The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias Part 25

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

IF YOU KNEW THE TRUTH.

At first I could scarce believe my own eyes. In the window, just as I had seen it on that fateful night, was the stuffed bear cub, and behind the smoky panes was a pale, haggard face peering forth wistfully, yet cautiously, as though in expectation of the pa.s.sing of some person to whom the signal would convey a meaning, a face upon which anxiety and terror were betrayed--the countenance of the woman I had so suddenly grown to love.

In an instant, at sight of me, she drew back and was lost to view, there remaining only that curious yet fatal sign that conveyed so much to the person or persons for whom it was exhibited.

The house presented the same dingy, neglected appearance as before, the steps uncleaned and covered with pieces of paper and wisps of straw, the jetsam of the street. The shutters of the bas.e.m.e.nt were still closed, and upon the area gate was a stout chain and heavy padlock. It was a roomy yet depressing place, more depressing than any other in the whole of Bloomsbury, a strange air of mystery pervading it from bas.e.m.e.nt to attic.

My first impulse was to ascend those neglected steps and inquire for Lady Judith; but, on reflection an instant later, the fact that she had withdrawn so quickly from the window made it evident that she did not wish me to discover here there--that, indeed, she was in Selby's house in secrecy.

She had evidently been watching long and vigilantly for some person she expected would pa.s.s for the purpose of receiving the sign. The intent, anxious look upon her countenance told me this. But instead of the person she was looking for, I, the least expected, had suddenly come upon the scene and detected her. Her mouth had opened as her eyes met mine, and I knew that a cry had escaped her as she had fallen back behind the dusty curtains.

She was still watching me most probably, therefore I did not glance up again, but merely walked on as leisurely as before, and turned the corner out of Harpur Street.

I stood for some minutes deliberating whether it were policy to go boldly to the house and inquire for her. What could I lose by so doing?

Little--very little. What could I gain? A few minutes' chat, perhaps, with the woman who, although she held herself so aloof from me, was nevertheless always in my thoughts.

I was determined to get at the bottom of the mystery of that secret sign; therefore, without hesitation, I drew a long breath, turned again into Harpur Street, and, ascending the steps, rapped loudly at the door.

The place sounded hollow, as a half-empty house always does. But there was no response.

I listened attentively at the door, but the roar of the traffic over the granite in Theobald's Road prevented my hearing anything distinctly.

Nevertheless, my quick ear caught sounds of whispering within. A door somewhere in the hall was closed and locked, and then I heard a man's low, gruff voice exclaim, "Not yet--not yet, you fool!"

All was silent again, and I waited in patience for a couple of minutes longer. Then I gave another sounding _rat-tat-tat_ that rang through the hollow house.

Again there was a movement in the hall, and softly footsteps crossed the linoleum, which was comparatively new, I felt sure, by its stickiness.

Somebody was whispering; then a few seconds later the chain was withdrawn, and the door was opened half-way by Mrs Pickard, the little wizened old lady in black cap and dress, the same who had crossed the Channel bearing The Closed Book to England.

Fortunately she did not recognise me, so I inquired, "You have a lady named Gordon here? She has just recognised me from the window. Will you ask her whether she will see me for a few moments, as I wish to speak with her on a rather important matter?"

"She has noticed you," was the little old woman's reply, "and she's just putting on her hat. She'll be down to speak with you in a few moments, if you'll wait," and she admitted me to the hall, which was covered with a cheap black-and-white oilcloth, and showed me to the dining-room, which overlooked the street--a big, old-fashioned apartment, very dingy, with ceiling and walls smoke-grimed, and furnished in an inexpensive and tasteless style, which bore "hire system" marked upon it as plainly as though the chairs and tables were ticketed "easy payments taken." The carpet was one of those Kidderminster squares that always appear in hire-system furnishing, and the furniture was of veneered walnut, covered with dark-green plush. There was no overmantel, no sideboard, nothing, indeed, to give it the slightest air of comfort. The room somehow looked as though it had only just been furnished, and that with some motive, for it was evidently not the dining-room in use.

After making a tour of inspection, I stood before the empty old-fashioned grate, listening intently. There were footsteps in the room above--the drawing-room--but no other sound. The dismal outlook, the utter cheerlessness of the room, the sooty curtains waving slowly at the half-opened window, added to the atmosphere of gloom which pervaded the interior even to a greater extent than the exterior. It was certainly a house of mystery.

Once I thought I heard renewed whisperings in the hall; but only for a moment, then all was silent again.

At last the door opened, and there appeared my pale-faced love, neatly dressed in black, with a small toque that suited her admirably, and a bodice that showed off her figure to perfection. Her sombre attire heightened the pallor of her countenance, yet, as she approached me with a sweet smile and outstretched hand, I saw that she possessed a marvellous self-control.

"Only fancy your recognising me, Mr Kennedy!" she cried. "I'm so glad.

You left Sheringham suddenly, and no one knew where you had gone."

"I, too, have been wanting to meet you again," I said, "and believed you to be still at Saxlingham."

"I returned to town yesterday," she answered. "But if we are to talk, had we not better go for a walk?" she suggested. Then she added, in a low, confidential whisper, "There are eager ears here."

Nothing loath to escape from that house of mystery, I agreed to her proposal, and she let me out, after considerable trouble with a very complicated lock, which I noted could not be undone by anyone unacquainted with its secret--another suspicious circ.u.mstance.

Outside, we turned towards Theobald's Road, and I walked beside her in the hazy glow of the London sunset, full of admiration of her beauty, her grace, and her sweetness of expression.

As we walked towards Oxford Street I told her of my desire to be, if not in public, then in secret, her friend.

"But why?" she asked, opening her splendid eyes widely.

"Because--well, because I believe we shall be good friends some day," I said lamely, for it was on the tip of my tongue there, in that crowded street, openly to declare myself.

"We are good friends now, otherwise I would not be out walking with you here," she remarked.

"Exactly; but there is still a stronger reason," I said. "You will recollect that when I met you on that path across the cliffs you confessed to me your unhappiness--that in your heart there lies concealed some terrible secret which has driven you to despair, and which--"

"My secret?" she gasped, looking at me suddenly with the same expression of terror I had seen upon her face on that wet night in Harpur Street.

"Who told you of my secret?"

"No one," I said quietly. "But to me the truth is apparent, and it is for that reason that I desire to stand your friend. You recollect you spoke of your enemies, who were so strong that they had crushed you.

Will you not let me render you a.s.sistance against them; may I not act on your behalf? You surely can trust me?"

I asked her the reason of her visit to that house of mystery and the meaning of the symbol of the bear cub, but she hesitated, just as she had done before. Ah! how blind is man to the beginning of any series of great consequences!

All our previous conversation pa.s.sed through my mind like a flash, and I saw how utterly I had failed to convince her of my good intentions in her interest.

The curious breach between father and daughter was inexplicable, just as much as their secret presence in London or their a.s.sociation with that dingy house in Harpur Street.

"I know that in ordinary circ.u.mstances the small knowledge you have of me would cause you to hesitate to allow me to become your confidential friend," I went on in deep earnestness. "But these circ.u.mstances are surely extraordinary ones. You are in distress, threatened by enemies who terrorise you, and are driving you to despair; and I believe I am also right in suggesting that you possess no friends?"

She had grown paler, and I knew my words made an impression upon her.

We were then walking in the crowd of Oxford Street, and I was compelled to bend and speak confidentially to her, lest others might overhear.

Surely that great busy thoroughfare was a strange place in which to court a woman's love! But love is always one of life's ironies. Many are the world's wonders; but surely Honour, Conscience, and Love are the three greatest. They will never be explained, and never cease to be bewildering. Of such are the source and the end of what is wonderful in our life--the sea and the shower, the aggregate whereof is in G.o.d and the atom in man.

I saw from her countenance, and knew from the trembling of her hand, that she would confide in me if only she dared. The mystery of it all was maddening. My natural intuition told me that she was not averse to my companionship, yet the mention of her secret--whatever it was--caused the truth to arise before her in all its hideousness, holding her transfixed by the crisis that she knew must inevitably ensue.

"It is true," she sighed at last. "I am in sore need of a friend; but I fear your help is impossible. Indeed, if our friendship were known to certain persons it would place me in a position of even graver peril."

"Then your enemies would be mine," I remarked quietly. "This is as it should be. But why would my a.s.sociation with you place you in peril? I don't understand."

"Oh!" she cried, "I cannot explain. I would tell you everything if I could--everything. But I cannot, for your sake as well as for my own."

"For my sake?" I echoed. "Would knowledge of it affect me so gravely?"

"I fear it would," was her reply. "It is best that you should remain in ignorance."

"But believe me, I cannot bear to think of you utterly friendless as you seem to be," I went on earnestly. "Why do you not let me be your friend in secret?"

"Because if you were my friend it would be necessary for you to know the whole truth before you could help me. Yet, in my present position, I can explain nothing. If I did, it would be fatal to me--and perhaps to you also."

"You are so very mysterious, Lady Judith!" I said. "Cannot you be more explicit? What you tell me only excites my curiosity and interest."

"I can tell you nothing more--absolutely nothing," she said, quite calm again. "I am unfortunately a victim of certain strange and incredible circ.u.mstances; that is all."