Part 11 (1/2)

”He had a strange upbringing in this house. There is much to excuse him in the eyes of any one. And for myself I cannot forget that all which people say is mine, is more rightly his.”

She spoke very gently about Cullen, as I had indeed expected that she would, but with sufficient firmness to prove to me that it was not worth while to continue upon this strain.

”And the negro?” I asked. ”He has not spoken?”

For answer she led me up the stairs, and into a room which opened upon the landing. The negro lay in bed and asleep. The flesh had shrivelled off his bones, his face was thin and peaked, and plainly his days were numbered. Helen leaned over the bed, spoke to him and pressed upon his shoulder. The negro opened his eyes. Never in my life had I seen anything so melancholy as their expression. The conviction of his helplessness was written upon them and I think too an appeal for forgiveness that he had not discharged his mission.

”Speak to him,” said Helen. ”Perhaps a stranger's voice may rouse him if only to speak two words.”

I spoke to him as she bade me; a look of intelligence came into the negro's face; I put a question to him.

”Why does George Glen watch for Cullen Mayle?”--and before I had completed the sentence his eyelids closed languidly over his eyes and he was asleep. I looked at him as he lay there, an emaciated motionless figure, the white bedclothes against his ebony skin, and as I thought of his long travels ending so purposelessly in this captivity of sleep, I was filled with a great pity. Helen uttered a moan, she turned towards me wringing her hands.

”And there's our secret,” she cried, ”the secret which we must know and which this poor negro burns to tell and it's locked up within him!

Bolts and bars,” she burst out, ”what puny things they seem! One can break bolts, one can sever bars, but a secret buried within a man, how shall one unearth it?”

It just occurred to me that she stopped with unusual abruptness, but I was looking at the negro, I was still occupied with pity.

”Heaven send my journey does not end so vainly as his,” I said solemnly. I turned to Helen and I saw that she was staring at me with a great astonishment, and concern for which I could not account.

”I have a conjecture to tell you of,” said I, ”I do not know that it is of value.”

”Let us go downstairs,” she replied, ”and you shall tell me,” but she spoke slowly as though she was puzzled with some other matter. As we went downstairs I heard d.i.c.k Parmiter's voice and could understand the words he said. I stopped.

”Where is d.i.c.k?”

”Most likely in the kitchen.”

When we were come to the foot of the stairs I asked where the kitchen was?

”At the end of that pa.s.sage across the hall,” she answered.

Upon that I called d.i.c.k. I heard a door open and shut, and d.i.c.k came into the hall.

”The kitchen door was closed,” said I, ”I do not know but what my conjecture may have some value after all.”

Helen Mayle walked into the parlour, d.i.c.k followed her. As I crossed the hall my coat caught on the back of a chair. Whilst I was disengaging my coat, I noticed that an end of the white scarf was hanging from my pocket and that the initials ”H. M.” were embroidered upon it. I recollected then how Helen Mayle had abruptly ended her outcry concerning the bolts and bars, and how she had looked at me and how she had spoken. Had she noticed the scarf? I thrust it back into my pocket and took care that the flap of the pocket should hide it completely. Then I, too, went into the parlour. But as I entered the room I saw then Helen's eyes went at once to my pocket. She had, then, noticed the scarf. It seemed, however, that she was no longer perplexed as to how I came by it. But, on the other hand, it was my turn to be perplexed. For, as she raised her eyes from my pocket, our glances crossed. It was evident to her that I had detected her look and understood it. Yet she smiled--without any embarra.s.sment; it was as though she thought I had stolen her scarf for a favour and she forgave the theft. And then she blushed. That, however, she was very ready to do upon all occasions.

CHAPTER IX

TELLS OF A STAIN UPON A WHITE FROCK, AND A LOST KEY

Helen drew a chair to the table and waited with her hands folded before her.

”d.i.c.k,” said I, turning to the lad, who stood just within the door, ”that oath of yours.”

”I have broken it already,” said he.

”There was never priest in the world who would refuse to absolve you.