Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

Dolly glanced at him rather angrily as she shook hands with her friend. “Good-bye, dear Marion. It has been ever so nice! Good-bye.”

  She left the room. Vanbrugh was annoyed and discomforted by her sudden departure, but he made the best of the situation, and after closing the door behind her, sat down beside Mrs. Willoughby, who was listening to one of Brown’s stories.

  “I suppose she is angry with me,” said Brett to Marion. “What did I say? I was thinking of something else.”

  “Then why did you choose that moment for speaking of her?” asked Mrs. Darche reproachfully. “You really must take care, you will make enemies.”

  “Of course. What does it matter?”

  “It matters to me, if you make enemies of my friends.”

  “That is different,” said Brett. “But seriously — do not people forgive a lack of tact sometimes — being a little absent-minded? Look at Jim Brown.”

  “That is quite another thing,” Marion answered. “Yes — I heard what he was telling as we came into the room after the luncheon. Of course it was tactless. Of course no man in his senses should talk in a loud tone, before me, of a man falling overboard at sea and being drowned, still less—”

  “What?” asked Brett.

  A short pause followed the question, and when Marion answered it, it was evident that she was making an effort.

  “Still less of the possibility that such a man might be heard of again some day.”

  “That at least is improbable,” said Brett, very gravely.

  “I shivered when I heard what he said.”

  “I do not wonder.”

  In the meantime, at the other end of the room, Mr. Brown was enjoying at last the supreme satisfaction of talking without reserve about the story he had seen in the papers that morning.

  “One never knows what to believe,” said Mrs. Willoughby.

  “Believe nothing,” said Vanbrugh with much conviction. “In particular, my dear Mrs. Willoughby, do not believe in Brown’s tales. He is a perfectly idle man, and he does nothing but sleep and talk, because he has a liver and cannot eat. A man who has nothing to do requires a great deal of sleep and a great deal of conversation.”

  “I say, Russell, old man,” protested Mr. Brown with a good-humoured laugh, “this is rather unkind. Where would you get your conversation if I did not supply you with the items? That is what one’s best friends come to, Mrs. Willoughby, in this bustling world. And why should not people eat, sleep, and talk, — and do nothing else if they have time? But as for this story, I never pretended that it was anything but newspaper gossip — not even that — a sensation item, manufactured down town, perhaps. ‘Woman burned alive in Jersey City,’ — five lines— ‘Deny the report,’ — five lines more — that is the sort of thing. But this is a strange coincidence, or a strange story. It might almost be poor Darche’s case, with a sensational ending.”

  “Oh, well,” answered Vanbrugh, who by this time quite understood the meaning of Brett’s strange conduct before luncheon, “of course it is only a sensational paragraph, and belongs to your department, Brown. But as you say, the coincidences are extraordinary. A man says he fell overboard from a Channel boat, and was picked up by an Italian bark, which took him to Valparaiso after all sorts of adventures. The weak point in these stories generally is that the man never seems to take the trouble to communicate with his relations from the first port he reaches, and takes an awful lot of trouble to get shipwrecked somewhere on the way. But in this case that is the strong point. What did you say the fellow’s name was?”

  “Why, my dear man, that is three-quarters of the coincidence. He calls himself John Drake. Transpose the ‘r’ and the ‘a,’ and that looks uncommonly like John Darche.”

  “No doubt,” said Vanbrugh; “but then there is nothing peculiar about ‘John.’ If he had been christened ‘Eliphalet Xenophon’ it would have been considerably stranger. Besides if he really were Darche he would not call himself either Darche or John.”

  “How can you suggest anything so dreadful!” exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby.

  “Why ‘dreadful’?” asked Mr. Brown.

  “Only think of it,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “An escaped suicide — I mean, a convict who escaped and killed himself.”

  “And you think that the disgrace of having committed suicide will cling to him in after life, so to say — in Sing-Sing?” inquired Mr. Brown.

  “Do not make me out more stupid than I really am.” Cousin Annie assumed a deprecatory expression. “Do you not think that a man like Darche — convicted of a crime — escaped — if he suddenly re — re — What is the word?”

  “Imperfectly resurrected,” suggested Vanbrugh.

  “Oh yes! Anything! If he came back to life, and yet was supposed to be dead, and was trying to begin all over again and to make a fresh start, and that kind of thing — under another name—”

  “In order to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his widow marry some one else?” asked Vanbrugh, with less discretion than usual.

  “I did not mean that,” said Mrs. Willoughby quickly. “Poor Marion! Poor Marion! What time is it, Mr. Brown?”

  “Three.”

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed cousin Annie.

  “Dear me!” echoed Vanbrugh.

  “Yes, it is later than I thought,” said Mr. Brown.

  By a common impulse, all three rose at once and crossed the room to take leave of their hostess.

  “What, are you all going?” asked the latter.

  “Do you know what time it is, Marion?” And not waiting for an answer, Mrs. Willoughby held out her hand.

  “It is awfully late,” observed Vanbrugh, by way of explanation.

  “Thank you so much,” said Mr. Brown, shaking hands warmly.

  “Yes, it is later than I thought.” Brett looked at his watch, though by this time he had made up his mind to outstay the others.

  “Well — if you must go—”

  Marion did not show any anxiety to detain her guests as they filed out of the room.

  “You did not mean me to go away with the crowd, did you?” asked Brett, as the door closed behind Mr. Brown.

  “Not if you wished to stay,” answered Marion, taking her favourite chair near the fire. “Take another cigarette. Sit down.”

  “And make myself at home? Thanks.”

  “If you can,” said Mrs. Darche with a pleasant laugh.

  “Did you hear what they were saying to each other over there while we were talking?” inquired Brett, who by this time seemed to have recovered from the unnatural embarrassment he had shown at first. He had rather suddenly made up his mind that Marion ought to know something about the story in the papers.

  “No. Did you?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I do not like that.” Mrs. Darche did not seem pleased. “It was not nice of you — to be able to talk as you were talking, and to listen to the conversation of other people at the same time.”

  “Do you know what they were saying?” asked Brett.

  “No, certainly not.”

  “It is not a pleasant subject. They were talking about that paragraph in the papers again. Of course there is nothing in the story, and yet it is very strange. May I speak of it?”

  “Is it of any use?” asked Mrs. Darche, beginning to suspect what was coming.

  “I hardly know,” Brett answered, “and yet if it should turn out there is even the smallest grain of truth—”

  “There cannot be. I know there cannot be,” she repeated, after a moment’s pause, as though she had gone over the whole question in the interval. “Oh, what is the use of suggesting such things?”

  “Yes,” answered Brett. “You know there cannot be any truth in it — even if he were alive he would not come back. I know it, and yet if he should, it would be so horrible that I cannot help thinking of it. You know what it would mean if that man were to return.”

  “I know what it would mean to me. Do not speak of it, please.”

  “I mus
t, I cannot help it. I feel as if something were driving me to speak. You did not hear the whole story. They said the man was picked up in mid-channel by an Italian ship more than seven months ago.”

  “Seven months ago!”

  “Even the time would fit the truth. But then — stop. Was he a swimmer? Yes — of course — I remember him at Newport.” Brett answered his own question. “The ship — a bark they called it — was outward bound, and could not put in again. She was on her way to Valparaiso. You know where that is, all the way round by the Straits of Magellan. Something happened to her, she got wrecked or something — they say that a lot of the crew were killed and eaten up by the cannibals in Terra del Fuego. John Drake—”

  “John Drake!” Marion exclaimed.

  “Yes, another coincidence. John Drake — horribly like is it not? — managed to escape with the second mate, the carpenter, and the cabin boy, got across to the Patagonian country — there are lots of details. They wandered about for ever so long, and at last turned up somewhere. They were all Italians, and Drake, who had no papers, was shipped off again by the Consul on board of another Italian ship. That accounts for six months, with the bad weather they had. Then there is a long blank. And now this John Drake turns up here—”

  “Yes — but — after all, if he changed his name, he would change it altogether.” She stopped and looked at him, for the argument seemed conclusive.

  “That is not the only point that is not clear,” Brett answered. “But the names are so dreadfully alike.”

  “But there is a very great difference!” Marion exclaimed. “There are a great many Drakes — but Darche is a very uncommon name.”

  “That is the reason why he changed it so little.”

  “Oh, why do you suggest such a possibility — of what use is it? Why?” She rose suddenly and began to move about the room.

  “Because I am a fool, I suppose,” Brett answered, not moving from his seat. “But I cannot help it. The idea has taken hold of me and I cannot get rid of it. I feel as though that man had risen from the dead to wreck your life.”

  “It would be a wreck indeed!” said Marion in a low voice that had a sort of horror in it. “You could not save me this time — not even you.”

  “And yet—”

  “What?”

  “No — I ought not to say it.”

  “Mysteries again?” Marion stopped beside him and looked down into his face.

  “The same, if you choose to call it a mystery.”

  “I wish you would speak out, my dear friend,” said Marion gravely. “I feel all the time that there is something in your mind which you wish to say to me, but which you will not, or cannot, or dare not say. Am I right?”

  “To some extent.”

  “I do not think you understand what friendship really means.”

  “Friendship?” Brett exclaimed. “For you? No, perhaps I do not. I wish I did. I would give a great deal if I could.”

  “I do not in the least understand,” said Marion, sitting down again. “You, my best friend, tell me in the most serious, not to say mysterious way, that you do not know what friendship means, when you are proving every day that you do. I hate secrets! Very few friendships will bear them. I wish there were none between us.”

  “Ah, so do I!”

  “Then let there be none,” said Marion in a tone that was almost authoritative. “Why should there be? In the dear old times when I was so unhappy and you were so good to me, we had no secrets, at least none that I knew of. Why should we have any now?”

  “The very reason why there must be one at all is the secret itself. Will you not believe me if I tell you that it would hurt you very much to know it?”

  “It is hard to believe, and I” — she laughed— “I can confess to a reasonable amount of curiosity on the subject.”

  “Do not be curious,” said Brett, very gravely, “please do not be curious. You might find it out and I should never forgive myself.”

  “But if I forgave you—”

  “That would make no difference. That would not make the smallest difference.”

  “What! Not to you?” Mrs. Darche glanced at him in surprise.

  “Not to me,” answered Brett with decision. “The harm would be done.”

  “Utterly incomprehensible!” exclaimed Marion as though speaking to herself. “I cannot help asking you again,” she said turning to Brett again. “Tell me, has it anything to do with my husband?”

  “Yes it has.”

  “Then tell me! Tell me, for heaven’s sake!” By this time she was growing anxious.

  “Not for the world,” said Brett firmly.

  “You do not know how unkind you are. You do not know — you do not know how much your friendship is to me, and how you are letting this wretched mystery come between us.”

  “I know better, better than you can guess.”

  “And you are keeping it to yourself because you are afraid of hurting me — hurting me!” she repeated bitterly. “As though I were not past hurting, these many months, as though I had not been through most all that a woman can bear and live, and yet I have borne it and have lived. No, I am wrong. I can still be hurt. Two things could hurt me. If by some horrible miracle John came back to life, and if—” She paused and hesitated.

  “What?” asked Brett, who hardly seemed to be listening to her.

  “If you allowed anything to break up this friendship of ours. But the one is impossible. John is dead, and I have lived down the shame of his memory, and the other — no, it would be your fault.”

  “It would hurt you much more to know what I am keeping from you than to lose my friendship, or rather your friendship for me,” said Brett, shaking his head. “Mine you cannot lose, whatever you do. I am giving you the best proof of it now.”

  “And do you mean to say that after all that came out in those dark days, that after the trial and conviction, and my husband’s escape and his horrible end, that there is still worse behind? — that he left something which you know and I do not know, but which, if I knew it, could still have the power to wreck my life and break what is the best part of me — yes, I am not ashamed to say so — the best part of me — our friendship. I am not tired of the sound of that word yet, nor shall be. Do you mean that? Do you really mean what you say?”

  “Yes,” answered Brett, who had nodded at each of her questions. “I mean that there is something which I know, and of which the knowledge might ruin the happiness you have found since you have been alone. And yet you ask me to tell you what it is, when no possible good could come from your knowledge of it.”

  “Yes, I do,” said Marion, emphatically. “And as for my happiness, you are killing it with every word you say. You have knocked from under my feet the security of my position and you have taken the good out of what was best by saying that a word from you would spoil it. What is there left now but to tell me the truth?”

  “Your belief in me, if you ever had any — and I know that you had, as I hope that you still have.”

  “My belief in you?” Marion paused, looked at him and then turned away. “Yes, but the more I believe in you, the more I must believe every word you say—”

  While she was speaking, Stubbs opened the door, and entered the room, bringing a card.

  “The person wishes to see you, madam,” he said, holding out the silver salver.

  Mrs. Darche’s face betrayed some annoyance at the interruption as she took up the card and read the name. “W. H. Wood, Associated Press. What does this mean?” she asked turning to Brett. “Do you know the man?”

  “Evidently a reporter,” said Brett.

  “Tiresome people,” exclaimed Mrs. Darche. “I wonder what in the world he wants. Perhaps he has made a mistake. At all events there is no reason why I should see him. Say that I am engaged,” she added, turning to Stubbs.

  “Wait a minute, Stubbs,” said Brett, calling after the man. “Do not send him away,” he added, turning to Marion. “Let me see him.” />
  “Why?” she asked.

  “I have an idea that he has come about that story that has got into the papers,” said Brett in a low voice.

  “Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Darche with great emphasis.

  “No,” objected Brett, “there is just a possibility, and if it should be that, some one had better see him. Something very disagreeable might be written, and it is better to stop it at once.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Darche, yielding. “If you really think it is better, see him here. Ask Mr. Wood to come in,” she said to Stubbs, as she passed him and went out.

  CHAPTER X.

  BRETT STOOD BEFORE the fireplace as the reporter entered the room — a quiet, pale young man with a pinched face, smooth brown hair and thin hands which somehow conveyed the impression of sadness.

  “I asked to see Mrs. Darche,” he said apologetically.

  “Mrs. Darche is engaged,” answered Brett. “I am a friend of hers and will answer any questions so far as I can.”

  “Thank you. I have no doubt, sir, that you are often troubled by us. You know the reporter has to be everywhere. I will not take any more of your time than I can help. I understand that Mrs. Darche and her friends are to take part in some tableaux for a charitable purpose at the end of the week—”

  “I fancy there is some mistake about that,” said Brett. “Mrs. Darche is in mourning.”

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Wood. “I daresay Mrs. Darche would be glad to have the report denied. I understand, then, that there are not to be any tableaux.”

  “I believe there is to be something of the kind, but Mrs. Darche has nothing to do with the affair — beyond giving her advice, I think. She would certainly not care very much to be talked of in the papers just now.”

  “Just so,” replied Mr. Wood readily. “I quite understand that there is a prejudice against it, and of course Mrs. Darche’s name shall not appear. But you do not know what a great interest our readers take in social doings. Our paper has a very large circulation in the West.”

  “I am very glad to know it. Would it not be enough just to mention the fact that there are to be some tableaux for a charity?”