The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias Part 17

I looked again as I came quickly along the path in her direction, and my heart for a moment stood still. The woman was looking straight at me, as though hesitating to come through the gate until after I had pa.s.sed; and beside her, also regarding my approach with suspicion, stood a big black collie dog.

I drew nearer, and had placed my hand upon the latch when our eyes met again.

No. I was not mistaken! She was the whitefaced girl I had seen pa.s.s along Harpur Street that night, the woman from whose lips had come that exclamation of blank despair, the woman to whom the sign of the bear was the sign of death.

For a few seconds I believed that my constant thoughts of her had caused my vision to play some sorry trick; but, fumbling clumsily with the gate while she stood aside modestly to allow me to pa.s.s, I again rea.s.sured myself that it was actually Lord Glenelg's daughter.

Why had she followed me there? That was the first question that arose to my mind, for all these strange occurrences connected with The Closed Book had aroused my suspicion.

She glanced at me once, then dropped her eyes, and held the collie by his collar for want of something else to do. Her face was still pale and slightly drawn, and her eyes betrayed a deep, all-consuming anxiety; but her countenance was, I saw, really more beautiful than it had appeared to me on that wet night in the dismal London streets.

All these details I took in at a single glance. The all-important question was whether it were wisdom to speak to her?

We were strangers. Perhaps she had not noticed me on that night in London--in all probability she had not. Yet, if she were unaware of my existence, why should she follow me to Norfolk?

To speak might not be a very diplomatic move; but I suddenly recollected her despair at seeing the mysterious sign of the bear, and her father's apparent disregard of her future. Such being the case, ought we not to be acquainted?

This argument decided me, and with some hesitation I raised my hat after I had pa.s.sed through the gate to where she stood, and in faltering tones begged to be allowed to introduce myself.

She frowned with displeasure, and next moment I saw I had made a false move. The golf-playing girl of today, with red coat and masculine manners, will treat a stranger just as a man may treat one. Modesty is, I fear, a virtue that in the modern girl is growing annually rarer, because nowadays if a girl blushes at her introduction to a stranger she is at once p.r.o.nounced a "gawk," even by her own mother.

But there was nothing masculine about Lady Judith Gordon, only sweetness and a charming simplicity.

"I really have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir," she answered in a musical voice, but with a natural chilly hauteur. "I am not in the habit of accepting self-introductions from strangers," she added.

Her reply, if a trifle superior in tone, was nevertheless the only one that could be expected of a modest, high-minded woman.

"I have the honour of knowing you only by sight, I admit," I went on quickly, eager to remove her false impression, my hat still in my hand.

"My name is Allan Kennedy, by profession a novelist--"

"You!" she gasped, interrupting me. "You are Mr Kennedy?" And her face blanched in an instant.

"That is my name," I answered, much surprised at its effect upon her.

But taking up the cue quickly, I said, "Perhaps I need say nothing further, save that your interests and my own are identical."

She looked puzzled, and declared that she did not understand.

"Then forgive me if I mention a matter that must be distasteful to you, for I only do so in order to show how desirous I am of becoming your friend, if, after inquiries about me, you will allow me."

I said. "Do you recollect the other night dressing in clothes that were not your own, and, accompanied by your father the Earl, paying a secret visit to a certain street in Bloomsbury?"

Her face fell. She held her breath, wondering how much I knew.

"Do you recollect, too, how heavily the rain fell, and how you turned from Theobald's Road into Harpur Street in search of something? You saw the sign--the stuffed bear cub in the window, the fatal sign. Do you deny it?"

She was silent. Her lips twitched, but for a few moments no sound came from them. She was dumbfounded, and unable to speak. At last she stammered:

"I know, I know! But why do you torture me like this," she cried, "you who evidently know the truth?"

"Unfortunately I do not know the truth," I declared. "I may as well tell you, however, that I overheard your exclamation when your eyes fell upon the sign in that dingy upper room, and I followed you both home to Grosvenor Street, determined that if you would allow me I would stand your friend. Because of that I have ventured to introduce myself to you this evening."

"My friend?" she echoed. "Ah! it is all very well to offer me your a.s.sistance, Mr Kennedy; but I fear it can be of no avail. My enemies are stronger than you are. They have crushed all my life out of me. My future is hopeless--utterly hopeless," she sighed.

The collie, escaping from her hand, sniffed me suspiciously, and then settled near his mistress.

"Ah, no! there is always hope. Besides, I am utterly in the dark as to the meaning of your words. My surmise, based simply upon logical conclusions, is that our interests are, as I have already suggested, identical. You have heard of me, have you not?"

"I have read your books," was her answer, "and my father has spoken of you."

"He has spoken of me in connection with the sign placed in that window in Bloomsbury?" I suggested.

She nodded. Her splendid eyes met mine mysteriously.

"He is a friend of Mr Selby's?" I ventured.

"I believe so."

"Do you not, then, admit the truth of my suggestion that, our interests being in common, we should establish friendly relations whereby we may defeat our enemies?" I asked.

"I admit the truth of the argument entirely," was her response after a few moments' consideration; "and, although I recognise your kindness in offering to stand my friend, I cannot see how either of us can benefit.

I must suffer--till my death."

"Your death?" I cried reproachfully. "Don't speak like that. I know how utterly helpless you are, how completely you have fallen into the hands of these mysterious enemies of yours. Yet I would urge you not to despair. Trust in me to a.s.sist you in every way in my power, for I a.s.sure you of my honesty of purpose. Be frank with me, and tell me everything; then we will form some plan to combat this plot--for plot it seems to be."

"Be frank with you?" she cried in a tone of dismay, but quickly recovered herself. "With _you_--of all men?"

"Why not with me?" I asked in great surprise at her manner. "Surely I am not your enemy?"

"If you are not at this moment, you have been in the past."

"How so?" I asked, amazed.

"You would have brought death upon me if you could," she cried huskily.

"I was only saved by the protection of Providence."

"I really don't know what you mean?" I cried. "I have only seen you once before, on that wet night in London. Yet you actually accuse me of being your enemy?"

"No," she said in a hard voice. "My words are not an accusation. The fault, I feel certain, was not your own; but you might easily have encompa.s.sed my death without ever knowing it."

"I really don't understand!" I exclaimed. "Will you not speak more plainly? To think that I have ever been your enemy, consciously or unconsciously, for a single moment, pains me, for such a thing is farthest from my thoughts. I am only desirous of being your good and devoted friend. We both have enemies--you and I. Therefore, if we join forces in perfect confidence, we may succeed in combating them."

"Then I can only presume you have followed me here in order to put this proposal to me?" she said in a tone of indignation.

"I have certainly not followed you," was my quick response. "Indeed, I believed that it was you who had followed me! I am staying at Sheringham, and had not the least idea you were in the neighbourhood."

"The same with me," she replied. "My father and I are staying at my uncle's, Lord Aldoborough's, at Saxlingham, and I strolled over here this evening as far as the sea. Then our meeting must have been quite accidental."

"When did you arrive?"