CHAPTER XXXVII.
[THE WIDOW'S THEORY OF THE CASE.]
When Mrs. Davenport got back to the hotel, she inquired if any telegram had come for her, and was told not. She seemed displeased, disappointed. She asked questions, and discovered that it would be next to impossible that her telegram could reach London before the departure of the morning mail. This put things right, for she felt certain that if Blake got her message he would have replied. He was on his way, and would be in Dublin that evening. In Dublin, yes; but how should he know where to seek her? She spoke to the manager, to whom she explained her difficulty.
If the lady telegraphed to the mail-boat at Holyhead, the gentleman would be sure to get the message.
She thanked the manager, and adopted his suggestion. The day was unpleasant under foot and overhead. There were no friends upon whom she wished to call. The ten years of secluded life at Kilcash House had severed all connection with old acquaintances, and she had made no new ones.
She remained by herself in the sitting-room. She did not even try to read. She sat in the window, and kept her eyes turned towards the busy street. It could not be said she watched the crowds and vehicles, or was even conscious of their existence. She kept her eyes in their direction--that was all.
Luncheon was brought in. She sat at the table for a quarter of an hour, ate something, and then went back to the old place at the window. It was dark before dinner appeared, but she did not ring for lights. When dinner was over, it was close to the time for the arrival of the mail. She put on her bonnet, and went to Westland Row terminus. The weather was still unpleasant, but she did not care, did not heed it. She had not long to wait in that dismal, squalid cavern at the foot of the stone steps leading down from the platform. The train rumbled in, and the passengers began to descend and pass between the double row of people. Suddenly she stepped forward and touched a man on the arm. He turned quickly, and looked at her, exclaiming:
"You here, Marion! I got your telegram on the boat."
"I was afraid it might miss you, so I thought it safer to come myself."
"What extraordinary story is this? I can scarcely believe you were serious when you wired me yesterday from Rugby."
"I was in no humour for jesting," she said. "This is no place to talk in. Wait until we get to the hotel."
When they were seated in Mrs. Davenport's sitting-room, he waited for her to speak. She was in the arm of the couch--he by the table, with his elbow resting on it. They were facing one another. She clasped her hands in her lap and rested against the back of the couch. She was deadly pale, and when she spoke her voice was low, firm, and full of thought.
"I want you to tell me all you know about this man Fahey. Mind, you are to tell me all. There is no use in concealing anything now. I will not take a penny of that money. Speak plainly."
"Not take the money, Marion! Are you mad?" he exclaimed, starting forward on his chair.
"Not yet. The future of my reason will depend a good deal on the plainness of your speech. Go on."
"But I have told you all that is worth telling."
"Tell it to me all over again, and this time add everything, great or little, you can think of, you can recollect. Let me judge what is worth listening to, and what is not. I am waiting."
"I know next to nothing of Fahey, and never saw the man in all my life. You are allowing this absurd story of his ghost to prey on you. You will make yourself ill."
"Nothing is so bad as uncertainty. I am racked by uncertainty. Go on if you wish to do me a service."
"Service! I'd die for your sake, Marion."
"Then speak for my sake." She did not move or show any interest one way or the other in his words, although they had been spoken pleadingly, passionately.
"At Florence, when he was seized by that delusion, he raved now and then, and in his ravings he said continually that there was a plot to rob and murder him. He did not include me in the conspiracy, but all others were leagued against him. At times he would become furious, and defy his imaginary foes, swearing that all of them together were powerless against him, as Fahey was loyal, and would be loyal to the death."
"Loyal in what?"
"I don't know. He did not say in either his sane or frantic moments."
"What did he say?"
"That Fahey knew, but that no power on earth would drag the secret out of Fahey."
"What secret?"
"How should I know?"
"Do you know?"
"Upon my soul, Marion, I do not."
"Well, and after that what would happen?"
"He would laugh and snap his fingers at imaginary conspirators, and dare them to do their worst, and then he would break out into a laugh of triumph. And, as I hope to live, Marion, that's all."
"Every word?"
"Every syllable, I swear to you. Marion, I could not tell you a lie. Marion, I never loved you until now. If you bid me, I will die for you. If you tell me, I will go away and never see you again. Try me. Bid me go or bid me die. Tell me to do anything, if you will only believe I love you as I never loved you before--as I never loved any other woman in the world. Since you will not forgive me, since you will not give me your love for mine, since you will not let me be near you or see you, set me something to do by which I can show you I am sincere--madly in earnest."
He bent towards her, and held out his hands, but did not leave his chair. His voice, his whole frame shook with excitement.
She raised her hand and lowered it gently, as a signal that he was to be still and silent.
He drew his arms and his body quickly back, and sat mutely regarding her.
"I am sorry," she said, slowly, gently, "that you spoke in that strain now. This is not the time for such matters----"
"Then a time may come, Marion--a time may come soon or late? I do not care when----"
"No," she answered, quietly, resolutely.
"That time came and went long ago. Be silent on that subject. I want to speak of long ago."
He groaned, and struck his forehead with his clenched fist.
"It was scarcely fair of me to ask you to come. Will you answer my questions?"
"Ask me what you please. I'll do it. The only hope now left to me is that you will allow me to serve you."
"My next question may be, must be painful to you."
He laughed bitterly.
"That does not matter. Nothing can matter now, except feeling I can be of no use to you."
"What means of influence had you over my husband beyond what I knew of?"
"I am not in the least pained by that question. I was a poor idiotic fool to give you up, but I could not support you if I married you on my own means then. I had no means. But still less could I, vile as I was, marry you on money got from him."
"What influence had you?"
"I had only one spell to conjure with."
"And that was?"
"The name of Fahey."
"How did you employ that name?"
"I said to him once, 'Is Fahey still loyal?' I said it half in jest. We were alone. He begged of me never to mention that name again, as it recalled his awful condition in Florence. He said if I would do him the favour of never referring to that circumstance or name, he would be my life-long debtor--adding: 'And I mean what I say, and that it shall have practical results.'"
"He meant money."
"Yes."
"Was that before or after he gave you the thousand pounds?"
"Before--some months before. But now-poor Davenport is no more, and cannot be hurt by any one. And Fahey is dead, and can hurt no one, though foolish old women frighten themselves with the thought that they have seen his ghost. Did you know this Fahey?"
She shuddered. This was the first sign of feeling she showed. What it sprang from he could not guess.
"I did," she answered, unsteadily.
"And you believe this story about the ghost?"
"No."
"What then?"
"That"--with another shudder--"he is alive."
"Alive, Marion--alive! You are overexcited. You are talking nonsense. Go and lie down. You are worn out."
"I am. I feel my head whirling round. Leave me."
He rose obediently to go.
"My mind is giving way, Tom."
That name spoken by her lips again rooted him to the spot.
"They suspected you, Tom, of that awful deed, and they say he did it himself. I am going mad. Surely this is madness."
"What--what! Marion!"
"And now I suspect--him!"
"Whom, in the name of heaven?"
"Fahey. He was jealous of you both. Why did you put out the lights----"
She tottered!