CHAPTER VIII. THE STRANGE FACE IN THE EAST WING.
Chris thought this incident very strange. She pondered it in her mind, and mentioned it to her mother in a manner which showed that she considered it a suspicious one.
Mrs. Abercarne looked at the matter differently. There were a thousand reasons, any one of which might be the right one in this case, why a gentleman should choose to transfer some object in his possession from one place of safe keeping to another. It might be the portrait of an old friend——
“But he said he didn’t know who it was,” objected Chris.
“Well, it may be a particularly good painting, so that he may wish to add it to the collection of miniatures upstairs which he spoke of,” said Mrs. Abercarne, who now showed herself ready at all times to take Mr. Bradfield’s part. “Or perhaps,” she hazarded, with a rapid glance at the girl’s face, “he did not quite like your taking such a strong interest in the portrait of another gentleman.”
“Indeed, I don’t see how that could concern him,” returned Chris, coldly.
The young girl quite understood these allusions on her mother’s part to Mr. Bradfield’s evident admiration. But she would not allow the subject to be mentioned; and her mother, who, poor lady, was not unnaturally delighted at the prospect she thought she discerned of marrying her pretty daughter well, thought it wiser not to precipitate matters.
For already the bird seemed to have taken fright, and grown shy, as if seeing or suspecting a snare. Mr. Bradfield was always trying to waylay Chris for the sake of a few moments’ talk with her, and always failing in the attempt. At last he complained to Mrs. Abercarne in terms which almost amounted to a declaration of the state of his feelings with regard to her.
“She is young and wilful,” answered the mother, who thought that this shyness on the girl’s part was likely to give a wholesome stimulus to the gentleman’s attachment. “I don’t think she takes any serious views of life at present. Better not to speak to her just yet on any matter more momentous than concerts and dances.”
“Dances!” echoed Mr. Bradfield, dubiously. “Is she dull down here, then? I hope she is not too fond of balls and gaiety?”
“Not more fond than a girl ought to be,” answered Mrs. Abercarne, promptly. She had no notion of tying her daughter to a man who would not let her enjoy herself as she liked. If Mr. Bradfield wanted a young wife with the tastes of an old one, he must give up all thought of marrying Chris. “She is a good waltzer, and loves a dance.”
Mr. Bradfield looked rather morose, rather crestfallen.
“Well,” he said at last, “I’ll give a ball at Christmas. The worst of it is, that a host of my confounded relations will insist upon coming, and—and if they have their suspicions roused, there’ll be the —— to pay!”
“Then, if you are so much afraid of your relations, Mr. Bradfield, I should study them by all means,” said Mrs. Abercarne, loftily, as she left him upon the excuse that she had some work to do.
He growled to himself that he would have nothing more to do than he was obliged with either arrogant mother or flighty daughter; but he failed lamentably to keep his resolution. The girl’s pretty face and lively manners had enslaved him, and try as he would, this middle-aged gentleman could not conquer the foolish longing to become the husband of a woman twenty-five years younger than himself.
Meanwhile, Chris was unconsciously doing her utmost to keep alive the admiration of her elderly admirer, by being as happy as the day was long. And as happiness is becoming, the glimpses Mr. Bradfield caught of her bright face and lithe figure were daily more tantalising. Mr. Bradfield was not vain enough to think that he should get this beautiful young girl to fall in love with him, at any rate before marriage. He reckoned on the absence of rivalry, and on her great and increasing affection for her new home. Already she knew every object in Mr Bradfield’s collection by heart, and could have found her way blindfold into any corner of the grounds.
There was one exception, and it galled her. To the west of the house the grounds were very open, for the flower-garden was on that side, and the trees had been cut down in order to get more sun on the borders. On the south, towards the sea, a lawn sloped gently down from the house to the outer fence On the north side was the carriage drive, and more flower-beds. But the grounds on the east side she had been unable to explore, as they were cut off from the rest by a light ornamental iron fence, and two gates, one on the north side and one on the south, which were kept locked.
She had gone so far as to ask one of the under gardeners to let her go through; but he had respectfully referred her to the head gardener, whereupon she had given up her design as hopeless, divining, as she did, that he would refer her to Mr. Bradfield, and that Mr. Bradfield would make some excuse to prevent her going through. For the girl knew very well, in spite of the frank manner in which he spoke of the east wing and its occupant, that there was some sort of mystery, some secret, big or little, connected with Mr. Richard, and she believed that it was on account of the madman’s presence in the east wing that the grounds on that side of the house were closed. She thought she would trust to her chances of getting inside those gates without asking anybody’s permission. They must be unlocked sometimes, and as she was always about the grounds, she had only to wait for her opportunity.
Of course she was right. The opportunity came one morning, when one of the gardeners had gone through the north gate with a wheel-barrow, leaving the key in the gate behind him.
Chris, who was looking out of her bed-room window, ran downstairs and out of the house, and was through the gate in a moment.
A winding gravel path led through a thick growth of trees to the kitchen garden, where she saw Johnson, the second gardener, busy with the celery-bed. He saw her, but touched his hat, and took no further notice beyond a faint grin. Probably the affairs of the household were sufficiently discussed in the servants’ hall for him to guess that the young lady’s transgression would be overlooked at headquarters. Chris sauntered on, peeping into the tomato-houses, and trying to look through the steaming glass of the fern-houses, until she was well under the windows of the shut-up rooms. And she now perceived that there were bars in front of all of them.
The girl was a little impressed by this, and she kept well among the trees, with a feeling that some hideous maniac’s face might appear at one of the windows, and make grimaces at her. It was easy for her to remain hidden herself from any eyes in the east wing but very sharp ones; for under the trees was a growth of bushes and shrubs, through which she could peep herself at the barred windows. She had made her way cautiously, and under cover, from the north to the south, and turning, she could see the sea between the branches. But from the first floor the view of the sea was, in great part, spoiled by the thick growth of the upper branches of the big elms and fir trees which allowed a good view between their bare trunks from the ground floor.
Chris met nobody, and she saw nobody at the front windows. Rather disappointed, she was making her way back again, in order to get out through the gate by which she had entered, when, glancing up at one of the east windows on the first floor, she saw that, since she had last passed, a man had seated himself close to the panes.
At the first moment she of course thought this must be the maniac, and she quickly concealed herself behind one of the bushes by the side of the path, so that she could get a good view of him without his seeing her. But a very few seconds made her alter her first impression. Surely this was no madman, this handsome man with the pale, refined face, and large, melancholy eyes. The face was young, at least she thought so at the first look. It was not until she had examined it for some seconds that she saw the deep lines and furrows about the mouth and eyes, and the silver patches in the hair, which was long, and brushed back from the face.
Chris drew a deep breath. Something in the face made her think she had seen it before. The long and slightly aquiline nose, the straight mouth with its finely-cut lips, the brushed-back hair—she seemed to know them all, as part of a picture she had lately seen. Suddenly an exclamation broke from her lips. The miniature! yes, the face at the window was the face in the little picture. This must be Gilbert Wryde.
Chris was much puzzled. Was he the doctor who attended Mr. Richard, or an old friend who had come to see him? This seemed the more probable of the two suppositions; for if the portrait had been that of the madman’s doctor, Mr. Bradfield would scarcely have said that he did not know him.
But then the date on the portrait, 1847? The painting was that of a young man in the very prime of life. In spite of the lines in his face and the silver in his hair, it was impossible that the face behind the barred window could be that of a man at least seventy years of age.
Chris began to feel herself blushing, ashamed of the unseen watch she was keeping upon a strange man. The sun of a very bright December morning was upon his face, and upon a gold watch which he held in his hand and looked at intently. This fact, together with the intense seriousness of his face, caused Chris to revert to her idea that he must be a physician. She had not heard that Mr. Richard was ill, but that was nothing, for his name, as far as she knew, was very little mentioned in the household, and he might be ill without her ever hearing of it.
She thought it probable that he was not only ill, but that his malady had reached some grave crisis; for the face at the window was quite serious enough to warrant the supposition that he was counting the minutes in a case of life and death. This idea seized upon her so strongly that she found herself watching for a change in his face, thinking she should be able to tell whether the expression altered to one of hope or to one of despair.
Presently the expression did change. A look of eager expectancy appeared in it as the dark eyes looked up. The unknown man put his watch back in in his pocket, and disappeared quickly from the window.
Chris, who was surprised to find that she had been standing still long enough to grow cold and stiff, moved quickly away from her hiding-place with a flush of shame in her cheeks. A few steps further along the winding path under the trees, on which the decaying leaves lay thickly, brought her out into the kitchen garden. Johnson had finished with his celery and was going into one of the houses to look at his cuttings. He glanced up at her, and she thought she would ask him a question.
“Is Mr. Richard ill, Johnson, do you know?” she said.
“Not as I knows on, miss. At least, not worse nor ordinary,” he said, with a slight gesture of the head to denote where his weakness lay.
“Then why has he got a doctor with him?”
“He ain’t got no doctor with him, not as fur as I knows on, miss.”
“The gentleman with the long grey hair; isn’t he a doctor?”
“Why, no, Miss,” answered Johnson, with a grin; “the gentleman with the long hair is Mr. Richard himself.”
Chris was so much astonished that for a moment she stared at the man and said nothing. Then she repeated, slowly:
“Mr. Richard! Why, he looks sane!”
Johnson shook his head.
“He do sometimes, miss,” he answered, with an air of superior wisdom. “Other times he carries on awful, smashes the windows, and makes noises and cries to make your blood run cold. That’s how it is, as I’ve heard, with folks that’s not got their proper wits. You’d think they was as wise as you and me, and then something upsets ’em and off they go sudden-like, an’ raises old ’Arry before you can say Jack Robinson.”
Chris was cut to the heart. Whether she would have felt quite so much compassion for Mr. Richard if he had been stout, red-faced and stubbly-haired is, unfortunately, open to question. But the idea of this man with the handsome features and the interesting expression passing his life shut up in those lonely rooms, with no society but that of Stelfox the Stolid, shocked her, and made her miserable. She could not realise his condition; could not understand mental deficiency in the owner of a face which seemed to her as intellectual as it was good-looking. In a state of the strongest excitement she turned back again into the shrubbery to try to get one more look at the madman, and discover, if she could, in the placid, grave features some sign of the disorder behind them.
A romantic notion had seized her that perhaps the most had not been done that could be done for him, and that she might be the means of inducing Mr. Bradfield to make one last and more successful effort to restore him to reason.
And as this thought passed through her mind, the voice of Mr. Bradfield himself calling to her made her start and look round.
He was coming out of the orchid house, and he addressed her by name in a tone of surprise and some displeasure.
“Miss Christina! Is that you? What are you doing in this part of the world?”
“You know you said that I might examine every corner of the place if I liked,” answered Chris, blushing. “But I have never been able to get into this particular corner until to-day.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to bring you here? I would have shown you anything you wanted to see, and should have had great pleasure in doing so, as you know,” replied he, still with some stiffness. “As it is, I suppose you have not seen much to interest you? You have not been into any of the houses?”
“I haven’t been into any of the houses, but I have seen something to interest me,” answered Chris, with her heart beating fast.
She had resolved to be bold, and to carry on her scheme on behalf of Mr. Richard, while excitement gave her courage. Mr. Bradfield raised his eyebrows a little, and Chris looked down, lest she should be frightened by his frowns.
“I have seen poor Mr. Richard—at the window,” she answered, drawing her breath quickly, and feeling rather than seeing, that Mr. Bradfield was displeased. “And—and I want to know, Mr. Bradfield, if you will let my mother and me see him, and speak to him?”
“Speak to him!” exclaimed Mr. Bradfield shortly. “Speak to a madman! Well, you can, certainly if you like. But we shall have to take some precautions, as the very sight of a woman throws him into a frenzy. The sex is his pet aversion.”
Chris looked incredulous; she could not help it. It is always difficult to understand that one can have no attraction for a creature who attracts oneself, and Mr. Richard certainly attracted her.
“I can’t think what has put the idea into your head of wishing to speak to him,” went on Mr. Bradfield, in a tone of open annoyance. “Surely you don’t think he is ill-treated under my roof? Stelfox is a man in every way to be trusted, and you can ask him yourself about the poor fellow’s condition.”
“I didn’t mean that, I didn’t mean to imply that he was not kindly treated,” answered Chris, hastily. “But he looks so sane, so quiet; I was wondering whether something might not perhaps be done for him if you sent him to be seen by some celebrated mad doctor. I daresay you will think it very impertinent of me to make such a suggestion,” added the girl, laughing rather shyly, as if deprecating his anger at her boldness, “but you know mother always says I’m an impudent monkey, and I can’t help my nature, can I?”
But Mr. Bradfield did not take her remarks as kindly as usual. He frowned, and seemed to be thinking out some idea which had entered his mind while she was speaking. There was a short pause before he said, not noticing her last words:
“You think he is quiet, do you? You think I am exaggerating when I tell you he hates the sight of a woman. Well, you shall see. Wait here a moment while I find out where he is.”
Mr. Bradfield left her by herself for a short time, while he followed the path among the trees, towards the sea-front. Chris felt chilled and miserable. He seemed so much annoyed that she feared that she had done more harm than good by her interference. All that she had gained was the knowledge that Mr. Richard’s case was considered hopeless; and this knowledge caused her infinite pain. She looked up again at the barred windows, and pictured to herself the blank, dismal life of the man who lived in those gloomy rooms, where the branches of the trees shut out the sun. What were the thoughts that occupied the mind of the unhappy man who lived there? Whom was he waiting for, watch in hand? Was it for someone to cheer him in his solitude, someone who never came?
Silly Chris had tears in her eyes at the thought. She brushed them away hastily as Mr. Bradfield came hurriedly back. He looked excited, and there was a confident look on his face, which showed his belief that he could convert her to his own views of the madman.
“Come,” said he. “Come this way, through the front gate.”
Rather surprised, and wondering where he was going to lead her to, Chris followed Mr. Bradfield, not along the paths among the trees, but by a more open one, which passed nearer to the walls of the house, between two flower-borders. They turned the corner of the house, and as they did so, Mr. Bradfield looked up at the first-floor windows on the south side.
Mr. Richard was standing at one of them, with his face close to the glass, looking out.
“Mind,” said Mr. Bradfield, as he put one hand as if for protection on her shoulder, “when he sees you he will fall into a paroxysm of fury. But don’t be frightened; I’ll take care you come to no harm.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Mr. Richard glanced down and saw the young lady with Mr. Bradfield. Just as the latter had predicted, Mr. Richard’s face changed in a moment from its quiet melancholy to an expression like that of an enraged wild animal. Before she had time either to run forward or backward, she heard the crash of glass above her, and a heavy glass goblet was flung down on to the ground beside her, narrowly missing her head. Then she heard a wild, unearthly cry, followed by a torrent of discordant utterances impossible to understand, except as the mad gibberings of a hopeless lunatic.
With a little scream she escaped from Mr. Bradfield, who had thrown his arm round her, and ran back towards the gate by which she had entered the enclosure.