Ричард Марш
The Coward Behind the Curtain

A voice replied-a voice which Dorothy knew well:

"Gently! gently! Listen to me! Hug the shore for about two hundred yards and you'll find a cut; go down it and, made fast to the opposite bank, under the trees, you'll find a houseboat. It belongs to old Vernon; it's empty now; go aboard; for the present you'll be safer there than anywhere, I'll see to that; I'll put them off the scent. I'll come as soon as ever I can; wait for me there till I come. Off you go!"

And off they went, just as burly figures began to appear on the edge of the lawn. As they moved, almost noiselessly, through the water, the man asked Dorothy:

"Who was that spoke to us, and talked about a cut, and a houseboat? I couldn't get a proper sight of him. Did you know him?"

"I think," said Dorothy-as if she were not sure-"that it was Mr Frazer."

As if she had not recognised his voice with just as much certainty as she had done her companion's!

CHAPTER XIX
AN INTERLUDE

With sensations which she would not have found it easy to describe, Miss Frances Vernon felt a great hand grip her by the shoulder with a degree of roughness to which she was unaccustomed, and heard a coarse voice exclaim:

"I arrest you! You're my prisoner?" The speaker seemed to be a little short of breath; she realised that he had been running towards her across the lawn; but shortness of breath did not prevent his tightening his grip upon her shoulder until it was all she could do to keep herself from crying out with pain. But she managed to keep still. It dawned on her that she had been mistaken for Dorothy; and that the longer the mistake continued the better start the girl would have. Her captor was joined by someone else-evidently his superior officer. "I've got her, sir-here she is."

The new-comer seemed also to be having some trouble with his breathing apparatus; words came from him in gasps.

"What's-your name-young woman?"

Frances hesitated; then, turning, as far as her captor would permit her to do, she looked at as much of her questioner's face as she could see in the darkness.

"What business is it of yours what my name is? How dare you ask me such a question?"

But the officer was not to be put off like that.

"It's no use your trying that tone with me. I've a right to ask you that question, and I do ask it. Are you Dorothy Gilbert? If you decline to answer I shall conclude that you are, and you're a prisoner."

"You may conclude what you like. While this coward keeps on hurting me, as he is doing now, I'll answer no questions; if he removes his hand from my shoulder I may, but while he continues torturing me I certainly won't."

"Are you hurting her, Jenkins?"

"No, sir; I've just got hold of her tight enough to keep her from getting away."

"Let go of her shoulder! Take her by the arm. Now, young woman, no nonsense. Are you Dorothy Gilbert?"

A voice came from the bank below them; the agitated West had suddenly woke to some consciousness of what was going on behind her.

"Dorothy Gilbert! Who's Dorothy Gilbert? That's not her!' You great stupids, that's not her! That's not her!"

West appeared at the top of the steps-if anything, more agitated than ever.

"Who are you?" asked the officer.

"Is that you, Sergeant Batters? Mr Batters, you know very well who I am-I'm Eliza West, that's who I am. It was me who came to the station and told you where Dorothy Gilbert was, and that hundred pounds reward is mine. I've fairly earned it, I have; I call everyone to witness! If you chaps hadn't been such slowcoaches you'd have her safe enough: it's hardly a minute since she went off with another chap. My 'Gustus-his name's Carter, and his number 294-he took her prisoner, she's his lawful prisoner, that's what she is; only the chap she's gone off with he chucked my 'Gustus into the river, and there he is at this moment, drowned for all I know."

West's strident voice rose almost to a wail; but no sooner had she ceased than another voice was heard, coming again from the bank below them.

"Easy, Eliza, easy! – it's not so bad as that! I've got as much water inside me as I care to swallow, and my uniform's about done for; but that's about the worst. Let alone that I can swim, he didn't throw me in so deep; if it hadn't been for the weeds I'd have been ashore before this, only I couldn't speak a word because of the water that had got in my throat." A hatless figure came up the bank, whose owner seemed conscious that, in his then condition, in that light, he might be unrecognisable. "It's me, sergeant-Carter, two, nine, four. I have to report that I arrested the girl, Dorothy Gilbert-"

"That you did, 'Gustus, I saw you do it; and that hundred pounds is mine-fairly earned!"

"Now, Eliza, I'm talking; you mind your own business, and leave that hundred pounds alone. I also arrested the chap who was with her; only, just as I was going to put the handcuffs on the pair of them, he chucked me into the river and that's how it is, sergeant."

Still a third voice joined in the conference; in spite of its easy suavity it was obviously one which was used to command.

"Policemen here? What is the meaning of this?"

The speaker came up the steps, on to the lawn.

"Is this the man," inquired Mr Batters of Mr Carter, "whom you arrested and who assaulted you?"

Mr Carter shook his head.

"No, sergeant, that's not the man; nothing like him."

The new-comer approached.

"Are you a sergeant of police? As Mr Vernon is a relative of mine, I should like to know what you, and your men, are doing on his grounds. I am the Earl of Strathmoira."

"Beg pardon, my lord, but I've come here to arrest the young woman who's wanted for the Newcaster murder, of which perhaps your lordship may have heard."

"Gracious! Are you looking for a person of that description on Mr Vernon's premises?"

"Fact is, my lord, I'm given to understand that she's a friend of the people here, and that she was here hardly two minutes ago. This man says he arrested her, together with a person who appears to have been in collusion with her; whereupon her accomplice threw this man into the river, and got off with her in a boat. If your lordship came by the river they may have passed you; you may have noticed them."

"My good sir, do you suppose that, on a night like this, when a big storm is evidently very close at hand, and one's sole aim is to reach shelter before it comes, that one has nothing better to do than notice strangers who may happen to pass you on the river? There's a flash for you! Why, if it's not my cousin, Miss Vernon. My dear Frances, I was wondering who you were when that flash of lightning kindly showed me; it has grown so dark that I doubt if I ever should have known you without its aid. Pray tell me what these persons are doing here."

Advancing to Frances, he took her hand in his, with a warmth of greeting which she seemed scarcely inclined to reciprocate. She seemed to find his presence not only unexpected, but something else as well; as if in his calm, easy bearing, and soft, plausible speech, she saw something which half-puzzled, half-frightened her. As, as if tongue-tied, she stood before him as he continued to hold her hand, the woman West said, speaking in tones which suggested that she was possessed by an inward excitement which rendered her almost inarticulate:

"'Gustus-sergeant-he's diddling you-sure as you're standing there, he's diddling you! Pretending that he don't know anything about Dorothy Gilbert, or what you're here for! Why, he's her special friend! – it was he who brought her here last night. I saw him with her-with my own eyes I saw him! And I tell you something else about him, sergeant: although it's true enough that he's the Earl of Strathmoira, all the same for that his private name is Eric Frazer, and he's wanted as well as her. There's a warrant out against him-I see it in the paper-for half killing that young gipsy on Newcaster Heath, who wanted to give her away to you chaps; and it's through him that she got clean off, and it was he who brought her straight from Newcaster here. So you take him prisoner, sergeant, before he does a bolt like she's done; but, whether you do or whether you don't, I call everyone to witness that I've given you the information, and that hundred pounds is fairly mine-yes, and it's fairly mine twice over! – twice over it's mine!"

By the time she had finished, the woman had raised her voice to a hysteric screech. Plainly the sergeant did not know what to make of her.

"What is the woman talking about? Carter, you seem to understand her better than I do; what's she mean?"

Mr Carter addressed the lady who loved him.

"If you take my tip, Eliza, you won't let us hear so much about the hundred pounds; it's all you can talk about."

"Well! – what else have I got to talk about? If it hadn't been for the hundred pounds, do you think I'd have said a word? – not me! And now, because you policemen are such blockheads, it looks as likely as not that I'm going to be done out of it after all; first you let the girl go, and now you won't take the man who's hand and glove with her; all the lot of you will let him fool you if he likes! – a pack of idiots you policemen are! – you're all the same!"

There was a diversion from the constable who had put his hand on Frances Vernon's shoulder.

"Excuse me, sergeant, but I think I know what she means; I saw about it in the paper, what she says; it's right enough that there is a warrant out for Eric Frazer, according to the paper."

"But I can't act on a mere statement which you say you saw in a paper, which may or may not be true. In the absence of official instructions I can't accept responsibility for what a newspaper says."

The Earl of Strathmoira applauded this explanation of the speaker's point of view.

"Precisely, sergeant; I am glad to find that there is one sensible person present. This woman, who, I fancy, is one of Mr Vernon's servants, is probably not quite right in her head; she is certainly not worthy either of your attention or mine. Come, Frances, this unpleasant scene has upset you; never mind! Let's go up to the house; possibly they'll be able to tell us there what all this pother is about."

West laid her hand on Mr Carter's arm.

"'Gustus, don't you let him fool you; don't you let him go-don't you let him! If Mr Batters won't arrest him, you arrest him on your own; you'll be blamed if you don't! You know I'm no fool-what I tell you's gospel truth; he's wanted as much as she is-take him on your own."

The faithful Carter hesitated. Drawing the woman close to him, he looked her steadily in the face; apparently on the strength of what he saw there he made the plunge, moving towards the object of the discussion with the simple statement:

"You're my prisoner, my lord."

The earl eyed him; then laughed.

"Your prisoner, my good man-are you joking?"

"No, my lord, I am not joking, I must ask you to consider yourself under arrest."

"On what charge?"

The woman cried out:

"I charge him, if it comes to that! I charge him with aiding and abetting Dorothy Gilbert to escape, and also with being her accomplice-if you take him to the station, 'Gustus, you'll find that you've done right."

The earl turned to Mr Batters.

"Sergeant, will you be so good as to recommend this man to be careful what he say and does, before he has cause for serious regret."

Instead, however, of doing as he was requested, the sergeant threw in his lot with his subordinate.

"I am sorry, my lord, to subject you to any inconvenience; but I am afraid I must ask you to accompany us to the station till this matter has been cleared up."

"Accompany you to the station! But suppose I decline?"

"I regret, my lord, that I cannot allow you to decline. This matter is more serious than you appear to think. I myself say nothing either one way or the other; but I notice that you have not attempted to deny the statements which have been made against you; and I have no option but to request you to come with me to the station to permit of their being properly gone into."

The earl addressed Mr Carter.

"My man! take care! Let me strongly advise you not to presume to touch me!"

The sergeant interposed.

"If your lordship will give me your word that you will accompany us quietly to the station I, on my side, will undertake that you shall be subjected to no personal indignity; only in so grave a matter we can't take any risks; you must give me your word, my lord. Do you do so?"

"Does he! No, he doesn't. Look out, 'Gustus-he's going to give you the slip."

This was West, in whom the instinct of the huntress seemed to be preternaturally keen. The sergeant exclaimed:

"None of that, my lord! Hold him, Carter!" But the sergeant's warning came too late-to hold his prisoner was more that Carter could do, since, before the warning came, he was already out of his sight. A second time that evening he was to be disappointed of his prey. West was right; his lordship gave him the slip. Running down the bank, he had leapt into the water before they could stop him-indeed, so far were they from stopping him it was all the sergeant and Mr Carter could do to keep themselves from-quite unintentionally-going after him.

CHAPTER XX
THE HOUSEBOAT

The boat hugged the shore as closely as Eric Frazer had advised; being propelled with a skill, and swiftness, considering the difficulties with which he had to contend, which at least showed that the person who had stated that his name was Arnecliffe was engaged in a task with which he was familiar. Presently its progress become slower; the sculler was endeavouring, as best he could, to make out his surroundings.

"Curious how deceptive this light-if you can call it light-is; and the lightning makes it worse. Have you any knowledge of this country?"

"None; I saw it for the first time this morning."

"There seems to be an opening here, which might be a cut, or backwater-I believe it is. We'll try it. Look out! The trees hang over the water, and the branches are low. What is that over there? It's a houseboat; I wonder if it's the one to which your mysterious friend referred. It's dark enough. Do you know what the name of Vernon's houseboat is?" Dorothy knew nothing, and said so. "Anyhow we'll pay a call. If it's the wrong one we can only apologise." He brought the skiff alongside the sombre craft, which seemed to soar above them into the darkness. The girl landed first. "Try that door," he said. "That's it-right in front of you."

She turned the handle.

"It's open," she announced.

"Good! Gross carelessness on somebody's part, to leave a houseboat's front door unlocked, but good for us." Tying up the skiff, he landed also. "Wait a minute: let me go in first, in case there's anyone inside." He passed through the door which she had opened. "Hollo! Anyone here?" None answered. "Seems empty; I think you may come in without running much risk of intruding on somebody's privacy." She went in after him. "I'll strike a match, so that we can see what sort of place it is we're in." He held the flickering flame above his head. "Seems to be a decent sort of apartment-living-room, I presume. If this is his property it strikes me that Mr Vernon is a gentleman who is possessed both of taste and money."

The match went out.

"Hollo! this won't do; we must have some light upon the subject. I can't say to you what I want to say unless I see your face-not comfortably, I can't; and I should like you to see mine as I'm saying it."

"I should like to see it too."

"Should you? Then you shall; there's a hanging lamp in the centre here; we'll see each other by its light. Now we'll pull down the blinds-capital blinds these are; well fitting. If there should be any suspicious characters about, they won't see us through these blinds; they're pretty nearly as good as shutters. Now, Miss Gilbert, with your very kind permission, I should like to see what you look like." By the lamp's glow the man and the girl surveyed each other; she standing very straight, and he stooping a little forward. He smiled; the smile giving his mouth an odd effect of being twisted. "You're like your father."

"Am I? Am I like my mother?"

"No; I don't think you are; not as I remember her."

"Did you know her well?"

"Very; once. But your resemblance to your father's weird. It isn't only features; it's the altogether-the way you have of looking at me-they might be your father's eyes; the way you have of holding yourself-just a little stiffly; the way your head's poised on your neck-as if it wouldn't bend; why, you've even got your father's hands-I noticed it as you pulled down the blind. You're his feminine replica."

"I'm glad of that."

"If he could only have heard you say that, before it was too late, what a difference it would have made! What-what a curious chap he was. If he could only come and see you now, he would see himself in you; he could not help it; and any lingering doubts he had would have gone for ever."

"Why do you say that? What doubts had he?"

He hesitated; as if he searched for words; then again came that wry smile of his.

"Miss Gilbert, it's not a pretty story I have to tell you; and it may sound uglier than it might be made because, circumstanced as we are, I am hardly in a position to pick and choose my phrases. Time is short; I must get to the end of my tale by the shortest way. I don't know who your mysterious friend who sent us here may be; but if, as he said he was, he is coming here, he may come soon. And since, when he does come, circumstances may arise which will render it difficult for me to communicate with you on confidential matters, it would be well if what I have to say to you were said quickly. So, if my story sounds even less pleasant than it need do, will you forgive me-since time presses?"

"Of course I will forgive you-you know I will."

"Thank you; I believe I do know it. I wondered what sort of person I should find you; but now, I think that, if the Fates had been more propitious, I might have been your friend, as I was your father's." She said nothing, but her lips quivered; something flashed from her eyes to his. "Won't you sit down? Compress it as I may, my story will take some minutes; as I said, it's not a very pretty one; and-you look tired."

"I would rather stand; I couldn't sit still; I find it so hard to sit still. Tell me about my mother."

"Your mother? I'm afraid I haven't much to tell you about your mother; my story is chiefly about your father. You see, there's disappointment number one. I take it that your knowledge of this funny world is not a very wide one; I fancy you don't see much of it in a convent; so what I'm going to tell you may sound very strange-to you; but it isn't: it's quite commonplace. It's a story which will be told over and over again, with variations-and even the variations are not new-until the crack of doom. Your mother and father were very much in love with each other, before they were married, and when they married; but soon after they were married they quarrelled. Not long before you were born they separated, never to meet again."

"Poor mother!"

"Yes; you may well say it-Fortune used her ill. She died in giving you birth."

"Mother!" This time there was no prefix; the superlative was expressed without it. Then she added: "What father must have felt!"

Again the wry smile.

"No doubt, when he heard of your mother's death, he felt many things; but if among them were any feelings of sorrow he kept them hid. He wouldn't go to you mother's funeral; he refused to see you."

"What a wicked man he must have been; I am sorry I am like him."

"There's the tragedy; because, you see, he doubted if you were his child." The girl said nothing; but there came into her face an eloquence which was beyond any form of words. The sight of it seemed to occasion him pain; he went hurrying on: "You were brought up by nurses. So far as I know the only time you ever saw him was when he took you to that Brittany convent, where he left you till the other day."

"And you say he was my father?"

"There again's the tragedy: he was. Your mother wasn't the wisest of women-few people are altogether wise-but she was not the kind of person he, in his haste, thought she was; in that sense, she was a true wife to him. In very truth, and very deed, if ever a child was her father's child, you are his. I never doubted it; not once; and now it is as if the finger of God had written the truth all over you. If he had only seen you, he would have seen God's finger-have known what a foolish man he'd been."

"But why did he never come to see me-or write to me-once?"

"He was, as I have said, a curious man; and having made up his mind finally, though on the most imperfect premises; he would have died rather than unmake it; indeed, he did die. But although, as I have told you, when your mother died he made no pretence at sorrow, her death, the whole tragedy of his marriage, changed the whole aspect of the world for him: he was never the same man again; his whole life was spoiled. He did many foolish things, and very few wise ones-he did nearly all the foolish things a man could do. He lost money; he made it; he lost it again. There were times when he had scarcely a shilling; there were others when he had thousands of pounds. Did he ever send you money?"

"Never; not so much as a franc. I believe that often he didn't pay my bills at the convent; I think that sometimes the Sisters were afraid that he never would pay."

"Those, I apprehend, were the times when he was without a shilling. As years went on, I have a theory that he began to be haunted-haunted by thoughts of what might have been. I believe that he grew to love your mother more and more."

"Love her! When he had treated her like that! What did he understand by love?"

"This is a curious world, and men contain, in themselves, the most singular contradictions. I doubt if he had ever ceased to love her, even when he was most bitter against her; more, I believe that it was because he loved her so much that he was so bitter. Can't you understand how that might be?"

"I think-I think I can."

"It was for love of her he died."

"How-how can that be?"

"It was so. He was an old man before his time. Each year his constitution failed more and more. During one of his periodic attacks of bad health, when his strength was at its lowest ebb, he came upon some papers, of whose very existence, by one of those diabolical mischances which Fortune loves to deal us, he had been ignorant, through all those years. They were some letters of your mother's; and they proved, even to him, what an injustice he had done her. The shock killed him. They found him dead, with her letters in his hand. Had he cared nothing for her he would have been little moved by the discovery of her written words; but his heart had been breaking for years; the revelation of how unjust he had been to her broke it altogether. That is why I say that, for love of her, he died."

"Poor father!"

"Yes; you may well say that also; it was 'poor father' as well as 'poor mother'-life's little ironies! His history was one of the strangest with which I have been personally acquainted. Not the least strange part of it is the fact that, not long before he died, he would persist in embarking in what seemed to me to be some wild-cat speculations, which, by an astounding series of accidents, turned out amazingly well; with the result that, though he had been a needy man for years, at the moment of his death he was actually rich. His will was found written on one side of a sheet of notepaper. It was dated only a few weeks before the end; so that he must have drawn it up as soon as he learnt that a turn of Fortune's wheel had brought him wealth. By it he left every farthing he possessed to you, absolutely, to do with it what you choose. So that-you're an heiress."

The girl's glance had never once left his face; it was as if she had been trying to read on it more than his words conveyed. Now she stared at him with amazement in her eyes.

"But-I don't understand. When Mr Emmett came to the convent he said that my father had not left a penny; that he had died owing him a large sum of money, and that it was only out of charity he paid what the Sisters were owed."

Once more his lips were twisted by that wry smile.

"Mr Emmett? Oh yes, I'm coming to Mr Emmett now; and-there's the rub."