Ричард Марш
The Coward Behind the Curtain

CHAPTER XII
HEADLINES

They were entering the outskirts of a country town. The easy-going vehicles which characterise country towns occasionally took up more than their fair share of the road. The chauffeur reduced speed.

"This is Timberham; slow as you can's the best game here-never know when you may run up against a peeler; seems to me they've nothing else to do except pounce on you if you're moving above a crawl; some of them would like to make out that you're doing twenty miles when you're hardly doing two." Suddenly the chauffeur spoke in a half whisper. "What did I tell you?" They had come along a narrow, winding street, where discreet driving was certainly a matter of necessity; it had suddenly widened out into a broad, open space, from which streets branched off in all directions. In the centre a constable was standing with a superior officer. At sight of the car the latter raised an authorative hand. "Now, what's he want?" growled the mechanic, under his breath. "Drat them fellers!"

The officer approached.

"You leave him to me," said Mr Frazer. "I'll talk to him. What is it, officer?"

"Sorry to stop you, sir, but have you passed a caravan on the road? – a primrose-coloured van, with black stripes, and red wheels-something rather unusual in the way of vans; you could hardly help noticing it."

"I'm afraid I haven't been paying much attention. Whereabouts would it be?"

"Somewhere between here and Newcaster Heath. Which way did you come?"

"We've come from the Heath. Why do you ask?"

"Well-we're rather anxious to get news of that caravan."

"Why? – been stolen? – or anything of that sort?"

"No, it's not been stolen-no, nothing of that sort; only-there's someone with it with whom we should very much like to have a little conversation."

There was a significant twinkle in the speaker's eyes. Mr Frazer smiled, as if with perfect comprehension.

"In that case I hope it won't be long before your wish is gratified. There'll be plenty of people on that road to-day-I don't suppose I need tell you that it's race day-if it's anywhere about you ought to have news of it soon."

"As I said, if anyone does see that caravan they can hardly help noticing it. Thank you, sir; sorry to have kept you waiting."

Stepping on one side the officer saluted; the car went on.

Until the town was left behind the chauffeur said nothing; but when they began to bowl along the open road beyond he smiled, with much meaning.

"I saw that van he was asking about in the field which you came out of."

"Did you? That shows that you've the faculty of observation-odd how many people are without it."

"And as it was in the same field in which you were you must have seen it too; in fact, you couldn't help it."

"I never said I hadn't."

The chauffeur considered this statement.

"No, I suppose you didn't, if it comes to that-very artful the way you put him off. He thought you said you hadn't seen it."

"Some of those policemen do think at times."

When he had duly pondered this cryptic saying the chauffeur chuckled.

"I can see that you're a deep one."

"I am not sure that I quite deserve that compliment. What are we doing now? Thirty? At this rate we ought to be in Ashington in under half-an-hour."

"We're doing all of thirty-we ought to be in Ashington in less than twenty minutes. That peeler was looking for you."

"Short-sighted mortal-surely I was near enough for him to see me."

"What have you been doing? I hope it's nothing-you know; I don't want to be mixed up with anything fishy."

"I assure you there's nothing fishy about me. It is not only you gentlemen who drive motor cars who have differences with the police; lesser folk have them also-especially when there's a lady in the case, and a stony-hearted guardian."

"A lady is it? Ah! – I might have thought of that-now I see what the caravan was for-and she sitting behind there all the time saying nothing. Well, you're a couple of cool ones. But when there's a lady about you never know what's about. Not long ago one of my governor's daughters ran off with a young chap what was a riding master. Wasn't there a rumpus! Every policeman in the county was looking out for them-but they were married before they got them-and she only turned seventeen; sandy hair she had."

"It's a dangerous age, seventeen."

"Where a woman's concerned all ages are dangerous."

"That's true. I perceive that you also are a deep one."

"When you've got to drive a motor car, and keep her properly tuned up, you've got to be about all there. By the way, would you mind giving me ten sovereigns instead of those two fivers?"

The change of subject was rather sudden; Mr Frazer glanced round, as if a trifle startled.

"With pleasure-if I have them. But what's wrong with the notes?"

"There's nothing wrong with them-as notes; I know that well enough, only-their numbers might be known, and, if they're traced, it wouldn't suit me to be asked how they came to be in my possession-not by a long chalk."

"I catch your meaning-you're a far-sighted man. However, I give you my word that the numbers of those notes are not known, in the sense you mean-thanking you very much for the insinuation."

"I daresay; still-I'd rather have the sovereigns. I sha'n't forget how artful you were in putting that peeler off the scent. Whereabouts in Ashington do you want me to put you down?"

"I don't care, so long as it is in Ashington. Aren't we nearly there?"

"That's Ashington, round the bend-that square tower's the town hall. It's new, the town hall is; they think more of it than I do-I call it a common-looking building."

"If you'll slow down I'll see if I can find the ten sovereigns you would rather have." He took several gold coins from a pocket in his trousers. "I've got them-here they are. If you'll give me those two notes, I sha'n't mind their being found in my possession. Now if you'll take us, say, a quarter of a mile farther, and then set us down, I'll be obliged."

"I'll set you down by the town hall-I know the chap who built it-he's a sort of cousin of my old mother's. It's the biggest job he's ever had, and he thinks no end of it. I tell him opinions differ-it does make him so wild."

When they had alighted in front of the edifice in question, and had divested themselves of their wraps, the car drove off-possibly to fetch the "governor" from the races. The girl turned on her companion with flashing eyes.

"Why did you tell that policeman such a lie?" Nothing could have been better done than Mr Frazer's air of deprecation.

"Did I tell him a lie? I was not aware of it."

"You as good as told him a lie; you prevaricated-you meant to deceive him, and you did. If I hadn't been such a contemptible coward I should have jumped up and told him the truth-that it was me he was looking for. I believe that every policeman is looking for me everywhere-I feel sure they are. Every fresh lie you tell to screen me makes me feel more ashamed-especially as I know they're certain to find me in the end. There's a policeman over there; I'll go and tell him who I am-now! – and then at least you need tell no more falsehoods for me."

Fortunately, Mr Frazer seemed to think, as he looked about him, there was no one within earshot to notice her wild words and manner, and the constable to whom she referred was some little distance off, on the other side of the way, with his back towards them. He laid his hand upon her arm, speaking with that matter-of-fact coolness which the girl seemed to find herself powerless to resist.

"I shouldn't do that, just now, especially as a train will soon be starting which I am rather anxious to catch. Let's get into this cab, and see if we can't catch it."

Feeling as if she were doing none of these things of her own volition-which, indeed, was the case-the girl suffered him to hand her into it. Presently she found herself entering a railway station at his side; then, a little later, seated alone with him in a first-class compartment-a passenger in a train for the second time in her life. The rate at which it moved; the noise it made; the occasional oscillation; the strangeness of it all-served to increase her mental confusion. She caught herself wondering, with what seemed to be some remote lobe of her brain, if her mind ever would be clear again. He held out towards her a cigar which he had taken from a case.

"May I smoke?" She said yes; and he did, talking as he smoked, in that clear, gentle, musical voice, which made itself audible above the roar of the train, affecting her as nothing had ever done before.

"This is an express, which runs through to town without a stop; we are lucky to have caught it. You look tired."

"I am; I don't know why: I have done nothing; but I feel as if I shall never again be anything but tired."

"You wait-till you're not tired." He was silent; examining his cigar, which did not seem to be lighted quite to his satisfaction. She thought, hazily, how handsome he looked; handsomer in what seemed, to her, to be his smart attire, even than he had looked in his shirt sleeves on the heath. He went on, speaking rather as if he were soliloquising than addressing himself to her: "Queer world! Yesterday you were non-existent; yet to-day your life has become so intertwined with mine that I feel sure that we must have been associated in some prior state of existence."

"That's absurd! My horrid troubles have nothing to do with you-nothing! To you I am only a stranger-a disreputable stranger too."

"You're a foolish child."

"I may be foolish, but I am not a child-and I wish you wouldn't persist in treating me as if I were a child! I believe you have been doing all the things you have been doing-and ever so many of them you ought not to have done-simply and solely because you think I'm a child. Do get that idea out of your head, I beg of you; I'm quite old enough to be able to take care of myself-and if I'm not able I ought to be. Please, when we reach London, leave me, when we get out of the train, and I'll go to the first policeman I see, and tell him everything there is to tell-I feel sure that if you keep going on as you have been I shall get you into trouble as well as myself, and-and I'd rather anything than that. Why should you suffer because of me?"

"When we reach town I'm going to take you to the Vernons'-Frances' father and mother."

"Why should you do that? Why should you try to thrust me on people who know nothing about me, and who wouldn't wish to have anything to do with me if they did? Why should they take me in?"

"All those whys in one sentence! I never knew such a child for whys. Your fondness for asking questions shows you are a child."

"You won't tell me anything unless I do; I have to keep on asking you questions-and even then you don't answer them-I don't know why, but you won't-it's not kind of you!"

"The Vernons have a house on the river, not far from Hampton Court; it's a decentish place; you'll find yourself comfortable there."

"Shall I-that's all you know! In a stranger's house! – where I know I've no right to be, and feel I'm not wanted! – with that nightmare haunting me! – afraid to look a policeman in the face! – comfortable! Thank you; you don't understand!"

"Have you any sense at all?"

"You think I haven't; or you wouldn't treat me as you are doing-but I'm not an utter idiot."

"Then prove it, by acting on my advice. Forget all that it is better to forget; all unpleasant things are best forgotten; and, at your age, forgetting is so easy. Leave the conduct of things in more experienced hands; meaning mine. I'm pretty idle; I expect to find, in the process of putting your affairs in order, congenial amusement. A little bird whispers in my ear that I sha'n't find it nearly such a difficult job as you imagine. You don't seem to have had a very good time up to now; you shall have a better in the days which are coming; you'll find that your worries will vanish, and it will be roses, roses, all the way."

"Why should you do all this for me? – if it can be done; which I doubt."

He sighed.

"Mild remonstrance is plainly useless; you'll have to keep on whying! Did Frances Vernon know that George Emmett took you away from the convent?"

"Of course she did-besides, I told her all about it. She was there when he came-she saw us start."

"Then, in that case, I shall tell Mrs Vernon that Mr Emmett is not so well as he might be, which is a fact, and that, since, therefore, he is not able to take so much care of you as is desirable, which is, again, the fact, I have assumed the charge of you, pro tem. You understand? It may not be necessary for you to say anything-I will endeavour to make it unnecessary-but if you must, you must support my story."

"Your lie, you mean-another!"

"I hardly think that ugly word is called for. What I shall say will be the truth."

"Part of it, you mean. If you were to tell them the whole truth, those people wouldn't let me inside their door-that's what I understand. And yet you say that, knowing that, I shall be comfortable."

"Permit me to observe, since you persist in assailing me, that you speak with that merciless severity which marks the ignorant child, or the green girl who flatters herself that she is just ceasing to be a child. I am as good a judge of what is improper as most people of my acquaintance; if I thought that you were an improper person to introduce into Mrs Vernon's household you would not be introduced by me. I feel, strongly, that you are an inexperienced child; that you have had many things against you; that you are at a period in your career in which you need, above all else, an experienced hand, to keep you from coming to eternal grief. I am going to play the part of the experienced hand, for quixotic reasons, if you choose. Don Quixote didn't have such a bad time of it, first and last; he was a gentleman. If I were to tell Mrs Vernon what you would perhaps call all that occurred last night at 'The Bolton Arms' I should still be telling her what, from your childish point of view, would be a lie; because you don't know all the truth, nor I either; there's much about the affair which needs a great deal of explanation, and I'm going to see that it is explained. In the meanwhile, if there is anything about your connection with the business which you have concealed, and which is not to your credit, now's the time to get it off your mind."

Her manner was much meeker.

"There isn't; I've told you all there is to tell, at least, I-I've told you all I can think of."

"Very good; having weighed what you have told me, holding you innocent, I am going to stand surety for your innocence to Mrs Vernon. Now, do you understand the position I am taking up?"

"But why-"

"No more whys, please; I've had enough of them. Don't you, out of the fulness of your ignorance, presume to set yourself up to judge me, because I, out of the fulness of my knowledge, do or say certain things, which may be beyond your limited comprehension, but which I know to be right-in other words, don't set yourself up to be a censorious little prig-I had almost rather you had broken Emmett's head. I am going to do nothing for you that I ought not to do, but I am going to do for you everything I can. You hear?"

"Yes; I hear."

"Then don't you play me false."

"Play you false? As if-"

"You'll be playing me false if you don't endorse what I tell Mrs Vernon, and if you're not as comfortable in her house as everybody about it will unite in trying to make you. Here are some picture papers for you to look at."

He handed her half-a-dozen, while he unfolded, for his own perusal, a journal of the day. If his intention was to close the discussion he had taken a drastic means of doing it. Ominous headlines stared at him from the open sheet: "Extraordinary Occurrence at Newcaster. – Murder of Mr George Emmett. – Mysterious Disappearance of a Young Lady. – Reward Offered for Dorothy Gilbert." As he read, reflections passed through his mind. "Vernon has often boasted to me that he never reads the police news, or any of his family either. This is a local rag; perhaps they won't make such a fuss of the thing in town. Anyhow, let's hope that on this occasion he's as good as his word, or I shall have to tell a longer story than I intended."

CHAPTER XIII
THE VERNONS-PARTICULARLY FRANCES

Dorothy had never seen a prospect which pleased her better. There was grass beneath her feet-the exquisite grass which one seems to find only on an English lawn-thick and soft and springy, of such a restful green. There was croquet on one side; two tennis courts were beyond; with a well-shorn piece of grass, with big numbers on it, whose use she did not understand, which was really a clock for putting at golf; flowers were in beds and borders, on banks, and everywhere; there were great trees and smaller ones, shrubs and clustered bushes; behind was the long, low, old house, with its rose and creeper covered walls; in front was the river, sparkling, laughing in the sunshine, already alive with a greater variety of small pleasure craft than she had ever heard of. She had read of such places in English books at the convent; but she had scarcely even hoped ever to see one. Yet, here she was, transported, as if by the touch of a magician's wand, into what seemed to her to be a more perfect paradise than any of those she had read of, which she had been told she might regard, at least for some little time to come, almost as if it were her own home. After fourteen years spent within one set of walls, where nothing ever happened, events had crowded on her, all at once, so quickly; she had been so passed, as it were, from hand to hand; so hurried from scene to scene, that it was not strange if this final transformation almost seemed to her as if it were part and parcel of some long-continued dream, and that as she stood there, inhaling the pleasant air, the smell of the flowers, the sunshine, the indescribable aroma of the whole delightful scene, she was conscious, amid all the charm and sweetness, of a sense of shivering fear, lest this, the only pleasant phase of that drawn-out dream, should pass, as the rest of it had done, and its terror should return.

It was in an effort to escape this haunting fear that she moved quickly down to the river's brink. There was a sloping bank at the foot of the lawn; the stream ran just beneath; the grass growing almost down to the water's edge-there was nothing whatever to prevent your stepping from the bank into the river if you felt disposed. She stood on the slope to take in new aspects of what seemed to her to be the ever-changing scene. How nice some of the boats looked-and how pretty were some of their occupants-and what pretty clothes they wore! Dorothy was wearing the frock and the hat which Mr Frazer had brought with him in the parcel from Newcaster; yesterday they had seemed to her to be in the height of fashion-and compared to the garments which she discarded for them they were. Now she felt how out of harmony they were with her surroundings. The frock was of dark blue serge, the hat of dark grey felt; both good in their way-she did not doubt that they had cost more money than any two garments of hers had ever done before. But then the men in the boats were all in white flannels, and the girls and women in gossamer fabrics of the airiest kind, with hats which were radiant visions. They were in accord with the spirit of the scene. The longer Dorothy stood to watch the stronger her conviction grew that she was not. As far as appearance went she was nothing but a blot on the landscape. Ashamed though she was of such a feeling it was there, and would not away. She knew, none better, how indebted she was to the generosity of a stranger for being able to look as well as she did. She called herself a little pig for wishing that her clothes went better with that fairylike garden, those radiant skies, the silver stream; were more in the vein of poetry which marked the costume of the girl in the boat with the two men, an old and a young one, which was crossing from the opposite bank towards the lawn on which she stood. She was a study in the palest of pale blues; Dorothy thought what a charming bit of colour she made, in the smart boat; in which the two oarsmen, of such contrasting ages, were evidently so much at home. What a good-looking pair they were, in their different styles! The fact became plainer as the boat drew near; the one with the silvery hair and moustache, the other with the light brown curls, and smooth cheeks on which was the glow of youth and health.

It had just dawned on Dorothy that the boat was being steered, by the vision in blue, towards the spot on which she was standing; when, on a sudden, the young lady in question, rising in her seat, began to exclaim aloud, in a state of unmistakable agitation:

"Why, if it isn't Dorothy Gilbert! Dorothy Gilbert, where have you come from?"

The white-haired gentleman seemed to find in the steerswoman's conduct cause of complaint.

"If," he observed, in quite audible tones, "you do want to have us over, would you mind letting us have a little notice of what to expect?"

The expression of this seemingly reasonable wish the young lady treated with scorn.

"Don't be silly, dad! What does it matter? Especially when there's Dorothy Gilbert actually standing on our lawn! Dorothy Gilbert, where have you tumbled from?"

"Excuse me, sir, if we've taken much paint off your boat; but if you'll kindly have it put right, and will send the bill to my daughter, who's at present suffering from one of her periodical attacks, I've no doubt she'll be glad to see it settled-she's supposed to be steering us, and this is the way she does it."

"Dad! – how can you?" The young lady had all at once discovered, to her confusion, that these remarks were addressed to two young men who were in a skiff with which their own craft had nearly come into collision. "If you or Jim will row I'll take you in." Presently the boat was brought along to some steps which Dorothy had not previously noticed, but which she now saw led to the lawn. The young man stepped ashore, with the painter in his hand; and was followed by the young lady, who sprang up the steps, two at a time, and rushed to where Dorothy was standing, exclaiming as she went: "Dorothy! Dorothy! my darling child, have you tumbled from the skies?"

And, almost before she knew it, Dorothy found herself in the arms, and submitting to the caresses, of the vision in blue.

"Why," she said, when at last she had a chance to speak, "do you know, I didn't know you; you look so different."

"Different from what?"

"Different-from what you looked at the convent."

"The convent? My dear! – I should hope I do! How we all looked at that silly old convent! But, tell me, how do I look? – really? – that miserable Jim just said I looked a perfect fright."

"I was just thinking how lovely that girl in the boat did look; and-she turned out to be you."

"My dear, you're an angel! I always was fond of you, but if you keep on saying darling things to me like that-! What's become of your guardian? Where is Mr Emmett?"

"I-" Dorothy was about to say, "I left him behind in Newcaster"; but she changed the form of her sentence to-"I haven't brought him with me."

"Brought him with you! I should think you hadn't! The idea of bringing him! The great thing is, you've brought yourself. Honestly, I'd sooner see you than that the Fates should buy a motor car; and if you knew how set I am on that-you mayn't believe it, but we only go driving about behind frumpy old horses-you'd understand how glad I am-especially to-day. My dear, to-day's our regatta, and our garden-party-it's our day of days! You couldn't have dropped on us at a better time; you little schemer, I believe you planned it! Father, if you will kindly come here I will present you to my friend, Miss Dorothy Gilbert, of whom, in my moments of emotion, you have heard me speak. Dorothy, this is my father; a more desirable parent you could not ask for; though I regret to say that he treats his daughter with a lack of respect which I fear is one of the signs of the day. Fathers did not treat their daughters like that when I was young."

"No, Miss Gilbert, nor when I was young either; in those days daughters stood in awe of their fathers-but we've changed all that. I trust you know my daughter sufficiently well to be aware that she has her moments of sanity."

"Dad! – you shouldn't speak like that! – the child will misunderstand you. Fortunately Dorothy does know me. James! – Jim! – when you've finished trying to tie that boat up might I ask you to step this way? Dorothy, this is Mr James Harold Arbuthnot Vernon, better known as Jim-he is my brother; which is the only complimentary thing I can say of him. Jim, I believe you can be almost nice if you try very hard-do try your very hardest to be nice to Miss Gilbert."

"Miss Gilbert, I assure you I can be very nice to you, as this little object puts it, without trying in the least; in fact, I don't believe I could be anything else."

"Jim! Dorothy, did you ever hear anything like him? Please try to bear with him, for a time, for my sake."

The father of the pair managed to get in a word.

"I trust, Miss Gilbert, that this is not a flying visit you are paying us, but that you have come to stay some time."

Dorothy's was a stammering answer.

"I-I hardly know; my-my movements are uncertain."

Miss Vernon echoed her last word.

"Uncertain! – but, my dear child, what I'm dying to know is what favouring wind of providence it was which blew you here. When did you come?"

"Last night."

"Last night! – at what ever time?"

"It was very late."

"It must have been. You see that houseboat by the paddock there? – that's ours; sometimes some of us sleep in it, and sometimes none of us do-last night we three did-but we never started till quite late, and you weren't here then. Why ever didn't you let me know that you were coming? I'd never have gone to that silly old houseboat if I had."

"I didn't know that I was coming till-till I'd almost come."

"My dear child! – what do you mean? You must have made up your mind in a hurry, or-did your guardian make it up for you? Did Mr Emmett bring you?"

"No; I came with Mr Frazer."

"Mr who? – Frazer? – and who's Mr Frazer?"

"He says he knows you-and your mother seems to know him very well."

"Says he knows me! – and mother knows him very well? – what Frazer can it be? I know no Mr Frazer."

Her brother offered a suggestion.

"Perhaps he's one of Billy Frazer's lot-Miss Gilbert, do you know Billy Frazer? He's up at Magdalen; stroked their boats in the torpids; Bones they call him because-well, because he's bony. Perhaps your man's a relative of his."

"I don't know; I don't know any of his relations-his name is Eric."

Miss Vernon turned to her father.

"Dad, who is Mr Eric Frazer?"

"I daresay, if you put Miss Gilbert on the witness-stand, and bombard her long enough, you may get from her the information you require; though in my time it was not supposed to be the thing to cross-examine one's guest the moment one met her-however, we have also changed all that. I am going into the house to speak to your mother. I am very glad to see you, Miss Gilbert; I don't care how you came, or with whom; I am only sorry that I was not here to welcome you. I trust now you have come you'll keep on staying."

The old gentleman moved towards the house; with a figure as erect as if nothing had ever happened to bow his head or bend his back. His daughter looked after him with smiling eyes; then turned to the visitor with a question which took the girl rather aback.

"Well, Dorothy, what do you think of my father?"

"Frances! – what a thing to ask me! – when I've seen him for scarcely five minutes!"

"Well? – isn't that long enough to enable you to form an opinion? I've summed up most people inside two seconds."

"Yes-all wrong. Frances, you are an idiot; I never did know anyone talk quite such drivel as you do."

"Thank you, James; I am obliged to you. Would you mind going away to play? I have something which I wish to say to my friend, Miss Gilbert, which I would rather not have overheard by boys. And please remember how easily a bad impression is formed-don't let Miss Gilbert find out your true character in the first two minutes."

"All right, ducky; don't you worry. I give you my word I've no wish to listen to the sort of stuff I know you are fond of talking. Miss Gilbert, you have my sympathy."

The young gentleman strolled off, his hands in his pockets, whistling a popular air. Miss Vernon regarded his back with the same smiling eyes with which she had followed her father; and put almost the same question to her friend.

"Dorothy, what do you think of Jim?"

"Frances! – how can you? – when you know very well that I think nothing."

"You are quite right, my dear; I am glad you show such penetration. All the same, you can't deny that he is good-looking."

"Is he? I didn't notice."

"You didn't notice! Child! – you're not in the convent now."

"No; sometimes I wish I were."

"That's a flattering thing to say! – considering where you are! – and that I am here!"

"Frances! I didn't mean that! You don't understand."

"You are wrong; I do. I've a feeling that there's something mysterious about you, about your presence here; and, Dorothy Gilbert, if there's anything I do love, it's mystery. I suppose it's too much to hope that it's one of those frightful mysteries, of which one only speaks with bated breath-that sort of blood-curdler never crosses my path. But, whatever it may be, I foresee a perfectly delightful time ahead, while I am engaged in wriggling out from you the secret. However insinuating I may be, baffle my curiosity; and for goodness sake don't let it burst on me too soon. Let it dawn on me by degrees; in instalments, my dear; and let me have a shock with each instalment; each one greater than the last; so that the full comprehension of the mystery comes with a culminating shock which turns my hair almost grey-almost, my pet, not quite, if you please. I've heard that grey hair suits some girls; but I don't believe I'm one of them. By the way of beginning my insinuating, let me remark that you have changed since I saw you."