But Emma, who was bright with a hope she had not felt in months, stopped her with a word.
“There is an old man waiting in the parlor who says he wants to see us. He sent in this card—it has Dr. Ruthven’s name on it—and Doris says he seemed very eager and anxious. Can you guess who he can be?”
“No,” rejoined Hermione, wondering. “But we can soon see. Our visitors are not so numerous that we can afford to slight one.” And tripping by Emma, she led the way into the parlor.
A slight, meagre, eager-eyed man, clad in black and wearing a propitiatory smile on very thin lips, rose as she entered, and bowed with an awkward politeness that yet had something of the breeding of a gentleman in it.
Hermione did not like his looks, but she advanced cordially enough, perhaps because her heart was lighter than usual, and her mind less under the strain of one horrible fixed idea than it had been in months.
“How do you do?” said she, and looked at him inquiringly.
Huckins, with another bow, this time in recognition of her unexpected beauty and grace, shambled uneasily forward, and said in a hard, strained voice which was even more disagreeable than his face:
“I am sure you are very good to receive me, Miss Cavanagh. I—I had a great desire to come. Your father—”
She drew back with a gasp.
“My father—” she repeated.
“Was an old friend of mine,” he went on, in a wheedling tone, in seeming oblivion of the effect his words had had upon her. “Did you never hear him speak of Hope, Seth Hope?”
“Never,” cried Hermione, panting, and looking appealingly at Emma, who had just entered the room.
“Yet we were friends for years,” declared the dissimulator, folding his hands with a dreary shake of his head.
“For years?” repeated Emma, advancing and surveying him earnestly.
“Our father was a much older man than you, Mr.—Mr. Hope.”
“Perhaps, perhaps, I never saw him. But we corresponded for years. Have you not come across letters signed by my name, in looking over his effects?”
“No,” answered Emma, firmly, while Hermione, looking very pale, retreated towards the door, where she stopped in mingled distress and curiosity.
“Then he must have destroyed them all,” declared their visitor. “Some people do not keep letters. Yet they were full of information, I assure you; full, for it was upon the ever delightful subject of chemistry we corresponded, and the letters I wrote him sometimes cost me a week’s effort to indite.”
Emma, who had never met a man like this before, looked at him with wide-open eyes. Had Hermione not been there, she would have liked to have played with his eccentricities, and asked him numberless questions. But with her sister shrinking in the doorway, she dared not encourage him to pursue a theme which she perceived to be fraught with the keenest suffering for Hermione. So she refrained from showing the distrust which she really felt, and motioning the old man to sit down, asked, quietly:
“And was it for these letters you came? If so, I am sorry that none such have been found.”
“No, no,” cried Huckins, with stammering eagerness, as he marked the elder sister’s suspicious eyes and unencouraging manner. “It was not to get them back that I ventured to call upon you, but for the pleasure of seeing the house where he lived and did so much wonderful work, and the laboratory, if you will be so good. Why has your sister departed?” he suddenly inquired, in fretful surprise, pointing to the door where Hermione had stood a moment before.
“She probably has duties,” observed Emma, in a troubled voice. “And she probably was surprised to hear a stranger ask to see a room no one but the members of his family have entered since our father’s death.”
“But I am not a stranger,” artfully pursued the cringing Huckins, making himself look as benevolent as he could. “I am an admirer, a devoted admirer of your remarkable parent, and I could show you papers”—but he never did—“of writing in that same parent’s hand, in which he describes the long, narrow room, with its shelves full of retorts and crucibles, and the table where he used to work, with the mystic signs above it, which some said were characters taken from cabalistic books, but which he informed me were the new signs he wished to introduce into chemistry, as being more comprehensive and less liable to misinterpretation than those now in use.”
“You do seem to know something about the room,” she murmured softly, too innocent to realize that the knowledge he showed was such as he could have gleaned from any of Mr. Cavanagh’s intimate friends.
“But I want to see it with my own eyes. I want to stand in the spot where he stood, and drink in the inspiration of his surroundings, before I go back to my own great labor.”
“Have you a laboratory? Are you a chemist?” asked Emma, interested in despite of the dislike his wheedling ways and hypocritical air naturally induced.
“Yes, yes, I have a laboratory,” said he; “but there is no romance about mine; it is just the plain working-room of a hard-working man, while his—”
Emma, who had paled at these words almost as much as her sister had done at his first speech about her father, recoiled with a look in which the wonderment was strangely like fear.
“I cannot show you the room,” said she. “You exaggerate your desire to see it, as you exaggerate the attainments and the discoveries of my father. I must ask you to excuse me,” she continued, with a slight acknowledgment in which dismissal could be plainly read. “I am very busy, and the morning is rapidly flying. If you could come again—”
But here Hermione’s full deep tones broke from the open doorway.
“If he wishes to see the place where father worked, let him come; there is no reason why we should hide it from one who professes such sympathy with our father’s pursuits.”
Huckins, chuckling, looked at Emma, and then at her sister, and moved rapidly towards the door. Emma, who had been taken greatly by surprise by her sister’s words, followed slowly, showing more and more astonishment as Hermione spoke of this place, or that, on their way upstairs, as being the spot where her father’s books were kept, or his chemicals stored, till they came to the little twisted staircase at the top, when she became suddenly silent.
It was now Emma’s turn to say:
“This is the entrance to the laboratory. You see it is just as you have described it.”
Huckins, with a sly leer, stepped into the room, and threw around one quick, furtive look which seemed to take in the whole place in an instant. It was similar to his description, and yet it probably struck him as being very different from the picture he had formed of it in his imagination. Long, narrow, illy lighted, and dreary, it offered anything but a cheerful appearance, even in the bright July sunshine that sifted through the three small windows ranged along its side. At one end was a row of shelves extending from the floor to the ceiling, filled with jars, chemicals, and apparatus of various kinds. At the other end was a table for collecting gases, and beneath each window were more shelves, and more chemicals, and more apparatus. A large electric machine perched by itself in one corner, gave a grotesque air to that part of the room, but the chief impression made upon an observer was one of bareness and desolation, as of the husk of something which had departed, leaving a smell of death behind. The girls used the room for their dreary midnight walks; otherwise it was never entered, except by Doris, who kept it in perfect order, as a penance, she was once heard to declare, she having a profound dislike to the place, and associating it always, as we have before intimated, with some tragic occurrence which she believed to have taken place there.
Huckins, after his first quick look, chuckled and rubbed his hands together, in well-simulated glee.
“Do I see it?” he cried; “the room where the great Cavanagh thought and worked! It is a privilege not easily over-estimated.” And he flitted from shelf to drawer, from drawer to table, with gusts of enthusiasm which made the cold, stern face of Hermione, who had taken up her stand in the doorway, h
arden into an expression of strange defiance.
Emma, less filled with some dark memory, or more swayed by her anxiety to fathom his purposes, and read the secret of an intrusion which as yet was nothing but a troublous mystery to her, had entered the room with him, and stood quietly watching his erratic movements, as if she half expected him to abstract something from the hoard of old chemicals or collection of formulas above which he hung with such a pretence of rapture.
“How good! how fine! how interesting!” broke in shrill ejaculation from his lips as he ambled hither and thither. But Emma noticed that his eye ever failed to dwell upon what was really choice or unique in the collection of her father’s apparatus, and that when by chance he touched an alembic or lifted a jar, it was with an awkwardness that betrayed an unaccustomed hand.
“You do not hold a retort in that way,” she finally remarked, going up to him and taking the article in question out of his hand. “This is how my father was accustomed to handle them,” she proceeded, and he, taken aback for the instant, blushed and murmured something about her father being his superior and she the very apt pupil of a great scholar and a very wise man.
“You wanted to see the laboratory, and now you have seen it,” quoth Hermione from her place by the door. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”
The chill, stern tones seemed to rouse him and he turned towards the speaker.
“No, no, my dear, no, no. You have been very good.” But Emma noticed that his eyes still kept roaming here, there, and everywhere while he spoke, picking up information as a bird picks up worms.
“What does he want?” thought she, looking anxiously towards her sister.
“You have a very pleasant home,” he now remarked, pausing at the head of those narrow stairs and peering into the nest of Hermione’s own room, the door of which stood invitingly open. “Is that why you never leave it?” he unexpectedly asked, looking with his foxy eyes from one sister to the other.
“I do not think it is necessary for us to answer you,” said Emma, while Hermione, with a flash in her eye, motioned him imperiously down, saying as she slowly followed him:
“Our friends do not consider it wise to touch upon that topic, how much more should a stranger hesitate before doing so?”
And he, cowering beneath her commanding look and angry presence, seemed to think she was right in this and ventured no more, though his restless eyes were never still, and he appeared to count the very banisters as his hand slid down the railing, and to take in every worn thread that showed itself in the carpet over which his feet shuffled in almost undignified haste.
When they were all below, he made one final remark:
“Your father owed me money, but I do not think of pressing my claim. You do not look as if you were in a position to satisfy it.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Emma, thinking she had discovered the motive of his visit at last; “that is why you wanted to see the laboratory.”
“Partly,” he acknowledged with a sly wink, “but not altogether. All there is there would not buy up the I. O. U. I hold. I shall have to let the matter go with other bad debts I suppose. But three hundred dollars is a goodly sum, young ladies, a goodly sum.”
Emma, who knew that her father had not been above borrowing money for his experiments, looked greatly distressed for a moment, but Hermione, who had now taken her usual place as leader, said without attempting to disguise the tone of suspicion in her voice:
“Substantiate your claim and present your bill and we will try to pay it. We have still a few articles of furniture left.”
Huckins, who had never looked more hypocritically insinuating or more diabolically alert, exclaimed,
“I can wait, I can wait.”
But Hermione, with a grand air and a candid look, answered bitterly and at once:
“What we cannot do now we can never do. Our fortunes are not likely to increase in the future, so you had better put in your claim at once, if you really want your pay.”
“You think so?” he began; and his eye, which had been bright before, now gleamed with the excitement of a fear allayed. “I—”
But just then the bell rang with a loud twang, and he desisted from finishing his sentence.
Emma went to the door and soon came back with a letter which she handed to Hermione.
“The man Jerry brought it,” she explained, casting a meaning look at her sister.
Hermione, with a quick flush, stepped to the window and in the shadow of the curtains read her note. It was a simple word of warning.
Dear Miss Cavanagh:
I met a man at your gate who threatened to go in. Do not receive him, or if you have already done so, distrust every word he has uttered and cut the interview short. He is Hiram Huckins, the man concerning whom I spoke so frankly when we were discussing the will of the Widow Wakeham.
Yours most truly,
Frank Etheridge.
The flush with which Hermione read these lines was quite gone when she turned to survey the intruder, who had forced himself upon her confidence and that of her sister by means of a false name. Indeed she looked strangely pale and strangely indignant as she met his twinkling and restless eye, and, to any one who knew the contents of the note which she held, it would seem that her first words must be those of angry dismissal.
But instead of these, she first looked at him with some curiosity, and then said in even, low, and slightly contemptuous tones:
“Will you not remain and lunch with us, Mr. Huckins?”
At this unexpected utterance of his name he gave a quick start, but soon was his cringing self again. Glancing at the letter she held, he remarked:
“My dear young lady, I see that Mr. Etheridge has been writing to you. Well, there is no harm in that. Now we can shake hands in earnest”; and as he held out his wicked, trembling palm, his face was a study for a painter.
XVII
TWO CONVERSATIONS
That afternoon, as Emma was sitting in her own room, she was startled by the unexpected presence of Hermione. As they were not in the habit of intruding upon each other above stairs, Emma rose in some surprise. But Hermione motioning her back into her chair, fell at her feet in sudden abandon, and, laying her head in her sister’s lay, gave way to one deep sob. Emma, too much astonished to move at this unexpected humiliation of one who had never before bent her imperious head in that household, looked at the rich black locks scattered over her knees with wonder if not with awe.
“Hermione!” she whispered, “Hermione! do not kneel to me, unless it be with joy.”
But the elder sister, clasping her convulsively around the waist, murmured:
“Let me be humble for a moment; let me show that I have something in me besides pride, reckless endurance, and determined will. I have not shown it enough in the past. I have kept my sufferings to myself, and my remorse to myself, and alas! also all my stern recognition of your love and unparalleled devotion. I have felt your goodness, oh, I have felt it, so much so, at times, that I thought I could not live, ought not to live, just because of what I have done to you; but I never said anything, could not say anything! Yet all the remorse I experienced was nothing to what I experience now that I know I was not even loved—”
“Hush,” broke in Emma, “let those days be forgotten. I only felt that you ought to know the truth, because sweeter prospects are before you, and—”
“I understand,” murmured Hermione, “you are always the great-hearted, unselfishly minded sister. I believe you would actually rejoice to see me happy now, even if it did not release you from the position you have assumed. But it shall release you; you shall not suffer any longer on my account. Even if it is only to give you the opportunity of—of meeting with Dr. Sellick, you shall go out of this house today. Do you hear me, Emma, today?”
But the ever-gentle, ever-docile Emma rose up at this, quite pale in her resolution. “Till you put foot out of the gate I remain this side of it,” said she. “Nothing can ever alter my dete
rmination in this regard.”
And Hermione, surveying her with slowly filling eyes, became convinced that it would be useless to argue this point, though she made an effort to do so by saying with a noble disregard of her own womanly shame which in its turn caused Emma’s eyes to fill:
“Dr. Sellick has suffered a great wrong, I judge; don’t you think you owe something to him?”
But Emma shook her head, though she could not prevent a certain wistful look from creeping into her face. “Not what I owe to you,” said she, and then flushed with distress lest her sister should misjudge the meaning of her words.
But Hermione was in a rarely generous mood. “But I release you from any promise you have made or any obligations you may consider yourself to be under. Great heaven! do you think I would hold you to them now?”
“I hold myself,” cried Emma. “You cannot release me—except,” she added, with gentle intimation, “by releasing yourself.”
“I cannot release myself,” moaned Hermione. “If we all perish I cannot release myself. I am a prisoner to this house, but you—”
“We are sister prisoners,” interpolated Emma, softly. Then with a sudden smile, “I was in hopes that he who led you to break one resolution might induce you to break another.”
But Hermione, flushing with something of her old fire, cried out warmly: “In going out of the house I broke a promise made to myself, but in leaving the grounds I should—oh, I cannot tell you what I should do; not even you know the full bitterness of my life! It is a secret, locked in this shrinking, tortured heart, which it almost breaks, but does not quite, or I should not linger in this dreadful world to be a cause of woe to those I cherish most.”
The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack Page 173