CHAPTER II
WITH A PASSIONATE WAIL OF PITIFUL PAIN

IVY-COVERED and honeysuckled, with quaint gable ends, and oriel windows, a smoothly shaven lawn sloping down to the brink of the river that flowed ever onward with a murmuring song, a few old elm trees overshadowing the house that stood in a scene of romantic beauty. Such was the 'Raven's Nest,' the peaceful country home of John Gyde, Esq., who was able to put Barrister-at-Law after his name, but who had never held a brief, and was never likely to do.

During the seven years that had passed since his friend Lindmark's death on that memorable Christmas night, many changes had taken place in John Gyde's circumstances. He had been called to the Bar, and had come into his fortune through his mother's death. The law had never been particularly attractive for him ; he preferred the retirement and pleasures associated with the life of a country gentleman. Although not wealthy, John had ample means | | 265 for the gratification of his simple tastes. His home, while not luxurious, might have served as a model for the most perfect comfort. Scarcely yet in the prime of life, and healthy and vigorous, he seemed destined to know a great many peaceful years. A handsome man and favoured by fortune, he might have had his pick of Devonshire beauties, but he had chosen to remain single, much to the astonishment of many a designing mother; and to the sorrow of many a young lady who would have lived in sackcloth and ashes for a whole year to have become the mistress of the Raven's Nest.' But Gyde avoided all the snares that were set for him, and was proof against the languishing looks and sweet smiles lavished upon him. He was a perplexing riddle to the Devonshire feminine world; and not a few shrewd ladies of uncertain age shook their heads sagely, and said, 'Ah! depend upon it, Mr. John Gyde has designs upon his ward.' Now, Mr. John Gyde's ward upon whom he was said to have designs was Dorothy Lindmark, the daughter of his dead friend, and his sacred trust given to him between dead lips.

Dorothy, or 'Doll,' as he delighted to call her, was in her nineteenth year. Beautiful as a child, she was infinitely more beautiful now that the stamp of womanhood had set its seal upon her.

For three years after her father's death, which had been a sore trial to her, she had remained in Paris under Mrs. Turner's charge. But one day she had written a hurried letter to her guardian asking him to take her away at once. On receiving this note he had lost not a moment in starting for Paris, and on arrival there he found his ward evidently unhappy. The cause of her unhappiness she would not state, though she persisted in her desire to be removed, and on his ordering her things to be packed up ready for the home-ward journey, a scene ensued between him and Mrs. Turner. The lady was evidently unprepared for this summary mode of doing business, and at first was disposed to be obstinate, but at last, recognising how fruitless it would be to oppose Dorothy's legal guardian, she withdrew her | | 266 opposition, but proceeded to heap opprobrium upon the girl, accusing her of inconstancy and ingratitude, an accusation that was supported by Mrs. Turner's son Alfred. This was the first occasion upon which Alfred and Gyde had met, and it was nearly being marked by what at first threatened to be a serious quarrel. But with great dignity and firmness, Gyde told the young man that he did not recognise him, and would have nothing to say to him. Turner felt himself very effectually snubbed, and like all mean-spirited men he felt very bitter; and he made use of these words just as Gyde and his charge were on the point of leaving the house:

'Look here, Mister Gyde'—he strongly emphasized the word Mister—'look here, Mister Gyde, you've insulted me, and there's bad blood between us. If you were going to stay in France, I would call you out and shoot you like a cur. But don't think I'll forget you. Some day, perhaps, I'll retaliate.'

Gyde attached no importance to these words. He looked upon them as the frothy outpourings of a vanity-stricken boy, whose vanity had been wounded, and as such beneath contempt. He therefore did not even make reply, and in a little while had turned his back upon Paris, and was glad to have 'Doll' safely under his care.

For a year after this, John Gyde's life was very bright and very peaceful; and all his energies, all his concern, all his thoughts, were devoted to and of his ward. Her happiness and pleasure were his constant study, and in order that she should not go from his watchful care he engaged a most accomplished governess for her, but suddenly, like a flash of lighting from a summer sky, came a blight upon his peace, and a shadow on his hearth. The governess one morning sent a request that he would grant her an interview, and on his doing so she almost stunned him by expressing strong suspicion that Dorothy was secretly corresponding with a gentleman.

Gyde heard this statement in silence, and with the almost stately dignity that was part of his character, and on | | 267 dismissing her, he promised to investigate the matter. For several days afterwards he said nothing, but his troubled face told how great the shock had been; and yet he could not bring himself to believe it could possibly be true. He had such faith in Doll, and that faith was not to be destroyed lightly. Still his interest in his beautiful house and grounds seemed suddenly to cease. He was frequently observed walking in gloomy silence in some of the bye-paths, or sitting dejected and thoughtful in his favourite seat under the great ivy-clad elm that was such a graceful ornament in the centre of the lawn. This change in his manner was not likely to escape notice. The housekeeper noticed it, the chambermaids noticed it, the gardener, the groom, the coachman noticed it, and wondered and talked amongst themselves as to the cause, and last, not least, Dorothy herself noticed it, and one morning followed him into the grounds, and said:

'John'—he had taught her to call him John—'there is something the matter with you. I wish you would tell me what it is.'

Then ensued within himself a terrible struggle. Was he to doubt and lose faith; or should he say nothing, but go on believing that it was impossible for her to deceive him? With such a man, so sterling, so rugged in his honesty, so strong in the grand old chivalry, a struggle between doubt and faith was likely to be very severe, and it was. But at length it seemed to him that it was his duty to tell her what he had heard, and in a few well-chosen sentences he did so.

At first she seemed covered with shame and confusion, and then indignantly denied it. It was sweet music to his ears that denial, and in a moment he had caught her in his arms, and while he caressed her he craved her pardon for ever thinking for one brief instant that she could possibly be guilty of deception.

It followed as a matter of course that the unfortunate governess was dismissed. But she went in sorrow and not in anger, and protested strongly that she had spoken truly. | | 268 This protest, however, had no influence with John. His ward's denial had built his faith up whole again, and as against that denial all the protests in the world would have been unavailing, and so the peace and the brightness came back; the shadow went from off his hearth, and joy reigned once more in the 'Raven's Nest.'

It is possible that no man ever watched a girl bud and blossom, as it were, into womanhood with more tender solicitude, and more fervent admiration, than he did. Not ordinarily a demonstrative man, he became demonstrative over her. With her growth grew his love also, and John Gyde fondly dreamed of the time when his ward would become his wife. He had dreamed this dream from the memorable Christmas, when his dear friend Lindmark had said, 'Between dead lips,' and with the solemn knowledge of his near end: 'I suppose she will want to marry some day; and if I could live till that time, the husband I would choose for her would be the counterpart of yourself.' Gyde had gazed on her childish face that night, as wrapped in her hood she was a study for a painter, and he said to himself: 'I understand poor Herbert's meaning, and I will try and teach her to love me.' And then, as he returned to his friend's chambers on that bright frosty night, after he had escorted Dorothy and Mrs. Turner to their hotel, he mused thus: 'Poor child, I will be a father to you; and some day, perhaps, a husband to you. But, whether or not, I will try earnestly to make your life a sweet harmony, devoid of one jarring note. Hitherto I have gone through the world purposeless almost. Now I have a purpose, and that purpose shall be an attempt to make from one of the sweetest of children one of the most perfect of women.'

This was, perhaps, a romantic dream, but John was a young man and might be forgiven. At any rate, from the moment that he, with wonderful gentleness, broke to Dorothy the news of her father's sad death on that memorable Christmas night, up to the present moment, his purpose had become fixed and unalterable, and with true nobleness, and a great-hearted chivalry, he had tried to accomplish it; but | | 269 never once had he breathed a syllable of love to her. Before he did that he wanted to learn her heart, and to know whether she could give him something more than affection—give him what a true man desires from a true woman—pure love, love that shall find no delight in aught else but the loved object; love that shall feel that in its object it finds its hope, its trust, its world, its bliss, its heaven. 'She shall never become mine from a mere sense of duty,' he said to himself, and John Gyde was too true a gentleman ever to depart from that.

The peace that came back to him when Doll denied that there was any truth in her governess's suspicions was not to remain long undisturbed. He was an observing man, and he noticed often there was a little cloud of trouble in her face, and the lightness of spirits which had hitherto so distinguished her gave place to a certain thoughtfulness that at times almost became abstraction.

Naturally enough this troubled him very much; but once, and only once, did he venture to question her as to the cause of this change, and her answer was: 'I think, John, you are getting morbidly nervous. There is really no change in me.' But there was a change, and John saw it; and when he had endured anxiety many weeks he was tempted into questioning her maid as to whether she knew of any-thing likely to cause her young mistress trouble.

This maid was a French girl, a few years older than Dorothy, who had known her in Paris, and had begged her guardian to allow her to take her into her service, a request that was at once granted, when John had made the necessary inquiries about the girl's character. She was known as Marie Delorme, and, as she had always exhibited great devotion and attachment for her mistress, John had allowed her many advantages and great freedom; in fact, had treated her more like a member of his family than a servant.

In reply to his questioning she expressed great surprise, and said that she knew of nothing that could cause Dorothy any concern.

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John did not feel satisfied, but what could he do? 'I will be patient and wait,' he thought, 'and some day she will make me her confidant.'

Save for this little trouble in his own heart, and which he kept to himself, John Gyde's domestic life went on smoothly enough, and Doll reached her nineteenth birthday. Beauty itself had set its seal upon her. Men loved her, and women envied her.

It was soon after this, and on Christmas day, that John Gyde determined to speak to her of himself for the first time. He selected Christmas day, because that day had been marked with a red cross in the calendar of both their lives ; if a certain sadness was associated with it, it was a purifying sadness, and one that certainly knit them together in a bond of close acquaintance, and which he hoped would bind them in a still closer bond that only death itself could sever.

For years it had been his custom—a custom hallowed by his father and mother for nearly half a century—to keep open house at Christmas time, so that the 'Raven's Nest' had become famed for its hospitality. John had the good old-fashioned notion—a notion that would be better for our common humanity were it more often acted up to—that Christmas time was a time of peace; that is, a time of peace in the sense that the truest charity of the heart should be exercised towards one's fellows, and that injuries should be forgiven, and friendships cemented.

It was a white Christmas truly this, for the weather had been singularly severe for many days. A great snowstorm had swept over the country, and this had been followed by an extraordinarily low temperature, so that the land was locked in the grip of a powerful frost that hardened the snow to iron, and bound up streamlets and ponds in ice of more than a foot in thickness.

John, his guests, and his ward worshipped in the village church that morning, and Dorothy herself had helped to make the church bright with flowers and holly.

'Doll, I should like to have a quiet half-hour with you | | 271 in the library before dinner, if you will grant me the favour,' he said, as they returned from church.

It struck him that his request caused her some annoyance, judging from a look that came into her face, and he said quietly:

'Never mind, my dear. If it's not agreeable to you to give me the half-hour, I can say what I've got to say some other time.'

'Oh no, John. I will come, of course, if you wish it.'

The manner in which this was said troubled him, because he fancied that they were words that did not come from the heart. But he reasoned with himself thus—'John, John, do not be unjust; you are growing suspicious, and are inclined to misinterpret Dorothy's acts and words.' And so some time afterwards, when she presented herself at his library door, he took both her hands in his, and looking into her fair, sweet face, he said:

'Doll, I have done you a wrong in my heart, because I thought when I asked you to come here that you seemed unwilling to come. I sue for your pardon.'

During all the years that he had known her he had never once, not even when she was a child, kissed her. He had purposely avoided doing this, as he had purposely avoided doing anything that might raise the foul breath of scandal against her fair fame. Throughout, his conduct towards her, both in public and private, had been studied and reserved. In all his bearing he had been her legal guardian, and he could have defied the world to say that for a single instant the guardian had ever become merged into the lover. Yet now he was tempted—so strongly tempted—that he almost yielded to kiss her fair white forehead. But he resisted, and led her to a scat.

'Doll,' he commenced, as she did not answer his remark, 'if I did not know that on this day you always think solemnly of that memorable Christmas, eight years ago, when your dear father and my friend died in his chambers in Lincoln's Inn, I would not have ventured to remind you of it. But I have something to say, and it seems to me that | | 272 this is the proper and fitting day upon which to say it. Eight years ago, on that sad Christmas morning, your father and I had been talking of your future. He told me that he had appointed me your guardian, and said: " Dying, I bequeath to you a precious legacy: my daughter, and between dead lips I pledge you and her;" and subsequently he added words that burnt themselves into my brain. After speaking of the fortune you would have, he said: "Her future is secure save in one thing—that one thing is marriage. I suppose she will marry some day, and if I could live till that time the husband I should choose for her would be the counterpart of yourself."'As he repeated this, Dorothy, who had become very pale, suddenly pressed her handkerchief to her face, and letting her head fall upon the arm of the sofa upon which he sat, she burst into tears. This emotion seemed so natural to Gyde that, though he did not like to see her weeping, he did not attempt to disturb her; but wishing to get done with what he had determined to do, and believing that no more favourable opportunity than the present could occur, he continued: 'Those words of your father's were pregnant with a great meaning for me. I know that he meant that he wished you to become my wife when time had ripened you. I would ask you now whether during the years that I have humbly striven to justify the trust he reposed in me, and to do my duty to you, I have in your estimation proved myself worthy of asking you for your love, of asking you to become my wife?'

He had spoken hastily, and with apparent trepidation, as if his feelings were not altogether under his control.

Looking up as he uttered the last word, she exclaimed with a passionate sob—

'Oh, John, forgive me. It cannot be. I cannot love you, excepting as a dear, dear, good true friend.'

'So ends my dream,' he said, with a deep sigh that told only too well how his heart had rent. Then rising, he crossed to her, and laying his hand on her head as if in blessing, he said: 'I will always be your good and true friend; and never again will I ask you to let me be any- | | 273 thing else. I will leave you to compose yourself, my dear, for the dinner-bell will ring soon.'

He had controlled himself now with a mighty effort, and he waited a few moments to see if she would make reply, or stay him from going ; but she did not raise her head even to look at him, and her only utterances were sobs. So he went forth from the room a changed man.

It was a merry and jovial party that sat down that Christmas night to partake of the hospitality of the 'Raven's Nest.' But at the festive board was a skeleton, though only two persons saw it. Those two were John Gyde and his ward, Dorothy Lindmark. She was slightly paler than usual, and her face wore an expression of anxiety. He was, as he ever was, the hospitable host, the courtly gentleman, with ready wit and keen anticipatory attention to the wants of his guests. Alas, how little did those guests dream that these two people felt that the festivities were a mockery so long as the skeleton was there confronting them!

So sped the night away with jest and song. The holly glistened on the wall, and beneath the laughing mistletoe many a bearded face touched ruby lips. But silence at last reigned throughout the house. The guests had gone to their rooms, and all was quiet where laughter a little while ago had made the rafters ring. John Gyde had not yet retired, but feeling lonely and sad he had betaken himself to his snug little sanctum that he was fond of calling his study ; where, in dressing-gown and slippers, he had ensconced himself in his great easy chair wheeled before the fire. He had lit a cigar, but it had been a mechanical act, and, with his elbow resting on the arm of the chair and his hand supporting his head, he was gazing dreamily into the glowing embers, and his other arm, with the cigar between the long white fingers, hung listlessly over the other side of the chair.

Never before had Doll gone to bed without first coming to wish him good-night, but this night she had suddenly disappeared without word or sign to him ; and subsequently, on making inquiries, he was informed that she had com- | | 274 plained of a violent headache, and had retired much earlier than usual.

'Ah, poor child,' he thought, ' I have done her a wrong in speaking of love. I ought to have known that she did not love me, and should have kept my love an inviolable secret. Poor Doll, how bright your life should be could I order it as I could wish ! It is eight years ago since your father died, and the trust he placed in my hands, as he spoke from the brink of the grave, I have held as something sacred, and have humbly tried to do my duty. Dear old Lindmark, well do I remember your strange words on that memorable Christmas night—" Dying, I bequeath to you a precious legacy--my daughter ; and between dead lips I pledge you and her ! " I wonder, if your poor dead lips could speak to-night, if they would praise or blame me.'

Thus John Gyde ruminated, and as the last thought passed through his brain he was suddenly startled into vigilance by a strange sound. It was a metallic sound like the falling of an iron bar, and it echoed hollow and strangely through the silent house. Now, Gyde was not a superstitious man. He was too intelligent and strong-minded for that ; but for the moment that sound begat a feeling in him that had had no counterpart during his whole life, a feeling, no doubt, that was consequent on his then frame of mind, for, coming coincident with the memory of his dead friend, it was strange. But he was not the man to accept effects without trying to learn something of causes ; and if superstition did for the single instant touch him, he had soon shaken it off, and, flinging his scarcely burnt cigar into the grate, he rose and listened.

In order to make what followed more intelligible to the reader it is necessary to briefly describe the ground plan of the house.

The main entrance was by a large old-fashioned porch reached by a flight of stone steps from the carriage drive. From the porch a massive oaken door gave entrance to the hall, which was a spacious passage with rooms on either side, one of these rooms nearest the entrance being john's | | 275 snuggery, the window of which looked over the lawn and the river. The main staircase led up from the hall. This staircase, which was of dark polished oak, was guarded by massive carved balustrades, and the lower pilaster was surmounted by a griffin rampant, its fore paws resting on a shield, this being the coat of arms of the Gyde family—their motto, 'Animo, non astutia.' The head of the first flight of stairs was ornamented by beautifully arranged plants, that were backed by an exquisite stained-glass window. This landing and window, of course, faced anyone entering the house. As a precaution against any contingency that might arise the master of ' Raven's Nest ' insisted upon a light being kept burning all night on this landing, and it was the duty of the butler, the last thing after the gas was turned out in the house, to place a small lamp in a niche in the wall at right angles with the stained-glass window, and the lamp was so placed on this particular night. Between the stair and the wall, the passage necessarily contracted to narrower limits, ran the full length of the house, then turned sharply to the left, descended a flight of steps to the basement, where a door gave egress to the grounds. This door at night was not only securely bolted by two large bolts, one at the top and one at the bottom, but a massive iron bar, working on a centre swivel, rendered it more secure. This bar, if it was unfastened carelessly and allowed to swing by its own weight on its swivel, always made a rattling noise. Of course, Gyde was acquainted with this fact, and as he stood he instantly solved the mystery of the sound that had startled him—it was the falling bar that had made it. The bar being moved at that time of night indicated something wrong, he thought, and by one of those strong instincts, or promptings, that come to men in supreme moments, Gyde turned down his own lamp, drew back the heavy tapestry curtains that screened the bay window of the room, and, stepping into the recess, he lifted one of the laths of the venetian blind and peered out, and by the weird light of the stars he saw | | 276 what he believed to be the figure of a man creeping along the lawn towards the shrubbery at the back of the house.

John was quick to act. He stepped back, drew the curtain again, touched the bell-pull that communicated with the butler's sleeping-room, opened a drawer in his desk, and took therefrom a revolver that he always kept loaded as a precautionary measure against midnight intruders, for he held the good old-fashioned faith that an Englishman's house is his castle, and that he has a right to defend it. Thus armed, he quietly opened the door of his study and stepped into the hall, and as he did so he started again, and back came that feeling of—shall I say superstition ?—for there on the landing, thrown into strong relief by the green plants and the stained window, was a white shrouded figure.. It seemed to wave an arm to him, and then suddenly disappeared.

'What is this mystery ?' he thought. 'Can it be possible for the dead to come back ?' He stood irresolute. What man would not under such circumstances ? But the feeling went as quickly as it came, and he was the strong, bold man again, for he fancied he heard somebody moving at the bottom of the passage.

Grasping his revolver firmly and making but little noise with his slippered feet, he hurried in the direction, and when he reached the angle, already spoken of, the cold blast of air that came up told him plainly that the door below was open.

'So ; burglars ! ' he thought.

He hurried down the flight of steps. The door was open, and the rush of keen frosty air made him shiver. He stood and listened. It was strange how silent every-thing was. His heart throbbed and he heard it, and out-side the leaves rustled like the sweep of wings. Then came another sound ; it was a footstep on the gravel he was sure. John stepped boldly out and cried, ` Who is there ?' There was no answer, unless the night wind sighing in the leaves with ghostly moan answered. Gyde passed through the shrubbery, and got a full view of the lawn, and | | 277 his eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, saw a figure near the ivy-clad elm tree.

'Who are you ? If you are a stranger, you are trespassing on my grounds ; stop, or I'll fire,' Gyde shouted.

But the figure did not answer, and did not seem to stop, so Gyde levelled his weapon, and cried, ' If you value your life, stop ! '

Suddenly the figure was lost in the shadow thrown by the trunk of the tree, and then, with the intention of inducing a wholesome fear of his authority in the breast of the trespasser, Gyde fired towards the tree. Instantly a piercing scream rose on the night wind—it was the scream of a woman. With an awful, sickening fear in his breast, John rushed forward. He saw a man speed away across the lawn to the river, and he saw the huddled-up form of a woman lying at the foot of the tree. He stooped down and raised her. Then, with a passionate wail of pitiful pain, he exclaimed—' God forgive me ! It's Doll !'