With this, we walked together to the edge of the opening, and proceeded in single file along the track to the main path, and so out into Wood-lane, at the top of which we crossed the Archway Road into Southwood-lane. We walked mostly in silence, for I was unwilling to disturb her meditations with attempts at conversation, which could only have seemed banal or impertinent. For her part, she appeared to be absorbed in reflections the nature of which I could easily guess, and her grief was too fresh for any thought of distraction. But I found myself speculating with profound discomfort on what might be awaiting her at home. It is true that her own desolate state as an orphan without brothers or sisters had its compensation in that there was no wife to whom the dreadful tidings had to be imparted, nor any fellow orphans to have their bereavement broken to them. But there must be some one who cared; or, if there were not, what a terrible loneliness would reign in that house!
“I hope,” I said, as we approached our destination, “that there is some one at home to share your grief and comfort you a little.”
“There is,” she replied. “I was thinking of her, and how grievous it will be to have to tell her: an old servant and a dear friend. She was my mother’s nurse when the one was a child and the other but a young girl. She came to our house when my mother married, and has managed our home ever since. This will be a terrible shock to her, for she loved my father dearly—every one loved him who knew him. And she has been like a mother to me since my own mother died. I don’t know how I shall break it to her.”
Her voice trembled as she concluded and I was deeply troubled to think of the painful homecoming that loomed before her; but still it was a comfort to know that her sorrow would be softened by sympathy and loving companionship, not heightened by the empty desolation that I had feared.
A few minutes more brought us to the little square—which, by the way, was triangular—and to a pleasant little old-fashioned house, on the gate of which was painted the name, “Ivy Cottage.” In the bay window on the ground floor I observed a formidable-looking elderly woman, who was watching our approach with evident curiosity; which, as we drew nearer and the state of our clothing became visible, gave place to anxiety and alarm. Then she disappeared suddenly, to reappear a few moments later at the open door, where she stood viewing us both with consternation and me in particular with profound disfavour.
At the gate Miss D’Arblay halted and held out her hand. “Good-bye,” she said. “I must thank you some other time for all your kindness;” and with this she turned abruptly, and, opening the gate, walked up the little paved path to the door where the old woman was waiting.
CHAPTER II.
A Conference with Dr. Thorndyke
The sound of the closing door seemed, as it were, to punctuate my experiences and to mark the end of a particular phase. So long as Miss D’Arblay was present, my attention was entirely taken up by her grief and distress; but now that I was alone I found myself considering at large the events of this memorable morning. What was the meaning of this tragedy? How came this man to be lying dead in that pool? No common misadventure seemed to fit the case. A man may easily fall into deep water and be drowned; may step over a quay-side in the dark or trip on a mooring-rope or ring-bolt. But here there was nothing to suggest any possible accident. The water was hardly two feet deep where the body was lying and much less close to the edge. If he had walked in in the dark, he would simply have walked out again. Besides, how came he there at all? The only explanation that was intelligible was that he went there with the deliberate purpose of making away with himself.
I pondered this explanation, and found myself unwilling to accept it, notwithstanding that his daughter’s presence in the wood, her obvious apprehension, and her terrified searching among the underwood seemed to hint at a definite expectation on her part. But yet that possibility was discounted by what his daughter had told me of him. Little as she had said, it was clear that he was a man universally beloved. Such men, in making the world a pleasant place for others, make it pleasant for themselves. They are usually happy men; and happy men do not commit suicide. Yet, if the idea of suicide were rejected, what was left? Nothing but an insoluble mystery.
I turned the problem over again and again as I sat on the top of the tram (where I could keep my wet trousers out of sight), not as a matter of mere curiosity but as one in which I was personally concerned. Friendships spring up into sudden maturity under great emotional stress. I had known Marion D’Arblay but an hour or two, but they were hours which neither of us would ever forget; and in that brief space she had become to me a friend who was entitled, as of right, to sympathy and service. So, as I revolved in my mind the mystery of this man’s death, I found myself thinking of him not as a chance stranger but as the father of a friend; and thus it seemed to devolve upon me to elucidate the mystery, if possible.