XXVIII. I HOPE NEVER TO SEE THAT MAN
That this would be a difficult thing to do, Doris was soon to realise.Mr. Challoner continued to pass the house twice a day and the timefinally came when he ventured up the walk.
Doris was in the window and saw him coming. She slipped softly out andintercepted him before he had stepped upon the porch. She had caught upher hat as she passed through the hall, and was fitting it to her headas he looked up and saw her.
"Miss Scott?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Challoner."
"You know me?" he went on, one foot on the step and one still on thewalk.
Before replying she closed the door behind her. Then as she noted hissurprise she carefully explained:
"Mr. Brotherson, our boarder, is just recovering from typhoid. He isstill weak and acutely susceptible to the least noise. I was afraid thatour voices might disturb him. Do you mind walking a little way up theroad? That is, if your visit was intended for me."
Her flush, the beauty which must have struck even him, but more than allelse her youth, seemed to reconcile him to this unconventional request.Bowing, he took his foot from the step, saying, as she joined him:
"Yes, you are the one I wanted to see; that is, to-day. Later, I hope tohave the privilege of a conversation with Mr. Brotherson."
She gave him one quick look, trembling so that he offered her his armwith a fatherly air.
"I see that you understand my errand here," he proceeded, with a gravesmile, meant as she knew for her encouragement. "I am glad, because wecan go at once to the point. Miss Scott," he continued in a voice fromwhich he no longer strove to keep back the evidences of deep feeling,"I have the strongest interest in your patient that one man can have inanother, where there is no personal acquaintanceship. You who have everyreason to understand my reasons for this, will accept the statement, Ihope, as frankly as it is made."
She nodded. Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not hesitate toraise them. She had the greatest desire to see the face of the manwho could speak like this to-day, and yet of whose pride and sense ofsuperiority his daughter had stood in such awe, that she had laid a sealupon the impulses of her heart, and imposed such tasks and weary waitingupon her lover. Doris forgot, in meeting his softened glance and tender,almost wistful, expression, the changes which can be made by a greatgrief, and only wondered why her sweet benefactress had not taken himinto her confidence and thus, possibly, averted the doom which Dorisfelt had in some way grown out of this secrecy.
"Why should she have feared the disapproval of this man?" she inwardlyqueried, as she cast him a confiding look which pleased him greatly, ashis tone now showed.
"When I lost my daughter, I lost everything," he declared, as theywalked slowly up the road. "Nothing excites my interest, save that whichonce excited hers. I am told that the deepest interest of her life layhere. I am also told that it was an interest quite worthy of her. Iexpect to find it so. I hope with all my heart to find it so, and thatis why I have come to this town and expect to linger till Mr. Brothersonhas recovered sufficiently to see me. I hope that this will be agreeableto him. I hope that I am not presuming too much in cherishing theseexpectations."
Doris turned her candid eyes upon him.
"I cannot tell; I do not know," said she. "Nobody knows, not even thedoctor, what effect the news we so dread to give him will have upon Mr.Brotherson. You will have to wait--we all shall have to wait the resultsof that revelation. It cannot be kept from him much longer. When Ireturn, I shall shrink from his first look, in the fear of seeing itbetray this dreadful knowledge. Yet I have a faithful woman there tokeep every one out of his room."
"You have had much to carry for one so young," was Mr. Challoner'ssympathetic remark. "You must let me help you when that awful momentcomes. I am at the hotel and shall stay there till Mr. Brotherson ispronounced quite well. I have no other duty now in life but to sustainhim through his trouble and then, with what aid he can give, searchout and find the cause of my daughter's death which I will never admitwithout the fullest proof, to have been one of suicide."
Doris trembled.
"It was not suicide," she declared, vehemently. "I have always felt surethat it was not; but to-day I KNOW."
Her hand fell clenched on her breast and her eyes gleamed strangely. Mr.Challoner was himself greatly startled. What had happened--what couldhave happened since yesterday that she should emphasise that now?
"I've not told any one," she went on, as he stopped short in the road,in his anxiety to understand her. "But I will tell you. Only, not here,not with all these people driving past; most of whom know me. Come tothe house later--this evening, after Mr. Brotherson's room is closed forthe night. I have a little sitting-room on the other side of the hallwhere we can talk without being heard. Would you object to doing that?Am I asking too much of you?"
"No, not at all," he assured her. "Expect me at eight. Will that be tooearly?"
"No, no. Oh, how those people stared! Let us hasten back or they mayconnect your name with what we want kept secret."
He smiled at her fears, but gave in to her humour; he would see her soonagain and possibly learn something which would amply repay him, both forhis trouble and his patience.
But when evening came and she turned to face him in that littlesitting-room where he had quietly followed her, he was conscious of achange in her manner which forbade these high hopes. The gleam was gonefrom her eyes; the tremulous eagerness from her mobile and sensitivemouth. She had been thinking in the hours which had passed, and hadlost the confidence of that one impetuous moment. Her greeting betrayedembarrassment and she hesitated painfully before she spoke.
"I don't know what you will think of me," she ventured at last,motioning to a chair but not sitting herself. "You have had time tothink over what I said and probably expect something real,--somethingyou could tell people. But it isn't like that. It's a feeling--a belief.I'm so sure--"
"Sure of what, Miss Scott?"
She gave a glance at the door before stepping up nearer. He had nottaken the chair she preferred.
"Sure that I have seen the face of the man who murdered her. It was in adream," she whisperingly completed, her great eyes misty with awe.
"A dream, Miss Scott?" He tried to hide his disappointment.
"Yes; I knew that it would sound foolish to you; it sounds foolish tome. But listen, sir. Listen to what I have to tell and then you canjudge. I was very much agitated yesterday. I had to write a letterat Mr. Brotherson's dictation--a letter to her. You can understand myhorror and the effort I made to hide my emotion. I was quite unnerved.I could not sleep till morning, and then--and then--I saw--I hope I candescribe it."
Grasping at a near-by chair, she leaned on it for support, closing hereyes to all but that inner vision. A breathless moment followed, thenshe murmured in strained monotonous tones:
"I see it again--just as I saw it in the early morning--but even moreplainly, if that is possible. A hall--(I should call it a hall, though Idon't remember seeing any place like it before), with a little staircaseat the side, up which there comes a man, who stops just at the top andlooks intently my way. There is fierceness in his face--a look whichmeans no good to anybody--and as his hand goes to his overcoat pocket,drawing out something which I cannot describe, but which he handles asif it were a pistol, I feel a horrible fear, and--and--" The child wasstaggering, and the hand which was free had sought her heart where itlay clenched, the knuckles showing white in the dim light.
Mr. Challoner watched her with dilated eyes, the spell under which shespoke falling in some degree upon him. Had she finished? Was this all?No; she is speaking again, but very low, almost in a whisper.
"There is music--a crash--but I plainly see his other hand approach theobject he is holding. He takes something from the end--the object ispointed my way--I am looking into--into--what? I do not know. I cannoteven see him now. The space where he stood is empty. Everything fades,and I wake with a loud cry in my ears and a sense o
f death here." Shehad lifted her hand and struck at her heart, opening her eyes as she didso. "Yet it was not I who had been shot," she added softly.
Mr. Challoner shuddered. This was like the reopening of his daughter'sgrave. But he had entered upon the scene with a full appreciation of theordeal awaiting him and he did not lose his calmness, or the control ofhis judgment.
"Be seated, Miss Scott," he entreated, taking a chair himself. "You havedescribed the spot and some of the circumstances of my daughter's deathas accurately as if you had been there. But you have doubtless reada full account of those details in the papers; possibly seen pictureswhich would make the place quite real to you. The mind is a strangestorehouse. We do not always know what lies hidden within it."
"That's true," she admitted. "But the man! I had never seen the man, orany picture of him, and his face was clearest of all. I should know itif I saw it anywhere. It is imprinted on my memory as plainly as yours.Oh, I hope never to see that man!"
Mr. Challoner sighed; he had really anticipated something from theinterview. The disappointment was keen. A moment of expectation; thethrill which comes to us all under the shadow of the supernatural, andthen--this! a young and imaginative girl's dream, convincing to herselfbut supplying nothing which had not already been supplied both by thefacts and his own imagination! A man had stood at the staircase, andthis man had raised his arm. She said that she had seen something like apistol in his hand, but his daughter had not been shot. This he thoughtit well to point out to her.
Leaning toward her that he might get her full attention, he waited tillher eyes met his, then quietly asked:
"Have you ever named this man to yourself?"
She started and dropped her eyes.
"I do not dare to," said she.
"Why?"
"Because I've read in the papers that the man who stood there had thesame name as--"
"Tell me, Miss Scott."
"As Mr. Brotherson's brother."
"But you do not think it was his brother?"
"I do not know."
"You've never seen his brother?"
"Never."
"Nor his picture?"
"No, Mr. Brotherson has none."
"Aren't they friends? Does he never mention Orlando?"
"Very, very rarely. But I've no reason to think they are not on goodterms. I know they correspond."
"Miss Scott?"
"Yes, Mr. Challoner."
"You must not rely too much upon your dream."
Her eyes flashed to his and then fell again.
"Dreams are not revelations; they are the reproduction of what alreadylies hidden in the mind. I can prove that your dream is such."
"How?" She looked startled.
"You speak of seeing something being leveled at you which made you thinkof a pistol."
"Yes, I was looking directly into it."
"But my daughter was not shot. She died from a stab."
Doris' lovely face, with its tender lines and girlish curves, took on astrange look of conviction which deepened, rather than melted under hisindulgent, but penetrating gaze.
"I know that you think so;--but my dream says no. I saw this object. Itwas pointed directly towards me--above all, I saw his face. It was theface of one whose finger is on the trigger and who means death; and Ibelieve my dream."
Well, it was useless to reason further. Gentle in all else, she wasimmovable so far as this idea was concerned and, seeing this, he let thematter go and prepared to take his leave.
She seemed to be quite ready for this. Anxiety about her patient hadregained its place in her mind and her glance sped constantly toward thedoor. Taking her hand in his, he said some kind words, then crossedto the door and opened it. Instantly her finger flew to her lips and,obedient to its silent injunction, he took up his hat in silence, andwas proceeding down the hall, when the bell rang, startling them bothand causing him to step quickly back.
"Who is it?" she asked. "Father's in and visitors seldom come so late."
"Shall I see?"
She nodded, looking strangely troubled as the door swung open, revealingthe tall, strong figure of a man facing them from the porch.
"A stranger," formed itself upon her lips, and she was moving forward,when the man suddenly stepped into the glare of the light, and shestopped, with a murmur of dismay which pierced Mr. Challoner's heart andprepared him for the words which now fell shudderingly from her lips:
"It is he! it is he! I said that I should know him wherever I saw him."Then with a quiet turn towards the intruder, "Oh, why, why, did you comehere!"
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