CHAPTER XXI. DOUBTS AND FEARS
In point of fact Dunn had not been asleep when Deede Dawson camelistening at his door. Of late he had slept little and that little hadbeen much disturbed by evil, haunting dreams in which perpetually he sawhis dead friend, Charley Wright, and dead John Clive always together,while behind them floated the pale and lovely face of Ella, at whom thetwo dead men looked and whispered to each other.
In the day such thoughts troubled him less, for when he was under theinfluence of Ella's gentle presence, and when he could watch her clearand candid eyes, he found all doubt and suspicion melting away like snowbeneath warm sunshine.
But in the silence of the night they returned, returned very dreadfully,so dreadfully that often as he lay awake in the darkness beads of sweatstood upon his forehead and he would drive his great hands one againstthe other in his passionate effort to still the thoughts that tormentedhim. Then, in the morning again, the sound of Ella's voice, the merestglimpse of her grave and gracious personality, would bring back oncemore his instinctive belief in her.
The morning after Deede Dawson had paid his visit to the attic therewas news, however, that disturbed him greatly, for Mrs. Barker, thecharwoman who came each morning to Bittermeads, told them that two menin the village--notorious poachers--had been arrested by the police on acharge of being concerned in Mr. Clive's death.
The news was a great shock to Dunn, for, knowing as he thought he did,that the police were working on an entirely wrong idea, he had notsupposed they would ever find themselves able to make any arrest. Asa matter of fact, these arrests they had made were the result ofdesperation on the part of the police, who unable to discover anythingand entirely absorbed by their preconceived idea that the crime was thework of poachers, had arrested men they knew were poachers in the vaguehope of somehow discovering something or of somehow getting hold of someuseful clue.
But that Dunn did not know, and feared unlucky chance or undesignedcoincidence must have appeared to suggest the guilt of the men and thatthey were really in actual danger of trial and conviction. He had, too,received that morning, through the secret means of communication he keptopen with an agent in London, conclusive proof that at the moment ofClive's death Deede Dawson was in town on business that seemed obscureenough, but none the less in town, and therefore undoubtedly innocent ofthe actual perpetration of the murder.
Who, then, was left who could have fired the fatal shot?
It was a question Dunn dared not even ask himself but he saw veryplainly that if the proceedings against the two arrested men were to bepressed, he would be forced to come forward before his preparations wereready and tell all he knew, no matter at what cost.
All the morning he waited and watched for his opportunity to speak toElla, who was in a brighter and gayer mood than he had ever seen her inbefore.
At breakfast Deede Dawson had assured her that he could not conceivewhat were the suspicions she had referred to the night previously, andwhile he would certainly have no objection to her mentioning them atany time, in any quarter she thought fit if anything happened at WresteAbbey--and would indeed be the first to urge her to do so--he, for hispart, considered it most unlikely that anything of the sort she seemedto dread would in fact occur.
"Not at all likely," he said with his happy, beaming smile that neverreached those cold eyes of his. "I should say myself that nothing everdid happen at Wreste Abbey, not since the Flood, anyhow. It strikes meas the most peaceful, secluded spot in all England."
"I'm very glad you think so," said Ella, tremendously relieved and gladto hear him say so, and supposing, though his smooth words and smilesand protestations deceived her very little, that, at any rate, what shehad said had forced him to abandon whatever plans he had been forming inthat direction.
Her victory, as it seemed to her, won so easily and containing goodpromise of further success in the future, cheered her immensely, and itwas in almost a happy mood that she went unto the garden after lunch andmet Dunn in a quiet, well-hidden corner, where he had been waiting andwatching for long.
His appearance startled her--his eyes were so wild, his whole manner sostrained and restless, and she gave a little dismayed exclamation as shesaw him.
"Oh, what's the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you well? You look--"
She paused for she did not know exactly how it was he did look; and hesaid in his harshest, most abrupt manner,
"Do you remember Charley Wright?"
"Why do you ask?" she said, puzzled. "Is anything wrong?"
"Do you remember John Clive?" he asked, disregarding this. "Have youheard two men have been arrested for his murder?"
"Mrs. Barker told me so," she answered gravely. He came a little nearer,almost threateningly nearer.
"What do you think of that?" he asked.
She lifted one hand and put it gently on his arm. The touch of itthrilled him through and through, and he felt a little dazed as hewatched it resting on his coat sleeve. She had become very pale also andher voice was low and strained as she said,
"Have you had suspicions too?"
He looked at her as if fascinated for a moment, and then nodded twiceand very slowly.
"So have I," she sighed in tones so low he could scarcely hear them.
"Oh, you, you also," he muttered, almost suffocating.
"Yes," she said. "Yes--perhaps the same as yours. My stepfather," shebreathed, "Mr. Deede Dawson."
He watched her closely and moodily, but he did not speak.
"I was afraid--at first," she whispered. "But I was wrong--quite wrong.It is as certain as it can be that he was in London at the time."
From his pocket Dunn took out the handkerchief of hers that he had foundnear the body of the dead man.
"Is this yours?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered. "Yes, where did you get it?"
He did not answer, but he lifted his hands one after the other, and putthem on her shoulder, with the fingers outspread to encircle herthroat. It seemed to him that when she acknowledged the ownership of thehandkerchief she acknowledged also the perpetration of the deed, and hebecame a little mad, and he had it in his mind that the slightest, thevery slightest, pressure of his fingers on that soft, round throatwould put it for ever out of her power to do such things again. Then forhimself death would be easy and welcome, and there would be an end toall these doubts and fears that racked him with anguish beyond bearing.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, making no attempt to resist orescape.
Ever so slightly the pressure of his hands upon her throat strengthenedand increased. A very little more and the lovely thing of life hewatched would be broken and cold for ever. Her eyes were steady, sheshowed no sign of fear, she stood perfectly still, her hands looselyclasped together before her. He groaned, and his arms fell to his side,helpless. Without the slightest change of expression, she said:
"What were you going to do?"
"I don't know," he answered. "Do you ever go mad? I do, I think. Perhapsyou do too, and that explains it. Do you know where Charley Wright is?"
"Yes," she answered directly. "Why? Did you know him, then?"
"You know where he is now?" Dunn repeated.
She nodded quietly.
"I heard from him only last week," she said.
"I am certainly mad or you are," he muttered, staring at her with eyesin which such wonder and horror showed that it seemed there really was atouch of madness there.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"You heard from him last week," he said again, and again she answered:
"Yes--last week. Why not?"
He leaned forward, and before she knew what he intended to do he kissedher pale, cool cheek.
Once more she stood still and immobile, her hands loosely clasped beforeher. It might have been that he had kissed a statue, and her perfectstillness made him afraid.
"Ella," he said. "Ella."
"Why did you do that?" she said, a little wildly now in her turn
. "Itwas not that you were going to do to me before."
"I love you," he muttered excusingly.
She shook her head.
"You know too little of me; you have too many doubt and fears," shesaid. "You do not love me, you do not even trust me."
"I love you all the same," he asserted positively and roughly. "I lovedyou--it was when I tied your hands to the chair that night and youlooked at me with such contempt, and asked me if I felt proud. Thatstung, that stung. I loved you then."
"You see," she said sadly, "you do not even pretend to trust me. I don'tknow why you should. Why are you here? Why are you disguised with allthat growth of hair? There is something you are preparing, planning. Iknow it. I feel it. What is it?"
"I told you once before," he answered, "that the end of this will beDeede Dawson's death or mine. That's what I'm preparing."
"He is very cunning, very clever," she said. "Do you think he suspectsyou?"
"He suspects every one always," answered Dunn. "I've been trying to getproof to act on. I haven't succeeded. Not yet. Nothing definite. If Ican't, I shall act without. That's all."
"If I told him even half of what you just said," she said, looking athim. "What would happen?"
"You see, I trust you," he answered bitterly.
She shook her head, but her eyes were soft and tender as she said:
"It wasn't trust in me made you say all that, it was because you didn'tcare what happened after."
"No," he said. "But when I see you, I forget everything. Do you loveme?"
"Why, I've never even seen you yet," she exclaimed with something likea smile. "I only know you as two eyes over a tangle of hair that Idon't believe you ever either brush or comb. Do you know, sometimes I amcurious."
He took her hand and drew her to sit beside him on the bench under atree near by. All his doubts and fears and suspicions he set far fromhim, and remembered nothing save that she was the woman for whom yearnedall the depths of his soul as by pre-ordained decree. And she, too, forman, to her strange, aloof, mysterious, but dominating all her life asthough by primal necessity.
When they parted, it was with an agreement to meet again that evening,and in the twilight they spent a halcyon hour together, saying little,feeling much.
It was only when at last she had left him that he remembered all thathad passed, that had happened, that he knew, suspected, dreaded, allthat he planned and intended and would be soon called upon to put intoaction.
"She's made me mad," he said to himself, and for a long time he satthere in the darkness, in the stillness of the evening, motionless asthe tree in whose shade he sat, plunged in the most profound and strangereverie, from which presently his quick ear, alert and keen even whenhis mind was deep in thought, caught the light and careful sound of anapproaching footstep.
In a moment he was up and gliding through the darkness to meet who wascoming, and almost at once a voice hailed him cautiously.
"There you are, Dunn," Deede Dawson said. "I've been looking for youeverywhere. Tomorrow or next day we shall be able to strike; everythingis ready at last, and I'll tell you now exactly what we are going todo."
"That's good news," said Dunn softly.
"Come this way," Deede Dawson said, and led Dunn through the darkness tothe gate that admitted to the Bittermeads grounds from the high road.
Here he paused, and stood for a long time in silence, leaning on thegate and looking out across the road to the common beyond. Closebeside him stood Dunn, controlling his impatience as best he could, andwondering if at last the secret springs of all these happenings was tobe laid bare to him.
But Deede Dawson seemed in no hurry to begin. For a long time heremained in the same attitude, silent and sombre in the darkness, andwhen at last he spoke it was to utter a remark that quite took Dunn bysurprise.
"What a lovely night," he said in low and pensive tones, very unlikethose he generally used. "I remember when I was a boy--that's a longtime ago."
Dunn was too surprised by this sudden and very unexpected lapse intosentiment to answer. Deede Dawson went on as if thinking to himself:
"A long time--I've done a lot--seen a lot since then--too much,perhaps--I remember mother told me once--poor soul, I believe she usedto be rather proud of me--"
"Your mother?" Dunn said wondering greatly to think this man shouldstill have such memories.
But Deede Dawson seemed either to resent his tone or else to be angrywith himself for giving way to such weakness. In a voice more like hisusual one, he said harshly and sneeringly:
"Oh, yes, I had a mother once, just like everybody else. Why not? Mostpeople have their mothers, though it's not an arrangement I should careto defend. Now then, Ella was with you tonight; you and she were alonetogether a long time."
"Well," growled Dunn, "what of it?"
"Fine girl, isn't she?" asked Deede Dawson, and laughed.
Dunn did not speak. It filled him with such loathing to hear this manso much as utter Ella's name, it was all he could do to keep his handsmotionless by his side and not make use of them about the other'sthroat.
"She's been useful, very useful," Deede Dawson went on meditatively."Her mother had some money when I married her. I don't mind telling youit's all spent now, but Ella's a little fortune in herself."
"I didn't know we came to talk about her," said Dunn slowly. "I thoughtyou had something else to say to me."
"So I have," Deede Dawson answered. "That's why I brought you here. Weare safe from eavesdroppers here, in a house you can never tell who isbehind a curtain or a door. But then, Ella is a part of my plans, a veryimportant part. Do you remember I told you I might want you to take asecond packing-case away from here in the car one night?"
"Yes, I remember," said Dunn slowly. "I remember. What would be in it?The same sort of thing that was in--that other?"
"Yes," answered Deede Dawson. "Much the same."
"I shall want to see for myself," said Dunn. "I'm a trustful sort ofperson, but I don't go driving about the country with packing-cases lateat night unless I've seen for myself what's inside."