CHAPTER IX.
HATEFUL SUSPICIONS
The rest of that night I lay awake in my bed, the scene in theverandah by the big blue-gum-trees haunting me all the time, much asin earlier days the Picture of the murder had pursued and hauntedme. Early in the morning I rose up, and went down to Jane in herlittle parlour. I longed for society in my awe. I needed humanpresence. I couldn't bear to be left alone by myself with all thesepressing and encompassing mysteries.
"Jane," I said after a few minutes' careless talk--for I didn'tlike to tell her about my wonderful dream,--"where exactly did youfind the picture of that house hanging over in the corner there?"
"Lor' bless your heart, miss," Jane answered, "there's a wholeboxful of them at The Grange. Nobody ever cared for them. They're upin the top attic. They were locked till your papa died, and thenthey were opened by order of the executors. Some of 'em's faded evenworse than that one, and none of 'em's very good; but I picked thisone out because it was better worth framing for my room than most of'em. The executors took no notice when they found what they was.They opened the box to see if it was dockyments."
"Well, Jane," I said, "I shall go up and bring them every one awaywith me. It's possible they may help me to recollect things a bit."I drew my hand across my forehead. "It all seems so hazy," I wenton. "Yet when I see things again, I sometimes feel as if I almostrecognised them."
So that very morning we went up together (I wouldn't go alone), andgot the rest of the photographs--very faded positives fromold-fashioned plates, most of them representing persons and places Ihad never seen; and a few of them apparently not taken in England.
I didn't look them all over at once just then. I thought it best notto do so. I would give my memory every possible chance. Take a fewat a time, and see what effect they produced on me. Perhaps--thoughI shrank from the bare idea with horror--they might rouse in mysleep such another stray effort of spontaneous reconstruction. Yetthe last one had cost me much nervous wear and tear--much mentalagony.
A few days after, I went away from Woodbury. I had learned for themoment, I thought, all that Woodbury could teach me: and I longed toget free again for a while from this pervading atmosphere ofmystery. At Aunt Emma's, at least, all was plain and aboveboard. Iwould go back to Barton-on-the-Sea, and rest there for a while,among the heathery hills, before proceeding any further on my voyageof discovery.
But I took back Jane with me. I was fond of Jane now. In those twoshort weeks I had learned to cling to her. Though I remembered her,strictly speaking, no more than at first, yet the affection I musthave borne her in my First State seemed to revive in me very easily,like all other emotions. I was as much at home with Jane, indeed, asif I had known her for years. And this wasn't strange; for I HADknown her for years, in point of fact; and and though I'd forgottenmost of those years, the sense of familiarity they had inspiredstill lived on with me unconsciously. I know now that memory resideschiefly in the brain, while the emotions are a wider endowment ofthe nervous system in general; so that while a great shock mayobliterate whole tracts in the memory, no power on earth can everalter altogether the sentiments and feelings.
As for Jane, she was only too glad to come with me. There were nolodgers at present, she said; and none expected. Her sisterElizabeth would take care of the rooms, and if any stranger came,why, Lizzie'd telegraph down at once for her. So I wrote to AuntEmma to expect us both next day. Aunt Emma's, I knew, was a homewhere I or mine were always welcome.
Jane had never seen Aunt Emma. There had been feud between thefamilies while my father lived, so she didn't visit The Grange aftermy mother's death. Aunt Emma had often explained to me in part howall that happened. It was the one point in our family history onwhich she'd ever been explicit: for she had a grievance there; andwhat woman on earth can ever suppress her grievances? It's ourfeminine way to air them before the world, as it's a man's to burythem deep in his own breast and brood over them.
My mother, she told me, had been a widow when my father marriedher--a rich young widow. She had gone away, a mere girl, toAustralia with her first husband, a clergyman, who was lost at seatwo or three years after, on the voyage home to England without her.She had one little girl by her first husband, but the child diedquite young: and then she married my father, who met her first inAustralia while she waited for news of the clergyman's safety. Herfamily always disapproved of the second marriage. My father had nomoney, it seemed; and mamma was well off, having means of her own tostart with, like Aunt Emma, and having inherited also her firsthusband's property, which was very considerable. He had left it tohis little girl, and after her to his wife; so that first my father,and then I myself, came in, in the end, to both the little estates,though my mother's had been settled on the children of the firstmarriage. Aunt Emma always thought my father had married for money:and she said he had been hard and unkind to mamma: not indeed cruel;he wasn't a cruel man; but severe and wilful. He made her do exactlyas he wished about everything, in a masterful sort of way, that nowoman could stand against. He crushed her spirit entirely, Aunt Emmatold me; she had no will of her own, poor thing: his individualitywas so strong, that it overrode my mother's weak nature rough-shod.
Not that he was rough. He never scolded her; he never illtreatedher; but he said to her plainly, "You are to do so and so;" and sheobeyed like a child. She never dared to question him.
So Aunt Emma had always said my mother was badly used, especially inmoney matters--the money being all, when one came to think of it,her own or her first husband's;--and as a consequence, auntie wasnever invited to The Grange during my father's lifetime.
When we reached Barton-on-the-Sea, Jane and I, on our way fromWoodbury, Aunt Emma was waiting at the station to meet us. To mygreat disappointment, I could see at first sight she didn't care forJane: and I could also see at first sight Jane didn't care for her.This was a serious blow to me, for I leaned upon those two more thanI leaned upon anyone; and I had far too few friends in the world ofmy own, to afford to do without any one of them.
In the evening, however, when I went up to my own room to bed, Janecame up to help me as she always did at Woodbury. I began at once totax her with not liking Aunt Emma. With a little hesitation, Janeadmitted that at first sight she hadn't felt by any means disposedto care for her. I pressed her hard as to why. Jane held off andprevaricated. That roused my curiosity:--you see, I'm a woman. Iinsisted upon knowing.
"Oh, miss, I can't tell you!" Jane cried, growing red in the face,"I can't bear to say it out. You oughtn't to ask. It'll hurt you toknow I even thought such a thing of her!"
"You MUST tell me, Jane," I exclaimed, with a cold shudder ofterror, half guessing what she meant. "Don't keep me in suspense.Let me know what it is. I'm accustomed to shocks now. I know I canstand them."
Jane answered nothing directly. She only held out her coarse redhand and asked me, with a face growing pale as she spoke:
"Where's that picture of the murder?"
I produced it from my box, trembling inwardly all over.
Jane darted one finger demonstratively at a point in the photograph.
"Whose hand is THAT?" she asked with a strange earnestness, puttingher nail on the murderer's.
The words escaped me in a cry of horror almost before I was aware ofthem:
"Aunt Emma's!" I said, gasping. "I NEVER noticed it before."
Then I drew back and stared at it in speechless awe andconsternation.
It was quite, quite true. No use in denying it. The figure thatescaped through the window was dressed in man's clothes, to be sure,and as far as one could judge from the foreshortening and thepeculiar stoop, had a man's form and stature. But the hand was awoman's--soft, and white, and delicate: nay more, the hand, as Isaid in my haste, was line for line Aunt Emma's.
In a moment a terrible sinking came over me from head to foot. Itrembled like an aspen-leaf. Could this, then, be the meaning of Dr.Marten's warning, that I should let sleeping dogs lie, lest I shouldbe compelled to punish some
one whom I loved most dearly? Had Fatebeen so cruel to me, that I had learned to cling most in my SecondState to the very criminal whose act had blotted out my First? Had Igrown to treat like a mother my father's murderer?
Aunt Emma's hand! Aunt Emma's hand! That was Aunt Emma's hand, everytouch and every line of it. But no! where were the marks, thosewell-known marks on the palm? I took up the big magnifying-glasswith which I had often scanned that photograph close before. Not asign or a trace of them. I shut my eyes, and called up again themental Picture of the murder. I looked hard at the phantom-hand init, that floated like a vision, all distinct before my mind's eye.It was flat and smooth and white. Not a scar--not a sign on it. Iturned round to Jane, that too natural detective.
"No, no!" I cried hastily, with a quick tone of triumph. "AuntEmma's hand is marked on the palm with great gashes and cuts. Thisone's smooth as smooth can be. And so's the one I can see in thePicture within me!"
Jane drew back with a startled air, and opened her mouth, all agog,to let in a deep breath.
"The wall!" she said slowly. "The bottle-glass, don't you know! Theblood on the top! Whoever did it, climbed over and tore his hands.Or HER hands, if it was a woman! That would account for the gashes."
This was more than I could endure. The coincidence was too crushing.I bent down my head on my arms and cried silently, bitterly. I hatedJane in my heart for even suggesting it. Yet I couldn't deny tomyself for a moment the strength and suggestiveness of herhalf-spoken argument.
Not that for a second I believed it true. I could never believe it.Aunt Emma, so gentle, so kindly, so sweet: incapable of hurting anyliving thing: the tenderest old lady that breathed upon earth: andmy own mother's sister, whom I loved as I never before loved anyone!Aunt Emma the murderess! The bare idea was preposterous! I couldn'tentertain it. My whole nature revolted from it.
And indeed, how very slight, after all, was the mere scrap ofevidence on which Jane ventured to suggest so terrible a charge! Aman--in man's clothes--fairly tall and slim, and apparentlydark-haired, but stooping so much that he looked almost hump-backed:how different from Aunt Emma, with her womanly figure, and her uprightgait, and her sweet old white head! Why, it was clearly ridiculous.
And yet, the fact remained that as Jane pointed to the Picture andasked, "Whose hand is that?" the answer came up all spontaneously tomy lips, without hesitation, "Aunt Emma's!"
I sat there long in my misery, thinking it over to myself. I didn'tknow what to do. I couldn't go and confide to Aunt Emma's ear thisnew and horrible doubt,--which was no doubt after all, for I KNEW itwas impossible. I hated Jane for suggesting it; I hated her fortelling me. Yet I couldn't be left alone. I was far too terrified.
"Oh, Jane;" I cried, looking up to her, and yet despising myself forsaying it, "you must stop here to-night and sleep with me. If I'mleft by myself in the room alone, I know I shall go mad--I can feelit--I'm sure of it!"
Jane stopped with me and soothed me. She was certainly very kind.Yet I felt in a dim underhand sort of way it was treason to AuntEmma to receive her caresses at all after what she had said to me.Though to be sure, it was I, not she, who spoke those hateful words.It was I myself who had said the hand was Aunt Emma's.
As I lay awake and thought, the idea flashed across me suddenly,could Jane have any grudge of her own against Aunt Emma? Was this adeliberate plot? What did she mean by her warnings that I shouldkeep my mind open? Why had she said from the very first it was awoman's hand? Did she want to set me against my aunt? And was Dr.Marten in league with her? In my tortured frame of mind, I felt allalone in the world. I covered my head and sobbed in my misery. Ididn't know who were my friends and who were against me.
At last, after long watching, I dozed off into an uneasy sleep. Janehad already been snoring long beside me. I woke up again with astart. I was cold and shuddering. I had dreamed once more the sameAustralian dream. My mamma as before stood gentle beside me. Shestooped down and smoothed my hair: I could see her face and her formdistinctly. And I noticed now she was like her sister, Aunt Emma,only younger and prettier, and ever so much slighter. And her hand,too, was soft and white like auntie's--very gentle and delicate.
It was just there that I woke up--with the hand before my eyes. Oh,how vividly I noted it! Aunt Emma's hand, only younger, andunscarred on the palm. The family hand, no doubt: the hand of theMoores. I remembered, now, that Aunt Emma had spoken more than onceof that family peculiarity. It ran through the house, she said. Butmy hand was quite different: not the Moore type at all: I supposed Imust have taken it, as was natural, from the Callinghams.
And then, in my utter horror and loneliness, a still more awful andghastly thought presented itself to me. This was my mother's hand Isaw in the picture. Was it my mother, indeed, who wrought themurder? Was she living or dead? Had my father put upon her somegrievous wrong? Had he pretended to get her out of the way? Had heburied her alive, so to speak, in some prison or madhouse? Had shereturned in disguise from the asylum or the living grave to avengeherself and murder him? In my present frame of mind, no idea was toowild or too strange for me to entertain. If this strain continuedmuch longer, I should go mad myself with suspense and horror!