CHAPTER VI

THE OUTCAST'S BROTHER

When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters, And the horror of our fall is written plain, Every secret, self-revealing, on the aching, whitewashed ceiling, Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain? --RUDYARD KIPLING.

The master of Normansgrave had come in from his golf, had been upstairs, made the necessary change in his dress, and returned to the hall, where he stood in the light of the fire, reading the _Spectator_. He was a young man of medium height, medium complexion, and medium looks. If it were added that his intellect also was of a medium quality, it would describe him pretty accurately. He was neither good nor bad, able nor foolish, handsome nor ugly. Just one of those men whose bent is determined largely by circumstances.

Circumstances had made him master of a comfortable though not extensive property. Circumstances had placed him always in strong and virtuous opposition to a rowdy stepmother and an impossible half-brother. Circumstances also made him one of the county eligibles. And this, perhaps, was the unkindest trick that Circumstance had played him.

The ruling motive of his conduct was a terrible fear of throwing himself away. He did not put it like that. He would have said, to anybody who might be interested, that, with the sad example of so good a man as his father before him, and the risk of the old estates descending to Felix, it behoved him to be peculiarly careful. But the real truth was that he thought nobody good enough to be mistress of himself and Normansgrave combined. He used to lament the inadequacy of modern young ladies from time to time to Miss Rawson, who gave her sympathy with a twinkle in her eye, and longed to see the correct young man deeply in love with an unsuitable person.

In fact, she had lately begun to be of the opinion that it was high time her nephew, who was now past thirty, ranged himself. That very day, before going out in her motor, she had arranged a little house-party, to include one or two nice girls, and determined to urge Denzil to permit her to invite them forthwith.

But now the clock was moving perilously near the sacred dinner-hour; and Miss Rawson was not in, said the correct butler, who was, like his master, a study in mediocrity.

As he decorously swept a few ashes from the red tiles of the warm hearth, the purring of the motor sounded without; and in a minute or so Miss Rawson came in, a few flakes of snow powdering her furs.

"My dear boy, I am more than sorry. A case of sickness, and I used the motor to take it to the Cottage Hospital----"

Denzil's eyes expressed horror--almost dismay.

"My dear Aunt Bee--was it infectious?"

"Infectious? Oh, no, it was an accident. Such a curious, mysterious thing--such a wonderful, simply wonderful girl--I must tell you all about it! I found her lying among some hay in a canal barge. Wait a few minutes--I'll not keep you," and she went flying upstairs like a young woman, calling her maid as she ran.

"You have quite stimulated my curiosity," said Denzil later, as he helped her to soup. "A wonderful girl in a canal barge? Tell me all about it."

"Smith is the name--not very romantic," said Miss Rawson between her spoonfuls. "The brother rushed up for Dr. Causton, just as I was in the surgery talking to him about old Lambert. He--the brother--was a dirty young ruffian, but seemed in great distress, and said his sister had fallen from a window while cleaning it, and that she had injured herself, he feared, internally. They had, apparently, no idea that the injury was so serious, and he thought if he took her out into the country and the fresh air, and she rested, it would get well. She had a horror, it seems, of going to a hospital; that would have meant leaving her alone in London, as he had to go with the barge. So I went on board with the doctor, and there she was lying among the hay in a high fever--104 point two, Dr. Causton says--and we saw she must be taken to the hospital, so off we rushed in the motor. Then, when Sister Agnes undressed her, she told me the girl was no common girl--her underclothes were beautiful, she was carefully nurtured. She keeps on talking of a convent school, and calling for the Reverend Mother. Sister Agnes and I believe that she has run away, and probably got hurt in escaping from a window. Don't you think that sounds probable?"

"Possible, certainly," said Denzil. "But what about the man?"

"Well, he looked a regular ruffian to me, but the doctor says some of that was put on. He says once, when he was off his guard, he spoke with a clear, educated accent."

"Why, you have got hold of a romance," said Denzil, with interest. "Shall I go down to the wharf and have a look at him?"

"Oh, you won't find him! They go on to Basingstoke at once. But on his return journey he will come to see if she is well enough to be moved. You ought to go and look at her, Denzil, she is most remarkable. She is not grown up yet, but she is going to be a lovely woman--such hair--a dark, rich chestnut, not a bit red, but like Romney's 'Lady Hamilton.' And dark blue eyes--what a novelist might call violet, I should think--and very remarkable, expressive features. When she is conscious and out of pain, she ought to be worth looking at."

"Were they alone on the barge?" asked Denzil.

"Oh, no, the master was there too. He said the boy had worked for him three years, and was a very good boy. Poor old man, he seemed quite upset; he said he was as fond of the girl as if she had been his own."

"Well, that doesn't seem to favor your escape theory."

"No, it doesn't," said she, thoughtfully; "but there is something odd about them, I feel sure."

The subject was of such interest that they talked of it all dinner-time. The Cottage Hospital was as much his hobby as it was hers, and they were full of simple pleasure and self-congratulation that its walls should have been waiting, in all their new and dainty cleanliness, to shelter the pretty stranger girl in her extremity. Miss Rawson promised her nephew that he should visit her as soon as the doctor would permit--and then she resolutely changed the subject to that of inviting a few people to stay.

Denzil was willing to consent. He usually went abroad for a month in March and April, because he had an idea that persons of means and culture were in the habit of visiting Italy and the South of Europe at that time. But his chief friend, a parson of independent means, upon whose art opinion he depended in great measure, would not be able to accompany him that spring. So the invitations were to go out, and Denzil dwelt with pleasure upon the prospect of once more meeting Myrtle, daughter of Colonel Bentley, a nice-looking girl who did district visiting and read Tennyson, a blend which seemed to Denzil eminently suited to his notions of what might fitly become the future mistress of Normansgrave.

It was the custom of the aunt and nephew to drink their coffee in the hall, before going to the little drawing-room in which they passed the evenings when alone. Aunt Bee sipped her coffee and looked at the papers, while Denzil smoked one cigarette--at times two--and also looked at the papers. In this way, if anybody happened to come to the door during this quarter of an hour, they were in full view. But, as a rule, nobody ever came to the front door between half-past eight and nine. To-night was an exception. The bell rang. Chant, the correct manservant, came with an expression of martyrdom from the servants' hall, where he had just sat down to supper. He was heard talking, somewhat eagerly they thought, to somebody in the porch; and after a pause, in which the master of the house stood with his coffee-cup raised and his attitude that of suspense, he came back with a disturbed countenance and nervous manner.

"It's Mr. Gregory, sir, to see you."

"Gregory!" This was the village constable.

"Yes, sir, it's important, please, sir, I understood him to say."

Denzil turned swiftly to Miss Rawson. "Something about your mysterious Lady of the Barge," he said, with a smile. "Tell Gregory to step inside, please, Chant."

The constable entered, buttoned up tight in his uniform, which had apparently been constructed when he was less stout. He made his bow, and glanced diffidently at Miss Rawson.

"Well, Gregory, is your business with me very private?"

Gregory grew red. His message distressed him, for the Vanstons were respected in the village. "It's about Mr. Felix, sir."

Denzil's heart turned over. He might have guessed. This was not the first time the shadow of police-courts had overspread the home of his ancestors. The bitterness of what he had been through--the memory of his first hearing the news of his brother's arrest--his hurried journey to London to retain counsel for the defense--the fiery and insolent demeanor of the foolish young culprit--the horror of those days in the close, stifling air of the Law Courts--and the final humiliation of hearing Felix Vanston sentenced. All broke at once upon the memory of the young man with a stroke like that of a whip falling on bare flesh. He grasped the high mantel, felt a sickness creep over him, sank into a chair, and looked stonily at his aunt. "About Felix!" he said, hoarsely.

Aunt Bee laid aside her paper and turned to face poor Gregory, who stood miserably toying with some folded papers.

"Dear, dear, Gregory," she said, nervously, "have you bad news for us?"

"I'm afraid so, miss. Mr. Felix, since he came out on his ticket-of-leave"--Denzil winced--"he's been trying to make a little money by--by writing of books, sir, what I can make of it in the account here." He adjusted his spectacles with what seemed like maddening slowness to the two watching. "He's lodged, sir, in Poplar, in Bow, in the Borough, and now at last in Deptford--No. 6, Hawkins Row. He was there a matter of ten days, and on Monday last he paid his rent. The woman thinks he pawned an overcoat and one or two things to pay it. He also, sir--he also bought some laudanum."

"Denzil!" cried Miss Rawson, appealing. "I told you your last letter was too hard!"

"Too hard!" Denzil turned eyes of dignified reproach upon his aunt. "You say, _too hard_! After what he has called upon me to endure! I have many things with which to reproach myself, but being hard upon Felix is not one of them."

Gregory had been fumbling with his papers, and now at last succeeded in extracting and bringing out the one he sought. "They have sent down an officer from Scotland Yard, sir," he said, "but me knowing the family, if I may venture to say so, I thought you would maybe be better pleased if I came along myself with the noos, sir. There's no such thing as breaking noos, sir, I know that. But a stroke comes easier sometimes if brought by one that has the welfare of the family at heart."

Denzil did not hear the tremulous speech. He had snatched the letter--the terrible letter--which Felix had left upon the table in his room. "Dear Pharisee."

The epithet thundered at him. He read the reckless, unjust words over and over.

He read it once--twice--then he rose, held it out to Miss Rawson, and, slowly turning, sank in his chair with his face hidden upon his arms.

"Oh, heavens!" he cried aloud, "I have not--no, I have not deserved this!"

It was a characteristic cry. What had he done, he the blameless, the well-conducted; he who had endured at his stepmother's hand treatment that might well have soured a sweeter nature than his own; he who knew, concerning that same stepmother, things that might have wrecked her chance of inheriting anything, had he told his father of them! He had behaved, so it seemed to him, with a wonderful Christian fortitude and forbearance. And this horrible suicide, this outrageous indictment, was his reward.

The constable was speaking. "He seems to have burnt all his papers, sir, in the grate first. The grate was full of burnt paper and the hearth, too. The officer thinks he burnt the manuscript of a book, sir. The empty bottles of laudanum, and the empty mug out of which he drank it, sir, were on the table. There was not a morsel of food, nor any clothes at all in the room, nor any luggage."

Vanston made an effort, and managed to say, "I told the police-court missionary to look after him. I put money in his hands for him."

"He had not seen him, sir, for two months. He offered Mr. Felix work, and he declined it."

There was a silence. Miss Rawson could not speak. She had read the letter, and was inexpressibly shocked. Knowing what she did of Felix, she had thought Denzil quite justified in declining to receive him until he should have shown some signs of regretting the dishonor he had brought upon the family.

Denzil sat staring straight before him into the fire. He remembered what a pretty little chap Felix used to be, and that he had been glad to have a small admiring brother to trot after him round the gardens and imitate all he did, and take his word for law. A sharp pain constricted his heart; he felt inclined to break down and weep like a woman.

"What time--when--is the inquest?" he asked. "I must go to town at once."

"This is the strange part of the story, sir," said Gregory. "The inquest can't be held until they find the body."

Denzil had risen, and stood with his hand stretched out towards the bell. He stared at the constable in a dazed fashion.

"Until they find the body?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Felix was not there, in his room, when they searched it."

Denzil still stared.

"What they think, sir, is that Mr. Felix, after drinking his dose, went out and jumped into the river. Same as the young man did last Tuesday was a month, at Norwich. Perhaps you read about it, sir. Took the stuff, went out, and as soon as he got sleepy rolled into the water. Laudanum don't always act, sir, not by itself. The water makes sure."

Denzil raised his hand and looked at the letter. That left no doubt at all as to the intentions of the writer. He meant to commit suicide. His destruction of everything, the purchase of the little bottles, which had taken a fortnight to collect, told of the extreme deliberation of the plan. The fact that, so far, the body had not been recovered did not seem to him to leave much hope. Gregory said the London police had not much hope, either. He said nothing about the disappearance of the girl from the room above, for the excellent reason that the police knew nothing of it. To bring themselves into prominence in the matter was no part of the programme of the two worthies who were interested in Rona's future career. The landlady of the house whence the disappearance took place was also only too glad to hold her tongue. She and the two men both thought that the girl's vanishing must be connected with that of young Vanston. But as they dared ask no questions, they had no clew. As long as there was no inquest the landlady could not be put into the witness-box, and nothing could appear in the Press which would give to the fugitives, should they be alive and together, the very least idea that they were associated in the mind of anybody.

Levy, the scoundrel who had purchased Rona, argued that young Vanston was a gentleman, and had relatives who would make an effort to find him. Let them do this. If they found him, ten to one they found her. Money and time would be saved to himself and Rankin Leigh. They could remain in the background, and reap the benefit of anything the police discovered.

As to what had actually happened they themselves were in a state of uncertainty. The window of Felix's room had been found fastened on the inside. Nobody had seen the two or either of them leave the house. The door of the room wherein the girl had been confined was locked. There were no traces of her having fallen out of the window, though this must have been her way of escape. But had she thrown herself out she must have been killed or seriously injured; and of her having lowered herself by a rope or any other means there was no trace. Their exhaustive inquiry into accident cases at adjacent hospitals had led to nothing. A young man could not have carried off a badly injured girl without attracting notice. Had she fallen upon the railway lines her body would certainly have been found.

The morning papers all published the curious story of the disappearance of a suicide. They printed in full the two letters--that of Denzil to Felix; that of Felix to Denzil. The evening papers even had leading articles arguing as to whether the elder brother had or had not behaved with harshness to the younger.

No information was forthcoming as to where Felix had spent the last few hours of his life. For the newspapers did not know, and the police did not know, that all-important fact, which would have meant so much to Denzil and his aunt, that there had been two suicides, and not only one. And Comrade Dawkes was not one to court publicity.

If the crew of the _George Barnes_ had but known the story of the girl who dropped out of the window! But they did not know it. So in London the police searched, and Denzil advertised, and Levy and Rankin Leigh waited for the upshot of it all. But nothing happened. No body was discovered in the Thames; no young man under the influence of laudanum was to be found in any police-station or hospital.

The invitations for the house-party at Normansgrave were not dispatched. The Squire retired in bitterness of spirit to his study, where he sat up half the night, and departed to London next morning by an early train.

And down in the cottage hospital at Aylfleet lay Veronica Leigh, for two days delirious, for two or three days more weak and hardly conscious; and then, again, for some days slowly gaining strength and grip on life.

An interest in her recovery and in hearing reports of her progress was the only thing which at that time could divert the mind of Denzil Vanston from its continual preoccupation concerning his brother's fate. Awful as suicide is, it yet almost seemed to him as if he would rather be sure of the worst than continue in uncertainty. If Felix were dead, he would have to alter his will. There were very few Vanstons living, but there were two or three descendants of his grandfather in a remote county. The dissatisfaction with which he thought of them brought clearly home to him the fact that he must marry. As soon as it should be decent, that house-party must be collected. As soon as people had left off talking to him about his brother's fate and the unkind publication of the two letters left upon the table, he would turn his attention to his duties in providing an heir to rule after him at Normansgrave. He would not put on mourning, nor allow Miss Rawson to do so until he had some proof that Felix was actually dead. But his restlessness and depression grew from day to day; and at last, to distract him and give his thoughts a new turn, Miss Rawson said to him:

"Drive me down to Aylfleet this afternoon, and we will look in upon the little Smith girl. I want to know whether you agree with me as to her being unusually fascinating. Dr. Causton does."

The motor was ordered, and they went off.

The spring was coming, and the trees beginning to tremble into leaf. In the pretty red-gabled cottage hospital the windows were open, and the sweet air flooded the place.

The walls of the room where Veronica lay were tinted like a hedge-sparrow's egg. The coverlet of her narrow bed was scarlet, and she wore a bed-jacket the collar of which was embroidered with briar roses. Sister Agnes was so proud of her lovely hair that she had brushed it all out and left it unfilleted, showering over the pillow. In spite of an air of great fragility, there was a delicate bloom on the oval face, and the eyes were preternaturally large and clear.

She was lying very still, as she mostly did, neither reading nor speaking. Her eyes turned wistfully to the door every time it was opened. The sight of Miss Rawson was a pleasure, evidently. Her face lit up. But when she saw that a young man followed, there flew into her thin cheeks a flag of pure rich color; she raised herself in the bed, though with difficulty. Her lips parted in a smile of eager welcome, she stretched out her hand.... Then it all died away. She realized, with a stab of disappointment, that this was a stranger who came. But how curious--she could have declared!

Now, why? This man was of a different height, complexion, and manner. He did not even resemble the man whom she expected, whom she wished to see. Why was it, how could it have happened, that when he first appeared she actually mistook him for the other?

Her agitation and bewilderment made her prettier and shyer than Miss Rawson had ever seen her.

Denzil, as he approached and looked down upon her, felt such an access of emotion as never in all his staid existence had visited him before. This was no barge girl, but a dainty lady, for whose high birth he would have gladly vouched--no young servant injured in cleaning windows, but a princess out of a fairy tale!