderer! + +I had no resentment against him, no desire for vengeance. But I had +a burning wish to free myself from this environing mystery. + +I wouldn't tell the police or the inspector, however, what clue I +had obtained. I'd find it all out for myself without anyone's help. +I remembered what Dr. Marten had said, and determined to be wise. +I'd work on my own lines till all was found out: and then, be it who +it might, I sternly resolved I'd let justice be done on him. + +So I said nothing even to Jane about the discovery I'd just made. I +said nothing to anybody till we sat down at dinner. Then, in the +course of conversation, I got on the subject of Devonshire. + +"Auntie," I ventured to ask at last, in a very casual way, "did I +ever, so far as you know, go anywhere near a place called Berry +Pomeroy?" + +Aunt Emma gave a start. + +"Oh, darling, why do you ask?" she cried. + +"You don't mean to say you remember that, do you? What do you want +to know for, Una? You can't possibly recollect your Torquay visit, +surely!" + +I trembled all over. Then I was on the right track! + +"Was I ever at Torquay?" I asked once more, as firmly as I could. +"And when I was there, did I go over one day to Berry Pomeroy?" + +Aunt Emma grew all at once as white as death. + +"This is wonderful!" she cried in an agitated voice. "This is +wonderful--wonderful! If you can remember that, my child, you can +remember anything." + +"I DON'T remember it auntie," I answered, not liking to deceive her. +"To tell you the truth, I simply guessed at it. But when and why was +I at Torquay? Please tell me. And did I go to Berry Pomeroy?" For I +stuck to my point, and meant to get it out of her. + +Aunt Emma gazed at me fixedly. + +"You went to Torquay, dear," she said in a very slow voice, "in the +spring of the same year your poor father was killed: that's more +than four years ago. The Willie Moores live at Torquay, and several +more of your cousins. You went to stop with Willie's wife, and you +stayed five weeks. I don't know whether you ever went over to Berry +Pomeroy. You may have, and you mayn't: it's within an easy driving +distance. Minnie Moore has often written to ask me whether you could +go there again; Minnie was always fond of you, and thinks you'd +remember her: but I've been afraid to allow you, for fear it should +recall sad scenes. She's about your own age, Minnie is; and she's a +daughter of Willie Moore, who's my own first cousin, and of course +your dear mother's." + +I never hesitated a moment. I was strung up too tightly by that +time. + +"Auntie dear," I said quietly, "I go to-morrow to Torquay. I must +know all now. I must hunt up these people." + +Auntie knew from my tone it was no use trying to stand in my way any +longer. + +"Very well, dear," she said resignedly. "I don't believe it's good +for you: but you must do as you like. You have your father's will, +Una. You were always headstrong." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +THE VISION RECURS + + + + + +I hated asking auntie questions, they seemed to worry and distress +her so; but that evening, in view of my projected visit to Torquay, +I was obliged to cross-examine her rather closely about many things. +I wanted to know about my Torquay relations, and as far as possible +about my mother's family. In the end I learned that the Willie +Moores were cousins of ours on my mother's side who had never +quarrelled with my father, like Aunt Emma, and through whom alone +accordingly, in the days of my First State, Aunt Emma was able to +learn anything about me. They had a house at Torquay, and +connections all around; for the Moores were Devonshire people. Aunt +Emma was very anxious, if I went down there at all, I should stop +with Mrs. Moore: for Minnie would be so grieved, she said, if I went +to an hotel or took private lodgings. But I wouldn't hear of that +myself. I knew nothing of the Moores--in my present condition--and I +didn't like to trust myself in the hands of those who to me were +perfect strangers. So I decided on going to the Imperial Hotel, and +calling on the Moores quietly to pursue my investigation. + +Another question I asked in the course of the evening. I had +wondered about it often, and now, in these last straits, curiosity +overcame me. + +"Aunt Emma," I said unexpectedly after a pause, without one word of +introduction, "how ever did you get those scars on your hand? You've +never told me." + +In a moment, Aunt Emma blushed suddenly crimson like a girl of +eighteen. + +"Una," she answered very gravely, in a low strange tone, "oh, don't +ask me about that, dear. Don't ask me about that. You could never +understand it.... I got them... in climbing over a high stone +wall... a high stone wall, with bits of glass stuck on top of it." + +In spite of her prohibition, I couldn't help asking one virtual +question more. I gave a start of horror: + +"Not the wall at The Grange!" I cried. "Oh, Aunt Emma, how +wonderful!" + +She gazed at me, astonished. + +"Yes, the wall at The Grange," she said simply. "But I don't know +how you guessed it.... Oh, Una, don't talk to me any more about +these things, I implore you. You can't think how they grieve me. +They distress me unspeakably." + +Much as I longed to know, I couldn't ask her again after that. She +was trembling like an aspen-leaf. For some minutes we sat and +looked at the fireplace in silence. + +Then curiosity overcame me again. + +"Only one question more, auntie," I said. "When I came to you first, +you were at home here at Barton. You didn't come to Woodbury to +fetch me after the murder. You didn't attend the inquest. I've often +wondered at that. Why didn't you bring me yourself? Why didn't you +hurry to nurse me as soon as you heard they'd shot my father?" + +Aunt Emma gazed at me again with a face like a sheet. + +"Darling," she said, quivering, "I was ill. I was in bed. I was +obliged to stay away. I'd hurt myself badly a little before.... Oh, +Una, leave off! If you go on like this, you'll drive me mad. Say no +more, I implore of you." + +I couldn't think what this meant; but as auntie wished it, I held my +peace, all inwardly trembling with suppressed excitement. + +That night, when I went up to bed, I lay awake long, thinking to +myself of the Australian scene. In the silence of the night it came +back to me vividly. Rain pattered on the roof, and helped me to +remember it. I could see the blue-gum trees waving their long +ribbon-like leaves in the wind: I could see the cottage, the +verandah, my mother, our dog: nay, even, I remembered now, with a +burst of recollection, his name was Carlo. The effort was more truly +a recollection than before: it was part of myself: I felt aware it +was really I myself, not another, who had seen all this, and lived +and moved in it. + +Slowly I fell asleep, and passed from thinking to dreaming. My dream +was but a prolongation of the thoughts I had been turning over in my +waking mind. I was still in Australia; still on the verandah of our +wooden house; and my mamma was there, and papa beside her. I knew it +was papa; for I held his hand and played with him. But he was so +much altered, so grave and severe; though he smiled at me +good-humouredly. Mamma was sitting behind, with baby on her lap. It +seemed to me quite natural she should be there with baby. The scene +was so distinct--very vivid and clear. It persisted for many +minutes, perhaps even hours. It burnt itself into my brain. At last, +it woke me up by its very intensity. + +As I woke, a great many thoughts crowded in upon me all at once. +This time I knew instantly it was no mere dream, but a true +recollection. Yet what a strange recollection! how unexpeted! how +incomprehensible! How much in it to settle! how much to investigate +and hunt up and inquire about! + +In the first place, though I was still in my dream a little girl, +much time must have elapsed since the earlier vision; for my papa +looked far older, and graver, and sterner. He had more hair about +his face, too, a long brown beard and heavy moustache; and when I +gazed hard at him mentally, I could recognise the likeness with the +white-bearded man who lay dead on the floor: while in my former +recollection, I could scarcely make out any resemblance of the +features. This showed that the second scene came long after the +first: my father must by that time have begun to resemble his later +self. A weird feeling stole over me. Was I going to relive my +previous life, piecemeal? Was the past going to unroll itself in +slow but regular panorama to my sleeping vision? Was my First State +to become known like this in successive scenes to my Second? + +But that wasn't all. There were strange questions to decide, too, +about this new dream of dead days. What could be the meaning of that +mysterious baby? She seemed to be so vivid, so natural, so real; her +presence there was so much a pure matter of course to me, that I +couldn't for a moment separate her from the rest of the Picture. I +REMEMBERED the baby, now; as I remembered my mother, and my father, +and Australia. There was no room for doubt as to that. The baby was +an integral part of my real recollection. Floating across the dim +ocean of years, I was certain that night I had once lived in such a +scene, with my mamma, and baby. + +Yet oh, what baby? I never had a brother or sister of my own, except +the half-sister that died--the clergyman's child, Mary Wharton. And +Mary, from what I had learned from Aunt Emma and others, must have +died when I was only just five months old, immediately before we +left Australia. How, then, could I remember her, even in this +exalted mental state of trance or dream? And, above all, how could I +remember a far earlier scene, when my papa was younger, when his +face was smooth, and when there was no other baby? + +This mystery only heightened the other mysteries which surrounded my +life. I was surfeited with them now. In very despair and +listlessness, I turned round on my side, and dozed dreamily off +again, unable to grapple with it. + +But still that scene haunted me. And still, even in sleep, I asked +myself over and over again, "How on earth can this be? What's the +meaning of the baby?" + +Perhaps it was a little sister that died young, whom I never had +heard of. And perhaps not. In a life such as mine, new surprises are +always possible. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE MOORES OF TORQUAY + + + + + +Strange to say, in spite of everything, my sleep refreshed me. I +woke up in the morning strong and vigorous--thank goodness, I have +physically a magnificent constitution--and packed my box, with +Jane's help, for my Torquay expedition. + +I went up to London and down to Torquay alone, though Jane offered +to accompany me. I was learning to be self-reliant. It suited my +plans better. Nobody could bear this burden for me but myself; and +the sooner I learnt to bear it my own way, the happier for me. + +At Torquay station, to my great surprise, a fresh-looking girl of my +own age rushed up to me suddenly, and kissed me without one word of +warning. She was a very pretty girl, pink-cheeked and hazel-eyed: +and as she kissed me, she seized both my hands in hers, and cried +out to me frankly: + +"Why, there you are, Una dear! Cousin Emma telegraphed us what train +you'd arrive by; so I've driven down to meet you. And now, you're +coming up with us this very minute in the pony-carriage." + +"You're Minnie Moore, I suppose?" I said, gazing at her admiringly. +Her sweet, frank smile and apple-blossom cheek somehow inspired me +with confidence. + +She looked back at me quite distressed. Tears rose at once into her +eyes with true Celtic suddenness. + +"Oh, Una," she cried, deeply hurt and drawing back into her shell, +"don't tell me you don't know me! Why, I'm Minnie! Minnie!" + +My heart went out to her at once. I took her hand in mine again. + +"Minnie dear," I said softly, quite remorseful for my mistake, "you +must remember what has happened to me, and not be angry. I've +forgotten everything, even my own past life. I've forgotten that I +ever before set eyes upon you. But, my dear, there's one thing I've +NOT in a way forgotten; and that is, that I loved you and love you +dearly. And I 'll give you a proof of it. When I started, I knew +none of you; and I told Aunt Emma I wouldn't go among strangers. The +moment I see you, I know you're no stranger, but a very dear cousin. +When I've forgotten MYSELF, how can I remember YOU? But I'll go up +with you at once. And I'll countermand the room I ordered by +telegram at the Imperial." + +The tears stood fuller in Minnie's eyes than before. She clasped my +hand hard. Her pretty lips trembled. + +"Una darling," she said, "we always were friends, and we always +shall be. If you love me, that's all. You're a darling. I love you." + +I looked at her sweet face, and knew it was true. And oh, I was so +glad to have a new friend--an old friend, already! For somehow, as +always, while the intellectual recollection had faded, the emotion +survived. I felt as if I'd known Minnie Moore for years, though I +never remembered to have seen her in my life till that minute. + +Well, I remained at the Moores' for a week, and felt quite at home +there. They were all very nice, Cousin Willie, and Aunt Emily (she +made me call her aunt; she said I'd always done so), and Minnie, and +all of them. They were really dear people; and blood, after all, is +thicker than water. But I made no haste to push inquiries just at +first. I preferred to feel my way. I wanted to find out what they +knew, if anything, about Berry Pomeroy. + +The first time I ventured to mention the subject to Minnie, she gave +a very queer smile--a smile of maidenly badinage. + +"Well, you remember THAT, any way," she said, in a teasing little +way, looking down at me and laughing. "I thought you'd remember +that. I must say you enjoyed yourself wonderfully at Berry Pomeroy!" + +"Remember what?" I cried, all eagerness; for I saw she attached some +special importance to the recollection. And yet, it was terrible she +should jest about the clue to my father's murderer! + +Minnie looked arch. When she looked arch, she was charming. + +"Why, I never saw you prettier or more engaging in your life than +you were that day," she said evasively, as if trying to pique me. +"And you flirted so much, too! And everybody admired you so. +Everybody on the grounds... especially one person!" + +I looked up at her in surprise. I was in my own room, seated by the +dressing-table, late at night, when we'd gone up to bed; and Minnie +was beside me, standing up, with her bedroom candle in that pretty +white little hand of hers. + +"What do you mean?" I exclaimed eagerly. "Was it a dance--or a +picnic?" + +"Oh, you know very well," Minnie went on teasingly, "though you +pretend you forget. HE was there, don't you know. You must remember +HIM, if you've forgotten all the rest of your previous life. You say +you remember the appropriate emotions. Well, he was an emotion: at +least, you thought so. It was an Athletic Club Meeting: and Dr. Ivor +was there. He went across on his bicycle." + +I gave a start of surprise. Minnie looked down at me half +maliciously. + +"There, you see," she said archly again, "at Dr. Ivor you change +colour. I told you you'd remember him!" + +I grew pale with astonishment. + +"Minnie dear," I said, holding her hands very tight in my own, "it +wasn't that, I assure you. I've forgotten him, utterly. If ever I +knew a Dr. Ivor, if ever I flirted with him, as you seem to imply, +he's gone clean out of my head. His name stirs no chord--recalls +absolutely nothing. But I want to know about that Athletic Meeting. +Was my poor father there that day? And did he take a set of +photographs?" + +Minnie clapped her hands triumphantly. + +"I KNEW you remembered!" she cried. "Of course, Cousin Vivian was +there. We drove over in a break. You MUST remember that. And he took +a whole lot of instantaneous photographs." + +My hand trembled violently in my cousin's. I felt I was now on the +very eve of a great discovery. + +"Minnie," I said, tentatively, "do you think your papa would drive +us over some day and--and show us the place again?" + +"Of course he would, dear," Minnie answered, with a gentle pressure +of my hand. "He'd be only too delighted. Whatever you choose. You +know you were always such a favourite of daddy's." + +I knew nothing of the sort; but I was glad to learn it. I drew +Minnie out a little more about the Athletics and my visit to Berry +Pomeroy. She wouldn't tell me much: she was too illusive and +indefinite: she never could get the notion out of her head, somehow, +that I remembered all about it, and was only pretending to +forgetfulness. But I gathered from what she said, that Dr. Ivor and +I must have flirted a great deal; or, at least, that he must have +paid me a good lot of attention. My father didn't like it, Minnie +said; he thought Dr. Ivor wasn't well enough off to marry me. He was +a distant cousin of ours, of course--everything was always "of +course" with that dear bright Minnie--what, didn't I know that? Oh, +yes, his mother was one of the Moores of Barnstaple, cousin Edward's +people. His name was Courtenay Moore Ivor, you know--though I knew +nothing of the sort. And he was awfully clever. And, oh, so +handsome! + +"Is he at Berry Pomeroy still?" I asked, trembling, thinking this +would be a good person to get information from about the people at +the Athletic Sports. + +"Oh dear, no," Minnie answered, looking hard at me, curiously. "He +was never at Berry Pomeroy. He had a practice at Babbicombe. He's in +Canada now, you know. He went over six months after Cousin Vivian's +death. I think, dear,"--she hesitated,--"he never QUITE got over +your entirely forgetting him, even if you forgot your whole past +history." + +This was a curious romance to me, that Minnie thus sprang on me--a +romance of my own past life of which I myself knew nothing. + +We sat late talking, and I could see Minnie was very full indeed of +Dr. Ivor. Over and over again she recurred to his name, and always +as though she thought it might rouse some latent chord in my memory. +But nothing came of it. If ever I had cared for Dr. Ivor at all, +that feeling had passed away utterly with the rest of my +experiences. + +When Minnie rose to go, I took her hand once more in mine. As I did +so, I started. Something about it seemed strangely familiar. I +looked at it close with a keen glance. Why, this was curious! It was +Aunt Emma's hand: it was my mother's hand: it was the hand in my +mental Picture: it was the hand of the murderer! + +"It's just like auntie's," I said with an effort, seeing Minnie +noticed my start. + +She looked at it and laughed. + +"The Moore hand," she said gaily. "We all have it, except you. It's +awfully persistent." + +I turned it over in front and examined the palm. At sight of it my +brain reeled. This was surely magic! Minnie Moore's hand, too, was +scarred over with cuts, exactly like Aunt Emma's!" + +"Why, how on earth did you do that?" I cried, thunderstruck at the +discovery. + +But Minnie only laughed again, a bright girlish laugh. + +"Climbing over that beastly wall at The Grange," she said with a +merry look. "Oh, what fun we did have! We climbed it together. We +were dreadful tomboys in those days, dear, you and I: but you were +luckier than I was, and didn't cut yourself with the bottle-glass." + +This was too surprising to be passed over unnoticed. When Minnie was +gone, I lay awake and pondered about it. Had all the Moores got +scars on their hands, I wondered? And how many people, I asked +myself, had cut themselves time and again in climbing over that +barricaded garden-wall of my father's? + +The Moore hand might be hereditary, but not surely the scars. Was +the murderer, then, a Moore, and was that the meaning of Dr. +Marten's warning? + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE + + + + + +Two days later, Cousin Willie drove us over to Berry Pomeroy. The +lion of the place is the castle, of course; but Minnie had told him +beforehand I wanted, for reasons of my own, to visit the +cricket-field where the sports were held "the year Dr. Ivor won the +mile race, you remember." So we went there straight. As soon as we +entered, I recognised the field at once, and the pavilion, and the +woods, as being precisely the same as those presented in the +photograph. But I got no further than that. The captain of the +cricket-club was on the ground that day, and I managed to get into +conversation with him, and strolled off in the grounds. There I +showed him the photograph, and asked if he could identify the man +climbing over the wagon: but he said he couldn't recognise him. +Somebody or other from Torquay, perhaps; not a regular resident. The +figures were so small, and so difficult to make sure about. If I'd +leave him the photograph, perhaps--but at that I drew back, for I +didn't want anybody, least of all at Torquay, to know what quest I +was engaged upon. + +We drove back, a merry party enough, in spite of my failure. Minnie +was always so jolly, and her mirth was contagious. She talked all +the way still of Dr. Ivor, half-teasing me. It was all very well my +pretending not to remember, she said; but why did I want to see the +cricket-field if it wasn't for that? Poor Courtenay! if only he +knew, how delighted he'd be to know he wasn't forgotten! For he +really took it to heart, my illness--she always called it my +illness, and so I suppose it was. From the day I lost my memory, +nothing seemed to go right with him; and he was never content till +he went and buried himself somewhere in the wilds of Canada. + +That evening again, I sat with Minnie in my room. I was depressed +and distressed. I didn't want to cry before Minnie, but I could have +cried with good heart for sheer vexation. Of course I couldn't bear +to go showing the photograph to all the world, and letting everybody +see I'd made myself a sort of amateur detective. They would mistake +my motives so. And yet I didn't know how I was ever to find out my +man any other way. It was that or nothing. I made up my mind I would +ask Cousin Willie. + +I took out the photograph, as if unintentionally, when I went to my +box, and laid it down with my curling-tongs on the table close by +Minnie. Minnie took it up abstractedly and looked at it with an +indefinite gaze. + +"Why, this is the cricket-field!" she cried, as soon as she +collected her senses. "One of your father's experiments. The +earliest acmegraphs. How splendidly they come out! See, that's Sir +Everard at the bottom; and there's little Jack Hillier above; and +this on one side's Captain Brooks; and there, in front of all--well, +you know HIM anyhow, Una. Now, don't pretend you forget! That's +Courtenay Ivor!" + +Her finger was on the man who stood poised ready to jump. With an +awful recoil, I drew back and suppressed a scream. It was on the tip +of my tongue to cry out, "Why, that's my father's murderer!" + +But, happily, with a great effort of will I restrained myself. I saw +it all at a glance. That, then, was the meaning of Dr. Marten's +warning! No wonder, I thought, the shock had disorganised my whole +brain. If Minnie was right, I was in love once with that man. And I +must have seen my lover murder my father! + +For I didn't doubt, from what Minnie said, I had really once loved +Dr. Ivor. Horrible and ghastly as it might be to realise it, I +didn't doubt it was the truth. I had once loved the very man I was +now bent on pursuing as a criminal and a murderer! + +"You're sure that's him, Minnie?" I cried, trying to conceal my +agitation. "You're sure that's Courtenay Ivor, the man stooping on +the wagon-top?" + +Minnie looked at me, smiling. She thought I was asking for a very +different reason. + +"Yes, that's him, right enough, dear," she said. "I could tell him +among a thousand. Why, the Moore hand alone would be quite enough to +know him by. It's just like my own. We've all of us got it--except +yourself. I always said you weren't one of us. You're a regular born +Callingham." + +I gazed at her fixedly. I could hardly speak. + +"Oh, Minnie!" I cried once more, "have you ... have you any +photograph of him?" + +"No, we haven't, dear," Minnie answered. + +"That was a fad of Courtenay's, you know. Wherever he went, he'd +never be photographed. He was annoyed that day that your father +should have taken him unawares. He hated being 'done,' he said. He's +so handsome and so nice, but he's not a bit conceited. And he was +such a splendid bicyclist! He rode over and back on his bicycle that +day, and then ran in all the races as if it were nothing." + +A light burst over me at once. This was circumstantial evidence. The +murderer who disappeared as if by magic the moment his crime was +committed must have come and gone all unseen, no doubt, on his +bicycle. He must have left it under the window till his vile deed +was done, and then leapt out upon it in a second and dashed off +whence he came like a flash of lightning. + +It was a premeditated crime, in that case, not the mere casual +result of a sudden quarrel. + +I must find out this man now, were it only to relieve my own sense +of mystery. + +"Minnie," I said once more, screwing up my courage to ask, "where's +Dr. Ivor now? I mean--that is to say--in what part of Canada?" + +Minnie looked at me and laughed. + +"There, I told you so!" she said, merrily. "It's not the least bit +of use your pretending you're not in love with him, Una. Why, just +look how you tremble! You're as white as a ghost! And then you say +you don't care for poor Courtenay! I forget the exact name of the +place where he lives, but I've got it in my desk, and I can tell you +to-morrow.--Oh, yes; it's Palmyra, on the Canada Pacific. I suppose +you want to write to him. Or perhaps you mean to go out and offer +yourself bodily." + +It was awful having to bottle up the truth in one's own heart, and +to laugh and jest like this; but I endured it somehow. + +"No, it's not that," I said gravely. "I've other reasons of my own +for asking his address, Minnie. I want to go out there, it's true; +but not because I cherish the faintest pleasing recollection of Dr. +Ivor in any way." + +Minnie scanned me over in surprise. + +"Well, how you ARE altered, Una!" she cried. "I love you, dear, and +like you every bit as much as ever. But you've changed so much. I +don't think you're at all what you used to be. You're so grave and +sombre." + +"No wonder, Minnie," I exclaimed, bursting gladly into tears--the +excuse was such a relief--"no wonder, when you think how much I've +passed through!" + +Minnie flung her arms around my neck, and kissed me over and over +again. + +"Oh, dear!" she cried, melting. "What have I done? What have I said? +I ought never to have spoken so. It was cruel of me--cruel, Una +dear. I shall stop here to-night, and sleep with you." + +"Oh, thank you, darling!" I cried. "Minnie, that IS good of you. I'm +so awfully glad. For to-morrow I must be thinking of getting ready +for Canada." + +"Canada!" Minnie exclaimed, alarmed. "You're not really going to +Canada! Oh, Una, you're joking! You don't mean to say you're going +out there to find him!" + +I took her hand in mine, and held it up in the air above her head +solemnly. + +"Dear cousin," I said, "I love you. But you must promise me this one +thing. Whatever may happen, give me your sacred word of honour +you'll never tell anybody what we've said here to-night. You'll +kill me if you do. I don't want any living soul on earth to know of +it." + +I spoke so seriously, Minnie felt it was important. + +"I promise you," she answered, growing suddenly far graver than her +wont. "Oh, Una, I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, but no +torture on earth shall ever wring a word of it from me!" + +So I went to bed in her arms, and cried myself to sleep, thinking +with my latest breath, in a tremor of horror, that I'd found it at +last. Courtenay Ivor was the name of my father's murderer! + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +MY WELCOME TO CANADA + + + + + +The voyage across the Atlantic was long and uneventful. No whales, +no icebergs, no excitement of any sort. My fellow-passengers said +it was as dull as it was calm. But as for me, I had plenty to occupy +my mind meanwhile. Strange things had happened in the interval, and +were happening to me on the way. Strange things, in part, of my own +internal history. + +For before I left England, as I sat with Aunt Emma in her little +drawing-room at Barton-on-the-Sea, discussing my plans and devising +routes westward, she made me, quite suddenly, an unexpected +confession. + +"Una," she said, after a long pause, "you haven't told me, my dear, +why you're going to Canada. And I don't want to ask you. I know +pretty well. We needn't touch upon that. You're going to hunt up +some supposed clue to the murderer." + +"Perhaps so, Auntie," I said oracularly: "and perhaps not." + +For I didn't want it to get talked about and be put into all the +newspapers. And I knew now if I wanted to keep it out, I must first +be silent. + +Aunt Emma drew nearer and took my hand in hers. At the same time, +she held up the other scarred and lacerated palm. + +"Do you know when I got that, Una?" she asked with a sudden burst. +"Well, I'll tell you, my child.... It was the night of your father's +death. And I got it climbing over the wall at The Grange, to escape +detection." + +My blood ran cold once more. What on earth could this mean? Had +Auntie--? But no. I had the evidence of my own senses that it was +Courtenay Ivor. I'd tracked him down now. There was no room for +doubt. The man on the wagon was the man who fired the shot. I could +have sworn to that bent back, of my own knowledge, among a thousand. + +I hadn't long to wait, however. Auntie went on after a short pause. + +"I was there," she said, "by accident, trying for once to see you." + +I looked at her fixedly still, and still I said nothing. + +"I was stopping with friends at the time, ten miles off from +Woodbury," Aunt Emma went on, smoothing my hand with hers, "and I +longed so to see you. I came over by train that day, and stopped +late about the town in hopes I might meet you in the street. But I +was disappointed. Towards evening I ventured even to go into the +grounds of The Grange, and look about everywhere on the chance that +I might see you. Perhaps your father might be out. I went round +towards the window, which I now know to be the library. As I went, I +saw a bicycle leaning up against the wall by the window. I thought +that must be some visitor, but still I went on. But just as I +reached the window, I saw a flash of electric light; and by the +light, I could make out your father's head and beard. He looked as +if he were talking angrily and loudly to somebody. The window was +open. I was afraid to stop longer. In a sudden access of fear, I ran +across the shrubbery towards the garden-wall. To tell you the truth, +I was horribly frightened. Why, I don't know; for nothing had +happened as yet. I suppose it was just the dusk and the mean sense +of intrusion." + +She paused and wiped her brow. I sat still, and listened eagerly. + +"Presently," she went on, very low, "as I ran and ran, I heard +behind me a loud crash--a sound as of a pistol-shot. That terrified +me still more. I thought I was being pursued. Perhaps they took me +for a burglar. In the agony of my terror, I rushed at the wall in +mad haste, and climbed over it anyhow. In climbing, I tore my hand, +as you see, and made myself bleed, oh, terribly! However, I +persevered, and got down on the other side, with my clothes very +little the worse for the scramble. And, fortunately, I was carrying +a small light dust-cloak: I put it on at once, and it covered up +everything. Then I began to walk along the road as fast as I could +in the direction of the station. As I did so, a bicycle shot out +from the gate in the opposite direction, going as hard as it could +spin, simply flying towards Whittingham. Three minutes later, a man +came up to me, breathless. It was the gardener at The Grange, I +believe. + +"'Have you seen anybody go this way?' he asked. 'A young man, +running hard? A young man in knickerbockers?' + +"'N--no,' I answered, trembling; for I was afraid to confess. 'Not a +soul has gone past!' + +"Of course, I didn't know of the murder as yet; and I only wanted to +get off unperceived to the station. + +"I'd bound up my hand in my handkerchief by that time, and held it +tight under my cloak. I went back by train unnoticed, and returned +to my friends' house. I hadn't even told them I was going to +Woodbury at all. I pretended I'd been spending the day at +Whittingham. Next morning, I read in the paper of your father's +murder." + +I stared hard at Aunt Emma. + +"Why didn't you tell me this long ago?" I cried, in an agony of +suspense. "Why didn't you give evidence and say so at the inquest?" + +"How could I?" Aunt Emma answered, looking back at me appealingly. +"The circumstances were too suspicious. As it was, everybody was +running after the young man in knickerbockers. Nobody took any +notice of a little old lady in a long grey dust-cloak. But if once +I'd confessed and shown my wounded hand, who would ever have +believed I'd nothing to do with the murder?--except you, perhaps, +Una. Oh no: I came back here to my own home as fast as ever I could; +for I was really ill. I took to my bed at once. And as nobody called +me to give evidence at the inquest, I said nothing to anybody." + +"But the bicycle!" I cried. "The bicycle! You ought to have +mentioned that. You were the only one who saw it. It was a clue to +the murderer." + +"If I'd told," Aunt Emma answered, "I should never have been allowed +to take charge of you at all. I thought my one clear duty was to my +sister's child: it was to take care of your health in your shattered +condition. And even now, Una, I tell you only for this: if you find +out anything new, in Canada or here, try not to drag me into it. I +couldn't stand the strain. Cross-examination would kill me." + +"I'll remember it, auntie," I said, wearied out with excitement. +"But I think you did wrong, all the same. In a case like this, it's +everybody's first duty to tell all he knows, in the interests of +justice." + +However, this confession of Aunt Emma's rendered one thing more +certain to me than ever before. I was sure I was on the right track +now, after Courtenay Ivor. The bicycle clinched the proof. + +But I said nothing as yet to the police, or to my friendly +Inspector. I was determined to hunt the whole thing up on my own +account first, and then deliver my criminal, when fully secured, to +the laws of my country. + +Not that I was vindictive. Not that I wanted to punish the man. No; +I shrank terribly from the task. But to relieve myself from this +persistent sense of surrounding mystery, and to free others from +suspicion, I felt compelled to discover him. It seemed to me like a +duty laid upon me from without. I dared not shirk it. + +On the way out to Quebec, the sea seemed to revive strange memories. +I had never crossed it before, except long, long ago, on my way home +from Australia. And now that I sat on deck, in a wicker-chair, and +looked at the deep dark waves by myself, I began once more, in vague +snatches, to recall that earlier voyage. It came back to me all of +itself. And that was quite in keeping with my previous recollections. +My past life, I felt sure, was unfolding itself slowly to me in +regular succession, from childhood onward. + +Sitting there on the quarter-deck, gazing hard at the waves, I +remembered how I had played on a similar ship years and years +before, a little girl in short frocks, with my mamma in a long +folding-chair beside me. I could see my mamma, with a sort of +frightened smile on her poor pale face; and she looked so unhappy. +My papa was there too, somewhat older and greyer--very unlike the +papa of my first Australian picture. His face was so much hairier. +Mamma cried a good deal at times, and papa tried to comfort her. +Besides, what struck me most, there was no more baby. I wasn't even +allowed to speak about baby. That subject was tabooed--perhaps +because it always made mamma cry so much, and press me hard to her +bosom. At any rate, I remembered how once I spoke of baby to some +fellow-passenger in the saloon, and papa was very angry, and caught +me up in his arms and took me down to my berth; and there I had to +stop all day by myself (though it was rolling hard) and could have +no fruit for dinner, because I'd been naughty. I was strictly +enjoined never to mention baby to anyone again, either then or at +any time. I was to forget all about her. + +Day after day, as we sailed on, reminiscences of the same sort +crowded thicker and thicker upon me. Never reminiscences of my later +life, but always early scenes brought up by distinct suggestion +of that Australian voyage. When we passed a ship, it burst upon me +how we'd passed such ships before: when there was fire-drill on +deck, I remembered having assisted years earlier at just such +fire-drill. The whole past came back like a dream, so that I could +reconstruct now the first five or six years of my life almost +entirely. And yet, even so there was a gap, a puzzle, a difficulty +somehow. I couldn't make the chronology of this slow-returning +memory fit in as it ought with the chronology of the facts given to +me by Aunt Emma and the Moores of Torquay. There was a constant +discrepancy. It seemed to me that I must be a year or two older at +least than they made me out. I remembered the voyage home far too +well for my age. I fancied I went back further in my Australian +recollections than would be possible from the dates Aunt Emma +assigned me. + +Slowly, as I compared these mental pictures of my first childhood +one with the other, a strange fact seemed to loom forth, +incomprehensible, incredible. When first it struck me, all unnerved +as I was, my reason staggered before it. But it was true, none the +less: quite true, I felt certain. Had I had two papas, then?--for +the pictures differed so. Was one, clean-shaven, trim, and in a +linen coat, the same as the other, older, graver, and sterner, with +much hair on his face, and a rough sort of look, whom I saw more +persistently in my later childish memories? I could hardly believe +it. One man couldn't alter so greatly in a few short years. Yet I +thought of them both alike quite unquestioningly as papa: I thought +of them too, I fancied, in a dim sort of way, as one and the same +person. + +These fresh mysteries occupied my mind for the greater part of that +uneventful voyage. To throw them off, I laughed and talked as much +as possible with the rest of the passengers. Indeed, I gained the +reputation of being "an awfully jolly girl," so heartily did I throw +myself into all the games and amusements, to escape from the burden +of my pressing thoughts: and I believe many old ladies on board were +thoroughly scandalised that a woman whose father had been brutally +murdered should ever be able to seem so bright and lively again. How +little they knew! And what a world of mystery seemed to oppress and +surround me! + +At last, early one morning, we reached the Gulf, and took in our +pilot off the Straits of Belleisle. I was on deck at the time, +playing a game called "Shovelboard." As the pilot reached the ship, +he took the captain's hand, and, to my immense surprise, said in an +audible voice: + +"So you've the famous Miss Callingham for a passenger, I hear, this +voyage. There's the latest Quebec papers. You'll see you're looked +for. Our people are expecting her." + +I rushed forward, fiery hot, and with a trembling hand took one of +the papers he was distributing all round, right and left, to the +people on deck. It was unendurable that the memory of that one event +should thus dog me through life with such ubiquitous persistence. I +tore open the sheet. There, with horrified eyes, I read this hateful +paragraph, in the atrociously vulgar style of Transatlantic +journalism: + +"The Sarmatian, expected off Belleisle to-morrow morning, brings +among her passengers, as we learn by telegram, the famous Una +Callingham, whose connection with the so-called Woodbury Mystery is +now a matter of historical interest. The mysterious two-souled lady +possesses, at present, all her faculties intact, as before the +murder, and is indeed, people say, a remarkably spry and intelligent +young person; but she has most conveniently forgotten all the events +of her past life, and more particularly the circumstances of her +father's death, which is commonly conjectured to have been due to +the pistol of some unknown lover. Such freaks of memory are common, +we all know, in the matter of small debts and of newspaper +subscriptions, but they seldom extend quite so far as the violent +death of a near relation. However, Una knows her own business best. +The Sarmatian is due alongside the Bonsecours Quay at 10 a.m. on +Wednesday, the 10th; and all Quebec will, no doubt, be assembled at +the landing-stage to say 'Good-morning' to the two-souled lady." + +The paper dropped from my hand. This was too horrible for anything! +How I was ever to go through the ordeal of the landing at Quebec +after that, I hadn't the faintest conception. And was I to be dogged +and annoyed like this through all my Canadian trip by anonymous +scribblers? Had these people no hearts? no consideration for the +sensitiveness of an English lady? + +I looked over the side of the ship at the dark-blue water. Oh, how +I longed to plunge into it and be released for ever from this +abiding nightmare! + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + + + + + +The moment we reached the quay at Quebec, some two days later, a +dozen young men, with little notebooks in their hands, jumped on +board all at once. + +"Miss Callingham!" they cried with one accord, making a dash for the +quarter-deck. "Which is she? Oh, this!--If you please, Miss +Callingham, I should like to have ten minutes of your time to +interview you!" + +I clapped my hands to my ears, and stood back, all horrified. What I +should have done, I don't know, but for a very kind man in a big +rough overcoat, who had jumped on board at the same time, and made +over to me like the reporters. He stepped up to me at once, pushed +aside the young men, and said in a most friendly tone: + +"Miss Callingham, I think? You'd better come with me, then. These +people are all sharks. Everybody in Quebec's agog to see the Two- +souled Lady. Answer no questions at all. Take not the least notice +of them. Just follow me to the Custom House. Let them rave, but +don't speak to them." + +"Who are you?" I asked blindly, clinging to his arm in my terror. + +"I'm a policeman in plain clothes," my new friend answered; "and +I've been specially detailed by order for this duty. I'm here to +look after you. You've friends in Canada, though you may have quite +forgotten them. They've sent me to help you. Those are two of my +chums there, standing aside by the gangway. We'll walk you off +between us. Don't be afraid.--Here, you sir, there; make way!--No +one shall come near you." + +I was so nervous, and so ashamed that I accepted my strange escort +without inquiry or remonstrance. He helped me, with remarkable +politeness for a common policeman, across to the Custom House, where +I sat waiting for my luggage. Reporters and sightseers, meanwhile, +pressed obtrusively around me. My protector held them back. I was +half wild with embarrassment. I'm naturally a reserved and somewhat +sensitive girl, and this American publicity made me crimson with +bashfulness. + +As I sat there waiting, however, the two other policemen to whom my +champion had beckoned sat one on each side of me, keeping off the +idle crowd, while my first friend looked after the luggage and saw +it safely through the Customs for me. He must be an Inspector, I +fancied, or some other superior officer, the officials were so +deferential to him. I gave him my keys, and he looked after +everything himself. I had nothing, for my part, to do but to sit and +wait patiently for him. + +As soon as he had finished, he called a porter to his side. + +"Vite!" he cried, in a tone of authority, to the man. "Un fiacre!" + +And the porter called one. + +I started to find that I knew what he meant. Till that moment, in my +Second State, I had learned no French, and didn't know I could speak +any. But I recognised the words quite well as soon as he uttered +them. My lost knowledge reasserted itself. + +They bundled on my boxes. The crowd still stood around and gaped at +me, open-mouthed. I got into the cab, more dead than alive. + +"Allez!" my policeman cried to the French-Canadian driver, seating +himself by my side. + +"A la gare du chemin de fer Pacific! Aussi vite que possible!" + +I understood every word. This was wonderful. My memory was coming +back again. + +The man tore along the streets to the Pacific railway station. By +the time we reached it we had distanced the sightseers, though some +of them gave chase. My policeman got out. + +"The train's just going!" he said sharply. "Don't take a ticket for +Palmyra, if you don't want to be followed and tracked out all the +way. They'll telegraph on your destination. Book to Kingston +instead, and then change at Sharbot Lake, and take a second ticket +on from there to Palmyra." + +I listened, half dazed. Palmyra was the place where Dr. Ivor lived. +Yet, even in the hurry of the moment, I wondered much to myself how +the policeman knew I wanted to go to Palmyra. + +There was no time to ask questions, however, or to deliberate on my +plans. I took my ticket as desired, in a turmoil of feelings, and +jumped on to the train. I trusted by this time I had eluded +detection. I ought to have come, I saw now, under a feigned name. +This horrid publicity was more than I could endure. My policeman +helped me in with his persistent politeness, and saw my boxes +checked as far as Sharbot Lake for me. Then he handed me the checks. + +"Go in the Pullman," he said quietly. "It's a long journey, you +know: four-and-twenty hours. You've only just caught it. But if +you'd stopped in Quebec, you'd never have been able to give the +sightseers the slip. You'd have been pestered all through. I think +you're safe now. It was this or nothing." + +"Oh, thank you so much!" I cried, with heartfelt gratitude, leaning +out of the window as the train was on the point of starting. I +pulled out my purse, and drew timidly forth a sovereign. "I've only +English money," I said, hesitating, for I didn't know whether he'd +be offended or not at the offer of a tip--he seemed such a perfect +gentleman. "But if that's any use to you--" + +He smiled a broad smile and shook his head, much amused. + +"Oh, thank you," he said, half laughing, with a very curious air. +"I'm a policeman, as I told you. But I don't need tips. I'm the +Chief Constable of Quebec--there's my card; Major Tascherel,--and +I'm glad to be of use, I'm sure, to any friend of Dr. Ivor's." + +He lifted his hat with the inborn grace of a high-born gentleman. I +coloured and bowed. The train steamed out of the station. As it +went, I fell back, half fainting, in the comfortable armchair of the +Pullman car, hardly able to speak with surprise and horror. It was +all so strange, so puzzling, so bewildering! Then I owed my escape +from the stenographic myrmidons of the Canadian Press to the polite +care and attention of my father's murderer! + +Major Tascherel was a friend, he said, of Dr. Ivor's! + +Then Dr. Ivor knew I had come. He knew I was going to Palmyra to +find him. And yet he had written to Quebec, apparently, expecting +this crush, and asking his friend the Chief Constable to protect and +befriend me. Had he murdered my father, and was he in love with me +still? Did he think I'd come out, not to track him down, but to look +for him? Strange, horrible questions! My heart stood still within me +at this extraordinary revelation. Yet I was so frightened at the +moment, alone in a strange land, that I felt almost grateful to the +murderer himself for his kindness in thinking of me and providing +for my reception. + +As I settled in my seat and had time to realise what these things +meant, it dawned upon me by degrees that all this was less +remarkable, after all, than I first thought it. For they had +telegraphed from England that I sailed on the Sarmatian; and Dr. +Ivor, like everybody else, must have read the telegram. He might +naturally conclude I would be half-mobbed by reporters; and as it +was clear he had once been fond of me--hateful as I felt it even to +admit the fact to myself--he might really have desired to save me +annoyance and trouble. It was degrading, to be sure, even to think I +owed anything of any sort to such a wretch as that murderer; yet in +a certain corner of my heart I couldn't help being thankful to him. +But how strange to feel I had come there on purpose to hunt him +down! How horrible that I must so repay good with evil! + +Then a still more ghastly thought surged up suddenly in my mind. Why +on earth did he think I was going to Palmyra? Was it possible he +fancied I loved him still--that I wanted to marry him? Could he +imagine I'd come out just to fling myself at his feet and ask him to +take me? Could he suppose I'd forgotten all the rest of my past +life, and his vile act as well, and yet remembered alone what +little love, if any, I ever had borne him? It was incredible that +any man, however wicked, however conceited, should think such folly +as that--that a girl would marry her father's murderer; and yet what +might not one expect from a man who, after having shot my father, +had still the inconceivable and unbelievable audacity to take +deliberate steps for securing my own comfort and happiness? From +such a wretch as that, one might look for almost anything! + +For ten minutes or more, as we whirled along the line in the Pullman +car, I was too dazed and confused to notice anything around me. My +brain swam vaguely, filled full with wild whirling thoughts; the +strange drama of my life, always teeming with mysteries, seemed to +culminate in this reception in an unknown land by people who +appeared almost to know more about my business than I myself did. I +gazed out of the window blankly. In some vague dim way I saw we were +passing between rocky hills, pine-clad and beautiful, with deep +glimpses now and then into the riven gorge of a noble river. But I +didn't even realise to myself that these were Canadian hills--those +were the heights of Abraham--that was the silver St. Lawrence. It +all passed by like a living dream. I sat still in my chair, as one +stunned and faint; I gazed out, more dead than alive, on the +unfamiliar scene that unrolled itself in exquisite panorama before +me. Quebec and the Laurentian hills were to me half unreal: the +inner senses alone were awake and conscious. + +Presently a gentle voice at my side broke, not at all unpleasantly, +the current of my reflections. It was a lady's voice, very sweet and +musical. + +"I'm afraid," it said kindly, with an air of tender solicitude, "you +only just caught the train, and were hurried and worried and +flurried at the last at the station. You look so white and tired. +How your breath comes and goes! And I think you're new to our +Canadian ways. I saw you didn't understand about the checks for the +baggage. Let me take away this bag and put it up in the rack for +you. Here's a footstool for your feet; that'll make you more +comfortable." + +At the first sound of her sweet voice, I turned to look at the +speaker. She was a girl, perhaps a year or two younger than myself, +very slender and graceful, and with eyes like a mother's. She wasn't +exactly pretty, but her face was so full of intelligence and +expression that it was worth a great deal more than any doll-like +prettiness. + +Perhaps it was pleasure at being spoken to kindly at all in this +land of strangers; perhaps it was revulsion from the agony of shame +and modesty I had endured at Quebec; but, at any rate, I felt drawn +at first sight to my sweet-voiced fellow-traveller. Besides, she +reminded me somewhat of Minnie Moore, and that resemblance alone was +enough to attract me. I looked up at her gratefully. + +"Oh, thank you so much!" I cried, putting my bag in her hand. "I've +only just come out from England; and I'd hardly time at Quebec to +catch the train; and the people crowded around so, that I was +flustered at landing; and everything somehow seems to be going +against me." + +And with that my poor overwrought nerves gave way all at once, and +without any more ado I just burst out crying. + +The lady by my side leant over me tenderly. + +"There--cry, dear," she said, as if she'd known me for years, +stooping down and almost caressing me. "Jack,"--and she turned to a +tall gentleman at her side,--"quick! you've got my black bag; get me +out the sal volatile. She's quite faint, poor thing; we must look +after her instantly." + +The person to whom she spoke, and who was apparently her husband or +her brother, took down the black bag from the rack hastily, and got +out the sal volatile, as my friend directed him. He poured a little +into a tumbler and held it quietly to my lips. I liked his manner, +as I'd liked the lady's. He was so very brotherly. Besides, there +was something extremely soothing about his quick, noiseless way. He +did it all so fast, yet without the faintest sign of agitation. I +couldn't help thinking what a good nurse he would make; he was so +rapid and effective, yet so gentle and so quiet. He seemed perfectly +accustomed to the ways of nervous women. + +I dried my eyes after a while, and looked up in his face. He was +very good-looking, and had a charming soft smile. How lucky I should +have tumbled upon such pleasant travelling companions! In my present +mental state, I had need of sympathy. And, indeed, they took as much +care of me, and coddled me up as tenderly, as if they'd known me for +years. I was almost tempted to make a clean breast of my personality +to them, and tell them why it was I had been so worried and upset by +my reception at Quebec: but I shrank from confessing it. I hated my +own name, almost, it seemed to bring me such very unpleasant +notoriety. + +In a very few minutes, I felt quite at home with my new friends. I +explained to them that when I landed I had no intention of going on +West by train at once, but that news which I received on the way had +compelled me to push forward by the very first chance; and that I +had to change my ticket at a place called Sharbot Lake, whose very +position or distance I hadn't had time to discover. The lady smiled +sweetly, and calmed my fears by telling me we wouldn't reach Sharbot +Lake till mid-day to-morrow, and that I would have plenty of time +there to book on to my destination. + +Thus encouraged, I went on to tell them I had no Canadian money, +having brought out what I needed for travelling expenses and hotels +in Bank of England 20 pound notes. The lady smiled again, and said +in the friendliest way: + +"Oh, my brother'll get them changed for you at Montreal as we pass, +won't you, Jack? or at least as much as you need till you get +to"--she checked herself--"the end of your journey." + +I noticed how she pulled herself up, though at the moment I attached +no particular importance to it. + +So he was her brother, not her husband, then! Well, he was a very +nice fellow, either way, and nobody could be kinder or more +sympathetic than he'd been to me so far. + +We fell into conversation, which soon by degrees grew quite +intimate. + +"How far West are you going?" the man she called Jack asked after a +little time, tentatively. + +And I answered, all unsuspiciously: + +"To a place called Palmyra." + +"Why, we live not far from Palmyra," the sister replied, with a +smile. "We're going that way now. Our station's Adolphus Town, the +very next village." + +I hadn't yet learned to join the wisdom of the serpent to the +innocence of the dove, I'm afraid. Remember, though in some ways I +was a woman full grown, in others I was little more than a four- +year-old baby. + +"Do you know a Dr. Ivor there?" I asked eagerly, leaning forward. + +"Oh, yes, quite well," the lady answered, arranging my footstool +more comfortably as she spoke. "He's got a farm out there now, and +hardly practises at all. How queer it is! One always finds one knows +people in common. Is Dr. Ivor a friend of yours?" + +I recoiled at the stray question almost as if I'd been shot. + +"Oh, no!" I cried, horrified at the bare idea of such treason. "He's +anything but a friend... I--I only wanted to know about him." + +The lady looked at Jack, and Jack looked at the lady. Were they +telegraphing signs? I fancied somehow they gave one another very +meaning glances. Jack was the first to speak, breaking an awkward +silence. + +"You can't expect everyone to know your own friends, or to like them +either, Elsie," he said slowly, with his eyes fixed hard on her, as +if he expected her to flare up. + +My heart misgave me. A hateful idea arose in it. Could my sweet +travelling companion be engaged--to my father's murderer? + +"But he's a dear good fellow, for all that, Jack," Elsie said +stoutly; and strange as it sounds to say so, I admired her for +sticking up for her friend Dr. Ivor, if she really liked him. "I +won't hear him run down by anybody, not even by YOU. If this lady +knew him better, I'm sure she'd like him, as we all do." + +Jack turned the conversation abruptly. + +"But if you're going to Palmyra," he asked, "where do you mean to +stop? Have you thought about lodgings? You mustn't imagine it's a +place like an English town, with an inn or hotel or good private +apartments. There's nowhere you can put up at in these brand-new +villages. Are you going to friends, or did you expect to find +quarters as easily as in England?" + +This was a difficulty which, indeed, had never even occurred to me +till that moment. I stammered and hesitated. + +"Well," I said slowly, "to tell you the truth, I haven't thought +about that. The landing at Quebec was such a dreadful surprise to +me, and"--tears came into my eyes again--"I had a great shock +there--and I had to come on so quick, I didn't ask about anything +but catching the train. I meant to stop a night or two either at +Quebec or in Montreal, and to make all inquiries: but circumstances, +you see, have prevented that. So I really don't know what I'd better +do when I get to Palmyra." + +"I do," my new friend answered quickly, her soft sweet voice having +quite a decisive ring in it. "You'd better not go on to Palmyra at +all. There's no sort of accommodation there, except a horrid +drinking-saloon. You'd better stop short at Adolphus Town and spend +the night with us; and then you can look about you next day, if you +like, and see what chance there may be of finding decent quarters. +Old Mrs. Wilkins might take her in, Jack, or the Blacks at the +tannery." + +I smiled, and felt touched. + +"Oh, how good of you!" I cried. "But I really couldn't think of it. +Thank you ever so much, though, for your kind thought, all the same. +It's so good and sweet of you. But you don't even know who I am. I +have no introduction." + +"You're your own best introduction," Elsie said, with a pretty nod: +I thought of her somehow from the very first moment I heard her name +as Elsie. "And as to your not knowing us, never mind about that. We +know YOU at first sight. It's the Canadian way to entertain Angels +unawares. Out here, you know, hospitality's the rule of the +country." + +Well, I demurred for a long time; I fought off their invitation as +well as I could: I couldn't bear thus to quarter myself upon utter +strangers. But they both were so pressing, and brought up so many +cogent arguments why I couldn't go alone to the one village +saloon--a mere whisky-drinking public-house, they said, of very bad +character,--that in the long run I was fain almost to acquiesce in +their kind plan for my temporary housing. Besides, after my horrid +experience at Quebec, it was such a positive relief to me to meet +anybody nice and delicate, that I couldn't find it in my heart to +refuse these dear people. And then, perhaps it was best not to go +quite on to Palmyra at once, for fear of unexpectedly running +against my father's murderer. If I met him in the street, and he +recognised me and spoke to me, what on earth could I do? My head was +all in a whirl, indeed, as to what he might intend or expect: for I +felt sure he expected me. I made one last despairing effort. + +"If I stop at your house, though," I said, half ashamed of myself +for venturing to make conditions, "there's one promise you must make +me--that I sha'n't see Dr. Ivor unless you let me know and get my +consent beforehand." + +Jack, as I called him to myself, answered gaily back with a rather +curious smile: + +"If you like, you need see nobody but our own two selves. We'll +promise not to introduce anybody to you without due leave, and to +let you do as you like in that and in everything." + +So I yielded at last. + +"Well, I must know your name," I said tentatively. + +And Jack, looking queerly at me with an inquiring air, said: + +"My sister's name's Elsie; mine's John Cheriton." + +"And yours?" Elsie asked, glancing timidly down at me. + +My heart beat hard. I was face to face with a dilemma. These were +friends of Courtenay Ivor's, and I had given myself away to them. I +was going to their house, to accept their hospitality--and to +betray their friend! Never in my life did I feel so guilty before. +Oh! what on earth was I to do? I had told them too much; I had gone +to work foolishly. If I said my real name, I should let out my whole +secret. I must brazen it out now. With tremulous lips and flushed +cheek, I answered quickly, "Julia Marsden." + +Elsie drew back, all abashed. In a moment her cheek grew still +redder, I felt sure, than my own. + +"Oh, Marsden!" she cried, eyeing me close. "Why, I thought you were +Miss Callingham!" + +"How on earth did you know that?" I exclaimed, terrified almost out +of my life. Was I never for one moment to escape my own personality? + +"Why, they put it in the papers that you were coming," Elsie +answered, looking tenderly at me, more in sympathy than in anger. +"And it's written on your bag, you know, that Jack put up in the +rack there... That's why we were so sorry for you, and so grieved at +the way you must have been hustled on the quay. And that's also why +we wanted you to come to us... But don't be a bit afraid. We quite +understand you want to travel incognita. After the sort of reception +you got at Quebec, no wonder you're afraid of these hateful +sightseers!... Very well, dear," she took my hand with the air of an +old friend, "your disguise shall be respected while you stop at our +house. Miss Marsden let it be. You can make any inquiries you like +about Dr. Ivor. We will be secrecy itself. We'll say nothing to +anyone. And my brother'll take your ticket at Sharbot Lake for +Adolphus Town." + +I broke down once more. I fairly cried at such kindness. + +"Oh, how good you are!" I said. "How very, very good. This is more +than one could ever have expected from strangers." + +She held my hand and stroked it. + +"We're not strangers," she answered. "We're English ourselves. We +sympathise deeply with you in this new, strange country. You must +treat us exactly like a brother and sister. We liked you at first +sight, and we're sure we'll get on with you." + +I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it. + +"And I liked you also," I said, "and your brother, too. You're both +so good and kind. How can I ever sufficiently thank you?" + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +MY PLANS ALTER + + + + + +The rest of that day we spent chatting very amicably in our Pullman +arm-chairs. I couldn't understand it myself--when I had a moment to +think, I was shocked and horrified at it. I was so terribly at home +with them. These were friends of Dr. Ivor's--friends of my father's +murderer! I had come out to Canada to track him, to deliver him +over, if I could, to the strong hand of Justice. And yet, there I +was talking away with his neighbours and friends as if I had known +them all my life, and loved them dearly. Nay, what was more, I +couldn't in my heart of hearts help liking them. They were really +sweet people--so kind and sympathetic, so perceptive of my +sensitiveness. They asked no questions that could hurt me in any +way. They showed no curiosity about the object of my visit or my +relation to Dr. Ivor. They were kindness and courtesy itself. I +could see Mr. Cheriton was a gentleman in fibre, and Elsie was as +sweet as any woman on earth could be. + +By-and-by, the time came for the Pullman saloon to be transformed +for the night into a regular sleeping-car. All this was new to me, +and I watched it with interest. As soon as the beds were made up, I +crept into my berth, and my new friend Elsie took her place on the +sofa below me. I lay awake long and thought over the situation. The +more I thought of it, the stranger it all seemed. I tried hard to +persuade myself I was running some great danger in accepting the +Cheritons' invitation. Certainly, I had behaved with consummate +imprudence. Canada is a country, I said to myself, where they kidnap +and murder well-to-do young Englishmen. How much easier, then, to +kidnap and murder a poor weak stray English girl! I was entirely at +the mercy of the Cheritons, that was clear: and the Cheritons were +Dr. Ivor's friends. As I thought all the circumstances over, the +full folly of my own conduct came home to me more and more. I had +let these people suppose I was travelling under an assumed name. I +had let them know my ticket was not for Palmyra but for Kingston, +where I didn't mean to go. I had told them I meant to change it at +Sharbot Lake. So they were aware that no one on earth but themselves +had any idea where I had gone. And I had further divulged to them +the important fact that I had plenty of ready money in Bank of +England notes! I stood aghast at my own silliness. But still, I did +NOT distrust them. + +No, I did NOT distrust them. I felt I ought to be distrustful. I +felt it might be expected of me. But they were so gentle-mannered +and so sweet-natured, that I couldn't distrust them. I tried very +hard, but distrust wouldn't come to me. That kind fellow Jack--I +thought of him, just so, as Jack already--couldn't hurt a fly, much +less kill a woman. It grieved me to think I would have to hurt his +feelings. + +For now that I came to look things squarely in the face in my berth +by myself, I began to see how utterly impossible it would be for me +after all to go and stop with the Cheritons. How I could ever have +dreamt it feasible I could hardly conceive. I ought to have refused +at once. I ought to have been braver. I ought to have said outright, +"I'll have nothing to do or say with anyone who is a friend or an +acquaintance of Courtenay Ivor's." And yet, to have said so would +have been to give up the game for lost. It would have been to +proclaim that I had come out to Canada as Courtenay Ivor's enemy. + +I wasn't fit, that was the fact, for my self-imposed task of +private detective. + +A good part of that night I lay awake in my berth, bitterly +reproaching myself for having come on this wild-goose chase without +the aid of a man--an experienced officer. Next morning, I rose and +breakfasted in the car. The Cheritons breakfasted with me, and, sad +to say, seemed more charming than ever. That good fellow Jack was so +attentive and kind, I almost felt ashamed to have to refuse his +hospitality; and as for Elsie, she couldn't have treated me more +nicely or cordially if she'd been my own sister. It wasn't what they +said that touched my heart: it was what they didn't say or do--their +sweet, generous reticence. + +After breakfast, I steeled myself for the task, and broke it to them +gently that, thinking it over in the night, I'd come to the +conclusion I couldn't consistently accept their proffered welcome. + +"I don't know how to say NO to you," I cried, "after you've been so +wonderfully kind and nice; but reasons which I can't fully explain +just now make me feel it would be wrong of me to think of stopping +with you. It would hamper my independence of action to be in anybody +else's house. I must shift for myself, and try if I can't find board +and lodging somewhere." + +"Find it with us then!" Elsie put in eagerly. "If that's all that's +the matter, I'm sure we're not proud--are we, Jack?--not a bit. +Sooner than you should go elsewhere and be uncomfortable in your +rooms, I'd take you in myself, and board you and look after you. You +could pay what you like; and then you'd retain your independence, +you see, as much as ever you wanted." + +But her brother interrupted her with a somewhat graver air: + +"It goes deeper than that, I'm afraid, Elsie," he said, turning his +eye full upon her. "If Miss Callingham feels she couldn't be happy +in stopping with us, she'd better try elsewhere. Though where on +earth we can put her, I haven't just now the very slightest idea. +But we'll turn it over in our own minds before we reach Adolphus +Town." + +There was a sweet reasonableness about Jack that attracted me +greatly. I could see he entered vaguely into the real nature of my +feelings. But he wouldn't cross-question me: he was too much of a +gentleman. + +"Miss Callingham knows her own motives best," he said more than +once, when Elsie tried to return to the charge. "If she feels she +can't come to us, we must be content to do the best we can for her +with our neighbours. Perhaps Mrs. Walters would take her in: she's +our clergyman's wife, Miss Callingham, and you mightn't feel the +same awkwardness with her as with my sister." + +"Does she know--Dr. Ivor?" I faltered out, unable to conceal my real +reasons entirely. + +"Not so intimately as we do," Jack answered, with a quick glance at +his sister. "We might ask her at any rate. There are so few houses +in Palmyra or the neighbourhood where you could live as you're +accustomed, that we mustn't be particular. But at least you'll spend +one night with us, and then we can arrange all the other things +afterward." + +My mind was made up. + +"No, not even one night," I said. I couldn't accept hospitality from +Dr. Ivor's friends. Between his faction and mine there could be +nothing now but the bitterest enmity. How dare I even parley with +people who were friends of my father's murderer? + +Yet I was sorry to disappoint that good fellow, Jack, all the same. +Did he want me to sleep one night at his house on purpose to rob me +and murder me? Girl as I was, and rendered timorous in some ways by +the terrible shocks I had received, I couldn't for one moment +believe it. I KNEW he was good: I KNEW he was honourable, gentle, a +gentleman. + +So, journeying on all morning, we reached Sharbot Lake, still with +nothing decided. At the little junction station, Jack got me my +ticket. That was the turning point in my career. The die was cast. +There I lost my identity. A crowd lounged around the platform, and +surged about the Pullman car, calling to see "Una Callingham." But +no Una Callingham appeared on the scene. I went, on in the same +train, without a word to anyone, all unknown save to the two +Cheritons, and as an unrecognised unit of common humanity. I had +cast that horrid identity clean behind me. + +The afternoon was pleasant. In spite of my uncertainty, it gave me a +sense of pleased confidence to be in the Cheritons' company. I had +taken to them at once: and the more I talked with them, the better I +liked them. Especially Jack, that nice brotherly Jack, who seemed +almost like an old friend to me. You get to know people so well on a +long railway journey. I was quite sorry to think that by five +o'clock that afternoon we should reach Adolphus Town, and so part +company. + +About ten minutes to five, we were collecting our scattered things, +and putting our front-hair straight by the mirror in the ladies' +compartment. + +"Well, Miss Cheriton," I said warmly, longing to kiss her as I +spoke, "I shall never forget how kind you two have been to me. I do +wish so much I hadn't to leave you like this. But it's quite +inevitable. I don't see really how I could ever endure--" + +I said no more, for just at that moment, as the words trembled on my +lips, a terrible jar thrilled suddenly through the length and +breadth of the carriage. Something in front seemed to rush into us +with a deep thud. There was a crash, a fierce grating, a dull hiss, +a clatter. Broken glass was flying about. The very earth beneath the +wheels seemed to give way under us. Next instant, all was blank. I +just knew I was lying, bruised and stunned and bleeding, on a bare +dry bank, with my limbs aching painfully. + +I guessed what it all meant. A collision, no doubt. But I lay faint +and ill, and knew nothing for the moment as to what had become of my +fellow-passengers. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +A STRANGE RECOGNITION + + + + + +Gradually I was aware of somebody moistening my temples. A soft palm +held my hand. Elsie was leaning over me. I opened my eyes with a +start. + +"Oh, Elsie," I cried, "how kind of you!" + +It seemed to me quite natural to call her Elsie. + +Even as I spoke, somebody else raised my head and poured something +down my throat. I swallowed it with a gulp. Then I opened my eyes +again. + +"And Jack, too," I murmured. + +It seemed as if he'd been "Jack" to me for years and years already. + +"She knows us!" Elsie cried, clasping her hands. "She's much +better--much better. Quick, Jack, more brandy! And make haste +there--a stretcher!" + +There was a noise close by. Unseen hands lifted me up, and Jack laid +me on the stretcher. Half-an-hour at least must have elapsed, I felt +since the first shock of the accident. I had been unconscious +meanwhile. The actual crash came and went like lightning. And my +memory of all else was blotted out for the moment. + +Next, as I lay still, two men took the stretcher and carried me off +at a slow pace, under Jack's direction. They walked single-file +along the line, and turned down a rough road that led off near a +river. I didn't ask where they were going: I was too weak and +feeble. At last they came to a house, a small white wooden cottage, +very colonial and simple, but neat and pretty. There was a garden in +front, full of old-fashioned flowering shrubs; and a verandah ran +round the house, about whose posts clambered sweet English creepers. + +They carried me in, and laid me down on a bed, in a sweet little +room, very plain but dainty. It was panelled with polished +pitchpine, and roses peeped in at the open window. Everything about +the cottage bore the impress of native good taste. I knew it was +Jack's home. It was just such a room as I should have expected from +Elsie. + +The bed on which they placed me was neat and soft. I lay there +dozing with pain. Elsie sat by my side, her own arm in a sling. +By-and-by, an Irish maid came in and undressed me carefully under +Elsie's direction. Then Elsie said to me, half shrinking: + +"Now you must see the doctor." + +"Not Dr. Ivor!" I cried, waking up to a full sense of this new +threatened horror. "Whatever I do, dear, I WON'T see Dr. Ivor!" + +Jack had come in while she spoke, and was standing by the bed, I saw +now. The servant had gone out. He lifted my arm, and held my wrist +in his hand. + +"I'm a doctor myself, Miss Callingham," he said softly, with that +quiet, reassuring voice of his. "Don't be alarmed at that; nobody +but myself and Elsie need come near you in any way." + +I smiled at his words, well pleased. + +"Oh, I'm so glad you're a doctor!" I cried, much relieved at the +news; "for I'm not the least little bit in the world afraid of YOU. +I don't mind your attending me. I like to have you with me." For I +had always a great fancy for doctors, somehow. + +"That's well," he said, smiling at me such a sweet sympathetic smile +as he felt my pulse with his finger. "Confidence is the first great +requisite in a patient: it's half the battle. You're not seriously +hurt, I hope, but you're very much shaken. Whether you like it or +not, you'll have to stop here now for some days at least, till +you're thoroughly recovered." + +I'm ashamed to write it down; but I was really pleased to hear it. +Nothing would have induced me to go voluntarily to their house with +the intention of stopping there--for they were friends of Dr. +Ivor's. But when you're carried on a stretcher to the nearest +convenient house, you're not responsible for your own actions. And +they were both so nice and kind, it was a pleasure to be near them. +So I was almost thankful for that horrid accident, which had cut the +Gordian knot of my perplexity as to a house to lodge in. + +It was a fortnight before I was well enough to get out of bed and +lie comfortably on the sofa. All that time Jack and Elsie tended me +with unsparing devotion. Elsie had a little bed made up in my room; +and Jack came to see me two or three times a day, and sat for whole +hours with me. It was so nice he was a doctor! A doctor, you know, +isn't a man--in some ways. And it soothed me so to have him sitting +there with Elsie by my bedside. + +They were "Jack" and "Elsie" to me, to their faces, before three +days were out; and I was plain "Una" to them: it sounded so sweet +and sisterly. Elsie slipped it out the second morning as naturally +as could be. + +"Una'd like a cup of tea, Jack;" then as red as fire all at once, +she corrected herself, and added, "I mean, Miss Callingham." + +"Oh, do call me Una!" I cried; "it's so much nicer and more +natural.... But how did you come to know my name was Una at all?" +For she slipped it out as glibly as if she'd always called me so. + +"Why, everybody knows that." Elsie answered, amused. "The whole +world speaks of you always as Una Callingham. You forget you're a +celebrity. Doctors have read memoirs about you at Medical +Congresses. You've been discussed in every paper in Europe and +America." + +I paused and sighed. This was very humiliating. It was unpleasant to +rank in the public mind somewhere between Constance Kent and Laura +Bridgman. But I had to put up with it. + +"Very well," I said, with a deep breath, "if those I don't care for +call me so behind my back, let me at least have the pleasure of +hearing myself called so by those I love, like you, Elsie." + +She leant over me and kissed my forehead with a burst of genuine +delight. + +"Then you love me, Una!" she exclaimed. + +"How can I help it?" I answered. "I love you dearly already." And I +might have added with truth, "And your brother also." + +For Jack was really, without any exception, the most lovable man I +ever met in my life--at once so strong and manly, and yet so womanly +and so gentle. Every day I stopped there, I liked him better and +better. I was glad when he came into my room, and sorry when he went +away again to work on the farm: for he worked very hard; his hand +was all horny with common agricultural labour. It was sad to think +of such a man having to do such work. And yet he was so clever, and +such a capital doctor. I wondered he hadn't done well and stayed in +England. But Elsie told me he'd had great disappointments, and +failed in his profession through no fault of his own. I could never +understand that: he had such a delightful manner. Though, perhaps I +was prejudiced; for, in point of fact, I began to feel I was really +in love with Jack Cheriton. + +And Jack was in love with me too. This was a curious result of my +voyage to Canada in search of Dr. Ivor! Instead of hunting up the +criminal, I had stopped to fall in love with one of his friends and +neighbours. And I found it so delicious: I won't pretend to deny it. +I was absolutely happy when Jack sat by my bedside and held my hand +in his. I didn't know what it would lead to, or whether it would +ever lead to anything at all; but I was happy meanwhile just to love +and be loved by him. I think when you're really in love, that's +quite enough. Jack never proposed to me: he never asked me to marry +him. He just sat by my bedside and held my hand; and once, when +Elsie went out to fetch my beef-tea, he stooped hastily down and +kissed, me, oh, so tenderly! I don't know why, but I wasn't the +least surprised. It seemed to me quite natural that Jack should kiss +me. + +So I went idly on for a fortnight, in a sort of lazy lotus-land, +never thinking of the future, but as happy and as much at home as if +I'd lived all my life with Jack and Elsie. I hated even to think I +would soon be well; for then I'd have to go and look out for +Courtenay Ivor. + +At last one afternoon I was sufficiently strong to be lifted out of +bed, and dressed in a morning robe, and laid out on the sofa in the +little drawing-room. It looked out upon the verandah, which was high +above the ground; and Jack came in and sat with me, alone without +Elsie. My heart throbbed high at that: I liked to be alone for +half-an-hour with Jack. Perhaps... But who knows? Well, at any rate, +even if he didn't, it was nice to have the chance of a good long, +quiet chat with him. I loved Elsie dearly; but at a moment like +this, why, I liked to have Jack all to myself without even Elsie. + +So I was pleased when Jack told me Elsie was going into Palmyra with +the buggy to get the English letters. Then she'd be gone a good long +time! Oh, how lovely! How beautiful! + +"Is there anything you'd like from the town?" he asked, as Elsie +drove past the window. "Anything Elsie could get for you? If so, +please say so." + +I hesitated a moment. + +"Do you think," I asked at last, for I didn't want to be +troublesome, "she could get me a lemon?" + +"Oh, certainly," Jack answered; "there she goes in the buggy! Here, +wait a moment, Una! I'll run after her to the gate this minute and +tell her." + +He sprang lightly on to the parapet of the verandah. Then, with one +hand held behind him to poise himself, palm open backward, he leapt +with a bound to the road, and darted after her hurriedly. + +My heart stood still within me. That action revealed him. The back, +the open hand, the gesture, the bend--I would have known them +anywhere. With a horrible revulsion I recognised the truth. This was +my father's murderer! This was Courtenay Ivor! + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +MURDER WILL OUT + + + + + +He was gone but for three minutes. Meanwhile, I buried my face in my +burning hands, and cried to myself in unspeakable misery. + +For, horrible as it sounds to say so, I knew perfectly well now that +Jack was Dr. Ivor: yet, in spite of that knowledge, I loved him +still. He was my father's murderer; and I couldn't help loving him! + +It was that that filled up the cup of my misery to overflowing. I +loved the man well: and I must turn to denounce him. + +He came back, flushed and hot, expecting thanks for his pains. + +"Well, she'll get you the lemon, Una," he said, panting. "I overtook +her by the big tulip-tree." + +I gazed at him fixedly, taking my hands from my face, with the tears +still wet on my burning cheek. + +"You've deceived me!" I cried sternly. "Jack, you've given me a +false name. I know who you are, now. You're no Jack at all. You're +Courtenay Ivor!" + +He drew back, quite amazed. Yet he didn't seem thunderstruck. Not +fear but surprise was the leading note on his features. + +"So you've found that out at last, Una!" he exclaimed, staring hard +at me. "Then you remember me after all, darling! You know who I am. +You haven't quite forgotten me. And you recall what has gone, do +you?" + +I rose from the sofa, ill as I was, in my horror. + +"You dare to speak to me like that, sir!" I cried. "You, whom I've +tracked out to your hiding-place and discovered! You, whom I've come +across the ocean to hunt down! You, whom I mean to give up this very +day to Justice! Let me go from your house at once! How dare you ever +bring me here? How dare you stand unabashed before the daughter of +the man you so cruelly murdered?" + +He drew back like one stung. + +"The daughter of the man I murdered!" he faltered out slowly, as in +a turmoil of astonishment. "The man _I_ murdered! Oh, Una, is it +possible you've forgotten so much, and yet remember me myself? I +can't believe it, darling. Sit down, my child, and think. Surely, +surely the rest will come back to you gradually." + +His calmness unnerved me. What could he mean by these words? No +actor on earth could dissemble like this. His whole manner was +utterly unlike the manner of a man just detected in a terrible +crime. He seemed rather to reproach me, indeed, than to crouch; to +be shocked and indignant. + +"Explain yourself," I said coldly, in a very chilly voice. +"Courtenay Ivor, I give you three minutes to explain. At the end of +that time, if you can't exonerate yourself, I walk out of this house +to give you up, as I ought, to the arm of Justice!" + +He looked at me, all pity, yet inexpressibly reproachful. + +"Oh, Una," he cried, clasping his hands--those small white hands of +his--Aunt Emma's hands--the murderer's hands--how had I never +before noticed them?--"and I, who have suffered so much for you! I, +who have wrecked my whole life for you, ungrudgingly, willingly! I, +who have sacrificed even Elsie's happiness and Elsie's future for +you! This is too, too hard! Una, Una, spare me!" + +A strange trembling seized me. It was in my heart to rush forward +and clasp him to my breast. Murderer or no murderer, his look, his +voice, cut me sharply to the heart. Words trembled on the tip of my +tongue: "Oh, Jack, I love you!" But with a violent effort, I +repressed them sternly. This horrible revulsion seemed to tear me in +two. I loved him so much. Though till the moment of the discovery, I +never quite realised how deeply I loved him. + +"Courtenay Ivor," I said slowly, steeling myself once more for a +hard effort, "I knew who you were at once when I saw you poise +yourself on the parapet. Once before in my life I saw you like that, +and the picture it produced has burned itself into the very fibre +and marrow of my being. As long as I live, I can never get rid of +it. It was when you leapt from the window at The Grange, at +Woodbury, after murdering my father!" + +He started once more. + +"Una," he said solemnly, in a very clear voice, "there's some +terrible error somewhere. You're utterly mistaken about what took +place that night. But oh, great heavens! how am I ever to explain +the misconception to YOU? If you still think thus, it would be cruel +to undeceive you. I daren't tell you the whole truth. It would kill +you! It would kill you!" + +I drew myself up like a pillar of ice. + +"Go on," I said, in a hard voice; for I saw he had something to say. +"Don't mind for my heart. Tell me the truth. I can stand it." + +He hesitated for a minute or two. + +"I can't!" he cried huskily. "Dear Una, don't ask me! Won't you +trust me, without? Won't you believe me when I tell you, I never did +it?" + +"No, I can't," I answered with sullen resolution, though my eyes +belied my words. "I can't disbelieve the evidence of my own senses. +I SAW you escape that night. I see you still. I've seen you for +years. I KNOW it was you, and you only, who did it!" + +He flung himself down in a chair, and let his arms drop listlessly. + +"Oh! what can I ever do to disillusion you?" he cried in despair. +"Oh! what can I ever do? This is too, too terrible!" + +I moved towards the door. + +"I'm going," I said, with a gulp. "You've deceived me, Jack. You've +lied to me. You have given me feigned names. You have decoyed me to +your house under false pretences. And I recognise you now. I know +you in all your baseness. You're my father's murderer! Don't hope to +escape by playing on my feelings. I'd deserve to be murdered myself, +if I could act like that! I'm on my way to the police-office, to +give you in custody on the charge of murdering Vivian Callingham at +Woodbury!" + +He jumped up again, all anxiety. + +"Oh, no, you mustn't walk!" he cried, laying his hand upon my arm. +"Give me up, if you like; but wait till the buggy comes back, and +Elsie'll drive you round with me. You're not fit to go a step as you +are at present... Oh! what shall I ever do, though. You're so weak +and ill. Elsie'll never allow it." + +"Elsie'll never allow WHAT?" I asked; though I felt it was rather +more grotesque than undignified and inconsistent thus to parley and +make terms with my father's murderer. Though, to be sure, it was +Jack, and I couldn't bear to refuse him. + +He kept his hand on my arm with an air of authority. + +"Una, my child," he said, thrusting me back--and even at that +moment of supreme horror, a thrill ran all through my body at his +touch and his words--"you MUSTN'T go out of this house as you are +this minute. I refuse to allow it. I'm your doctor, and I forbid it. +You're under my charge, and I won't let you stir. If I did, I'd be +responsible." + +He pushed me gently into a chair. + +"I gave you but one false name," he said slowly--"the name of +Cheriton. To be sure I, was never christened John, but I'm Jack to +my intimates. It was my nickname from a baby. Jack's what I've +always been called at home--Jack's what, in the dear old days at +Torquay, you always called me. But I saw if I let you know who I was +at once, there'd be no chance of recalling the past, and so saving +you from yourself. To save you, I consented to that one mild +deception. It succeeded in bringing you here, and in keeping you +here till Elsie and I were once more what we'd always been to you. I +meant to tell you all in the end, when the right time came. Now, +you've forced my hand, and I don't know how I can any longer refrain +from telling you." + +"Telling me WHAT?" I said icily. "What do you mean by your words? +Why all these dark hints? If you've anything to say, why not say it +like a man?" + +For I loved him so much that in my heart of hearts, I half hoped +there might still be some excuse, some explanation. + +He looked at me solemnly. Then he leant back in his chair and drew +his hand across his brow. I could see now why I hadn't recognised +that delicate hand before: white as it was by nature, hard work on +the farm had long bronzed and distorted it. But I saw also, for the +first time, that the palm was scarred with cuts and rents--exactly +like Minnie Moore's, exactly like Aunt Emma's. + +"Una," he began slowly, in a very puzzled tone, "if I could, I'd +give myself up and be tried, and be found guilty and executed for +your sake, sooner than cause you any further distress, or expose you +to the shock of any more disclosures. But I can't do that, on +Elsie's account. Even if I decided to put Elsie to that shame and +disgrace--which would hardly be just, which would hardly be manly of +me--Elsie knows all, and Elsie'd never consent to it. She'd never +let her brother be hanged for a crime of which (as she knows) he's +entirely innocent. And she'd tell out all in full court--every fact, +every detail--which would be worse for you ten thousand times in the +end than learning it here quietly." + +"Tell me all," I said, growing stony, yet trembling from head to +foot. "Oh, Jack,"--I seized his hand,--"I don't know what you mean! +But I somehow trust you. I want to know all. I can bear +anything--anything--better than this suspense. You MUST tell me! You +MUST explain to me!" + +"I will," he said slowly, looking hard into my eyes, and feeling my +pulse half unconsciously with his finger as he spoke. "Una darling, +you must make up your mind now for a terrible shock. I won't tell +you in words, for you'd never believe it. I'll SHOW you who it was +that fired the shot at Mr. Callingham." + +He moved over to the other side of the room, and unlocking drawer +after drawer, took a bundle of photographs from the inmost secret +cabinet of a desk in the corner. + +"There, Una," he said, selecting one of them and holding it up +before my eyes. "Prepare yourself, darling. That's the person who +pulled the trigger that night in the library!" + +I looked at it and fell back with a deadly shriek of horror. It was +an instantaneous photograph. It represented a scene just before the +one the Inspector gave me. And there, in its midst, I saw myself as +a girl, with a pistol in my hand. The muzzle flashed and smoked. I +knew the whole truth. It was I myself who held the pistol and fired +at my father! + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +THE REAL MURDERER + + + + + +For some seconds I sat there, leaning back in my chair and gazing +close at that incredible, that accusing document. I knew it couldn't +lie: I knew it must be the very handiwork of unerring Nature. Then +slowly a recollection began to grow up in my mind. I knew of my own +memory it was really true. I remembered it so, now, as in a glass, +darkly. I remembered having stood, with the pistol in my hand, +pointing it straight at the breast of the man with the long white +beard whom they called my father. A new mental picture rose up +before me like a vision. I remembered it all as something that once +really occurred to me. + +Yet I remembered it, as I had long remembered the next scene in the +series, merely as so much isolated and unrelated fact, without +connection of any sort to link it to the events that preceded or +followed it. It was _I_ who shot my father! I realised that now with +a horrid gulp. But what on earth did I ever shoot him for? + +And I had hunted down Jack for the crime I had committed myself! I +had threatened to give him up for my own dreadful parricide! + +After a minute, I rose, and staggered feebly to the door. I saw the +path of duty clear as daylight before me. + +"Where are you going?" Jack faltered out, watching me close with +anxious eyes, lest I should stumble or faint. + +And I answered aloud, in a hollow voice: + +"To the police-station, of course,--to give myself into custody for +the murder of my father." + +When I thought it was Jack, though I loved him better than I loved +my own life, I would have given him up to justice as a sacred duty. +Now I knew it was myself, how could I possibly do otherwise? How +could I love my own life better than I loved dear Jack's, who had +given up everything to save me and protect me? + +With a wild bound of horror, Jack sprang upon me at once. He seized +me bodily in his arms. He carried me back into the room with +irresistible strength. I fought against him in vain. He laid me on +the sofa. He bent over me like a whirlwind and smothered me with hot +kisses. + +"My darling," he cried, "my darling, then this shock hasn't killed +you! It hasn't stunned you like the last! You're still your own dear +self! You've still strength to think and plan exactly what one would +expect from you. Oh! Una, my Una, you must wait and hear all. When +you've learned HOW it happened, you won't wish to act so rashly." + +I struggled to free myself, though his arms were hard and close like +a strong man's around me. + +"Let me go, Jack!" I cried feebly, trying to tear myself from his +grasp. "I love you better than I love my own life. If I would have +given YOU up, how much more must I give up myself, now I know it was +I who really did it!" + +He held me down by main force. He pinned me to the sofa. I suppose +it's because I'm a woman, and weak, and all that--but I liked even +then to feel how strong and how big he was, and how feeble I was +myself, like a child in his arms. And I resisted on purpose, just to +feel him hold me. Somehow, I couldn't realize, after all, that I was +indeed a murderess. It didn't seem possible. I couldn't believe it +was in me. + +"Jack," I said slowly, giving way at last, and letting him hold me +down with his small strong hands and slender iron wrist, "tell me, +if you will, how I came to do it. I'll sit here quite still, if only +you'll tell me. Am I really a murderess?" + +Jack recoiled like one shot. + +"YOU a murderess, my spotless Una!" he exclaimed, all aghast. "If +anyone else on earth but you had just asked such a thing in my +presence, I'd have leapt at the fellow's throat, and held him down +till I choked him!" + +"But I did it!" I cried wildly. "I remember now, I did it. It all +comes back to me at last. I fired at him, just so. I aimed the +loaded pistol point-blank at his heart, I can hear the din in my +ears. I can see the flash at the muzzle. And then I flung down the +pistol--like this--at my feet: and darkness came on; and I forgot +everything. Why, Dr. Marten knew that much! I remember now, he told +me he'd formed a very strong impression, from the nature of the +wound and the position of the various objects on the floor of the +room, who it was that did it! He must have seen it was _I_ who flung +down the pistol." + +Jack gazed at me in suspense. + +"He's a very good friend of yours, then," he murmured, "that Dr. +Marten. For he never said a word of all that at the inquest." + +"But I must give myself up!" I cried, in a fever of penitence for +what that other woman who once was ME had done. "Oh, Jack, do let +me! It's hateful to know I'm a murderess and to go unpunished. It's +hateful to draw back from the fate I'd have imposed on another. I'd +like to be hanged for it. I want to be hanged. It's the only +possible way to appease one's conscience." + +And yet, though I said it, I felt all the time it wasn't really I, +but that other strange girl who once lived at The Grange and looked +exactly like me. I remember it, to be sure; but it was in my Other +State: and, so far as my moral responsibility was concerned, my +Other State and I were two different people. + +For I knew in my heart I couldn't commit a murder. + +Jack rose without a word, and fetched me in some brandy. + +"Drink this," he said calmly, in his authoritative medical tone; +"drink this before you say another sentence." + +And, obedient to his order, I took it up and drank it. + +Then he sat down beside me, and took my hand in his, and with very +gentle words began to reason and argue with me. + +He was glad I'd struggled, he said, because that broke the first +force of the terrible shock for me. Action was always good for one +in any great crisis. It gave an outlet for the pent-up emotions, too +suddenly let loose with explosive force, and kept them from turning +inward and doing serious harm, as mine had done on that horrible +night of the accident. He called it always the accident, I noticed, +and never the murder. That gave me fresh hope. Could I really after +all have fired unintentionally? But no; when I came to look +inward,--to look backward on my past state,--I was conscious all the +time of some strong and fierce resentment smouldering deep in my +heart at the exact moment of firing. However it might have happened, +I was angry with the man with the long white beard: I fired at him +hastily, it is true, but with malice prepense and deliberate intent +to wound and hurt him. + +Jack went on, however, undeterred, in a low and quiet voice, +soothing my hand with his as he spoke, and very kind and gentle. My +spirit rebelled at the thought that I could ever for one moment have +imagined him a murderer. I said so in one wild burst. Jack held my +hand, and still reasoned with me. I like a man's reasoning; it's so +calm and impartial. It seems to overcome one by its mere display of +strength. If I'd changed my mind once, Jack said, I might change it +again, when further evidence on the point was again forthcoming. I +mustn't give myself up to the police till I understood much more. If +I did, I would commit a very grave mistake. There were reasons that +had led to the firing of the shot. Very grave reasons too. Couldn't +I restore and reconstruct them, now I knew the last stage of the +terrible history? If possible, he'd rather I should arrive at them +by myself than that he should tell me. + +I cast my mind back all in vain. + +"No, Jack," I said trustfully. "I can't remember anything one bit +like that. I can remember forward, sometimes, but never backwards. I +can remember now how I flung down the pistol, and how the servants +burst in. But not a word, not an item, of what went before. That's +all a pure blank to me." + +And then I went on to tell him in very brief outline how the first +thing I could recollect in all my life was the Australian scene with +the big blue-gum-trees; and how that had been recalled to me by the +picture at Jane's; and how one scene in that way had gradually +suggested another; and how I could often think ahead from a given +fact but never go back behind it and discover what led up to it. + +Jack drew his hand over his chin and reflected silently. + +"That's odd," he said, after a pause. "Yet very comprehensible. I +might almost have thought of that before: might have arrived at it +on general principles. Psychologically and physiologically it's +exactly what one would have expected from the nature of memory. And +yet it never occurred to me. Set up the train of thought in the +order in which it originally presented itself, and the links may +readily restore themselves in successive series. Try to trace it +backward in the inverse order, and the process is very much more +difficult and involved.--Well, we'll try things just so with you, +Una. We'll begin by reconstructing your first life as far as we can +from the very outset, with the aid of these stray hints of yours; +and then we'll see whether we can get you to remember all your past +up to the day of the accident more easily." + +I gazed up at him with gratitude. + +"Oh, Jack," I said, trembling, "in spite of this shock, I believe I +can do it now. I believe I can remember. The scales are falling from +my eyes. I'm becoming myself again. What you've said and what you've +shown me seems to have broken down a veil. I feel as if I could +reconstruct all now, when once the key's suggested to me." + +He smiled at me encouragingly. Oh, how could I ever have doubted +him? + +"That's right, darling," he answered. "I should have expected as +much, indeed. For now for the very first time since the accident +you've got really at the other side of the great blank in your +memory." + +I felt so happy, though I knew I was a murderess. I didn't mind now +whether I was hanged or not. To love Jack and be loved by him was +quite enough for me. When he called me "darling," I was in the +seventh heavens. It sounded so familiar. I knew he must have called +me so, often and often before, in the dim dead past that was just +beginning to recur to me. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +THE STRANGER FROM THE SEA + + + + + +I held his hand tight. It was so pleasant to know I could love him +now with a clear conscience, even if I had to give myself up to the +police to-morrow. And indeed, being a woman, I didn't really much +care whether they took me or not, if only I could love Jack, and +know Jack loved me. + +"You must tell me everything--this minute--Jack," I said, clinging +to him like a child. "I can't bear this suspense. Begin telling me +at once. You'll do me more harm than good if you keep me waiting any +longer." + +Jack took instinctively a medical view of the situation. + +"So I think, my child," he said, looking lovingly at me. "Your +nerves are on the rack, and will be the better for unstringing. Oh, +Una, it's such a comfort that you know at last who I am! It's such a +comfort that I'm able to talk to you to-day just as we two used to +talk four years ago in Devonshire!" + +"Did I love you then, Jack?" I whispered, nestling still closer to +him, in spite of my horror. Or rather, my very horror made me feel +more acutely than ever the need for protection. I was no longer +alone in the world. I had a man to support me. + +"You told me so, darling," he answered, smoothing my hair with his +hand. "Have you forgotten all about it? Doesn't even that come back? +Can't you remember it now, when I've told you who I am and how it +all happened?" + +I shook my head. + +"All cloudy still," I replied, vaguely. "Some dim sense of +familiarity, perhaps,--as when people say they have a feeling of +having lived all this over somewhere else before,--but nothing more +certain, nothing more definite." + +"Then I must begin at the beginning," Jack answered, bracing himself +for his hard task, "and reconstruct your whole life for you, as far +as I know it, from your very childhood. I'm particularly anxious you +should not merely be TOLD what took place, but should remember the +past. There are gaps in my own knowledge I want you to eke out. +There are places I want you to help me myself over. And besides, +it'll be more satisfactory to yourself to remember than to be told +it." + +I leaned back, almost exhausted. Incredible as it may seem to you, +in spite of that awful photograph, I couldn't really believe even so +I had killed my father. And yet I knew very well now that Jack, at +least, hadn't done it. That was almost enough. But not quite. My +head swam round in terror. I waited and longed for Jack to explain +the whole thing to me. + +"You remember," he said, watching me close, "that when you lived as +a very little girl in Australia you had a papa who seems different +to you still from the papa in your later childish memories?" + +"I remember it very well," I replied. "It came back to me on the +Sarmatian. I think of him always now as the papa in the loose white +linen coat. The more I dwell on him, the more does he come out to me +as a different man from the other one--the father...I shot at The +Grange, at Woodbury. The father that lives with me in that +ineffaceable Picture." + +"He WAS a different man," Jack answered, with a sudden burst, as if +he knew all my story. "Una, I may as well relieve your mind all at +once on that formidable point. You shot that man"--he pointed to the +white-bearded person in the photograph,--"but it was not parricide: +it was not even murder. It was under grave provocation...in more +than self-defence...and he was NOT your father." + +"Not my father!" I cried, clasping my hands and leaning forward in +my profound suspense. "But I killed him all the same! Oh, Jack, how +terrible!" + +"You must quiet yourself, my child," he said, still soothing me +automatically. "I want your aid in this matter. You must listen to +me calmly, and bring your mind to bear on all I say to you." + +Then he began with a regular history of my early life, which came +back to me as fast as he spoke, scene by scene and year by year, in +long and familiar succession. I remembered everything, sometimes +only when he suggested it; but sometimes also, before he said the +words, my memory outran his tongue, and I put in a recollection or +two with my own tongue as they recurred to me under the stimulus of +this new birth of my dead nature. I recalled my early days in the +far bush in Australia; my journey home to England on the big steamer +with mamma; the way we travelled about for years from place to place +on the Continent. I remembered how I had been strictly enjoined, +too, never to speak of baby; and how my father used to watch my +mother just as closely as he watched me, always afraid, as it +appeared to me, she should make some verbal slip or let out some +great secret in an unguarded moment. He seemed relieved, I +recollected now, when my poor mother died: he grew less strict with +me then, but as far as I could judge, though he was careful of my +health, he never really loved me. + +Then Jack reminded me further of other scenes that came much later +in my forgotten life. He reminded me of my trip to Torquay, where I +first met him: and all at once the whole history of my old visits to +the Moores came back like a flood to me. The memory seemed to +inundate and overwhelm my brain. They were the happiest time of all +life, those delightful visits, when I met Jack and fell in love with +him, and half confided my love to my Cousin Minnie. Strange to say, +though at Torquay itself I'd forgotten it all, in that little +Canadian house, with Jack by my side to recall it, it rushed back +like a wave upon me. I'd fallen in love with Jack without my +father's knowledge or consent; and I knew very well my father would +never allow me to marry him. He had ideas of his own, my father, +about the sort of person I ought to marry: and I half suspected in +my heart of hearts he meant if possible always to keep me at home +single to take care of him and look after him. I didn't know, as +yet, he had sufficient reasons of his own for desiring me to remain +for ever unmarried. + +I remembered, too, that I never really loved my father. His nature +was hard, cold, reserved, unsympathetic. I only feared and obeyed +him. At times, my own strong character came out, I remembered, and I +defied him to his face, defied him openly. Then there were scenes in +the house, dreadful scenes, too hateful to dwell upon: and the +servants came up to my room at the end and comforted me. + +So, step by step, Jack reminded me of everything in my own past +life, up to the very night of the murder, from which my Second State +dated. I'd come back from Torquay a week or two before, very full +indeed of Jack, and determined at all costs, sooner or later, to +marry him. But though I had kept all quiet, papa had suspected my +liking on the day of the Berry Pomeroy athletics, and had forbidden +me to see Jack, or to write to him, or to have anything further to +say to him. He was determined, he told me, whoever I married, I +shouldn't at least marry a beggarly doctor. All that I remembered; +and also how, in spite of the prohibition, I wrote letters to Jack, +but could receive none in return--lest my father should see them. + +And still, the central mystery of the murder was no nearer solution. +I held my breath in terror. Had I really any sort of justification +in killing him? + +Dimly and instinctively, as Jack went on, a faint sense of +resentment and righteous indignation against the man with the white +beard rose up vaguely in my mind by slow degrees. I knew I had been +angry with him, I knew I had defied him, but how or why as yet I +knew not. + +Then Jack suddenly paused, and began in a different voice a new part +of his tale. It was nothing I remembered or could possibly remember, +he said; but it was necessary to the comprehension of what came +after, and would help me to recall it. About a week after I left +Torquay, it seemed, Jack was in his consulting-room at Babbicombe +one day, having just returned from a very long bicycle ride--for he +was a first-rate cyclist,--when the servant announced a new +patient; and a very worn-out old man came in to visit him. + +The man had a ragged grey beard and scanty white hair; he was clad +in poor clothes, and had tramped on foot all the way from London to +Babbicombe, where Jack used to practice. But Jack saw at once under +this rough exterior he had the voice and address of a cultivated +gentleman, though he was so broken down by want and long suffering +and exposure and illness that he looked like a beggar just let loose +from the workhouse. + +I held my breath as Jack showed me the poor old man's photograph. It +was a portrait taken after death--for Jack attended him to the end +through a fatal illness;--and it showed a face thin and worn, and +much lined by unspeakable hardships. But I burst out crying at once +the very moment I looked at it. For a second or two, I couldn't say +why: I suppose it was instinct. Blood is thicker than water, they +tell us; and I have the intuition of kindred very strong in me, I +believe. But at any rate, I cried silently, with big hot tears, +while I looked at that dead face of silent suffering, as I never had +cried over the photograph of the respectable-looking man who lay +dead on the floor of the library, and whom I was always taught to +consider my father. Then it came back to me, why... I gazed at it +and grew faint. I clutched Jack's arm for support. I knew what it +meant now. The poor worn old man who lay dead on the bed with that +look of mute agony on his features--was my first papa: the papa in +the loose white linen coat: the one I remembered with childlike love +and trustfulness in my earliest babyish Australian recollections! + +I couldn't mistake the face. It was burnt into my brain now. This +was he, though much older and sadder, and more scarred and lined by +age and weather. It was my very first papa. My own papa. I cried +silently still. I couldn't bear to look at it. Then the real truth +broke upon me once more. This, and this alone, was in very deed my +one real father! + +I seized the faded photograph and pressed it to my lips. + +"Oh, I know him!" I cried wildly. "It's my father! My father!" + +Some minutes passed before Jack could go on with his story. This +rush of emotions was too much for me for a while. I could hardly +hear him or attend to him, so deeply did it stir me. + +At last I calmed down, still holding that pathetic photograph on the +table before me. + +"Tell me all about him," I murmured, sobbing. "For, Jack, I remember +now, he was so good and kind, and I loved him--I loved him." + +Jack went on with his story, trying to soothe me and reassure me. +The old man introduced himself by very cautious degrees as a person +in want, not so much of money, though of that to be sure he had +none, as of kindness and sympathy in a very great sorrow. He was a +shipwrecked mariner, in a sense: shipwrecked on the sea of Life and +on the open Pacific as well. But once he had been a clergyman, and a +man of education, position, reputation, fortune. + +Gradually as he went on Jack began to grasp at the truth of this +curious tale. The worn and battered stranger had but lately landed +in London from a sailing vessel which had brought him over from a +remote Pacific islet: not a tropical islet of the kind with whose +palms and parrots we are all so familiar, but a cold and snowy rock, +away off far south, among the frosts and icebergs, near the +Antarctic continent. There for twenty long years that unhappy man +had lived by himself a solitary life. + +I started at the sound. + +"For twenty years!" I exclaimed. "Oh, Jack, you must be wrong; for +how could that be? I was only eighteen when all this happened. How +could my real father have been twenty years away from me, when I was +only eighteen, and I remember him so perfectly?" + +Jack looked at me and shook his head. + +"You've much to learn yet, Una," he answered. "The story's a long +one. You were NOT eighteen but twenty-two at the time. You've been +deliberately misled as to your own age all along. You developed +late, and were always short for your real years, not tall and +precocious as we all of us imagined. But you were four years older +than Mr. Callingham pretended. You're twenty-six now, not +twenty-two as you think. Wait, and in time you'll hear all about +it." + +He went on with his story. I listened, spell-bound. The unhappy +man explained to Jack how he had been wrecked on the voyage, and +escaped on a raft with one other passenger: how they had drifted far +south, before waves and current, till they were cast at last on this +wretched island: how they remained there for a month or two, picking +up a precarious living on roots and berries and eggs of sea-birds: +and how at last, one day, he had come back from hunting limpets and +sea-urchins on the shore of a lonely bay--to find, to his +amazement, his companion gone, and himself left alone on that +desolate island. His fellow-castaway, he knew then, had deceived and +deserted him! + +There was no room, indeed, to doubt the treachery of the wretched +being who had so basely treated him. As he looked, a ship under full +sail stood away to northward. In vain the unhappy man made wild +signals from the shore with his tattered garments. No notice was +taken of them. His companion must deliberately have suppressed the +other's existence, and pretended to be alone by himself on the +island. + +"And his name?" Jack asked of the poor old man, horrified. + +The stranger answered without a moment's pause: + +"His name, if you want it--was Vivian Callingham." + +"And yours?" Jack continued, as soon as he could recover from his +first shock of horror. + +"And mine," the poor castaway replied, "is Richard Wharton." + +As Jack told me those words, another strange thrill ran through me. + +"Richard Wharton was the name of mamma's first husband. Then I'm not +a Callingham at all!" I cried, unable to take it all in at first in +its full complexity. "I'm really a Wharton!" + +Jack nodded his head in assent. + +"Yes, you're really a Wharton," he said. "You're the baby that died, +as we all were told. Your true Christian name's Mary. But, Una, you +were always Una to all of us in England; and though the real Una +Callingham died when you were a little girl of three or four years +old, you'll be Una always now to Elsie and me. We can't think of you +as other than we've always called you." + +Then he went on to explain to me how the stranger had landed in +London, alone and friendless, twenty years later, from a passing +Australian merchant vessel which had picked him up on the island. +All those years he had waited, and fed himself on eggs of penguins. +He landed by himself, the crew having given him a suit of old +clothes, and subscribed to find him in immediate necessaries. He +began to inquire cautiously in London about his wife and family. At +first, he could learn little or nothing; for nobody remembered him, +and he feared to ask too openly, a sort of Enoch Arden terror +restraining him from proclaiming his personality till he knew +exactly what had happened in his long absence. But bit by bit, he +found out at last that his wife had married again, and was now long +dead: and that the man she had married was Vivian Callingham, his +own treacherous companion on the Crozet Islands. As soon as he +learned that, the full depth of the man's guilt burst upon him like +a thunderbolt. Richard Wharton understood now why Vivian Callingham +had left him alone on those desert rocks, and sailed away in the +ship without telling the captain of his fellow-castaway's plight. He +saw the whole vile plot the man had concocted at once, and the steps +he had taken to carry it into execution. + +Vivian Callingham, whom I falsely thought my father, had gone back +to Australia with pretended news of Richard Wharton's death. He had +sought my widowed mother in her own home up country, and told her a +lying tale of his devotion to her husband in his dying moments on +that remote ocean speck in the far Southern Pacific. By this story +he ingratiated himself. He knew she was rich: he knew she was worth +marrying: and to marry her, he had left my own real father, Richard +Wharton, to starve and languish for twenty years among rocks and +sea-fowl on a lonely island! + +My blood ran cold at such a tale of deadly treachery. I remembered +now to have heard some small part of it before. But much of it, as +Jack told it to me, was quite new and unexpected. No wonder I had +turned in horror that night from the man I long believed to be my +own father, when I learned by what vile and cruelly treacherous +means he had succeeded in imposing his supposed relationship upon +me! But still, all this brought me no nearer the real question of +questions--why did I shoot him? + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF + + + + + +As Jack went on unfolding that strange tale of fraud and heartless +wrong, my interest every moment grew more and more absorbing. But I +can't recall it now exactly as Jack told me it. I can only give you +the substance of that terrible story. + +When Richard Wharton first learned of his wife's second marriage +during his own lifetime to that wicked wretch who had ousted and +supplanted him, he believed also, on the strength of Vivian +Callingham's pretences, that his own daughter had died in her +babyhood in Australia. He fancied, therefore, that no person of his +kin remained alive at all, and that he might proceed to denounce and +punish Vivian Callingham. With that object in view, he tramped down +all the way from London to Torquay, to make himself known to his +wife's relations, the Moores, and to their cousin, Courtenay Ivor of +Babbicombe--my Jack, as I called him. For various reasons of his +own, he called first on Jack, and proceeded to detail to him this +terrible family story. + +At first hearing, Jack could hardly believe such a tale was true--of +his Una's father, as he still thought Vivian Callingham. But a +strange chance happened to reveal a still further complication. It +came out in this way. I had given Jack a recent photograph of myself +in fancy dress, which hung up over his mantelpiece. As the +weather-worn visitor's eye fell on the picture, he started and grew +pale. + +"Why, that's her!" he cried with a sudden gasp. "That's my +daughter--Mary Wharton!" + +Well, naturally enough Jack thought, to begin with, this was a mere +mistake on his strange visitor's part. + +"That's her half-sister," he said, "Una Callingham--your wife's +child by her second marriage. She may be like her, no doubt, as +half-sisters often are. But Mary Wharton, I know, died some eighteen +years ago or so, when Una was quite a baby, I believe. I've heard +all about it, because, don't you see, I'm engaged to Una." + +The poor wreck of a clergyman, however, shook his head with profound +conviction. He knew better than that. + +"Oh no," he said decisively: "that's my child, Mary Wharton. Even +after all these years, I couldn't possibly be mistaken. Blood is +thicker than water: I'd know her among ten thousand. She'd be just +that age now, too. I see the creature's vile plot. His daughter died +young, and he's palmed off my Mary as his own child, to keep her +money in his hands. But never mind the money. Thank Heaven, she's +alive! That's her! That's my Mary!" + +The plot seemed too diabolical and too improbable for anybody to +believe. Jack could hardly think it possible when his new friend +told him. But the stranger persisted so--it's hard for me even to +think of him as quite really my father--that Jack at last brought +out two or three earlier photographs I'd given him some time before; +and his visitor recognised them at once, in all their stages, as his +own daughter. This roused Jack's curiosity. He determined to hunt +the matter up with his unknown connection. And he hunted it up +thenceforward with deliberate care, till he proved every word of it. + +Meanwhile, the poor broken-down man, worn out with his long tramp +and his terrible emotions, fell ill almost at once, in Jack's own +house, and became rapidly so feeble that Jack dared not question him +further. The return to civilisation was more fatal than his long +solitary banishment. At the end of a week he died, leaving on Jack's +mind a profound conviction that all he had said was true, and that I +was really Richard Wharton's daughter, not Vivian Callingham's. + +"For a week or two I made inquiries, Una," Jack said to me as we sat +there,--"inquiries which I won't detail to you in full just now, but +which gradually showed me the truth of the poor soul's belief. What +you yourself told me just now chimes in exactly with what I +discovered elsewhere, by inquiry and by letters from Australia. The +baby that died was the real Una Callingham. Shortly after its death, +your stepfather and your mother left the colony. All your real +father's money had been bequeathed to his child: and your mother's +also was settled on you. Mr. Callingham saw that if your mother +died, and you lived and married, he himself would be deprived of the +fortune for which he had so wickedly plotted. So he made up another +plot even more extraordinary and more diabolical still than the +first. He decided to pretend it was Mary Wharton that died, and to +palm you off on the world as his own child, Una Callingham. For if +Mary Wharton died, the property at once became absolutely your +mother's, and she could will it away to her husband or anyone else +she chose to." + +"But baby was so much younger than I!" I cried, going back on my +recollections once more. "How could he ever manage to make the dates +come right again?" + +"Quite true," Jack answered; "the baby was younger than you. But +your step-father--I've no other name by which I can call him--made a +clever plan to set that straight. He concealed from the people in +Australia which child had been ill, and he entered her death as Mary +Wharton. Then, to cover the falsification, he left Melbourne at +once, and travelled about for some years on the Continent in +out-of-the-way places till all had been forgotten. You went forth +upon the world as Una Callingham, with your true personality as Mary +Wharton all obscured even in your own memory. Fortunately for your +false father's plot, you were small for your age, and developed +slowly: he gave out, on the contrary, that you were big for your +years and had outgrown yourself, Australian-wise, both in wisdom and +stature." + +"But my mother!" I exclaimed, appalled. 'How could she ever consent +to such a wicked deception?" + +"Mr. Callingham had your mother completely under his thumb," Jack +answered with promptitude. "She couldn't call her soul her own, your +poor mother--so I've heard: he cajoled her and terrified her till +she didn't dare to oppose him. Poor shrinking creature, she was +afraid of her life to do anything except as he bade her. He must +have persuaded her first to acquiesce passively in this hateful +plot, and then must have terrified her afterwards into full +compliance by threats of exposure." + +"He was a very unhappy man himself," I put in, casting back. "His +money did him no good. I can remember now how gloomy and moody he +was often, at The Grange." + +"Quite true," Jack replied. "He lived in perpetual fear of your real +father's return, or of some other breakdown to his complicated +system of successive deceptions. He never had a happy minute in his +whole life, I believe. Blind terrors surrounded him. He was afraid +of everything, and afraid of everybody. Only his scientific work +seemed ever to give him any relief. There, he became a free man. He +threw himself into that, heart and soul, on purpose, I fancy, +because it absorbed him while he was at it, and prevented him for +the time being from thinking of his position." + +"And how did you find it all out?" I asked eagerly, anxious to get +on to the end. + +"Well, that's long to tell," Jack replied. "Too long for one +sitting. I won't trouble you with it now. Discrepancies in facts and +dates, and inquiries among servants both in England and in Victoria, +first put me upon the track. But I said nothing at the time of my +suspicions to anyone. I waited till I could appeal to the man's own +conscience with success, as I hoped. And then, besides, I hardly +knew how to act for the best. I wanted to marry you; and therefore, +as far as was consistent with justice and honour, I wished to spare +your supposed father a complete exposure." + +"But why didn't you tell the police?" I asked. + +"Because I had really nothing definite in any way to go upon. +Realise the position to yourself, and you'll see how difficult it +was for me. Mr. Callingham suspected I was paying you attentions. +Clearly, under those circumstances, it was to my obvious interest +that you should get possession of all his property. Any claims I +might make for you would, therefore, be naturally regarded with +suspicion. The shipwrecked man had told nobody but myself. I hadn't +even an affidavit, a death-bed statement. All rested upon his word, +and upon mine as retailing it. He was dead, and there was nothing +but my narrative for what he told me. The story itself was too +improbable to be believed by the police on such dubious evidence. I +didn't even care to try. I wanted to make your step-father confess: +and I waited for that till I could compel confession." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +MY MEMORY RETURNS + + + + + +At last my chance came," Jack went on. "I'd found out almost +everything; not, of course, exactly by way of legal proof, but to my +own entire satisfaction: and I determined to lay the matter +definitely at once before Mr. Callingham. So I took a holiday for a +fortnight, to go bicycling in the Midlands I told my patients; and I +fixed my head-quarters at Wrode, which, as you probably remember, is +twenty miles off from Woodbury. + +"It was important for my scheme I should catch Mr. Callingham alone. +I had no idea of entrapping him. I wanted to work upon his +conscience and induce him to confess. My object was rather to move +him to remorse and restitution than to terrify or surprise him. + +"So on the day of the accident--call it murder, if you will--I rode +over on my machine, unannounced, to The Grange to see him. You knew +where I was staying, you recollect--" + +At the words, a burst of memory came suddenly over me. + +"Oh yes!" I cried. "I remember. It was at the Wilsons', at Wrode. I +wrote over there to tell you we were going to dine alone at six that +evening, as papa had got his electric apparatus home from his +instrument-maker, and was anxious to try his experiments early. +You'd written to me privately--a boy brought the note--that you +wanted to have an hour's talk alone with papa. I thought it was +about ME, and I was, oh, ever so nervous!" + +For it all came back to me now, as clear as yesterday. + +Jack looked at me hard. + +"I'm glad you remember that, dear," he said. "Now, Una, do try to +remember all you can as I go along with my story... Well, I rode +over alone, never telling anybody at Wrode where I was going, nor +giving your step-father any reason of any sort to expect me. I +trusted entirely to finding him busy with his new invention. When I +reached The Grange, I came up the drive unperceived, and looking in +at the library window, saw your father alone there. He was pottering +over his chemicals. That gave me the clue. I left my bicycle under +the window, tilted up against the wall, and walked in without +ringing, going straight to the library. Nobody saw me come: nobody +saw me return, except one old lady on the road, who seemed to have +forgotten all about it by the time of the inquest." + +(I nodded and gave a start. I knew that must have been Aunt Emma.) + +"Except yourself, Una, no human soul on earth ever seemed to suspect +me. And that wasn't odd; for you and your father, and perhaps Minnie +Moore, were the only people in the world who ever knew I was in love +with you or cared for you in any way." + +"Go on," I said, breathless. "And you went into the library." + +"I went into the library," Jack continued, "where I found your +father, just returned from enjoying his cigar on the lawn. He was +alone in the room--" + +"No, no!" I cried eagerly, putting in my share now; for I had a part +in the history. "He WASN'T alone, Jack, though you thought him so at +the time. I remember all, at last. It comes back to me like a flash. +Oh, heavens, how it comes back to me! Jack, Jack, I remember to-day +every word, every syllable of it!" + +He gazed at me in surprise. + +"Then tell me yourself, Una!" he exclaimed. "How did you come to be +there? For I knew you were there at last; but till you fired the +pistol, I hadn't the faintest idea you had heard or seen anything. +Tell me all about it, quick! There comes in MY mystery." + +In one wild rush of thought the whole picture rose up like a vision +before me. + +"Why, Jack," I cried, "there was a screen, a little screen in the +alcove! You remember the alcove at the west end of the room. It was +so small a screen, you'd hardly have thought it could hide me; but +it did--it did--and all, too, by accident. I'd gone in there after +dinner, not much thinking where I went, and was seated on the floor +by the little alcove window, reading a book by the twilight. It was +a book papa told me I wasn't to read, and I took it trembling from +the shelves, and was afraid he'd scold me--for you know how stern he +was. And I never was allowed to go alone into the library. But I got +interested in my book, and went on reading. So when he came in, I +went on sitting there very still, with the book hidden under my +skirt, for fear he should scold me. I thought perhaps before long +papa'd go out for a second, to get some plates for his photography +or something, and then I could slip away and never be noticed. The +big window towards the garden was open, you remember, and I meant to +jump out of it--as you did afterwards. It wasn't very high; and +though the book was only The Vicar of Wakefield, he'd forbidden me +to read it, and I was dreadfully afraid of him." + +"Then you were there all the time?" Jack cried interrogatively. "And +you heard our conversation--our whole conversation?" + +"I was there all the time, Jack," I cried, in a fever of exaltation: +"and I heard every word of it! It comes back to me now with a +vividness like yesterday. I see the room before my eyes. I remember +every syllable: I could repeat every sentence of it." + +Jack drew a deep sigh of intense relief. + +"Thank God for that!" he exclaimed, with profound gratitude. "Then +I'm saved, and you're saved. We can both understand one another in +that case. We know how it all happened!" + +"Perfectly," I answered. "I know all now. As I sat there and +cowered, I heard a knock at the door, and before papa could answer, +you entered hastily. Papa looked round, I could hear, and saw who it +was in a second. + +"'Oh, it's you!' he said, coldly. 'It's you, Dr. Ivor. And pray, +sir, what do you want here this evening?'" + +"Go on!" Jack cried, intensely relieved, I could feel. "Let me see +how much more you can remember, Una." + +"So you shut the door softly and said: + +"'Yes, it's I, Mr. Callingham,'" I continued all aglow, and looking +into his eyes for confirmation. "'And I've come to tell you a fact +that may surprise you. Prepare for strange news. Richard Wharton has +returned to England!' + +"I knew Richard Wharton was mamma's first husband, who was dead +before I was born, as I'd always been told: and I sat there aghast +at the news: it was so sudden, so crushing. I'd heard he'd been +wrecked, and I thought he'd come to life again; but as yet I didn't +suspect what was all the real meaning of it. + +"But papa drew back, I could hear, in a perfect frenzy of rage, +astonishment, and terror. + +"'Richard Wharton!' he hissed out between his teeth, springing away +like one stung. 'Richard Wharton come back! You liar! You sneak! +He's dead this twenty years! You're trying to frighten me.' + +"I never meant to overhear your conversation. But at that, it was so +strange, I drew back and cowered even closer. I was afraid of papa's +voice. I was afraid of his rage. He spoke just like a man who was +ready to murder you. + +"Then you began to talk with papa about strange things that +astonished me--strange things that I only half understood just then, +but that by the light of what you've told me to-day I quite +understand now--the history of my real father. + +"'I'm no liar,' you answered. 'Richard Wharton has come back. And by +the aid of what he's disclosed, I know the whole truth. The girl you +call your daughter, and whose money you've stolen, is not yours at +all. She's Richard Wharton's daughter Mary!' + +"Papa staggered back a pace or two, and came quite close to the +screen. I cowered behind it in alarm. I could see he was terrified. +For a minute or two you talked with him, and urged him to confess. +Bit by bit, as you went on, he recovered his nerve, and began to +bluster. He didn't deny what you said: he saw it was no use: he just +sneered and prevaricated. + +"As I listened to his words, I saw he admitted it all. A great +horror came over me. Then my life was one long lie! He was never my +father. He had concocted a vile plot. He had held me in this slavery +so many years to suit his own purposes. He had crushed my mother to +death, and robbed me of my birthright. Even before that night, I +never loved him. I thought it very wicked of me, but I never could +love him. As he spoke to you and grew cynical, I began to loathe and +despise him. I can't tell you how great a comfort it was to me to +know--to hear from his own lips I was not that man's daughter. + +"At last, after many recriminations, he looked across at you, and +said, half laughing, for he was quite himself again by that time: + +"'This is all very fine, Courtenay Ivor--all very fine in its way; +but how are you going to prove it? that's the real question. Do you +think any jury in England will believe, on your unsupported oath, +such a cock-and-bull story? Do you think, even if Richard Wharton's +come back, and you've got him on your side, I can't cross-examine +all the life out of his body?' + +"At that you said gravely--wanting to touch his conscience, I +suppose:-- + +"'Richard Wharton's come back, but you can't cross-examine him. For +Richard Wharton died some six or eight weeks since at my cottage at +Babbicombe, after revealing to me all this vile plot against himself +and his daughter.' + +"Then papa drew back with a loud laugh--a hateful laugh like a +demon's. I can't help calling him papa still, though it pains me +even to think of him. That loud laugh rings still in my ears to this +day. It was horrible, diabolical, like a wild beast's in triumph. + +"'You fool!' he said, with a sneer. 'And you come here to tell me +that! You infernal idiot! You come here to put yourself in my power +like this! Courtenay Ivor, I always knew you were an ass, but I +didn't ever know you were quite such a born idiot of a fellow as +that. Hold back there, you image!' With a rapid dart, before you +could see what he was doing, he passed a wire round your body and +thrust two knobs into your hands. 'You're in my power now!' he +exclaimed. 'You can't move or stir!' + +"I saw at once what he'd done. He'd pinned you to the spot with the +handles of his powerful electric apparatus. It was so strong that it +would hold one riveted to the spot in pain. You couldn't let go. You +could hardly even speak or cry aloud for help. He had pinned you +down irresistibly. I thought he meant to murder you. + +"Yet I was too terrified, even so, to scream aloud for the servants. +I only crouched there, rooted, and wondered what next would happen. + +"He went across to the door and turned the key in it. Then he opened +the cabinet and took out some things there. It was growing quite +dusk, and I could hardly see them. He returned with them where you +stood, struggling in vain to set yourself free. His voice was as +hard as adamant now. He spoke slowly and distinctly, in a voice like +a fiend's. Oh, Jack, no wonder that scene took away my reason!" + +"And you can remember what he said next, Una?" Jack asked, following +me eagerly. + +"Yes, I can remember what he said next," I went on. "He stood over +you threateningly. I could see then the thing he held in his right +hand was a loaded revolver. In his left was a bottle, a small +medical phial. + +"'If you stir, I'll shoot you,' he said; 'I'll shoot you like a dog! +You fool, you've sealed your own fate! What an idiot to let me know +Richard Wharton's dead! Now, hear your fate! Nobody saw you come +into this house to-night. Nobody shall see you leave. Look here, +sir, at this bottle. It's chloroform: do you understand? +Chloroform--chloroform--chloroform! I shall hold it to your +nose--so. I shall stifle you quietly--no blood, no fuss, no nasty +mess of any sort. And when I'm done,--do you see these flasks?--I +can reduce your damned carcase to a pound of ashes with chemicals in +half-an-hour! You've found out too much. But you've mistaken your +man! Courtenay Ivor, say your prayers and commend your soul to the +devil! You've driven me to bay, and I give you no quarter!'" + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +THE FATAL SHOT + + + + + +"Thank God, Una," Jack cried, "you remember it now even better than +I do!" + +"Remember it!" I answered, holding my brow with my hands to keep the +flood of thought from bursting it to fragments. "Remember it! Why, +it comes back to me like waves of fire and burns me. I remember +every word, every act, every gesture. I lifted my head slowly, Jack, +and looked over the screen at him. In the twilight, I saw him +there--the man I called my father--holding the bottle to your face, +that wicked bottle of chloroform, with his revolver in one hand, and +a calm smile like a fiend's playing hatefully and cruelly round that +grave-looking mouth of his. I never saw any man look so ghastly in +my life. I was rooted to the spot with awe and terror. I dared +hardly cry out or move. Yet I knew this was murder. He would kill +you! He would kill you! He was trying to poison you before my very +eyes. Oh, heaven, how I hated him! He was no father of mine. He had +never been my father. And he was murdering the man I loved best in +the world. For I loved you better than life, Jack! Oh, the strain of +it was terrible! I see it all now. I live it all over again. With +one wild bound I leapt forward, and, hardly knowing what I did, I +pressed the button, turned off the current from the battery, and +rushed wildly upon him. I suppose the knob I pressed not only +released you, but set the photographic machine at work automatically. +But I didn't know it then. At any rate, I remember now, in the +seconds that followed, flash came fast after flash. There was a +sudden illumination. The room was lighter than day. It grew alternately +bright as noon and then dark as pitch again by contrast. And by the +light of the flashes, I saw you, half-dazed with the chloroform, +standing helpless there. + +"I rushed up and caught the man's arm. He was never my father! He +dropped the bottle and struggled hard for possession of the pistol. +First he pointed it at you, then at me, then at you again. He meant +to shoot you. I was afraid it would go off. With a terrible effort I +twisted his wrist awry, in the mad force of passion, and wrenched +the revolver away from him. He jumped at my throat, still silent, +but fierce like a tiger at bay. I eluded him, and sprang back. Then +I remember no more, except that I stood with the pistol pointed at +him. Next, came a flash, a loud roar. And then, in a moment, the +Picture. He lay dead on the floor in his blood. And my Second State +began. And from that day, for months, I was like a little child +again." + +Jack looked at me as I paused. + +"And then?" he went on in a very low voice, half prompting me. + +"And then all I can remember," I said, "is how you got out of the +window. But I didn't know when I saw you, it was you or anyone else. +That was my Second State then. The shot seemed to end all. What +comes next is quite different. It belongs to the new world. There, +my life stopped dead short and began all over again." + +There was a moments silence. Jack was the first to break it. + +"And now will you give yourself up to the police, Una?" he asked me +quietly. + +The question brought me back to the present again with a bound. + +"Oh! what ought I to do?" I cried, wringing my hands. "I don't quite +know all yet. Jack, why did you run away that last moment and leave +me?" + +Jack took my hand very seriously. + +"Una, my child," he said, fixing his eyes on mine, "I hardly know +whether I can ever make you understand all that. I must ask you at +first at least just simply to believe me. I must ask you to trust me +and to accept my account. When you rushed upon me as I stood there, +all entangled in that hateful apparatus, and unable to move, I +didn't know where you had been; I didn't know how you'd come there. +But I felt sure you must have heard at least your false father's +last words--that he'd stifle me with the chloroform and burn my +body up afterwards to ashes with his chemicals. You seized the +pistol before I could quite recover from the effects of the fumes. +He lay dead at my feet before I realised what was happening. + +"Then, in a moment, as I looked at you, I took it all in, like a +flash of lightning. I saw how impossible it would be ever to +convince anybody else of the truth of our story. I saw if we both +told the truth, no one would ever believe us. There was no time then +to reflect, no time to hesitate. I had to make up my mind at once to +a plan of action, and to carry it out without a second's delay. In +one burst of inspiration, I saw that to stop would be to seal both +our fates. I didn't mind so much for myself; that was nothing, +nothing: but for your sake I felt I must dare and risk everything. +Then I turned round and looked at you. I saw at one glance the +horror of the moment had rendered you speechless and almost +senseless. The right plan came to me at once as if by magic. 'Una,' +I cried, 'stand back! Wait till the servants come!' For I knew the +report of the revolver would soon bring them up to the library. Then +I waited myself. As they reached the door, and forced it open, I +jumped up to the window. Just outside, my bicycle stood propped +against the wall. I let them purposely catch just a glimpse of my +back--an unfamiliar figure. They saw the pistol on the floor,--Mr. +Callingham dead--you, startled and horrified--a man unknown, +escaping in hot haste from the window. I risked my own life, so as +to save your name and honour. I let them see me escape, so as to +exonerate you from suspicion. If they hanged me, what matter? Then I +leapt down in a hurry, jumped lightly on my machine, and rode off +like the wind down the avenue to the high-road. For a second or two +they waited to look at you and your father. That second or two saved +us. By the time they'd come out to look, I was away down the +grounds, past the turn of the avenue, and well on for the high-road. +They'd seen a glimpse of the murderer, escaping by the window. They +would never suspect YOU. You were saved, and I was happy." + +"And for the same reason even now," I said, "you wouldn't tell the +police?" + +"Let sleeping dogs lie," Jack answered, in the same words as Dr. +Marten. "Why rake up this whole matter? It's finished for ever now, +and nobody but yourself is ever likely to reopen it. If we both told +our tale, we might run a great risk of being seriously misinterpreted. +You know it's true; so do I: but who else would believe us? No man's +bound to criminate himself. You shot him to save my life, at the very +moment when you first learned all his cruelty and his vileness. The +rest of the world could never be made to understand all that. They'd +say to the end, as it looks on the surface, 'She shot her father to +save her lover.'" + +"You're right," I said slowly. "I shall let this thing rest. But the +photographs, Jack--the apparatus--the affair of the inquest?" + +"That was all very simple," Jack answered. "For a day or two, of +course, I was in a frantic state of mind for fear you should be +suspected, or the revolver should betray you. But though I saw the +electric sparks, of course, I knew nothing about the photographs. I +wasn't even aware that the apparatus took negatives automatically. +And I was so full of the terrible reports in the newspapers about +your sudden loss of health, that I could think of nothing +else--least of all my own safety. As good luck would have it, +however, the clergyman at Wrode, who knew the Wilsons, happened to +speak to me of the murder--all England called it the murder and +talked of nothing else for at least a fortnight,--and in the course +of conversation he mentioned this apparatus of Mr. Callingham's +construction. 'What a pity,' he said, 'there didn't happen to be one +of them in the library at the time! If it was focussed towards the +persons, and had been set on by the victim, it would have +photographed the whole scene the murder, the murderer.' + +"That hint revealed much to me. As he spoke, I remembered suddenly +about those mysterious flashes when you burst all at once on my +sight from behind the screen. Till that moment, I thought of them +only as some result of your too suddenly turning off the electric +current. But then, it came home to me in a second that Mr. +Callingham must have set out his apparatus all ready for +experimenting--that the electric apparatus was there to put it in +working order. The button you turned must not only have stopped the +current that nailed me writhing to the spot: it must also have set +working the automatic photographic camera! + +"That thought, as you may imagine, filled me with speechless alarm: +for I remembered then that one of the flashes broke upon us at the +exact moment when you fired the pistol. Such a possibility was +horrible to contemplate. The photographs by themselves could give no +clue to our conversation or to the events that compelled you, almost +against your own will, to fire that fatal shot. If they were found +by the police, all would be up with both of us. They might hang ME +if they liked: except for Elsie's sake, I didn't mind much about +that: but for your safety, come what might, I felt I must manage to +get hold of them or to destroy them. + +"Were the negatives already in the hands of the police? That was now +the great question. I read the reports diligently, with all their +descriptions of the room, and noticed that while the table, the +alcove, the screen, the box, the electrical apparatus, were all +carefully mentioned, not a word was said anywhere about the +possession of the negatives. Reasoning further upon the description +of the supposed murderer as given by the servants, and placarded +broadcast in every town in England, I came to the conclusion that +the police couldn't yet have discovered the existence of these +negatives: for some of them must surely have photographed my face, +however little in focus; while the printed descriptions mentioned +only the man's back, as the servants saw him escaping from the +window. The papers said the room was being kept closed till the +inquest, for inspection in due time by the coroner's jury. I made up +my mind at once. When the room was opened for the jurors to view it, +I must get in there and carry them off, if they caught me in the +attempt. + +"It was no use trying before the jury had seen the room. But as soon +as that was all over, I judged the strictness of the watch upon the +premises would be relaxed, and the windows would probably be opened +a little to air the place. So on the morning of the inquest, I told +the Wilsons casually I'd met you at Torquay and had therefore a sort +of interest in learning the result of the coroner's deliberation. +Then I took my bicycle, and rode across to Woodbury. Leaning up my +machine against the garden wall, I walked carelessly in at the gate, +and up the walk to the library window, as if the place belonged to +me. Oh, how my heart beat as I looked in and wondered! The folding +halves were open, and the box stood on the table, still connected +with the wires that conducted the electrical current. I stood and +hesitated in alarm. Were the negatives still there, or had the +police discovered them? If they were gone, all was up with you. The +game was lost. No jury on earth, I felt sure, would believe my +story. + +"I vaulted up to the sill. Thank heaven, I was athletic. Not a soul +was about: but I heard a noise of muffled voices in the other rooms +behind. Treading cat-like across the floor, I turned the key in the +lock. A chalk mark still showed the position of the pistol on the +ground exactly as you flung it. The box was on the table, and I saw +at a glance, the wires which connected it with the battery had never +been disconnected. I was afraid of receiving a shock if I touched +them with my hands, and I had no time to waste in discovering +electrical attachments. So I pulled out my knife, and you can fancy +with what trembling hands I cut that wire on either side and +released the box from its dangerous connections. I knew only too +well the force of that current. Then I took the thing under my arm, +leaped from the window once more, and ran across the shrubbery +towards the spot where I'd left my bicycle. + +"On the way, the thought struck me that if I carried along the +camera, all would be up with me should I happen to be challenged. It +was the only one of the sort in existence at the time, and the wires +at the side would at once suffice to identify it and to arouse the +suspicion even of an English policeman. I paused for a moment behind +a thick clump of lilacs and tried to pull out the incriminating +negatives. Oh, Una, I did it for your sake; but there, terrified and +trembling, in hiding behind the bushes, and in danger of my life, +with that still more unspeakable danger for yours haunting me always +like a nightmare, can you wonder that for the moment I almost felt +myself a murderer? The very breezes in the trees made my heart give +a jump, and then stand still within me. I got out the first two or +three plates with some trifling difficulty, for I didn't understand +the automatic apparatus then as I understand it now: but the fourth +stuck hard for a minute; the fifth broke in two; and the +sixth--well, the sixth plate baffled me entirely by getting jammed +in the clockwork, and refusing to move, either backward or forward. + +"At that moment, I either heard or fancied I heard a loud noise of +pursuit, a hue and cry behind me. Zeal for your safety had made me +preternaturally nervous. I looked about me hurriedly, thrust the +negatives I'd recovered into my breast-pocket as fast as ever I +could, flung the apparatus away from me with the sixth plate jammed +hard in the groove, and made off at the top of my speed for the wall +behind me. For there, at that critical point, it occurred to me +suddenly that the sixth and last flash of the machine had come and +gone just as I stood poising myself on the ledge of the window-sill; +and I thought to myself--rightly as it turned out--this additional +evidence would only strengthen the belief in the public mind that +Mr. Callingham had been murdered by the man whom the servants saw +escaping from the window. + +"The rest, my child, you know pretty well already. In a panic on +your account, I scrambled over the wall, tearing my hands as I went +with that nasty-bottle glass, reached my bicycle outside, and made +off, not for the country, but for the inn where they were holding +the coroner's inquest. My left hand I had to hold, tied up in my +handkerchief to stop the bleeding, in the pocket of my jacket: but I +thought this the best way, all the same, to escape detection. And, +indeed, instead of being, as I feared, the only man there in +bicycling dress and knickerbockers, I found the occasion had +positively attracted all the cyclists of the neighbourhood. Each man +went there to show his own innocence of fear or suspicion. A good +dozen or two of bicyclists stood gathered already in the body of the +room in the same incriminating costume. So I found safety in +numbers. Even the servants who had seen me disappear through the +window, though their eyes lighted upon me more than once, never for +a moment seemed to suspect me. And I know very well why. When I +stand up, I'm the straightest and most perpendicular man that ever +walked erect. But when I poise to jump, I bend my spine so much that +I produce the impression of being almost hump-backed. It was that +attitude you recognised in me when I jumped from the window just +now." + +"Why, Jack," I cried clinging to him in a perfect whirlwind of +wonder, "one can hardly believe it--that was only an hour ago!" + +"That was only an hour ago," Jack answered, smiling. "But as for +you, I suppose you've lived half a lifetime again in it. And now you +know the whole secret of the Woodbury Mystery. And you won't want to +give yourself up to the police any longer." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + + + + +But why didn't you explain it all to me at the very first?" I +exclaimed, all tremulous. "When you met me at Quebec, I mean--why +didn't you tell me then? Did you and Elsie come there on purpose to +meet me?" + +"Yes, we came there to meet you," Jack answered. "But we were afraid +to make ourselves known to you all at once just at first, because, +you see, Una, I more than half suspected then, what I know now to be +the truth, that you were coming out to Canada on purpose to hunt me +up, not as your friend and future husband, but in enmity and +suspicion as your father's murderer. And in any case we were +uncertain which attitude you might adopt towards me. But I see I +must explain a little more even now. I haven't told you yet why I +came at all to Canada." + +"Tell me now," I answered. "I must know everything to-day. I can +never rest now till I've heard the whole story." + +"Well," Jack went on more calmly, "after the first excitement wore +off in the public mind, there came after a bit a lull of languid +interest; the papers began to forget the supposed facts of the +murder, and to dwell far more upon your own new role as a +pyschological curiosity. They talked much about your strange new +life and its analogies elsewhere. I was anxious to see you, of +course, to satisfy myself of your condition; but the doctors who had +charge of you refused to let you mix for a while with anyone you had +known in your First State; and I now think wisely. It was best you +should recover your general health and faculties by slow degrees, +without being puzzled and distracted by constant upsetting +recollections and suggestions of your past history. + +"But for me, of course, at the time, the separation was terrible. +Each morning, I read with feverish interest the reports of your +health, and longed, day after day, to hear of some distinct +improvement. And yet at the same time, I was terrified at every +approach to complete convalescence: I feared that if you got better +at all, you might remember too quick, and that then the sudden rush +of recollection might kill you or upset your reason. But by-and-by, +it became clear to me you could remember nothing of the actual shot +itself. And I saw plainly why. It was the firing of the pistol that +obliterated, as it were, every trace of your past life in your +disorganised brain. And it obliterated ITSELF too. Your new life +began just one moment later, with the Picture of the dead man +stretched before you in his blood on the floor, and a figure in the +background disappearing through the window." + +How clever he was, to be sure! I saw in a moment Jack had +interpreted my whole frame of mind correctly and wonderfully. + +"Well, I went back to Babbicombe," Jack continued, "and, lest my +heart should break for want of human sympathy, I confided every word +of my terrible story to Elsie. Elsie can trust me; and Elsie +believed me. Gradually, as you began to recover, I realised the +soundness of your doctor's idea that you should be allowed to come +back to yourself by re-education from the very beginning, without +any too early intrusion of reminiscences from your previous life to +confuse and disturb you. But I couldn't go on with my profession, +all the same, while I waited. I couldn't attend as I ought to my +patients' wants and ailments: I was too concentrated upon you: the +strain was too great upon me. So I threw up my practice, came out to +Canada, bought a bit of land, and began farming here, and seeing a +few patients now and again locally, just to fill up my time with. I +felt confident in the end you would recover and remember me. I felt +confident you would come to yourself and marry me. But still, it was +very long work waiting. Every month, Elsie got news indirectly from +Minnie Moore or someone of your state of health; and I intended to +go back and try to see you as soon as ever you were in a condition +to bear the shock of re-living your previous life again. + +"Unfortunately, however, the police got hold of YOU before I could +carry my plan into execution. As soon as I heard that, I made up my +mind at once to go home by the first mail and break it all gently to +you. So Elsie and I started for Quebec, meaning to sail by the +Dominion steamer for England. But at the hotel at Quebec we saw the +telegrams announcing that you were then on your way out to Canada. +Well, of course we didn't feel sure whether you came as a friend or +an enemy. We were certain it was to seek me out you were coming to +America; but whether you remembered me still and still loved me, or +whether you'd found out some stray clue to the missing man, and were +anxious to hunt me down as your father's murderer, we hadn't the +slightest conception. So under those circumstances, we thought it +best not to meet you ourselves at the steamer, or to reveal our +identity too soon, for fear of a catastrophe. I knew it would be +better to wait and watch--to gain your confidence, if possible--in +any case, to find out how you were affected on first seeing us and +talking with us. + +"Well then, as the time came on for the Sarmatian to arrive, it +began to strike me by degrees that all Quebec was agog with +curiosity to see you. I dared not go down to meet you at the quay +myself; but the Chief Constable of Quebec, Major Tascherel, was an +old friend and fellow-officer of my father's; and when I explained +to him my fears that you might be mobbed by sightseers on your +arrival at the harbour, and told him how afraid I was of the shock +it might give you to meet an old friend unexpectedly at the +steamer's side, he very kindly consented to go down and see you safe +through the Custom House, It was so lucky I knew him. If it hadn't +been for that, you might have been horribly inconvenienced. + +"As you may imagine, when we first saw you get into the Pullman car, +both Elsie and I felt our hearts come up into our months with +suspense and anxiety. We'd arranged it all so on purpose, for we +felt sure you were on your way to Palmyra to find us: but when it +came to the actual crisis, we wondered most nervously what effect +the sight of us might have upon your system. But in a moment, I saw +you didn't remember us at all, or only vaguely attached to us some +faint sense of friendliness. That was well, because it enabled us to +gain your confidence easily. As we spoke with you, the sense of +friendly interest deepened. I knew that, all unconsciously to +yourself, you loved me still, and that in a very short time, if only +I could see you and be with you, I might bring all back to you." + +Jack paused and looked at me. As he paused, I felt my old self +revive again more completely than ever with a rush. + +"Oh, Jack," I cried, "so you HAVE done; so you HAVE brought all back +to me! My Second State's over: I'm the same girl you used to know at +Torquay once more. I remember everything--everything--such a +world--such a lifetime! I feel as if my head would burst with all +the things I remember. I don't know what to do with it. I'm so +tired, so weary." + +"Lay it here," Jack said simply. + +And I laid it on his shoulder, just as I used to do years ago, and +cried so long in silence, and was ever so much comforted. For I've +admitted all along that I'm only a woman. + +There we sat, hand in hand, for many minutes more, saying never +another word, but sympathising silently, till Elsie returned from +Palmyra. + +When she burst into the room, she called out lightly as she entered: + +"Well, I've got you your lemon, Una, and I do hope--" Then she broke +short suddenly. "Oh, Jack," she cried, faltering, and half guessing +the truth, "what's the meaning of this? Why, Una's been crying. You +bad boy, you've been frightening her. I oughtn't to have left her +ten minutes alone with you!" + +Jack rose and held up his hand in warning. + +"Don't talk to her at present, Elsie," he said. "You needn't be +afraid. Una's found out everything. She remembers all now. And she +knows how everything happened. And she's borne it so bravely, +without any more shock to her health and strength than was +absolutely inevitable.--Let her sleep if she can. It'll do her so +much good.--But, Elsie, there's one thing I want to say to you both +before I hand her over to you. After all that's happened, I don't +think Una'll want to hear that hateful name of Callingham any more. +It never was really hers, and it never shall be. We'll let bygones +be bygones in every other respect, and not rake up any details of +that hateful story. But she's been Una to us always, and she shall +be Una still. It's a very good name for her: for there's only one of +her. But next week, I propose, she shall be Una Ivor." + +I threw myself on his neck, and cried again like a child. + +"I accept, Jack," I said, sobbing. "Let it be Ivor, if you will. +Next week, then, I'll be your wife at last, my darling!" + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, RECALLED TO LIFE *** + +This file should be named rclld10.txt or rclld10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, rclld11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, rclld10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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