The Yellow House Part 14

"Was he robbed?" I asked.

"No. His watch and money were found in his pocket undisturbed. If anything was taken from it it must have been papers only. The police are trying hard to find a clue, but they say that it is a very difficult case. No one seems to have seen him at all after he left Naselton Hall."

I caught at the side of my chair.

"No one at all?" I asked.

"Not a soul."

I was silent for a moment. The walls of my little chamber had suddenly opened. I saw again from the edge of the moor that lone figure coming down the hillside towards us, I saw that strange light flas.h.i.+ng in my father's face, and I heard the greeting of the two men. A sick dread was in my heart.

"Was father called as a witness?" I asked.

"No. Why should he be? The man was a stranger to him. He had never seen him before."

I closed my eyes and laid back. Alice bent over me anxiously.

"I ought not to have talked about this to you," she said. "Father absolutely forbade me to, but you wanted to know the end so much. Promise not to think of it any more."

Promise not to think of it any more? Ah! if only I could have made that promise and kept it. My sister's protesting words seemed charged with the subtlest and most bitter of all irony. Already some faint premonition of the burden which I was to bear seemed dawning upon me. I remained silent and kept my eyes closed. Alice thought that I was asleep, but I knew that sleep was very far off. The white, distorted face of that dying man was before me. I saw the silent challenge and the silent duel which had pa.s.sed between those two, the central figures in that marvellous little drama--one, the challenger, ghastly pale even to the tremulous lips, wild and dishevelled, my father looking down upon him with unquailing mien and proud, still face. One moment more of life, a few beats more of the pulses, and that sentence--and that sentence--what would it have grown to? I felt myself s.h.i.+vering as I lay there.

"Did you say that father was away now?" I asked Alice.

She nodded.

"Yes; he is staying with the Bishop for a few days. I should not be surprised if he came home to-day, though. I have written to him by every post to let him know how you are, and he was most anxious to hear directly you were well enough to talk. I have been disobeying him frightfully."

Again I closed my eyes and feigned sleep. I had heard what Alice had not, the sound of wheels below. Suddenly she laid down her work and started up. It was my father's voice bidding the cabman "Good night."

"I must go down to him, Kate," she declared, springing up; "I won't leave you alone for more than a minute or two."

But when the minute or two had elapsed and there was a knock at my door, it was not Alice who had returned. I answered in a low voice, and my father entered.

CHAPTER XI

THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUD

From my low chair I watched my father cross the room. So far as I could see there was no change in him. He came over to my side and took my hand with an air of anxious kindliness. Then he stooped down, and his lips touched my forehead.

"You are better, Kate?" he inquired, quietly.

"Quite well," I answered.

He looked at me thoughtfully, and asked a few questions about my illness, touched upon his own visit to the Bishop, and the dignity which had been offered to him. Then after a short pause, during which my heart beat fiercely, he came and sat down by my side.

"Kate! You are strong enough to listen to me while I speak just for a moment or two upon a very painful subject."

"Yes," I whispered. "Go on."

"I gather from what Alice tells me that you have already shown a very wise discretion--in a certain matter. You have already alluded to it, it seems, and she has told you all that is known. Something, of course, must have at once occurred to you--I mean the fact that I have not thought it well to disclose the fact that you and I together met that unfortunate man on the common, and that he asked me the way to the Yellow House."

"I was bewildered when I found that you had not mentioned it," I faltered. "I do not understand. Please tell me."

He looked steadily into my eyes. There was not the slightest disquietude in his still, stern face. My nervousness did not affect him at all. He seemed to feel no embarra.s.sment.

"It is a matter," he said, slowly, "to which I gave a good deal of thought at the time. I came to the conclusion that for my own sake and for the sake of another that the fact of that meeting had better not be known. There are things concerning it which I may not tell you. I cannot offer you as I would like my whole confidence. Only I can say this, my disclosure of the fact of our having met the man could have done not one iota of good. It could not possibly have suggested to any one either a clue as to the nature of the crime or to the criminal himself, and bearing in mind other things of which you are happier to remain ignorant, silence became to me almost a solemn duty. It became at any rate an absolute necessity. For the sake of others as well as for my own sake I held my peace. a.s.sociation direct or indirect with such a crime would have been harmful alike to me and to the person whom he desired to visit. So I held my peace, and I require of you, Kate, that you take my pledged word as to the necessity for this silence, and that you follow my example. I desire your solemn promise that no word of that meeting shall ever pa.s.s your lips."

I did not answer. With his eyes fixed upon my face he waited. I laid my hand upon his arm.

"Father, in the church, did you see his face? Did you hear what he was saying?"

He did not shrink from me. He looked into my white, eager face without any sign of fear or displeasure.

"Yes," he answered, gravely.

"Was it--was it--you to whom he spoke?" I cried.

There was a short silence.

"I cannot answer you that question, Kate," he said.

I grasped his hand feverishly. There was a red livid mark afterwards where my nails had dug into his wrist.

"Father, would you have me go mad?" I moaned. "You know that man. You knew who he was! You knew what he wanted--at the Yellow House."

"It is true," he answered.

"In the church I could have touched--could have touched him, he was so near to me--there was a terrible light in his face, his eyes were flaming upon you. He was like a man who suddenly understands. He called 'Judas,' and he pointed--at you."

"He was mad," my father answered, with a terrible calmness. "Every one could see that he was mad."

"Mad!" I caught at the thought. I repeated the word to myself, and forced my recollection backwards with a little shudder to those few horrible moments. After all was there any hope that this might be the interpretation? My father's voice broke in upon my thoughts.

"I do not wish to harp upon what must be a terribly painful subject to you, Kate. I only want your promise, you must take my word for everything else."

I looked at him long and steadily. If the faces of men are in any way an index to their lives, my father's should rank high--high indeed. His countenance was absolutely unruffled. There was not a single shadow of fear there, or pa.s.sion of any sort; only a delicate thoughtfulness tempered with that quiet dignity which seemed almost an inseparable characteristic of his. I took his hands in mine and clasped them fervently.

"Father," I cried, "give me your whole confidence. I will promise all that you desire, only let me know everything. I have thought sometimes--terrible thoughts--I cannot help them. They torment me now--they will torment me always. I know so much--tell me a little more. My lips shall be sealed. I mean it! Only----"

He raised his hand softly, but the words died upon my lips.

"I have nothing to tell you, child," he said, quietly. "Put that thought away from you forever. The burden which I bear is upon my own shoulders only. G.o.d forbid that even the shadow of it should darken your young life."

"I am not afraid of any knowledge," I cried. "It is ignorance of which I am afraid. I can bear anything except these horrible, nameless fears against which I have no power. Why don't you trust me? I am old enough. I am wise enough. What you tell me shall be as sacred as G.o.d's word to me."