"The next time I met Fahey after that night I was alone on the downs. He was alone too. I stopped to thank him. I do not remember exactly what I said-commonplace words of gratitude, no doubt. While I was speaking I was close to him, and gazing into his face. I cut my speech short, for I saw a look in his eyes that told me I was not indifferent to him."
The widow's hand fell from her face, and she looked at her visitor with an expression of trouble and dismay.
"There was nothing distressing or alarming in that," said Blake, with an encouraging smile. "You must remember you were then, as you are now, an exquisitely lovely woman.
"'No marvel, sovereign lady; in fair field
Myself for such a face had boldly died.'"
"Ay, ay," she said, with a shudder and a glance of horror round the room. "In the stanza before the one from which you quote my fate is written:
"'Where'er I came I brought calamity.'"
She stared before her, shuddered again, and sighed.
"Well?" said he. "You have more to tell me?"
"Yes; I'll go on."
CHAPTER XXXIX
A COMPACT
Mrs. Davenport rested slightly against the back of her chair, and resumed:
"'Mrs. Davenport,' said Fahey, 'what I have done for you was nothing. It was really not done for you at all. It was done for Mr. Davenport, not you. The thieves did not want to steal you. They wanted to steal Mr. Davenport's money. If I may presume to ask you for that rose, I shall consider myself more than repaid for what I have done.'
"I gave him the rose. He bowed, and said: 'Yes, they were stupid, mercenary fools. They thought a few pounds of more value than anything else in the world. I am not a rich man, and I care very little for money itself. I care more for what it may bring with it. I would not care to be the richest man in the world. I have in my time, Mrs. Davenport, been the humble means of forwarding Mr. Davenport's plans for making money. He is a rich man. He is rich in more ways than money.' Here he raised the rose to his lips and kissed it. I stood amazed. I could not speak or move."
"Are you sure the man was serious, and that he meant it fully? – or was it only a piece of elaborate gallantry?" asked Blake, in perplexity.
"There can be no doubt whatever of his absolute sincerity. Listen. I merely smiled, as if I did not catch his drift, and moved as though I would resume my walk towards home. He lifted his hat, and, standing uncovered, with his hat in one hand and the rose I had given him in the other, said:
"'I would not give this rose for all Mr. Davenport's money, and I know more about his money than any other man living. Mr. Davenport and I have been close friends for a long time. It is my nature to be loyal. I have been loyal to him. If I liked I could do him injury-irreparable injury. If I cared, I could ruin him utterly. But it is my nature to be loyal. Do you credit me?'
"For a few seconds I did not answer. I believed he was crazy, and I thought that I must soothe him in some way and get off. I had become apprehensive, so I said: 'I am perfectly sure of your loyalty to Mr. Davenport. I have always heard my husband speak of you in the highest terms, I hope we may soon have the pleasure of seeing you again at the House.'
"'Not yet,' he said-'do not leave me yet. I want to say a few more words to you. It is easy to listen. Listen, pray. I would not, as I said before, give that rose for all his money. If I chose to speak, things might be different with him. By fair means or by foul, I will not say which, I could make his wealth melt like snow in the sun. But I have no caring, no need for wealth. I shall not hurt him if you will make me two promises. Will you make the two promises I ask?'
"By this time I felt fully persuaded I was in the presence of a madman. I looked around and could see no one but the man before me. We were not a hundred yards from the edge of the cliff. I no longer thought him physically weak; his encounter with the thieves had settled that point. If he were mad, the promise would count for nothing. There could be no doubt he was insane. I resolved to try him: 'How is it possible for me to make two promises to you until I know what they are?'
"'Your husband trusts me-you may trust me. Do you promise?'
"'First let me know what the promises are.'
"'That you will say nothing of what I have said to you to Mr. Davenport, and that, if ever I have it in my power to do you another service, and do it, you will give me another rose.'
"'Yes; in both cases,' I answered. 'You may rest satisfied.'
"I got away then and was very glad to escape. There was no occasion to speak to any one about this meeting with Fahey on the downs, unless indeed I firmly believed he was mad; and now that I had time to recall all he had said, and review all his actions, I began seriously to question my assumption as to his insanity. I took the first opportunity of asking my husband if there was anything remarkable about Fahey. Mr. Davenport seemed a good deal put out by the question, and asked me what I meant. I said I thought Fahey was odd at times. My husband said Fahey was all right, and did not seem disposed to go on any further with the conversation.
"I did not meet Fahey again for a long time-I mean months. He then seemed quite collected; but before wishing good-bye, he said significantly: 'A man may disappear at any moment on a coast like this, and yet may not be dead. Now, suppose I were to disappear suddenly on this coast, you would think I had died, and that Mr. Davenport no longer ran any risk from my being talkative, or you any chance of being called upon for that other rose. I am not enamoured of this coast. I consider it dreary and inhospitable, and it would not at all surprise me if one day I packed up and fled far away, and stopped away until almost all memory of me was lost. Do you think, Mrs. Davenport, that if, after such an absence, I were to come back, you would recognise me?'
"I answered that I was sure of it, and got away from him as soon as I could. Again I spoke to Mr. Davenport about Fahey's sanity. My husband did not seem to care about discussing the subject, and so I let the matter drop. Afterwards, when Fahey jumped into the Puffing Hole in order to avoid the police, I thought to myself that when he talked about disappearing from the coast he was much nearer the truth than he had any notion of.
"All this occurred many years ago, but it made a great impression on my mind, and I have not forgotten a tittle of it. The words Fahey spoke, and the way he looked, are as plain to me now as if it all happened only yesterday. For a long time after Fahey had disappeared, I believed his death at the Black Rock was nothing more than a pure coincidence. Now and then, at long intervals, Mr. Davenport would refer to the matter, but always in tones of anxiety and doubt. I do not know why I got the notion into my head, but gradually it found its way there, until at last I became quite sure Fahey was not dead. On more than one occasion when I had ventured to suggest such an idea to Mr. Davenport's mind, he showed great emotion, and, after a few struggles, either directly dismissed or changed the subject.
"If Fahey had been right about his power of disappearing from that coast without dying, why should I refuse to believe that Fahey could injure-nay, ruin, my husband, if he were to appear and make certain statements of matters within his own knowledge? What these matters were I could not guess. Since I saw you last I have got good reasons to feel sure my husband had no proper right to the money he possessed, and that this man Fahey was aware of the facts of the case."
"How did you find all this out, Marion?" asked Blake, looking across at her with freshly awakened interest.
"I found papers of my husband's."
"Will you tell me how you believe he came by the money?"
"No. And you must say nothing of this conversation to any living being."
"Trust me, I will not."
"The difficulties now are, Thomas Blake, that I believe my husband did not come fairly by his fortune, that Michael Fahey is still alive, and that he had a hand in the death of my husband."
Blake knit his brows, rose, and recommenced walking up and down the room.
"Mr. Jerry O'Brien, who travelled over from London with me, told me after we left Euston that he himself and Phelan, the boatman of Kilcash, had seen the ghost or body of Fahey on the cliffs just above the Black Rock."
"It may have been a delusion."
"Yes, it may; but the chances are ten thousand to one against it. He told me, too, that a friend of his had seen the same figure, clad in the same clothes it wore ten or a dozen years ago. The last-named phenomenon I cannot account for. But if you can believe that a man who jumped into the Puffing Hole years ago is still alive, all other beliefs in this case are easy. Now, Thomas Blake, I have spoken more fully to you than I have ever spoken to any other man. I want you to advise and help me.
"How?" asked Blake, stopping in his walk and looking straight into her white, fixed, expressionless face.
"By finding out Fahey and discovering whence my husband got his money. Then, if I may return it without disgracing his name or exposing him, I will, and if not-"
"Well, Marion, if not?"
"I shall put an end to my knowledge and myself, and so keep his grave quiet and silent for him."
"Marion, this is sheer madness."
"So much the better. If I do wrong in an access of insanity, no moral blame attaches to me or my act. Will you help me? Once upon a time I could have counted on your aid."
"At that time you held out the promise of a glorious reward. Do you hold it out still, Marion?"
"No. That thought must be put to rest for ever. You may think it monstrous that such being my mind, I should deliberately seek you and ask for your help. But I have no future, and you are all that is left to me of the past-"
"Marion, Marion, for Heaven's sake don't say it is too late!" he cried, passionately, and advanced a step towards her.
She retired two steps, and made an imperative gesture, bidding him stand still.
"Stay where you are and listen to me. To quote again from the poem you quoted awhile ago, 'My youth,' she said, 'was blighted with a curse.'"
"And," he said, pointing to himself, "if we alter the text slightly, we find 'This traitor was the cause.' Is not that what you mean, Marion? Do not spare me; I am meet for vengeance."
"The present one is not a case for vengeance. But if you like you may in this matter expiate the past."
"And when my expiation is complete, in what relation shall you and I stand to one another?"
"In the same relation as before we met. You will be just to me, and help me in this matter, Thomas Blake. Remember that my life has not been very joyous."
"But, Marion," he urged, softening his voice, and leaning towards her, "if I am to take what you say at its full value-"
"I mean it all quite literally."
"Then my expiation would assume the form of leading you to the tomb instead of the altar."
She drew back, and said:
"Yes, put it that way if you will. At one time I believed your hand was guiding me up to the altar, beyond which lay love and life, and all manner of good and bright things. We never reached the altar. But something happened, and there was a dull, dead pause in life, like the winter sleep of a lizard or the trance of the Sleeping Beauty, and then I awoke, and, to my horror, found the altar had been changed into a tomb, and the Fairy Prince into Death. There was no time for love. I had slept through the period of love. I had no power to hate, but I had the power and the will to die. You will help me?"
"Not to die, Marion. I will help you to solve the mystery of this Fahey, and the relations between him and Mr. Davenport, and then when all has been cleared up, you may-"
He held out his hand pleadingly.
"Yes," she said, coldly, firmly, "when all has been cleared up, I may say-good-bye."
CHAPTER XL
AN EXPEDITION PROPOSED
When Jerry O'Brien said there was absolutely nothing to be done in Kilcash, he had told the naked truth. The weather was still far from genial, and Jerry and Alfred Paulton were the only visitors in that Waterford village. For a man of active habits, in full bodily and mental vigour, the place would have been the very worst in the world; but for an invalid who had never been a busy man, it was everything the most exacting could desire. If Alfred's mind had only been as peaceful as his surroundings, he would have picked up strength visibly from hour to hour.
But his mind was not at ease. For good or evil, he did not care which, he had given his heart to that woman, and now once more the shadow of this objectionable, this disreputable man Blake, had come between her and him. The most disquieting circumstance in the case was that Blake had not intruded, but had been summoned by her. It is true that on closer examination this did not seem to point to a love affair between the two; for unless a woman was fully engaged to a man, she would scarcely, he being her lover, summon him to her side, under the circumstances in Mrs. Davenport's case.
Such thoughts and doubts were not the best salve for a hurt constitution; and although Alfred recovered strength and colour from day to day, he did not derive as much benefit from Kilcash as if his mind had been even as untroubled as it had been when the journey from Dulwich began.
Jerry was by no means delighted with affairs. He put the best face he could on things, but still he was not content. As far as he was concerned, the detested Fishery Commissioners had gone to sleep, but there was no forecasting the duration of their slumber. Any moment they might shake themselves, growl, wake, and swallow up all his substance.
"Until they are done with this part of the unhappy country, I shall feel as if the country was overrun by 'empty tigers,' and I was the only wholesome piece of flesh after which the man-eaters hankered."
O'Brien did not pretend to be a philosopher when his own fortune or comfort was threatened or assailed. He chafed and fumed when things went wrong, or when he could not get his way. Now he was compelled, in a great measure, to keep silent, for there would be a want of hospitality in displaying impatience of Kilcash to Alfred. He had confided to the latter the secret of his love for Madge, and the brother had grasped his hand cordially and wished him all luck and happiness. No man existed, he had said, to whom he would sooner confide the future of his sister. How was O'Brien to act with regard to writing to Madge? There had been nothing underhand or dishonourable in telling the girl of his love that day on the Dulwich Road. The declaration had in a measure slipped from him before any suitable opportunity occurred of talking to Mr. Paulton. But speaking to Madge under the excitement of the moment and the knowledge of approaching separation was one thing, and writing clandestinely to her quite another. If he wrote to her openly, inquiries as to the nature of the correspondence would certainly be made at home, and then their secret would be found out, and the thought of being found out in anything about which an unpleasant word could be said was unendurable. In the haste of leaving Carlingford House he had made no arrangement with Madge as to writing to her. It was absolutely necessary for him to risk a letter. He would not be guilty of the subterfuge of writing under cover of one of Alfred's letters. Accordingly he wrote a bright, cheerful, chatty note to Madge, beginning "My dear Miss Paulton," and ending "Yours most sincerely, J. O'Brien." To those who were not in the secret, nothing could have been more ordinary than this letter. But its meaning was plain to Madge. Among other things, he said the Commissioners had not yet done with him, and until they had he could not count upon another visit to Dulwich; and he begged her to give his kindest regards to Mr. Paulton, and to express a hope that he might soon enjoy the pleasure of a walk on the Dulwich Road, when he would tell her father all about the Bawn salmon and the wretched Commissioners. Until then he should not bother either of them with any account of himself or the villains who were lying in wait for him. This he intended to show that he would not write to her again until he had cleared up matters with her father. And now that he had got rid of this letter-it was a task, not a pleasure, to write it-what should he do? He had told himself and Alfred that even in summer there was not anything to be done in Kilcash. But he, O'Brien, was in full health and vigour, and began to feel uneventful idleness very irksome. Boating even with the pretence of fishing was out of the question, and one grew tired of strolling along the strand or downs when fine, and looking out of the windows at the unneeded rain when wet. Against the weariness of the long evenings he had brought books, cards, and chess from Kilbarry. Time began to hang heavily on his hands. Nothing more had been heard or seen of the ghost of Fahey, and the two friends had been a couple of times to see the outside of Kilcash House, whither, he believed, Mrs. Davenport had not yet arrived from Dublin.
The weather was mild, moist, calm.
"I'll tell you what we shall do, Alfred," said Jerry briskly at breakfast one morning.
"What?" asked the other, looking up from his plate.
"There isn't a ripple on the sea. I'll go see Jim Phelan, and get him to launch his boat."
"Capital!" cried Alfred, who was in that state of convalescence when the daily addition to physical strength begets a desire to use it and yields indestructible buoyancy. "I should like a good long-sail of all things-or, indeed, a good pull. I'm sure I could manage an oar nearly as well as ever."
"Nonsense!" said Jerry, dogmatically. "I will not be accessory to your murder, or allow you to commit suicide in my presence. I have had enough of inquests for my natural life. It's too cold for sailing, and you're not strong enough for rowing. But there are the caves. The time of the year does, not make any difference in them, so long as the sea is smooth. They are as warm in winter as in summer. We can bring torches and guns, and a horn and grub with us. A torchlight picnic would be a novelty to me, anyway. The echoes in some places are wonderful, and I'll answer for the food being wholesome. I'll go down to Phelan immediately after breakfast."
Big Jim Phelan was at home in his cottage-not the shelter that covered him in the summer, but the one which the high and mighty of the land could rent for eight to twelve pounds a month when they wished to enjoy the sea.
O'Brien explained his design.
"Are you mad, sir?" said Jim, drawing back from the chair which he had placed for his unexpected guest.
"No. Why? What's mad about it? I and my friend want to see the caves, and they are just as good at this time of year as in summer. Will you take us? – Yes or no? Or are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid of anything that swims or walks or flies, Mr. O'Brien," said Jim in a tone of indignant protest. "But nature is nature, and it's not right to fly in the face of nature."
"Face of fiddlesticks!" said O'Brien. "What has nature to do with our going to visit the caves? If you don't take us, some one else will. what on earth do you mean by 'flying in the face of nature'?"
"Go to the caves at this time of year!" said Jim, in a musing tone of voice. "Why, no one ever thought of such a thing before!"
"What difference does that make? No strangers are here, except in summer; and of course the people of the village never want to go to the caves either winter or summer, unless they are paid. Come on, Jim; don't send me off to look for some one else. I like to stick to old friends."
Phelan reflected awhile. There was no greater danger on such a day as this in going to the caves than on the finest day in July. But the novelty of the idea was almost too much for Jim. That any man in his sober senses could even during the dog-days want to go to the caves was wonderful enough; but that a man, and, moreover, a man who had lived most of his life hard by, could think of exploring those gloomy vaults in the chilly, damp days of spring, was too much for belief. O'Brien was liberal, and if he happened to spend a couple of the summer months at Kilcash, as he had hinted, Jim was certain to be a few pounds the better for it. But it wouldn't do to give in too easily.
"Mr. O'Brien, if you're bent on going, of course I must take you. I'll go to the Cove of Cork for you, sir, single-handed, in my own yawl. But mind you, sir, it wasn't I that put you up to going. If you ask me my advice, I say don't go. I won't take any of the responsibility, mind, sir."
"All right," cried O'Brien, with a laugh. "You know as well as I do that there is no danger on a calm day like this. How soon will you be ready?"
"I'll have to get a man to go with me, and gather a few hands to help to launch the yawl. Will an hour be soon enough, sir?" said Jim, who, now that he had decided on action, was already busy in preparation.
"Yes; an hour will do. How is the tide?"
"About an hour flood."
"And how will that answer for the Red Cave?"
"Red Cave!" said Phelan, pausing suddenly in his preparation. "Is it Red Gap Cave you're thinking of going to, sir?"
There was a sound of uneasiness in the boatman's voice.
"Yes. Isn't it the largest? Isn't it the one they say has never been explored?"
"Ay, sir. It never has been explored fully, and I don't suppose ever will-for what would be the good? – and it isn't over agreeable in there, with its windings and twistings, I can tell you. I don't mind much about the Red Cave itself; but, Mr. O'Brien, it's only a little bit beyond the Whale's Mouth, and you have some queer notions about that cursed place; and, mind, I'll have nothing to do with it for love or money."
"I didn't say anything about the Whale's Mouth," said O'Brien, in a tone of irritation. "I asked you how is the tide for the Red Cave? Can't you answer a simple question?"
"The tide is always right for the Red Cave," answered Phelan, sullenly. "You can always go into it when the water is smooth."
"Very well. I'll expect you on the strand by the rocks in an hour;" and saying this, O'Brien left the cottage and set out for the hotel.