Johnny Ludlow Sixth Series Part 8

Backing away from the counter in my surprise, I upset an empty milk-can.

"Matilda!" I exclaimed, picking up the can.

"Mr. Johnny, with all my heart I believe it to have been so. I have believed it for some time now."

"But the girls were too friendly to harm one another. I remember you said so yourself, Owen."

"And I thought so then, sir. No suspicion of Matilda had occurred to me, but rather of the man I had seen there on the Wednesday. I think she must have done it in a sudden pa.s.sion; not of deliberate purpose."

"But now, what are your reasons?"

"I told you, sir, as I daresay you can recall to mind, that I should do what lay in my power to unravel the mystery--for it was not at all agreeable to have it laid at my door. I began, naturally, with tracing out the doings of that night as connected with No. 7. Poor Jane Cross had not been out of doors that night, and so far as I knew had spoken to no one save to me from the window; therefore of her there seemed nothing to be traced: but of Matilda there was. Inquiring here and there, I bit by bit got a few odds and ends of facts together. I traced out the exact time, almost to a minute, that I rang twice at the door-bell at No. 7, and was not answered; and the time that Matilda entered the Swan to get the supper beer. Pretty nearly half an hour had elapsed between the first time and the second."

"Half an hour!"

"Not far short of it. Which proved that Matilda must have been indoors when I rang, though she denied it before the coroner, and it was taken for granted that I had rung during her absence to fetch the beer. And you knew, sir, that her absence did not exceed ten minutes. Now why did not Matilda answer my ring? Why did she not candidly say that she had heard the ring, but did not choose to answer it? Well, sir, that gave rise to the first faint doubt of her: and when I recalled and dwelt on her singular manner, it appeared to me that the doubt might pa.s.s into grave suspicion. Look at her superst.i.tious horror of No. 7. She never would go into the house afterwards!"

I nodded.

"Two or three other little things struck me, all tending to strengthen my doubts, but perhaps they are hardly worth naming. Still, make the worst of it, it was only suspicion, not certainty, and I left Salt.w.a.ter, holding my tongue."

"And is this all, Owen?"

"Not quite, sir. Would you be so good as to step outside, and just look at the name over the grocer's door?"

I did so, and read Valentine. "John Valentine." The same name as Matilda's.

"Yes, sir, it is," Owen said, in answer to me. "After settling here we made acquaintance with the Valentines, and by-and-by learnt that they are cousins of Matilda's. f.a.n.n.y--my wife that is to be--has often talked to me about Matilda; they were together a good bit in early life; and by dint of mentally sifting what she said, and putting that and that together, I fancy I see daylight."

"Yes. Well?"

"Matilda's father married a Spanish woman. She was of a wild, ungovernable temper, subject to fits of frenzy; in one of which fits she died. Matilda has inherited this temper; she is liable to go into frenzies that can only be compared to insanity. f.a.n.n.y has seen her in two only; they occur at rare intervals; and she tells me that she truly believes the girl is mad--mad, Mr. Johnny--during the few minutes that they last."

The history I had heard of her mad rage at Miss Deveen's flashed over me. Temporarily insane they had thought her there.

"I said to f.a.n.n.y one day when we were talking of her," resumed Owen, "that a person in that sort of uncontrollable pa.s.sion, might commit any crime; a murder, or what not. 'Yes,' f.a.n.n.y replied, 'and not unlikely to do it, either: Matilda has more than once said that she should never die in her bed.' Meaning----"

"Meaning what?" I asked, for he came to a pause.

"Well, sir, meaning, I suppose, that she might sometime lay violent hands upon herself, or upon another. I can't help thinking that something must have put her into one of these rages with Jane Cross, and that she pushed or flung the poor girl over the stairs."

Looking back, rapidly recalling signs and tokens, I thought it might have been so. Owen interrupted me.

"I shall come across her sometime, Mr. Johnny. These are things that don't hide themselves for ever: at least, not often. And I shall tax her with it to her face."

"But--don't you know where she is?"

"No, I don't sir. I wish I did. It was said that she came up to take a situation in London, and perhaps she is still in it. But London's a large place, I don't know what part of it she was in, and one might as well look for a needle in a bundle of hay. The Valentines have never heard of her at all since she was at Salt.w.a.ter."

How strange it seemed;--that she and they were living so near one another, and yet not to be aware of it. Should I tell Owen? Only for half a moment did the question cross me. _No_: most certainly not. It might be as he suspected; and, with it all, I could only pity Matilda.

Of all unhappy women, she seemed the unhappiest.

Miss Deveen's carriage bowled past the door to take her up at the linendraper's. Wis.h.i.+ng Owen good-day, I was going out, but drew back to make room for two people who were entering: an elderly woman in a close bonnet, and a young one with a fair, pretty and laughing face.

"My mother and f.a.n.n.y, sir," he whispered.

"She is very pretty, very nice, Owen," I said, impulsively. "You'll be sure to be happy with her."

"Thank you, sir; I think I shall. I wish you had spoken a word or two to her, Mr. Johnny: you'd have seen how nice she is."

"I can't stay now, Owen. I'll come again."

Not even to Miss Deveen did I speak of what I had heard. I kept thinking of it as we drove round Hyde Park, and she told me I was unusually silent.

The thread was unwinding itself more and more. Once it had begun to lengthen, I suppose it had to go on. Accident led to an encounter between Matilda and Thomas Owen. Accident? No, it was this same thread of destiny. There's no such thing as accident in the world.

During the visit to the linendraper's, above spoken of, Miss Deveen bought a gown for Matilda. Feeling in her own heart sorry for the girl, thinking she had been somewhat hardly done by in her house, what with Hall and the rest of them, she wished to make her a present on leaving, as a token of her good-will. But the quant.i.ty of stuff bought proved not to be sufficient: Miss Deveen had doubted the point when it was cut off, and told Matilda to go herself and get two yards more. This it was, this simple incident, that led to the meeting with Owen. And I was present at it.

The money-order office of the district was situated amidst this colony of shops. In going down there one afternoon to cash an order, I overtook Matilda. She was on her way to buy the additional yards of stuff.

"I suppose I am going right, sir?" she said to me. "I don't know much about this neighbourhood."

"Not know much about it! What, after having lived in it more than a year!"

"I have hardly ever gone out; except to church on a Sunday," she answered. "And what few articles I've wanted in the dress line, I have mostly bought at the little draper's shop round the corner."

Hardly had the words left her lips, when we came face to face with Thomas Owen. Matilda gave a sort of smothered cry, and stood still, gazing at him. What they said to one another in that first moment, I did not hear. Matilda had a frightened look, and was whiter than death.

Presently we were all walking together towards Thomas Owen's, he having invited Matilda to go and see his home.

But there was another encounter first. Standing at the grocer's door was pretty f.a.n.n.y Valentine. She and Matilda recognized each other, and clasped hands. It appeared to me that Matilda did it with reluctance, as though it gave her no pleasure to meet her relatives. She must have known how near they lived to Miss Deveen's, and yet she had never sought them out. Perhaps the very fact of not wis.h.i.+ng to see them had kept her from the spot.

They all sat down in the parlour behind the shop--a neat room. Mrs. Owen was out; her son produced some wine. I stood up by the bookcase, telling them I must be off the next minute to the post-office. But the minutes pa.s.sed, and I stayed on.

How he led up to it, I hardly know; but, before I was prepared for anything of the kind, Thomas Owen had plunged wholesale into the subject of Jane Cross, recounting the history of that night, in all its minute details, to f.a.n.n.y Valentine. Matilda, sitting back on the far side of the room in an armchair, looked terror-stricken: her face seemed to be turning into stone.

"Why do you begin about that, Thomas Owen?" she demanded, when words at length came to her. "It can have nothing to do with f.a.n.n.y."

"I have been wis.h.i.+ng to tell it her for some little time, and this seems to be a fitting opportunity," he answered, coolly resolute. "You, being better acquainted with the matter than I, can correct me if I make any blunders. I don't care to keep secrets from f.a.n.n.y: she is going to be my wife."

Matilda's hands lifted themselves with a convulsive movement and fell again. Her eyes flashed fire.

"_Your wife?_"

"If you have no objection," he replied. "My dear old mother goes into Wales next month, and f.a.n.n.y comes here in her place."

With a cry, faint and mournful as that of a wounded dove, Matilda put her hands before her face and leaned back in her chair. If she had in truth loved Thomas Owen, if she loved him still, the announcement must have caused her cruel pain.