Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3)
"Marion," he said at length, "if I am to be of any use to you-if even my advice is to be of service to you-I must know all-all, without reserve of any kind. On the face of it, your question is absurd. Supposing you had no code-no religious feeling in the matter; suppose you had no fear or hope of the other world, what earthly good could come of your doing violence to yourself? – of your throwing away your life suddenly?"
While he was saying this, he continued to walk up and down the room, with his eyes bent on the floor.
Her eyes had continued to follow him in the same close, intent way. Still they lacked eagerness. She was a pupil anxious to know-not an enthusiast impatient to act.
"It would," she answered, with no trace of emotion, "close up his grave for ever, and give peace to his name."
"Your husband's-your husband's grave and name! Come, Marion, let us be frank."
"In what am I uncandid?"
"You did not-you swore at the inquest you did not-love your husband, and now you are talking of killing yourself for his sake. Marion, you cannot hold such words candid."
He paused in his walk, and stood before her. He looked at her a moment, and then averted his gaze. Her eyes, although they rested intelligently on him, did not appear to identify him. They were the eyes of one occupied with the solution of a mental problem, aided by formula of which he was merely the source.
"Thomas Blake," she said, "I once thought you might grow to understand me, and then I came to the conclusion you never could. You are now further off than ever. Louis Davenport was my husband, and I belonged to him. I belong to him still. I swore-as they were good enough to remind me at the inquest-to love, honour, and obey him. I did not come to love him as women love their husbands, but my feeling towards him was whole and loyal. I was his, and I am his; and if my death, now that he is dead, can benefit him or comfort his name with quiet, I am willing to die. Do not be alarmed. I shall make no unpleasantness here. Do you think I am in the way of his rest?"
"Marion, you are talking pure nonsense. Why, your feelings as a Christian alone-"
"Who told you I was a Christian? I tell you I am a Pagan. Leave me at least the Pagan virtues of courage and fearlessness." She did not move.
He looked at her. There could be no doubt she was sincere. Mad as her words sounded, they must be taken at the full value of their ordinary meaning.
"I will not seek to break down your resolution or turn your purpose aside. But before I can be of any real use to you in the way of advice, you must trust me wholly. How am I to judge of your duty unless I know the entire case? Tell me all you know. Tell me all that passed between you and this Fahey, and all you know of the relations between him and your husband."
"I will tell you all you need know."
"Do you think you are a good judge of where your confidence in a matter of this importance should end?"
"I think I am. At all events, I shall be reticent if I consider it better not to speak."
"Well, then, go on, Marion, and tell me all you may. Mind, the more I know the more likely I am able to be of use to you."
She passed the hand not resting on the table across her forehead.
"Sit down," she said. "I can speak with greater ease while you are sitting."
He took a chair directly opposite her, and she began:
"All that I said at the inquest is true, and I told the whole truth in answer to any questions I was asked; but I did not say all that was in my mind. I have had bitter trials in my life. I will not refer again to what was once between you and me; and, remember, in anything I may say I shall have no thought of that. I put that away from my mind altogether, and it will be ungenerous of you if you draw any deduction towards our relations in the past from anything I may say. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, Marion. I know you too well to fancy for a moment you could be guilty of the mean cowardice of talking at any one. Go on."
"Thank you. I am glad you think I am no coward." She still kept her hand before her face, as though to concentrate her attention upon her mental vision. "As I said at that awful inquest, there was never anything ever so slightly like a quarrel between Mr. Davenport and me. Except that we lived almost exclusively at Kilcash House, which was dull, I had little or nothing to complain of; and the great quiet and isolation of that place did not affect me much, for I had small or no desire to go out into the world, and after a few years it would have given me more pain than pleasure to have to mingle in society. Very shortly after my marriage I met Michael Fahey for the first time-"
"What was he like?" asked Blake, interrupting her.
"He was tall and slender. His hair was brown, his eyes light in colour-blue, I think. He wore a moustache of lighter colour than his hair, and small whiskers of the same colour. He was good-looking in a way-"
"What kind of way?"
"Well, a soft and gentle way. At first he struck me as being a man who was weak, mentally and physically. Later I had reason to think him a man of average, if not more than average, physical strength."
"About how old was he then?"
"I could not say exactly. Under thirty, I should think. He also struck me as a man of not quite good social position. His manners were uneasy, apprehensive, and his English uncertain. He was restless and ill at ease, and for my own peace of mind I was glad when I parted from him; for it struck me he would be much more comfortable if he and my husband were left alone together.
"My husband spoke to me in the highest terms of Fahey, and said that although he wished nothing to be said about it just then, or until he gave me leave to mention it, Fahey had done him useful service in his time. That was all Mr. Davenport volunteered, and I asked no question. I was sure of one thing more-namely, that the less I was with Michael Fahey the better my husband would be satisfied.
"I smiled when this conviction came first upon me. Up to the moment I felt it I had in my mind treated this Fahey as a kind of upper servant, who was to be soothed into unconsciousness that he was not an equal. For a short time I felt inclined to expostulate with Mr. Davenport on the absurdity of fancying Fahey could think of me save as the wife of his patron; but I kept silence, partly out of pride and partly out of ignorance of the relations which really existed between this man and my husband. You may, or may not, have heard of a circumstance which occurred shortly after my marriage?"
"I remember nothing noteworthy. Tell me what it was."
"At that time it was Mr. Davenport's habit to keep large sums of money in the house. Once upon his having to go away for a few days, he left me the keys of the safe in which the money was locked up. While he was away, an attempt was made to rob the house. A door was forced from outside, and two men were absolutely in my room, where I kept the key of the safe, when Fahey, who was staying in the village of Kilcash at the time, rushed in and faced the thieves. I was aroused and saw the struggle. Fortunately the men were unarmed. The light was dim-only my low night lamp.
"The first blow Fahey struck he knocked one of the men through a window. Then he and the other man struggled a long time, and at last the thief broke loose and escaped by the way he had come in. Fahey had overheard the two thieves plan the robbery in the village, and had followed them that night to our house. My husband wished the matter to be kept quiet, and so it was hushed up.
"The next time I met Fahey after that night I was alone on the downs. He was alone too. I stopped to thank him. I do not remember exactly what I said-commonplace words of gratitude, no doubt. While I was speaking I was close to him, and gazing into his face. I cut my speech short, for I saw a look in his eyes that told me I was not indifferent to him."
The widow's hand fell from her face, and she looked at her visitor with an expression of trouble and dismay.
"There was nothing distressing or alarming in that," said Blake, with an encouraging smile. "You must remember you were then, as you are now, an exquisitely lovely woman.
"'No marvel, sovereign lady; in fair fieldMyself for such a face had boldly died.'""Ay, ay," she said, with a shudder and a glance of horror round the room. "In the stanza before the one from which you quote my fate is written:
"'Where'er I came I brought calamity.'"She stared before her, shuddered again, and sighed.
"Well?" said he. "You have more to tell me?"
"Yes; I'll go on."
CHAPTER XXXIX
A COMPACT
Mrs. Davenport rested slightly against the back of her chair, and resumed:
"'Mrs. Davenport,' said Fahey, 'what I have done for you was nothing. It was really not done for you at all. It was done for Mr. Davenport, not you. The thieves did not want to steal you. They wanted to steal Mr. Davenport's money. If I may presume to ask you for that rose, I shall consider myself more than repaid for what I have done.'
"I gave him the rose. He bowed, and said: 'Yes, they were stupid, mercenary fools. They thought a few pounds of more value than anything else in the world. I am not a rich man, and I care very little for money itself. I care more for what it may bring with it. I would not care to be the richest man in the world. I have in my time, Mrs. Davenport, been the humble means of forwarding Mr. Davenport's plans for making money. He is a rich man. He is rich in more ways than money.' Here he raised the rose to his lips and kissed it. I stood amazed. I could not speak or move."
"Are you sure the man was serious, and that he meant it fully? – or was it only a piece of elaborate gallantry?" asked Blake, in perplexity.
"There can be no doubt whatever of his absolute sincerity. Listen. I merely smiled, as if I did not catch his drift, and moved as though I would resume my walk towards home. He lifted his hat, and, standing uncovered, with his hat in one hand and the rose I had given him in the other, said:
"'I would not give this rose for all Mr. Davenport's money, and I know more about his money than any other man living. Mr. Davenport and I have been close friends for a long time. It is my nature to be loyal. I have been loyal to him. If I liked I could do him injury-irreparable injury. If I cared, I could ruin him utterly. But it is my nature to be loyal. Do you credit me?'
"For a few seconds I did not answer. I believed he was crazy, and I thought that I must soothe him in some way and get off. I had become apprehensive, so I said: 'I am perfectly sure of your loyalty to Mr. Davenport. I have always heard my husband speak of you in the highest terms, I hope we may soon have the pleasure of seeing you again at the House.'
"'Not yet,' he said-'do not leave me yet. I want to say a few more words to you. It is easy to listen. Listen, pray. I would not, as I said before, give that rose for all his money. If I chose to speak, things might be different with him. By fair means or by foul, I will not say which, I could make his wealth melt like snow in the sun. But I have no caring, no need for wealth. I shall not hurt him if you will make me two promises. Will you make the two promises I ask?'
"By this time I felt fully persuaded I was in the presence of a madman. I looked around and could see no one but the man before me. We were not a hundred yards from the edge of the cliff. I no longer thought him physically weak; his encounter with the thieves had settled that point. If he were mad, the promise would count for nothing. There could be no doubt he was insane. I resolved to try him: 'How is it possible for me to make two promises to you until I know what they are?'
"'Your husband trusts me-you may trust me. Do you promise?'
"'First let me know what the promises are.'
"'That you will say nothing of what I have said to you to Mr. Davenport, and that, if ever I have it in my power to do you another service, and do it, you will give me another rose.'
"'Yes; in both cases,' I answered. 'You may rest satisfied.'
"I got away then and was very glad to escape. There was no occasion to speak to any one about this meeting with Fahey on the downs, unless indeed I firmly believed he was mad; and now that I had time to recall all he had said, and review all his actions, I began seriously to question my assumption as to his insanity. I took the first opportunity of asking my husband if there was anything remarkable about Fahey. Mr. Davenport seemed a good deal put out by the question, and asked me what I meant. I said I thought Fahey was odd at times. My husband said Fahey was all right, and did not seem disposed to go on any further with the conversation.
"I did not meet Fahey again for a long time-I mean months. He then seemed quite collected; but before wishing good-bye, he said significantly: 'A man may disappear at any moment on a coast like this, and yet may not be dead. Now, suppose I were to disappear suddenly on this coast, you would think I had died, and that Mr. Davenport no longer ran any risk from my being talkative, or you any chance of being called upon for that other rose. I am not enamoured of this coast. I consider it dreary and inhospitable, and it would not at all surprise me if one day I packed up and fled far away, and stopped away until almost all memory of me was lost. Do you think, Mrs. Davenport, that if, after such an absence, I were to come back, you would recognise me?'
"I answered that I was sure of it, and got away from him as soon as I could. Again I spoke to Mr. Davenport about Fahey's sanity. My husband did not seem to care about discussing the subject, and so I let the matter drop. Afterwards, when Fahey jumped into the Puffing Hole in order to avoid the police, I thought to myself that when he talked about disappearing from the coast he was much nearer the truth than he had any notion of.
"All this occurred many years ago, but it made a great impression on my mind, and I have not forgotten a tittle of it. The words Fahey spoke, and the way he looked, are as plain to me now as if it all happened only yesterday. For a long time after Fahey had disappeared, I believed his death at the Black Rock was nothing more than a pure coincidence. Now and then, at long intervals, Mr. Davenport would refer to the matter, but always in tones of anxiety and doubt. I do not know why I got the notion into my head, but gradually it found its way there, until at last I became quite sure Fahey was not dead. On more than one occasion when I had ventured to suggest such an idea to Mr. Davenport's mind, he showed great emotion, and, after a few struggles, either directly dismissed or changed the subject.
"If Fahey had been right about his power of disappearing from that coast without dying, why should I refuse to believe that Fahey could injure-nay, ruin, my husband, if he were to appear and make certain statements of matters within his own knowledge? What these matters were I could not guess. Since I saw you last I have got good reasons to feel sure my husband had no proper right to the money he possessed, and that this man Fahey was aware of the facts of the case."
"How did you find all this out, Marion?" asked Blake, looking across at her with freshly awakened interest.
"I found papers of my husband's."
"Will you tell me how you believe he came by the money?"
"No. And you must say nothing of this conversation to any living being."
"Trust me, I will not."
"The difficulties now are, Thomas Blake, that I believe my husband did not come fairly by his fortune, that Michael Fahey is still alive, and that he had a hand in the death of my husband."
Blake knit his brows, rose, and recommenced walking up and down the room.
"Mr. Jerry O'Brien, who travelled over from London with me, told me after we left Euston that he himself and Phelan, the boatman of Kilcash, had seen the ghost or body of Fahey on the cliffs just above the Black Rock."
"It may have been a delusion."
"Yes, it may; but the chances are ten thousand to one against it. He told me, too, that a friend of his had seen the same figure, clad in the same clothes it wore ten or a dozen years ago. The last-named phenomenon I cannot account for. But if you can believe that a man who jumped into the Puffing Hole years ago is still alive, all other beliefs in this case are easy. Now, Thomas Blake, I have spoken more fully to you than I have ever spoken to any other man. I want you to advise and help me.
"How?" asked Blake, stopping in his walk and looking straight into her white, fixed, expressionless face.
"By finding out Fahey and discovering whence my husband got his money. Then, if I may return it without disgracing his name or exposing him, I will, and if not-"
"Well, Marion, if not?"
"I shall put an end to my knowledge and myself, and so keep his grave quiet and silent for him."
"Marion, this is sheer madness."
"So much the better. If I do wrong in an access of insanity, no moral blame attaches to me or my act. Will you help me? Once upon a time I could have counted on your aid."
"At that time you held out the promise of a glorious reward. Do you hold it out still, Marion?"
"No. That thought must be put to rest for ever. You may think it monstrous that such being my mind, I should deliberately seek you and ask for your help. But I have no future, and you are all that is left to me of the past-"
"Marion, Marion, for Heaven's sake don't say it is too late!" he cried, passionately, and advanced a step towards her.
She retired two steps, and made an imperative gesture, bidding him stand still.
"Stay where you are and listen to me. To quote again from the poem you quoted awhile ago, 'My youth,' she said, 'was blighted with a curse.'"
"And," he said, pointing to himself, "if we alter the text slightly, we find 'This traitor was the cause.' Is not that what you mean, Marion? Do not spare me; I am meet for vengeance."
"The present one is not a case for vengeance. But if you like you may in this matter expiate the past."
"And when my expiation is complete, in what relation shall you and I stand to one another?"
"In the same relation as before we met. You will be just to me, and help me in this matter, Thomas Blake. Remember that my life has not been very joyous."
"But, Marion," he urged, softening his voice, and leaning towards her, "if I am to take what you say at its full value-"
"I mean it all quite literally."
"Then my expiation would assume the form of leading you to the tomb instead of the altar."
She drew back, and said:
"Yes, put it that way if you will. At one time I believed your hand was guiding me up to the altar, beyond which lay love and life, and all manner of good and bright things. We never reached the altar. But something happened, and there was a dull, dead pause in life, like the winter sleep of a lizard or the trance of the Sleeping Beauty, and then I awoke, and, to my horror, found the altar had been changed into a tomb, and the Fairy Prince into Death. There was no time for love. I had slept through the period of love. I had no power to hate, but I had the power and the will to die. You will help me?"
"Not to die, Marion. I will help you to solve the mystery of this Fahey, and the relations between him and Mr. Davenport, and then when all has been cleared up, you may-"
He held out his hand pleadingly.
"Yes," she said, coldly, firmly, "when all has been cleared up, I may say-good-bye."
CHAPTER XL
AN EXPEDITION PROPOSED
When Jerry O'Brien said there was absolutely nothing to be done in Kilcash, he had told the naked truth. The weather was still far from genial, and Jerry and Alfred Paulton were the only visitors in that Waterford village. For a man of active habits, in full bodily and mental vigour, the place would have been the very worst in the world; but for an invalid who had never been a busy man, it was everything the most exacting could desire. If Alfred's mind had only been as peaceful as his surroundings, he would have picked up strength visibly from hour to hour.
But his mind was not at ease. For good or evil, he did not care which, he had given his heart to that woman, and now once more the shadow of this objectionable, this disreputable man Blake, had come between her and him. The most disquieting circumstance in the case was that Blake had not intruded, but had been summoned by her. It is true that on closer examination this did not seem to point to a love affair between the two; for unless a woman was fully engaged to a man, she would scarcely, he being her lover, summon him to her side, under the circumstances in Mrs. Davenport's case.
Such thoughts and doubts were not the best salve for a hurt constitution; and although Alfred recovered strength and colour from day to day, he did not derive as much benefit from Kilcash as if his mind had been even as untroubled as it had been when the journey from Dulwich began.
Jerry was by no means delighted with affairs. He put the best face he could on things, but still he was not content. As far as he was concerned, the detested Fishery Commissioners had gone to sleep, but there was no forecasting the duration of their slumber. Any moment they might shake themselves, growl, wake, and swallow up all his substance.
"Until they are done with this part of the unhappy country, I shall feel as if the country was overrun by 'empty tigers,' and I was the only wholesome piece of flesh after which the man-eaters hankered."
O'Brien did not pretend to be a philosopher when his own fortune or comfort was threatened or assailed. He chafed and fumed when things went wrong, or when he could not get his way. Now he was compelled, in a great measure, to keep silent, for there would be a want of hospitality in displaying impatience of Kilcash to Alfred. He had confided to the latter the secret of his love for Madge, and the brother had grasped his hand cordially and wished him all luck and happiness. No man existed, he had said, to whom he would sooner confide the future of his sister. How was O'Brien to act with regard to writing to Madge? There had been nothing underhand or dishonourable in telling the girl of his love that day on the Dulwich Road. The declaration had in a measure slipped from him before any suitable opportunity occurred of talking to Mr. Paulton. But speaking to Madge under the excitement of the moment and the knowledge of approaching separation was one thing, and writing clandestinely to her quite another. If he wrote to her openly, inquiries as to the nature of the correspondence would certainly be made at home, and then their secret would be found out, and the thought of being found out in anything about which an unpleasant word could be said was unendurable. In the haste of leaving Carlingford House he had made no arrangement with Madge as to writing to her. It was absolutely necessary for him to risk a letter. He would not be guilty of the subterfuge of writing under cover of one of Alfred's letters. Accordingly he wrote a bright, cheerful, chatty note to Madge, beginning "My dear Miss Paulton," and ending "Yours most sincerely, J. O'Brien." To those who were not in the secret, nothing could have been more ordinary than this letter. But its meaning was plain to Madge. Among other things, he said the Commissioners had not yet done with him, and until they had he could not count upon another visit to Dulwich; and he begged her to give his kindest regards to Mr. Paulton, and to express a hope that he might soon enjoy the pleasure of a walk on the Dulwich Road, when he would tell her father all about the Bawn salmon and the wretched Commissioners. Until then he should not bother either of them with any account of himself or the villains who were lying in wait for him. This he intended to show that he would not write to her again until he had cleared up matters with her father. And now that he had got rid of this letter-it was a task, not a pleasure, to write it-what should he do? He had told himself and Alfred that even in summer there was not anything to be done in Kilcash. But he, O'Brien, was in full health and vigour, and began to feel uneventful idleness very irksome. Boating even with the pretence of fishing was out of the question, and one grew tired of strolling along the strand or downs when fine, and looking out of the windows at the unneeded rain when wet. Against the weariness of the long evenings he had brought books, cards, and chess from Kilbarry. Time began to hang heavily on his hands. Nothing more had been heard or seen of the ghost of Fahey, and the two friends had been a couple of times to see the outside of Kilcash House, whither, he believed, Mrs. Davenport had not yet arrived from Dublin.
