Works of grant allen, p.288
Works of Grant Allen, page 288
They were “Jack” and “Elsie” to me, to their faces, before three days were out; and I was plain “Una” to them: it sounded so sweet and sisterly. Elsie slipped it out the second morning as naturally as could be.
“Una’d like a cup of tea, Jack;” then as red as fire all at once, she corrected herself, and added, “I mean, Miss Callingham.”
“Oh, do call me Una!” I cried; “it’s so much nicer and more natural…. But how did you come to know my name was Una at all?” For she slipped it out as glibly as if she’d always called me so.
“Why, everybody knows that.” Elsie answered, amused. “The whole world speaks of you always as Una Callingham. You forget you’re a celebrity. Doctors have read memoirs about you at Medical Congresses. You’ve been discussed in every paper in Europe and America.”
I paused and sighed. This was very humiliating. It was unpleasant to rank in the public mind somewhere between Constance Kent and Laura Bridgman. But I had to put up with it.
“Very well,” I said, with a deep breath, “if those I don’t care for call me so behind my back, let me at least have the pleasure of hearing myself called so by those I love, like you, Elsie.”
She leant over me and kissed my forehead with a burst of genuine delight.
“Then you love me, Una!” she exclaimed.
“How can I help it?” I answered. “I love you dearly already.” And I might have added with truth, “And your brother also.”
For Jack was really, without any exception, the most lovable man I ever met in my life — at once so strong and manly, and yet so womanly and so gentle. Every day I stopped there, I liked him better and better. I was glad when he came into my room, and sorry when he went away again to work on the farm: for he worked very hard; his hand was all horny with common agricultural labour. It was sad to think of such a man having to do such work. And yet he was so clever, and such a capital doctor. I wondered he hadn’t done well and stayed in England. But Elsie told me he’d had great disappointments, and failed in his profession through no fault of his own. I could never understand that: he had such a delightful manner. Though, perhaps I was prejudiced; for, in point of fact, I began to feel I was really in love with Jack Cheriton.
And Jack was in love with me too. This was a curious result of my voyage to Canada in search of Dr. Ivor! Instead of hunting up the criminal, I had stopped to fall in love with one of his friends and neighbours. And I found it so delicious: I won’t pretend to deny it. I was absolutely happy when Jack sat by my bedside and held my hand in his. I didn’t know what it would lead to, or whether it would ever lead to anything at all; but I was happy meanwhile just to love and be loved by him. I think when you’re really in love, that’s quite enough. Jack never proposed to me: he never asked me to marry him. He just sat by my bedside and held my hand; and once, when Elsie went out to fetch my beef-tea, he stooped hastily down and kissed, me, oh, so tenderly! I don’t know why, but I wasn’t the least surprised. It seemed to me quite natural that Jack should kiss me.
So I went idly on for a fortnight, in a sort of lazy lotus-land, never thinking of the future, but as happy and as much at home as if I’d lived all my life with Jack and Elsie. I hated even to think I would soon be well; for then I’d have to go and look out for Courtenay Ivor.
At last one afternoon I was sufficiently strong to be lifted out of bed, and dressed in a morning robe, and laid out on the sofa in the little drawing-room. It looked out upon the verandah, which was high above the ground; and Jack came in and sat with me, alone without Elsie. My heart throbbed high at that: I liked to be alone for half-an-hour with Jack. Perhaps… But who knows? Well, at any rate, even if he didn’t, it was nice to have the chance of a good long, quiet chat with him. I loved Elsie dearly; but at a moment like this, why, I liked to have Jack all to myself without even Elsie.
So I was pleased when Jack told me Elsie was going into Palmyra with the buggy to get the English letters. Then she’d be gone a good long time! Oh, how lovely! How beautiful!
“Is there anything you’d like from the town?” he asked, as Elsie drove past the window. “Anything Elsie could get for you? If so, please say so.”
I hesitated a moment.
“Do you think,” I asked at last, for I didn’t want to be troublesome, “she could get me a lemon?”
“Oh, certainly,” Jack answered; “there she goes in the buggy! Here, wait a moment, Una! I’ll run after her to the gate this minute and tell her.”
He sprang lightly on to the parapet of the verandah. Then, with one hand held behind him to poise himself, palm open backward, he leapt with a bound to the road, and darted after her hurriedly.
My heart stood still within me. That action revealed him. The back, the open hand, the gesture, the bend — I would have known them anywhere. With a horrible revulsion I recognised the truth. This was my father’s murderer! This was Courtenay Ivor!
CHAPTER XVIII.
MURDER WILL OUT
He was gone but for three minutes. Meanwhile, I buried my face in my burning hands, and cried to myself in unspeakable misery.
For, horrible as it sounds to say so, I knew perfectly well now that Jack was Dr. Ivor: yet, in spite of that knowledge, I loved him still. He was my father’s murderer; and I couldn’t help loving him!
It was that that filled up the cup of my misery to overflowing. I loved the man well: and I must turn to denounce him.
He came back, flushed and hot, expecting thanks for his pains.
“Well, she’ll get you the lemon, Una,” he said, panting. “I overtook her by the big tulip-tree.”
I gazed at him fixedly, taking my hands from my face, with the tears still wet on my burning cheek.
“You’ve deceived me!” I cried sternly. “Jack, you’ve given me a false name. I know who you are, now. You’re no Jack at all. You’re Courtenay Ivor!”
He drew back, quite amazed. Yet he didn’t seem thunderstruck. Not fear but surprise was the leading note on his features.
“So you’ve found that out at last, Una!” he exclaimed, staring hard at me. “Then you remember me after all, darling! You know who I am. You haven’t quite forgotten me. And you recall what has gone, do you?”
I rose from the sofa, ill as I was, in my horror.
“You dare to speak to me like that, sir!” I cried. “You, whom I’ve tracked out to your hiding-place and discovered! You, whom I’ve come across the ocean to hunt down! You, whom I mean to give up this very day to Justice! Let me go from your house at once! How dare you ever bring me here? How dare you stand unabashed before the daughter of the man you so cruelly murdered?”
He drew back like one stung.
“The daughter of the man I murdered!” he faltered out slowly, as in a turmoil of astonishment. “The man I murdered! Oh, Una, is it possible you’ve forgotten so much, and yet remember me myself? I can’t believe it, darling. Sit down, my child, and think. Surely, surely the rest will come back to you gradually.”
His calmness unnerved me. What could he mean by these words? No actor on earth could dissemble like this. His whole manner was utterly unlike the manner of a man just detected in a terrible crime. He seemed rather to reproach me, indeed, than to crouch; to be shocked and indignant.
“Explain yourself,” I said coldly, in a very chilly voice. “Courtenay Ivor, I give you three minutes to explain. At the end of that time, if you can’t exonerate yourself, I walk out of this house to give you up, as I ought, to the arm of Justice!”
He looked at me, all pity, yet inexpressibly reproachful.
“Oh, Una,” he cried, clasping his hands — those small white hands of his — Aunt Emma’s hands — the murderer’s hands — how had I never before noticed them?— “and I, who have suffered so much for you! I, who have wrecked my whole life for you, ungrudgingly, willingly! I, who have sacrificed even Elsie’s happiness and Elsie’s future for you! This is too, too hard! Una, Una, spare me!”
A strange trembling seized me. It was in my heart to rush forward and clasp him to my breast. Murderer or no murderer, his look, his voice, cut me sharply to the heart. Words trembled on the tip of my tongue: “Oh, Jack, I love you!” But with a violent effort, I repressed them sternly. This horrible revulsion seemed to tear me in two. I loved him so much. Though till the moment of the discovery, I never quite realised how deeply I loved him.
“Courtenay Ivor,” I said slowly, steeling myself once more for a hard effort, “I knew who you were at once when I saw you poise yourself on the parapet. Once before in my life I saw you like that, and the picture it produced has burned itself into the very fibre and marrow of my being. As long as I live, I can never get rid of it. It was when you leapt from the window at The Grange, at Woodbury, after murdering my father!”
He started once more.
“Una,” he said solemnly, in a very clear voice, “there’s some terrible error somewhere. You’re utterly mistaken about what took place that night. But oh, great heavens! how am I ever to explain the misconception to YOU? If you still think thus, it would be cruel to undeceive you. I daren’t tell you the whole truth. It would kill you! It would kill you!”
I drew myself up like a pillar of ice.
“Go on,” I said, in a hard voice; for I saw he had something to say. “Don’t mind for my heart. Tell me the truth. I can stand it.”
He hesitated for a minute or two.
“I can’t!” he cried huskily. “Dear Una, don’t ask me! Won’t you trust me, without? Won’t you believe me when I tell you, I never did it?”
“No, I can’t,” I answered with sullen resolution, though my eyes belied my words. “I can’t disbelieve the evidence of my own senses. I SAW you escape that night. I see you still. I’ve seen you for years. I KNOW it was you, and you only, who did it!”
He flung himself down in a chair, and let his arms drop listlessly.
“Oh! what can I ever do to disillusion you?” he cried in despair. “Oh! what can I ever do? This is too, too terrible!”
I moved towards the door.
“I’m going,” I said, with a gulp. “You’ve deceived me, Jack. You’ve lied to me. You have given me feigned names. You have decoyed me to your house under false pretences. And I recognise you now. I know you in all your baseness. You’re my father’s murderer! Don’t hope to escape by playing on my feelings. I’d deserve to be murdered myself, if I could act like that! I’m on my way to the police-office, to give you in custody on the charge of murdering Vivian Callingham at Woodbury!”
He jumped up again, all anxiety.
“Oh, no, you mustn’t walk!” he cried, laying his hand upon my arm. “Give me up, if you like; but wait till the buggy comes back, and Elsie’ll drive you round with me. You’re not fit to go a step as you are at present… Oh! what shall I ever do, though. You’re so weak and ill. Elsie’ll never allow it.”
“Elsie’ll never allow WHAT?” I asked; though I felt it was rather more grotesque than undignified and inconsistent thus to parley and make terms with my father’s murderer. Though, to be sure, it was Jack, and I couldn’t bear to refuse him.
He kept his hand on my arm with an air of authority.
“Una, my child,” he said, thrusting me back — and even at that moment of supreme horror, a thrill ran all through my body at his touch and his words— “you MUSTN’T go out of this house as you are this minute. I refuse to allow it. I’m your doctor, and I forbid it. You’re under my charge, and I won’t let you stir. If I did, I’d be responsible.”
He pushed me gently into a chair.
“I gave you but one false name,” he said slowly— “the name of Cheriton. To be sure I, was never christened John, but I’m Jack to my intimates. It was my nickname from a baby. Jack’s what I’ve always been called at home — Jack’s what, in the dear old days at Torquay, you always called me. But I saw if I let you know who I was at once, there’d be no chance of recalling the past, and so saving you from yourself. To save you, I consented to that one mild deception. It succeeded in bringing you here, and in keeping you here till Elsie and I were once more what we’d always been to you. I meant to tell you all in the end, when the right time came. Now, you’ve forced my hand, and I don’t know how I can any longer refrain from telling you.”
“Telling me WHAT?” I said icily. “What do you mean by your words? Why all these dark hints? If you’ve anything to say, why not say it like a man?”
For I loved him so much that in my heart of hearts, I half hoped there might still be some excuse, some explanation.
He looked at me solemnly. Then he leant back in his chair and drew his hand across his brow. I could see now why I hadn’t recognised that delicate hand before: white as it was by nature, hard work on the farm had long bronzed and distorted it. But I saw also, for the first time, that the palm was scarred with cuts and rents — exactly like Minnie Moore’s, exactly like Aunt Emma’s.
“Una,” he began slowly, in a very puzzled tone, “if I could, I’d give myself up and be tried, and be found guilty and executed for your sake, sooner than cause you any further distress, or expose you to the shock of any more disclosures. But I can’t do that, on Elsie’s account. Even if I decided to put Elsie to that shame and disgrace — which would hardly be just, which would hardly be manly of me — Elsie knows all, and Elsie’d never consent to it. She’d never let her brother be hanged for a crime of which (as she knows) he’s entirely innocent. And she’d tell out all in full court — every fact, every detail — which would be worse for you ten thousand times in the end than learning it here quietly.”
“Tell me all,” I said, growing stony, yet trembling from head to foot. “Oh, Jack,” — I seized his hand,— “I don’t know what you mean! But I somehow trust you. I want to know all. I can bear anything — anything — better than this suspense. You MUST tell me! You MUST explain to me!”
“I will,” he said slowly, looking hard into my eyes, and feeling my pulse half unconsciously with his finger as he spoke. “Una darling, you must make up your mind now for a terrible shock. I won’t tell you in words, for you’d never believe it. I’ll SHOW you who it was that fired the shot at Mr. Callingham.”
He moved over to the other side of the room, and unlocking drawer after drawer, took a bundle of photographs from the inmost secret cabinet of a desk in the corner.
“There, Una,” he said, selecting one of them and holding it up before my eyes. “Prepare yourself, darling. That’s the person who pulled the trigger that night in the library!”
I looked at it and fell back with a deadly shriek of horror. It was an instantaneous photograph. It represented a scene just before the one the Inspector gave me. And there, in its midst, I saw myself as a girl, with a pistol in my hand. The muzzle flashed and smoked. I knew the whole truth. It was I myself who held the pistol and fired at my father!
CHAPTER XIX.
THE REAL MURDERER
For some seconds I sat there, leaning back in my chair and gazing close at that incredible, that accusing document. I knew it couldn’t lie: I knew it must be the very handiwork of unerring Nature. Then slowly a recollection began to grow up in my mind. I knew of my own memory it was really true. I remembered it so, now, as in a glass, darkly. I remembered having stood, with the pistol in my hand, pointing it straight at the breast of the man with the long white beard whom they called my father. A new mental picture rose up before me like a vision. I remembered it all as something that once really occurred to me.
Yet I remembered it, as I had long remembered the next scene in the series, merely as so much isolated and unrelated fact, without connection of any sort to link it to the events that preceded or followed it. It was I who shot my father! I realised that now with a horrid gulp. But what on earth did I ever shoot him for?
And I had hunted down Jack for the crime I had committed myself! I had threatened to give him up for my own dreadful parricide!
After a minute, I rose, and staggered feebly to the door. I saw the path of duty clear as daylight before me.
“Where are you going?” Jack faltered out, watching me close with anxious eyes, lest I should stumble or faint.
And I answered aloud, in a hollow voice:
“To the police-station, of course, — to give myself into custody for the murder of my father.”
When I thought it was Jack, though I loved him better than I loved my own life, I would have given him up to justice as a sacred duty. Now I knew it was myself, how could I possibly do otherwise? How could I love my own life better than I loved dear Jack’s, who had given up everything to save me and protect me?
With a wild bound of horror, Jack sprang upon me at once. He seized me bodily in his arms. He carried me back into the room with irresistible strength. I fought against him in vain. He laid me on the sofa. He bent over me like a whirlwind and smothered me with hot kisses.
“My darling,” he cried, “my darling, then this shock hasn’t killed you! It hasn’t stunned you like the last! You’re still your own dear self! You’ve still strength to think and plan exactly what one would expect from you. Oh! Una, my Una, you must wait and hear all. When you’ve learned HOW it happened, you won’t wish to act so rashly.”
I struggled to free myself, though his arms were hard and close like a strong man’s around me.
“Let me go, Jack!” I cried feebly, trying to tear myself from his grasp. “I love you better than I love my own life. If I would have given YOU up, how much more must I give up myself, now I know it was I who really did it!”
He held me down by main force. He pinned me to the sofa. I suppose it’s because I’m a woman, and weak, and all that — but I liked even then to feel how strong and how big he was, and how feeble I was myself, like a child in his arms. And I resisted on purpose, just to feel him hold me. Somehow, I couldn’t realize, after all, that I was indeed a murderess. It didn’t seem possible. I couldn’t believe it was in me.
