Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Internet Archive
https://archive.org/details/fordefense00humeiala
(University of California Libraries)
Front_Cover
CONTENTS |
| CHAPTER | |
| I. | THE MAJOR AND HIS HOUSEHOLD. |
| II. | THE ASHANTEE DEVIL-STICK. |
| III. | DIDO. |
| IV. | VOODOO! VOODOO! |
| V. | DR. ETWALD'S WARNING. |
| VI. | A STRANGE OCCURRENCE. |
| VII. | THE RIVALS. |
| VIII. | A CRY IN THE NIGHT. |
| IX. | AFTER THE DEED. |
| X. | FURTHER MYSTERY. |
| XI. | MAJOR JEN, DETECTIVE. |
| XII. | THE STRANGE PERFUME. |
| XIII. | ISABELLA. |
| XIV. | LADY MEG. |
| XV. | CROSS-EXAMINATION. |
| XVI. | THE EVIDENCE OF JAGGARD. |
| XVII. | THE STORY OF THE NIGHT. |
| XVIII. | THE DEVIL-STICK THIEF. |
| XIX. | FURTHER EVIDENCE. |
| XX. | A STRANGE REQUEST. |
| XXI. | A NINE DAY'S WONDER. |
| XXII. | FOR THE DEFENSE, |
| XXIII. | THE RESULT OF THE TRIAL. |
| XXIV. | A FINAL SURPRISE. |
| XXV. | THREE LETTERS. |
FOR THE DEFENCE
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF
"MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "HARLEQUIN OPAL," ETC.
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
Copyright 1897, by Fergus Hume.
Copyright, 1898, by Rand McNally & Co.
FOR THE DEFENCE.
THE MAJOR AND HIS HOUSEHOLD.
Laurence Jen was a retired major, a bachelor, and the proprietor of a small estate at Hurstleigh, in Surrey. On leaving the service, he decided--not unwisely--that it was better to be a Triton in the country than a minnow in town; and acting upon this theory he purchased "Ashantee" from a ruined squire. Formerly the place had been called Sarbylands, after its original owners; but Jen had changed the name, in honor of the one campaign in which he had participated.
He had been present at the downfall of King Koffee; he had contracted during the expedition an ague which tormented him greatly during his later life, and he had received a wound and a medal. In gratitude, it is to be presumed, for these gifts of fortune, the major, with some irony, had converted the name Sarbylands into the barbaric appellation of a West African kingdom; and here, for many years, he lived with his two boys.
These lads, named respectively Maurice Alymer and David Sarby, were in no way related to the major, who, as has been stated before, was a bachelor; but they had entered into his life in rather an odd fashion. Alymer was the son of a beautiful girl with whom Jen had been passionately in love, but she did not return his affection, and married one of his brother officers, who was afterward killed in the Ashantee war. On returning to England Jen cherished a hope that she would reward his love by a second marriage, but the shock of her husband's death proved too much for the fragile widow. She died within a week after receiving the terrible news, and left behind her a wailing infant, which was consigned to the cold charity of indifferent relatives.
It was then that the major displayed the goodness of his heart and the nobility of his character. Forgetting his own sorrows, he obtained permission from the relatives to adopt the child, and to take charge of the trifle of property coming to the lad. Then he bought Sarbylands; set estate and house in order under the name "Ashantee," and devoted his life to cherishing and training the lad, in whose blue eyes he saw a look of his dead love. This Platonic affection begotten by the deathless memory of the one passion of his life, filled his existence completely and rendered him entirely happy.
With regard to David Sarby, he had passed with the estate to Jen. The boy's father, a libertine, a drunkard and a confirmed gambler, had been forced, through his vices, to sell his ancestral home; and within a year of the sale he had dissipated the purchase money in debauchery. Afterward, like the sordid and pitiful coward he had always proved himself to be, he committed suicide, leaving his only son, whose mother had long since been worried into her grave, a pauper and an orphan.
The collateral branches of the old Sarby family had died out; the relatives on the mother's side refused to have anything to do with a child who, if heredity went for anything, might prove to be a chip of the old block; and little David might have found himself thrown on the parish, but that Major Jen, pitying the forlorn condition of the child, saved him from so ignominious a fate. His heart and his house were large enough to receive another pensioner, so he took David back to the old deserted mansion, and presented him to Maurice as a new playfellow. Henceforth the two boys grew to manhood under the devoted care of the cheerful old bachelor, who had protected their helpless infancy.
The major was fairly well-to-do, having, besides his pension, considerable private property, and he determined in the goodness of his heart, that "the boys," as he fondly called them, should have every advantage in starting life. He sent them both to Harrow, and when they left that school, he called upon them to choose their professions. Maurice, more of an athlete than a scholar, selected the army, and the delighted major, who highly approved of his choice, entered him at Sandhurst. Of a more reflective nature and studious mind, David wished to become a lawyer, with a possible idea of ending as Lord Chancellor; and accordingly his guardian sent him to Oxford.
Both lads proved themselves worthy of Jen's goodness, and were soon in active exercise of the professions which they had chosen. Maurice joined a cavalry regiment and David was admitted to the bar. Then the major was thankful. His boys were provided for, and it only remained that each should marry some charming girl, and bring their families to gladden an old bachelor's heart at "Ashantee." The major had many day dreams of this sort; but alas! they were destined never to be fulfilled. In the summer of '95 Fate began her work of casting into dire confusion the hitherto placid lives of the two young men.
Frequently the young barrister and the soldier came to visit their guardian, for whom they both cherished a deep affection. On the occasion of each visit Jen was accustomed to celebrate their presence by a small festival, to which he would ask two or three friends. With simple craft, the old man would invite also pretty girls, with their mothers; in the hope that his lads might be lured into matrimony.
The major, owing to circumstances heretofore related, was a confirmed bachelor, but he did not intend that his boys should follow so bad an example. He wished Maurice to marry Miss Isabella Dallas, a charming blonde from the West Indies; and David he designed as the husband of Lady Meg Brance, daughter of Lord Seamere. But Jen was mistaken in thinking that he could guide the erratic affections of youth, as will hereafter be proved. Sure enough, the lads fell in love, but both with the same woman, a state of things not anticipated by the major, who was too simple to be a matchmaker.
On this special occasion, however, no ladies were present at the little dinner, and besides Jen and his two boys. Dr. Etwald was the only guest. About this man with the strange name there is something to be said.
He was tall, he was thin, with a dark, lean face, and fiery watchful dark eyes. For three years he had been wasting his talents in the neighboring town of Deanminster; when, if intellect were in question, he should have been shouldering his way above the crowd of mediocrities in London. The man was dispassionate, brilliant and persevering; he had in him the makings not only of a great physician, but of a great man; and he was wasting his gifts in a dull provincial town. He was unpopular in Deanminster, owing to the absence of what is termed "a good bedside manner," and the invalids of the cathedral city and Hurstleigh, for he had patients in both places, resented his brusque ways and avoidance of their scandal-mongering tea parties. Also he was a mystery; than which there can be no greater sin in provincial eyes. No one knew who Etwald was, or whence he came, or why he wasted his talents in the desert of Deanminster; and such secret past which he declined to yield up to the most persistent questioner, accentuated the distrust caused by his sombre looks and curt speeches. Provincial society is intolerant of originality.
Etwald had become acquainted with Jen professionally, and having cured the major of one of his frequent attacks of ague, he had passed from being a mere medical attendant into the closer relationship of a friend. The boys had met him once or twice, but neither of them cared much for his sombre personality, and they were not overpleased to find that the major had invited the man to meet them on the occasion of this special dinner.
But Jen, good, simple soul, was rather taken with Etwald's mysticism, and, moreover, pitied his loneliness. Therefore he welcomed this intellectual pariah to his house and board; and on this fine June evening Etwald was enjoying an excellent dinner in the company of three cheerful companions.
Outside, the peaceful landscape was filled with a warm amber light, and this poured into the oak-paneled dining-room through three French windows which opened onto a close-shaven lawn. Dinner was at an end; Jaggard, the major's valet, butler and general factotum, had placed the wines before his master, and was now handing around cigars and cigarettes. All being concluded to his satisfaction--no easy attainment, for Jaggard, trained in military fashion, was very precise--he departed, closing the door after him. The warm light of the evening flashed on the polished table--Major Jen was sufficiently old-fashioned to have the cloth removed for desert--and lighted up the four faces around it with pale splendor. This quartette of countenances is not unworthy of a detailed description.
Major Jen's calls for least. His face was round and red, with a terrific blonde mustache fiercely curled. He had merry blue eyes, sparse hair, more than touched with gray, and an expression of good-humor which was the index to his character. Man, woman and child trusted Jen on the spot, nor was it ever said that such trust was misplaced. Even the most censorious could find no fault with the frank and kindly major, and he had more friends and more pensioners and fewer enemies than any man in the shire. Can any further explanation be required of so simple and easily understood a character?
Lieutenant Maurice Alymer was also blonde, and also had blue eyes and a jaunty mustache, somewhat smaller than his senior's. His hair was yellow and curly, his features were boldly cut, and his six foot of flesh and muscle was straight and lithe. Athlete was stamped strongly on his appearance, and if not clever, he was at least sufficiently good-looking and good-natured to make him almost as popular as the major. Jen always maintained that Maurice was the living image of himself when a dashing young officer, out in Ashantee; but as the good major was considerably under the middle height and Maurice considerably over it, this statement must be accepted with some reserve. It passed as one of Jen's jokes, for a mild quality of which he was noted.
The other two men had dark and strong faces, which differed entirely from the Saxon simplicity and good looks of the major and Maurice. David was clean-shaven and almost as swart as Etwald, and his expression was that of a being with powerful passions, held in check by sheer force of will. He was broad and strongly built; and his smooth black hair, parted in the middle, was brushed carefully from a bold and rather protuberant forehead. The young barrister was somewhat of a dandy, but no one who once looked at his face thought of his dress affectations or dapper appearance. They saw intellect, pride and resolute will stamped upon the pale countenance. Men with such faces end usually in greatness; and it seemed unlikely that David Sarby, barrister and ambitious youth, would prove an exception to the rule.
Lastly Etwald. It is difficult to describe the indescribable. He was austere in face, like Dante, with hollow cheeks, and a pallid hue which told of midnight studies. If he had passions, they could not be discerned in his features. Eye and mouth and general expression were like a mask. What actually lay behind that mask no one ever knew, for it was never off. His slightly hollow chest, his lean and nervous hands, and a shock of rather long, curling hair, tossed from a high forehead, gave Etwald the air of a student. But there was something sinister and menacing in his regard. He looked dangerous and more than a trifle uncanny. Physically, mentally, morally he was an enigma to the bovine inhabitants of Deanminster and Hurstleigh.
Major Jen sustained the burden of conversation, for Maurice was absent-minded, and David, physiognomically inclined, was silently attempting to read the inscrutable countenance of Etwald. As for this latter, he sat smoking, with his brilliant eyes steadily fixed upon Maurice. The young man felt uneasy under the mesmeric gaze of the doctor, and kept twisting and turning in his seat. Finally he broke out impatiently in the midst of the major's babble, and asked Etwald a direct question.
"Does my face remind you of anyone?" he demanded rather sharply.
"Yes, Mr. Alymer," replied Etwald, deliberately, "it reminds me of a man who died."
"Dear me!" said Jen, with a sympathetic look.
"Was he a friend of yours, doctor?"
"Well, no, major, I can't say that he was. In fact," added Etwald, with the air of a man making a simple statement, "I hated him!"
"I hope you don't hate me?" said Maurice, rather annoyed.
"No, Mr. Alymer, I don't hate you," replied the doctor, in a colorless tone. "Do you believe in palmistry?" he asked, suddenly.
"No!" said Maurice, promptly,
"All rubbish!" added the major, selecting a fresh cigar.
"What do you say, Mr. Sarby?" asked Etwald, turning to the lawyer.
"I am a skeptic, also," said David, with a laugh. "And you?"
"I am a believer."
Here Etwald rose and crossed over to where Maurice was sitting. The young man, guessing his errand, held out his left hand with a smile. Etwald scrutinized it closely, and returned to his seat.
"Life in death!" he said calmly. "Read that riddle, Mr. Alymer. Life in death."
THE ASHANTEE DEVIL-STICK.
"Life in death!" repeated Maurice, in puzzled tones. "And what do you mean by that mystical jargon, doctor?"
"Ah, my friend, there comes in the riddle."
"Paralysis?" suggested David, in a jesting manner, but with some seriousness.
"No; that is not the answer."
"Catalepsy?" guessed Major Jen, giving his mustache a nervous twist.
"Nor that, either."
Maurice, whose nerves were proof against such fantasies, laughed disbelievingly.
"I don't believe you know the answer to your own riddle," he said calmly.
Etwald shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know for certain, Mr. Alymer, but I can guess."
"Tell us your guess, doctor; as it interests me so nearly, I have a right to know."
"Bad news comes quickly enough in the telling," said the doctor, judicially, "so I shall say nothing more. Life in death is your fate, Mr. Alymer; unless," he added, with a swift and penetrating glance, "you choose to avert the calamity."
"Can I do so?"
"Yes, and in an easy manner. Never get married."
Maurice flushed crimson, and, resenting the mocking tone of Etwald, half rose from his seat; but without moving a finger, Etwald continued in a cold tone:
"You are in love with a young lady, and you wish to marry her!"
"Quite right, quite right!" broke in Major Jen, heartily. "I want Maurice to marry."
"Then you want him to meet his fate of life in death!" said Etwald, curtly.
The others stared at him, and with the skepticism of thoroughly healthy minds refused to attach much importance to Etwald's mysticism. Jen was the first to speak, and he did so in rather a stiff way, quite different from his usual jovial style of conversation.
"My dear Etwald, if I did not know you so well, I should take you for a charlatan."
"I am no charlatan, major," rejoined Etwald, coolly. "I ask no money for my performance."
"So it is a performance, after all?" said David, carelessly.
"If you choose to call it so. Only I repeat my warning to Mr. Alymer. Never get married."
Maurice laughed.
"I am afraid it is too late for me to take your advice, doctor," he said, merrily. "I am in love."
"I know you are, and I admire your taste."
"Pardon me, doctor," said Maurice, stiffly. "I mention no names."
"Neither do I, but I think of one name, my friend."
Here David, who had been fidgeting with his cigar, broke in impatiently.
"Now you are making a mystery out of a plain, common-sense question," he said, irritably. "We all know that Maurice is in love," here he raised his eyes suddenly, and looked keenly at his friend, "with Lady Meg Brance."
Major Jen chuckled and rubbed his hands together in a satisfied manner. Etwald bent his sombre looks on Maurice, and that young man, biting his lip, took up the implied challenge in Sarby's remark, and answered plainly:
"I am not in love with Lady Meg, my dear fellow," said he, sharply; "but if you must know, I admire"--this with emphasis--"Miss Dallas."
The brow of Sarby grew black, and in his turn he rose to his feet.
"I am glad to hear it is only 'admire,'" he remarked, slowly, "for had the word been any other I should have resented it."
"You! And upon what grounds?" cried Alymer, flushing out in a rage.
"That is my business."
"And mine, too," said Maurice, hotly. "Isabella is--"
"I forbid you to call Miss Dallas by that name," declared David, in an overbearing manner.
"You--you--you forbid me!"
"Come, come, boys!" said Jen, annoyed at this scene between two hot-headed young men, who were not yet gifted with the self-restraint of experience.
"Don't talk like this. You are at my table. There is a stranger" (here he bowed ceremoniously to Etwald) "or shall I say a friend, present!"
"Say a friend," observed Etwald, calmly, "although I am about to say that which may cause these two young gentlemen to look upon me as an enemy."
"What do you mean?" asked Maurice, turning his still frowning face toward this strange and enigmatic man.
"What I say, Mr. Alymer! You--admire Miss Dallas?"
"Why bring her name into the question? Yes, I admire Miss Dallas."
"And you, Mr. Sarby, I can tell from your attitude, from your look; you love Miss Dallas."
David was taken aback by this strange speaking.
"Yes. I--I--I do love Miss Dallas."
"I guessed as much," resumed Etwald, with a cold smile. "Now, it is strange--"
"It is strange that a lady's name should be thus introduced," said Jen, annoyed at the tone of the conversation. "Let us drop the subject. Another cigar, Maurice. David, the wine is with you. Dr. Etwald--"
"One moment, major. I wish we three to understand one another"--here the doctor hesitated, then went on in an impressive voice--"about Miss Dallas!"
"Why do you speak of her?" asked Maurice, fiercely, while David looked loweringly at Etwald.
"Because I love her!"
"You love her!"
The two young men burst out simultaneously with the speech in tones of sheer astonishment, and stared at Etwald as at some strangle animal. That this elderly man--Etwald was midway between thirty and forty, but that looked elderly to these boys of twenty-five--should dare to love Isabella Dallas, was a thing unheard of. She so young, so beautiful, so full of divine youth and diviner womanhood; he so sombre, pale and worn with intellectual vigils; with a mysterious past, a doubtful present and a problematic future.
Maurice and David, divided one against the other by their passion for the same woman, united in a feeling of rage and contempt against this interloper, who dared to make a third in their worship of Isabella. They looked at Etwald, they looked at one another, and finally both began to laugh. Jen frowned at the sound of their mirth, but Etwald, in nowise discomposed, sat unsmiling in his seat waiting for further developments.
"Oh, it is too absurd!" said Maurice, resuming his seat.
"Why?"
Etwald put the question with the greatest calmness, stared steadily at the young man, and waited for the reply, which he knew would be difficult to make.
"Oh, because--because--"
"Never mind explaining, Mr. Alymer. I can guess your objection. I am too old, too plain, too poor for this charming young lady. You, on the contrary, are young, passing well off, and handsome--all the gifts of fortune are on your side. Decidedly," added the doctor, "you hold the best hand. Well, we shall see who will win this game--as we may call it."
"And what about me?" said David. "You forget that I am a third player. Come, Etwald, you have prophesied about Maurice; now read my fate."
"No," said Etwald, rising. "We have talked long enough on this subject. It is plain that we three men are in love with the same woman. You can't blame me, nor I you. Miss Dallas is a sufficiently beautiful excuse for our madness. I spoke out simply because I want you both to understand the position. You are warned, and we can now do battle for the smiles of this charming lady. Let the best man win!"
"Nothing could be fairer than that," said Jen, quickly; "but I agree with you, doctor, that the subject has been sufficiently discussed; but, indeed, if you will pardon me saying so, it should have never been begun. Let us go to the smoking-room."
Thither the three young men went in the wake of the major. It was a comfortable room, with one wide window, which at the present moment was open. Outside, the light of the newly-risen moon bathed lawn and trees and flowers in a flood of cold silver; and the warm radiance of the lamp poured out rays of gold into the wonderful white world without. The three men sat down in comfortable chairs, and the major went to get out a particular brand of cigars which he offered to favored guests.
Self-contained as ever, Etwald looked up at the wall near him, and seemed to be considering a decoration of savage arms, which looked barbaric and wild, between two oil-paintings. When Jen came back with the cigars, his gaze followed that of his guest, and he made a remark about the weapons.
"All those came from Ashantee and the West Coast of Africa," said he, touching a vicious-looking axe. "This is a sacrificial axe; this murderous looking blade is the sword of the executioner of King Koffee; and this," here he laid his fingers lightly upon a slender stick of green wood, with a golden top set roughly with large turquoise stones, "is a poison-wand!"
"A poison-wand!" echoed Etwald, a sudden light showing in his cold eyes. "I never heard of such a thing."
David, who was watching him, felt an instinctive feeling that Etwald was telling a lie. He saw that the man could hardly keep his seat for his eagerness to examine and handle the strange weapon. However, he said nothing, but watched and watched, when Maurice made a remark about the stick.
"Oh, that is Uncle Jen's greatest treasure," he said, smiling. "He can tell twenty stories about that innocent-looking cane."
"Innocent-looking!" echoed Jen, taking down the green wand. "How can you say such a thing? Look here, Etwald," and he laid the stick on the table. "No, don't touch it, man," he added, hastily, "there is plenty of venom in it yet. 'Tis as dangerous as a snake bite. If you touch this slender iron spike projecting from the end, you die!"
Again David noted that the tigerish light leaped up in the eyes of Etwald, but he had sufficient control of his features to preserve a look of courteous curiosity. He carefully handled and examined the instrument of death.
It was a little over a foot long, of a hard-looking green wood; the handle of gold was coarsely molded in a barbaric fashion round the turquoise stones, and these, of all hues, from green to the palest of blue, were imbedded like lumps of quartz in the rough gold. Round this strange implement there lingered a rich and heavy perfume, sickly and sensuous.
"See here!" said Jen, pressing or rather squeezing the handle. "I tighten my grip upon this, and the sting of the serpent shows itself!" Whereupon Etwald glanced at the end of the wood and saw a tiny needle of iron push itself out. When Jen relaxed his pressure on the gold handle, this iron tongue slipped back and disappeared entirely.
"I got this at Kumassie," explained Jen, when he had fully exhibited the gruesome mechanism of the devil-stick. "It belonged to the high priest. Whenever he or the king disliked any man who was too powerful to be openly slain, they used this wand. What excuse they made I don't know, but I suppose it had something to do with fetish worship. However, the slightest touch of this needle produces death."
"It is poisoned at the tip?"
"Not exactly. The needle within is hollow, and a store of poison is contained in the handle up here. When squeezed these turquoise stones press a bag within and the poison runs down to the point of the needle. In fact, the whole infernal contrivance is modeled upon a serpent's fang."
"But it is quite harmless now," said David, as Jen replaced the wand in its old place on the wall. "Else you wouldn't have it there."
"Well, no doubt the poison has dried up," said Jen, with a nod. "All the same, I shouldn't like to prick myself with that needle. I might die," finished the major, with the naive simplicity of a child.
"You may break, you may shatter the vase as you will,
But the scent of the roses will cling round it still"--
quoted Maurice, with a laugh. "No doubt the devil-stick can still do harm. Ugh! What a gruesome idea. I'd remove it from so conspicuous a position if I were you, Uncle Jen; someone might come to grief over it."
"Rubbish, my boy. It has been hanging on the wall for years, and has never hurt anyone yet!"
Etwald said nothing. With his eyes fixed upon the devil-stick, he meditated deeply. The barrister, whose belief was that Etwald knew more about the wand than he chose to say, watched him closely. He noticed that the doctor eyed the stick, then, after a pause, let his gaze wander to the face of Maurice. Another pause, and he was looking at David, who received the fire of this strange man's eyes without blanching.
There was something so mesmeric in the gaze that David felt uncomfortable and as though he were enveloped in an evil atmosphere. To his surprise he found that his eyes also were attracted to the devil-stick, and a longing to handle it began to possess him. Clearly Etwald was trying to hypnotize him for some evil purpose. By an effort of will David broke through these nightmare chains and rose to his feet. The next moment he was in the open air, in the cold moonlight, breathing hard and fast.
Within, Maurice and the major were talking gaily, and the sound of their voices and laughter came clearly to the ears of David. But silent in his deep chair sat Etwald, and the burning glance of his eyes seemed to beam menacingly through the air and compel the young man to evil thoughts. David looked at Etwald, dark and voiceless; and over his head, in the yellow lamplight, he saw the glittering golden handle of the devil-stick.
DIDO.
Some little distance from the major's abode stood a long, low rambling house on a slight rise. Surrounded by deep verandas, it was placed in the middle of emerald green lawns, smoothly clipped; and these, lower down, were girdled by a belt of ash and sycamores and poplars, which shut out the house from the high road.
The mansion, with its flat roof and wide verandas, had a tropical look, and indeed it had been built by a retired Indian nabob at the beginning of this century. When he died the house had been sold, and now it was occupied by Mrs. Dallas, who leased it because of its suggestion of tropical habitation. She came from the West Indies, and had lived in "The Wigwam," as the house was called, for over ten years.
Mrs. Dallas was a large, fat and eminently lazy woman, who passed most of her time in knitting or sleeping or eating. Her husband had died before she had come to England, and it was the desire to preserve her daughter's health which had brought her so far from the sun-baked islands which her soul loved.
Her languid Creole nature and lethargic habits were unsuited to brisk, practical England, and she hated the gray skies, the frequent absence of sunlight and the lack of rich and sensuous coloring. Often she threatened to return to Barbadoes, but she was too lazy to make the effort of again settling herself in life. With all her longings for the fairy islands of the West, it seemed as though she would end her days in gray and misty England. But she was out of place in this northern land, and so was Dido.
This latter was a tall and massively framed negro woman, with very little of the traditional merry nature of the black about her. She looked rather like a priestess, with her stern face and stately mien; and, indeed, in the West Indies, it was known among the negroes that Dido was high in power among the votaries of Obi. She could charm, she could slay by means of vegetable poisons, and she could--as the negroes firmly believed--cause a human being to dwindle, peak and pine, by means of incantations.
This black Canidia had left a terrible reputation behind her in Barbadoes; and though in skeptical England her powers were unknown, and if they had been made manifest, would have been flouted at, yet her looks, the tragic tones of her voice, inspired the white servants of Mrs. Dallas with distrust. Dido was not a favorite in the servants' part of The Wigwam, but for this unpopularity she cared little, being devoted to Isabella Dallas. She adored her nursling.
The girl was about twenty years of age, tall and straight, with dark hair and darker eyes, with a mouth veritably like Cupid's bow, and a figure matchless in contour. With her rich southern coloring and passionate temperament--she was of Irish blood on the paternal side--Miss Dallas looked more like an Andalusian lady than a native of the English-speaking race. She had all the sensuous loveliness of a Creole woman; and bloomed like a rich tropical flower with poison in its perfume amid the English briar roses of Surrey maidenhood.
If Mrs. Dallas was a bore--and her friends said she was--the daughter was divine, and many young men came to The Wigwam to be spellbound by her dark beauty. More men than the three who had dined at "Ashantee" were in love with Isabella.
Upon her Dido exercised a powerful, and it must be confessed, malignant influence. She had fed the quick brain of the girl with weird tales of African witchcraft and fanciful notions of terrestrial and sidereal influences. Isabella's nature was warped by this domestic necromancy, and had she continued to dwell in the West Indies, she might almost have become a witch herself. Certainly Dido did her best to make her one, and taught her nursling spells and incantations, to which the girl would listen fearfully, half-believing, half-doubting. But her residence in England, her contact with practical English folk, with the sunny side of life, saved her from falling into the terrible abyss of African superstition; and how terrible it is only the initiated can declare. It only needed that she should be removed from the bad influence of the barbaric Sybil to render her nature healthy and fill her life with pleasure.
But Dido was like a upas tree, and the moral atmosphere with which she surrounded Isabella was slowly but surely making the girl morbid and unnatural. Mrs. Dallas, versed in the negro character, half-guessed this, but she was too indolent to have Dido removed. Moreover, strange as it may appear, she was more than a trifle afraid of the negress and her unholy arts.
Maurice had met with and had fallen in love with Isabella, and she returned his affection with all the ardor of her passionate nature. His handsome and frank face, his sunny nature and optimistic ideas appealed strongly to the girl who had been environed from her earliest infancy by the pessimism of Dido.
Maurice saw well how Isabella had deteriorated under the bad influence of the negress, and he did his best to counteract her insidious morality and morbid teachings. He laughed at Isabella's stories and superstitions, and succeeded in making her ashamed of her weakness in placing faith in such degraded rubbish. While with him Isabella was a bright and laughing girl; quite another sort of being to the grave and nervous creature she was while in the presence of Dido. She felt that if she married Maurice his bright strong nature would save her from a lamentable and melancholy existence; and as all her affections and instincts inclined to the young man, she hoped to become his wife.
Dido saw her thoughts, and hating Maurice as one who scoffed at Obi, she did her best to put evil ideas in the girl's head concerning the young man. But as yet she had failed to sow dissension between the lovers.
On the day after the major's dinner party, Isabella was sitting in the veranda with a book open on her lap and Dido standing gravely near her. Mrs. Dallas, in the cool depths of the drawing-room, was indulging in an after-luncheon siesta. The sunlight poured itself over the velvet lawns, drew forth the perfumes from the flower-beds, and made the earth languorous with heat.
In the veranda all was cool and restful and pleasingly silent. Isabella, in her white dress, looked beautiful and pensive; while Dido, in a reddish-hued robe, with a crimson 'kerchief twisted round her stately head, gleamed in the semi-gloom like some gorgeous tropical bird astray in our northern climes. Both mistress and maid were silent.
It was Dido who spoke first. She noticed that the eyes of her mistress constantly strayed in the direction of "Ashantee," and with the jealousy begotten of deep affection, she guessed that the girl's thoughts were fixed upon the much-hated Maurice. At once she spoke reproachfully, and in the grotesque negro dialect, which, however, coming from Dido's mouth, inspired no one with merriment.
"Aha, missy," said she, in deep, guttural tones, "you tink ob dat yaller-ha'r'd man!"
"Maurice! Yes, I am thinking about him; and you know why."
Dido's fierce black eyes flashed out a gleam of rage, and she cursed Maurice audibly in some barbaric tongue which Isabella seemed to understand. At all events she interrupted the woman's speech with an imperious gesture.
"No more of that. Dido. You know that I love Maurice; I wish to marry him. Why are you so bitter against him?"
"He take you from me."
"Well, if I marry anyone the same thing will happen," responded Isabella, lightly; "and surely. Dido; you do not want me to remain a spinster all my life."
"No, missy, no. You marry, an' ole Dido am berry pleased. But dat yaller-ha'r'd man, I no like him; if he marry you, he take you away. He a fool--a big fool!"
"Oh, you say that because he does not believe in Obi or Voodoo!"
Dido threw up one dark hand with an ejaculation.
"Not in de sunlight; dose am de names for de darkness, honey. In de night dey--"
"No, no!" cried Isabella, with a shudder. "Don't tell me any more of those horrible things."
"Aha, dat de yaller-ha'r who makes you fear!" cried Dido, bitterly. "He hate Obi an' me. He will not marry you, missy!"
"Yes he will; we are engaged."
"Your mudder, she say no!"
"Nonsense! She likes Maurice herself," replied Isabella, uneasily. "Maurice wants our engagement kept quiet for the present, but when I do tell Major Jen and my mother, I am sure neither of them will object."
"H'm, we see, missy, we see," said Dido, darkly. "But why you marry dis man I no like?"
"Because I marry to please myself, not you," said Isabella, sharply. "Oh, I know your thoughts, Dido; you would like me to marry David Sarby. The idea; as if he can compare with Maurice!"
"Wrong, missy. I no wish dat man."
"Then Dr. Etwald--that horrid, gloomy creature!"
"Him great man!" said Dido, solemnly. "Him berry--berry great!"
"I don't think so," retorted Isabella, rising. "Of course, I know that he is clever, but as to being great, he isn't known beyond this place." She walked to the end of the veranda, and stood for a moment in the glare of the sunshine. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her, and she turned toward the negress.
"Dido, you wouldn't like to see me the wife of Dr. Etwald?"
"Yes, missy. Him berry big great man!"
"But I hate him!"
"Um! He lub you. He told ole Dido so."
"He seems to have been very confidential," said Isabella, scornfully, "and from what I have seen, Dido, he has some influence over you."
"No," said the negress. But while her tongue uttered the denial, her eyes rolled uneasily around the lawn, as though dreading some invisible presence. "No, missy. Dido a great one, you know. She no 'fraid ob dat doctor; but him big man, missy; you marry him."
"No, no, no! I would rather die. I love Maurice."
"You nebber marry him, missy. Nebber, nebber!"
"How do you know?"
"I make de spell. I know. De spell say dat doctor, he marry you!"
This time Isabella burst out into a girlish laugh of genuine amusement.
"The spell seems to know more about me than I do myself," said she, contemptuously. "I don't believe in your spells, Dido. I know from Maurice that they are nonsense!"
"You take care, missy! Obi! dat not nonsense!" said Dido, in a threatening tone.
"What does Dr. Etwald say about it?"
Dido looked sullenly at the fire.
"I no hear him say anytink about Obi," she replied; "but de spell; it say you marry dat man and no de yaller-ha'r."
"Well, Dido, we shall see. And now--"
She never finished what she was about to say, for at that moment Dido stretched out one arm, and uttered one name, "Batt'sea!"
Across the lawn there crept a wizen, gray-haired little man, with a cringing manner. He was white, but darkish in the skin, and there was something negroid about his face. This dwarfish little creature was a tramp, who had become a pensioner of Isabella's. He had attached himself to her like some faithful dog, and rarely failed to present himself at least once a day.
What his real name was nobody knew, but he said that he was called Battersea, after the parish in which he had been reared as a foundling.
Battersea was cringing, dirty, and altogether an unpleasant object to look upon; but Isabella was sorry for the creature, and aided him with food and a trifle of money. It may be here mentioned that Battersea, although he knew nothing of Obi, was terribly afraid of Dido. Perhaps some instinct in the negro blood--for he undoubtedly had something African in his veins--made him fear this unknown priestess of fetish worship.
"Well, Battersea," said Isabella, kindly, "how are you to-day?"
"Very well, lady, very well, indeed. I met Mr. Alymer, and he gave me half a crown."
"That was generous of him. But why?"
"Because I said that a certain lady was--"
"Now, now," laughed Isabella, "no more of that nonsense, Battersea." She turned and ran along the veranda into the house. The tramp and the negress were alone.
"What de doctor say?" asked Dido, in a low-voiced whisper.
"Two words. The devil-stick!"
The negress started and threw up her hands in surprise.
VOODOO! VOODOO!
Evidently there was an understanding between these two strange creatures, and thereby an occult connection with the ideas and doings of Dr. Etwald. What the trio were plotting against Isabella and her lover remains to be seen; but it can be guessed easily that the message of the devil-stick carried by Battersea to Dido was of some significance.
Battersea himself knew nothing of its esoteric meaning, but to the negress the mention of the emblem conveyed a distinct understanding. She let her arms fall listlessly by her side, and, with an unseeing gaze, she stared at the green trees bathed in hot sunshine. After a moment or so she muttered to herself in negro jargon and clenched her hands.
"Baal! the wand of sleep! the bringer of death!"
"What are you saying, Dido?" asked Battersea, his feeble intellect scared by the fierce gestures and the unknown tongue.
"I say deep things which you no understan'. Look at ole Dido, you white man."
Battersea whimpered, and, rubbing one dirty hand over the other, did as he was requested with manifest unwillingness. With an intensity of gaze, Dido glared at him steadily, and swept her hands twice or thrice across his face. In a moment or so the tramp was in a state of catalepsy, and she made use of his spellbound intelligence to gain knowledge. There was something terrible in her infernal powers being thus exercised in the full sunlight, in the incongruous setting of a homely English landscape.
"De debble-stick! Whar is it?"
"In the house of Major Jen. In a little room, on the wall, with swords and axes."
As he said this in a monotonous tone, Dido looked across the tree-tops to where the red roofs of "Ashantee" showed themselves against a blue July sky. She shook her fist at the distant house, and again addressed herself imperiously to Battersea, commanding:
"Tell ole Dido ob de debble-stick."
"It is green, with a handle of gold, and blue stones set into the gold."
Dido bent forward and touched the tramp on his temples.
"See widin dat stick," she muttered, eagerly. "I wish to see."
"There is a bag in the handle," repeated Battersea, with an effort. "Under the bag a long needle;" then after a pause, "the needle is hollow."
"Is dere poison in de bag, white man?"
"No, the poison is dried up."
"Is dere poison in de hollow ob de needle?"
"No," said Battersea again. "The poison is dried up."
At this moment a noise in the house disturbed Dido, and with a pass or two she released Battersea from the hypnotic spell. He started, rubbed his eyes, and looked drowsily at the tall negress, who had resumed her impassive attitude.
"What have you been doing. Dido?" he asked, stupidly.
"Obi!" was the brief reply. "You hab told ole Dido what she wish about de debble-stick."
"The devil-stick," repeated the tramp, in wide-eyed surprise. "S'elp me, I don't know anything of it. Dr. Etwald met me, and ses he: 'You go to Miss Dallas?' and I ses, 'I does;' and he ses, 'You'll see Dido,' and I ses, 'I will;' and he ses, 'Say to her "Devil-stick,"' an' I ses, 'Right y'are, sir.' But es to knowing--"
"Dat nuffin!" said Dido, with a lordly wave of her hand. "I black; you hab de black blood in youse also. I mek you do Obi. Um!"
"What's Obi? What's you torkin of?" asked Battersea, rather nervously. "An' ow does yeou know I hev black blood?"
"Obi say dat to me. Your mudder black."
"Yah!" cried Battersea, derisively. "You're out of it. My mother white; but my father--" here he hesitated, and then resumed: "Yes, you're right. Dido; my father was a negro! A Seedee boy, who was a fireman on a P. and O. liner."
"I hab seen dat," replied Dido, nodding her head. "Black blood in youse, an' I can do Obi on you. I send your spirit to de house of Massa Jen. You tell me ob de debble-stick."
Battersea drew back and began to whimper again.
"I knows es you wor at that devilry," he said, nervously. "When you claps your eyes on me I gets afeard."
"Dat's so. But I take care ob you. Now get to de kitchen; dere am food for you."
The old man's eyes brightened in anticipation of a feast, and he shuffled off round the corner as quickly as his age would allow him. Dido looked after him for a moment, considering the message he had brought from Dr. Etwald, and then began to think of the devil-stick.
She knew very well what it was, for her grandmother had been carried off as a slave from the west coast of Africa, and knew all about Ashantee sorcery and fetish rites. These she had repeated to her granddaughter Dido, with the result that Dido, cherishing these recollections, knew exactly how to use the wand of sleep. She had spoken about it to Dr. Etwald, quite ignorant that Jen kept one as a curiosity, and now Etwald had intimated through Battersea that he wished her to do something in connection with the stick. What that something might be Dido at the present moment could not guess.
She had exerted her magnetic and hypnotic influence over Battersea, not that she wished for a detailed description of the wand, for already she knew its appearance, but because it might happen that it would be necessary to use the tramp for certain purposes connected with the discovery of secrets. Dido exercised a strong influence over this weak old creature, partially on account of his half negro blood and partially because she had terrified his feeble brain by her dark hints of Obi worship.
Battersea was supposed to be a Christian; but the barbaric fluid in his veins inclined him to the terrible grotesqueness of African witchcraft, and Dido and her words stirred some dim instinct in his mind. The negress saw that accident had placed in her way a helpless creature who might be of use in her necromantic business; therefore, by hypnotizing him once or twice, she contrived to keep him within her power. All of which fantasy would have been denied by the average British newspaper reader, who can not imagine such things taking place in what he calls euphoniously a Christian land. But this happened, for all his denial.
Having dismissed Battersea, the negress turned to seek Isabella. She was so devoted to her nursling that she could hardly bear to be away from her, and since her infancy Isabella had scarcely been absent an hour from her strange attendant. The girl had gone into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Dallas was still sleeping; and there, relieved for the moment from the prying eyes of the negress, she took a letter out of her pocket. It was from Maurice, stating that he was coming to see her that afternoon at three o'clock, as he had something particular to say.
It was now close upon the hour, and Isabella was wondering how she could get rid of Dido, whom she did not wish to be present at the coming interview. The inborn jealousy of the woman, and her advocacy of Dr. Etwald's suit, made her an unpleasant third at such a meeting. Moreover, Maurice instinctively disliked this sullen creature, and was never quite easy in her presence.
Finally, Isabella decided to slip round by the back of the house and meet Maurice at the gate. Dido was occupied in questioning Battersea about the devil-stick on the verandah. So, after a glance to assure herself that the pair were in earnest conversation, Isabella put on a straw hat and ran lightly away to see her lover. She passed out by a side door, danced like a fairy across the intervening space of lawn, and slipped laughingly into the narrow path which wound through the wood to the avenue near the gates.
Just as she emerged into the open she heard a sharp click, and saw Maurice approaching. He was dressed in his flannels, and looked particularly handsome, she thought; the more so when she beheld his face lighting up at her unexpected appearance. The magnetism of love drew them irresistibly together, and in less time than it takes to write, Isabella was lying on the broad breast of her lover and he was fondly kissing her lips.
"My own dear love," he murmured, softly. "How good of you to meet me."
"I came down here to escape Dido," explained Isabella, slipping her hand within his. "You don't like her to be with us."
"I don't like her in any case, my darling. She is like a black shadow of evil always at your heels. I must get your mother to forbid her trespassing upon our meetings."
"My dear Maurice, how can you possibly do that, when you refuse to tell my mother of our engagement?"
"Oh, I had a reason for keeping our engagement secret, but it is no longer necessary, and to-day--at this moment--I am going straight to ask your mother to give me this dear hand in marriage. If she consents, we will soon get rid of Dido."
"But my mother may not consent," said Isabella, a trifle nervously.
"Why not? I have a profession and a small property. We love one another dearly, so I don't see what grounds she has for refusal."
"Dido!"
"Well, Dido can do nothing," said Maurice, in a jesting tone, "unless you want her to forbid the banns."
"She may even be able to do that," replied Isabella, seriously. "My mother is afraid of her, and is often influenced in her decisions by Dido."
"What, the black witch? Bah! She is only a servant."
"She is something more than that in Barbadoes."
"Oh, you mean that Obi rubbish, my dearest," said Maurice, slipping his arm round the slender waist of the girl. "It is on that very account that I wish to tell your mother of our engagement, for I must rescue you from the influence of that dark Jezebel. She is dangerous."
"I know she is; but she hates you."
"I don't care for her hate," replied Maurice, carelessly. "It is a poor thing, and can not possibly harm me. But I mean to extricate you from her toils, and I don't care how she attempts to prevent our marriage. Surely Mrs. Dallas will not let herself be guided in so important a business by the will and feelings of that black wench."
"My mother is weak where Dido is concerned," said Isabella, shaking her head.
"And so are you, my dear," responded Maurice, kissing her. "Both of you are weak and have yielded up your wills to that woman. But the announcement of our engagement will give me some influence in the house and do away with all that. It will be a fight between white and black magic, and I, as a civilized wizard, intend to win."
"Why do you particularly wish to announce our engagement to-day?"
Maurice grew serious, and paused at the top of the drive, just out of sight of the house, to reply to this question.
"My dear child," he said slowly, "I kept our engagement secret on account of David. I have seen for a long time that he loves you, and knowing his fiery temper, I did not wish to provoke a quarrel by telling him that you had promised to be my wife. But last night the truth was forced from me at dinner, and David declared that he intended to ask you to marry him."
"But I don't love him. I love you!"
"I knew that, but he didn't. He knows now that we love one another, but he is ignorant that we are engaged. When the fact is publicly announced, he may give up his idea of marrying you, and so a quarrel may be averted."
"Are you afraid of quarreling with him?"
"Yes. Not on my account, but it distresses our good major to see us at variance. We nearly quarreled over you last night, though, upon my word," added the young man half to himself, "I believe Etwald promoted the row."
"Etwald!" repeated Isabella. "Dr. Etwald?"
"Yes; he is in love with you."
"I know he is," replied the girl, quietly. "But, of course, I could never be his wife; the more so, as I fear him. But Dido wishes me to marry him."
"Oh, hang Dido!" cried Maurice, vigorously. "I wish she would mind her own business."
At this moment, as if summoned by his remark, Dido appeared round the bend of the path. She looked straight before her, turning neither to right nor left, and passed the pair like one in a sleeping fit. The negress seemed to be under the influence of some strange excitement, and ran stumbling down to the gate.
"Voodoo! Voodoo!" she cried, hoarsely.
"Oh," said Isabella, nervously, "Dr. Etwald must be at hand. When Dido says 'Voodoo' he comes."
DR. ETWALD'S WARNING.
"When Dido says 'Voodoo' he comes," repeated Maurice, greatly puzzled. "Are you talking of Dr. Etwald?"
"Yes. He seems to possess some strange power over Dido, for she always knows when he is approaching. See, Maurice, Dido is waiting at the gate; in a few moments you will see Dr. Etwald enter it."
The two young people looked steadfastly at the brilliantly-colored figure of the negress, standing in a statuesque attitude near the great iron gate. On either side of her waved the summer foliage of the trees; overhead the sun, like a burning eye, looked down from a cloudless sky, and beyond, the dusty white road showed distinctly through the slender bars of the gate. All was bright and cheerful and English, but in that sinister red figure, with its black face and hands, there was a suggestion of evil which seemed to dominate and poison the whole beautiful scene. Maurice felt Isabella shudder with nervous dread as she pressed closely to his side.
"Dearest, you must not be afraid," said he, glancing down anxiously at her face. "You must throw off the terror you have of this woman. If the law--"
At this moment he broke off his speech with an ejaculation of surprise, for, true to the prognostication of Isabella--in answer to the expectant attitude of the negress--Dr. Etwald turned in at the gate.
"Ho! ho!" murmured Maurice, rather taken back. "So the art of devil-raising is not a lost one after all. Dido can still call spirits from the vasty deep."
"She has called flesh and blood," said Isabella, with a shiver. "But there is nothing strange about Dr. Etwald's appearance just now. Dido did not call him; she simply felt that he was at hand, and went to meet him at the gate."
They continued to watch the pair, and saw Dido throw herself at the feet of Etwald, who raised his hand over her in a threatening manner. He pointed into the wood with an imperious gesture, and in a slinking attitude the usually stately Dido passed out of sight into the little path down which Isabella had come to meet Maurice. When the gleam of her red dress disappeared Etwald wiped his face and walked briskly up the avenue toward the young couple.
"Shall we go on or wait for him here?" asked Isabella in a whisper.
"Wait," replied Maurice, in the same tone. "I shall not let him think that either of us is afraid of his charlatan tricks."
Dr. Etwald approached, with what was meant for a smile on his usually sombre face, and took off his hat to Miss Dallas. But he did not speak as he made his salutation, so the girl was forced, by reason of this uncomfortable silence, to make the first observation.
"Good-morning, doctor," she said, as he replaced his hat; "I suppose you have come to see my mother."
"Partly, Miss Dallas, and partly to see you; also this gentleman."
"To see me!" said Maurice, looking at his rival. "Then why did you not go to 'Ashantee?'"
Etwald shrugged his shoulders.
"I never give myself unnecessary trouble," he answered, calmly, "and, of course, I knew that I should find you here."
"By what right do you say that?" demanded Maurice, sharply.
"By the right of our conversation last night, Mr. Alymer. You have forestalled me, I see. No matter," added Etwald, with a sneer. "To-day to you; to-morrow to me."
All this was quite unintelligible to Isabella, who looked from one to the other of her companions in bewilderment, not guessing for the moment that she was the bone of contention between them. She saw the suppressed mockery on Etwald's face, and noted also that Maurice, roused by the quiet insistence of the doctor, had much difficulty in keeping his temper. Knowing how her lover disliked Etwald, and fearing lest there should be a quarrel between the two men, she cut the Gordian knot by hastily proposing that they should go up to the house.
At the same time she was afraid lest further trouble should occur therein, for it seemed to her that Etwald had paid this visit for the express purpose of making himself disagreeable.
However, he did not say anything further at the moment, but walked beside Isabella toward The Wigwam. Behind them Maurice strolled slowly, fuming and fretting at the attitude assumed by Etwald by the side of Isabella. She cast a backward glance at his frowning face, and to avert possible trouble she began hastily to question the doctor about the strange conduct of Dido.
"What was the matter with my nurse, doctor?" she asked. "What have you been doing to her?"
"She was agitated, my dear young lady, and I have calmed that agitation."
"After having previously caused it," said Maurice, in a significant tone.
The doctor looked at the young man calmly.
"What possible reason have you to make such an accusation?" he demanded.
"I think it is my fault," said Isabella, hastily. "I remarked that Dido was always agitated when you came to this house."
"I can explain that in a measure, Miss Dallas. If you remember I cured Dido of a bad nervous headache by hypnotic suggestion. Her mind, therefore, became habituated in responding to mine, and doubtless she feels a kind of impression which tells her that I am near."
"In other words," said Maurice, pointedly, "you have obtained an influence over her."
"It is not improbable," rejoined Etwald, in measured tones. "I am one of those people, Mr. Alymer, who can, by strength of will and power of character, obtain power over anyone I wish."
As he spoke, Etwald cast a sudden glance at Isabella. The girl was looking toward the house, out of which her mother had just emerged, and did not see the menace in his regard; but Maurice noted the gaze, and felt enraged at all it implied.
In plain words, Etwald intimated in a veiled manner that Isabella was a nervous subject, over whom he could obtain influence, if he so chose, by the unlawful means of hypnotism. This power Maurice was determined he should not gain, and by asking a direct question he tried to force Etwald into a confession of illegitimate practices. By this he hoped to warn Isabella, and make her afraid of trusting herself too much in the doctor's company.
"You have been in the West Indies, doctor?" asked Maurice, bluntly.
"I have been all over the world, Mr. Alymer," parried Etwald, dexterously.
"Do you know anything of Voodoo worship?"
"I know something of most things," assented the doctor. "But I confess I take but little interest in African barbarities."
"Oh, what about Dido and her meeting you?"
"I have explained that to the best of my ability," responded Etwald, coldly, "and now, Mr. Alymer, as our hostess is approaching you must excuse my replying to any further questions. If you want further insight into my character, call upon me at Deanminster."
"That I shall certainly do," said Maurice, for he was resolved to learn all he could about this strange man, so that he could protect Isabella from his arts.
"Ah," said the doctor, with irony, "we shall see if you will venture so far."
Before Maurice could take up the implied challenge, which threw doubts upon his moral courage, Mrs. Dallas advanced heavily to meet her visitors. Isabella had already flitted like a white butterfly into the drawing-room, and her mother received the two young men alone. Her reception was, as usual, ponderous and vague.
"So pleased to see you, Mr. Alymer. Dr. Etwald, I am charmed. It is a delightful day, is it not? Reminds one of Barbadoes."
"I have never been in Barbadoes," said Maurice, toward whom her languid gaze was directed. "But Dr. Etwald may be able to answer your question, Mrs. Dallas."
"I know the West Indian islands," observed Etwald as they walked into the house, "and this day does remind me a little of the climate there; but it is scarcely hot enough."
"No," murmured Mrs. Dallas, sinking into a large chair. "You are right. I have been in the sun all the morning, and only now am I beginning to feel warm, I shall certainly go back to Barbadoes."
Mrs. Dallas had made this threat so many times that nobody paid any attention to it, and, not expecting an answer, she began to fan herself slowly. Through her half-closed eyes she looked anxiously at the subtle face of Etwald. With the instinct of a woman she guessed that something important had brought the doctor to see her; he was not a man to waste his time on visits of ceremony.
Now Mrs. Dallas was secretly afraid of Etwald, as she had received hints from Dido, in whose truth she implicitly believed--that the doctor knew more about secret things than most people. She dreaded lest his visit should portend harm, and so, in some trepidation, she waited for him to speak. But Etwald, guessing her frame of mind, took his time and it was only when Isabella approached with some tea for her mother that he broke the silence.
"Don't go away, Miss Dallas," he said, entreatingly. "I have something to say to your mother which concerns you."
