VIII
"PHILO! PHILO! PHILO!"
Never have I felt a weirder sensation than when I stepped from the carson to the solitary platform from which a few hours before I had seen thelittle nursery-governess depart for New York. The train, soon todisappear in the darkness of the long perspective, was all that gavelife and light to the scene, and when it was gone, nothing remained torelieve the gloom or to break the universal stillness save the quiet lapof the water and the moaning of the wind through the trees which climbedthe heights to Homewood.
I had determined to enter if possible by way of the private path, thoughI expected to find it guarded against just such intrusion. Inapproaching it I was given a full view of the river and thus was in aposition to note that the dock and adjoining banks were no longer brightwith lanterns in the hands of eager men bending with fixed eyes over theflowing waters. The search which had kept so many busy at this spot forwell on to two days had been abandoned; and the darkness seemed doublydark and the silence doubly oppressive in contrast.
Yet hope spoke in the abandonment; and with renewed spirit and a morethan lively courage, I turned toward the little gate through which I hadpassed twice before that day. As I expected, a silent figure rose upfrom the shadows to prevent me; but it fell back at the mention of myname and business, thus proving the man to be in the confidence of Mrs.Ocumpaugh or, at the least, in that of Miss Porter.
"I am come for a social chat with the coachman," I explained. "Lightsburn late in such extensive stables. Don't worry about me. The people atthe house are in sympathy with my investigation."
Thus we stretch the truth at great crises.
"I know you," was the answer. "But keep away from the house. Our ordersare imperative to allow no one to approach it again to-night, exceptwith the child in hand or with such news as would gain instantadmission."
"Trust me," said I, as I went up the steps.
It was so dark between the hedge-rows that my ascent became meregroping. I had a lantern in my pocket which I had taken from Jupp, but Idid not choose to make use of it. I preferred to go on and up, trustingto my instinct to tell me when I had reached a fresh flight of steps.
A gleam of light from Mrs. Carew's upper windows was the firstintimation I received that I was at the top of the bank, and in anothermoment I was opposite the gap in the hedge opening upon her grounds.
For no particular reason that I know of, I here paused and took a longsurvey of what was, after all, nothing but a cluster of shadows brokenhere and there by squares of subdued light. I felt a vague desire toenter--to see and talk again with the charming woman whose personalityhad made such an impression upon me, if only to understand the peculiarfeelings which those indistinguishable walls awakened, and why such asense of anticipation should disturb my admiration of this woman and thedelight which I had experienced in every accent of her trained andexquisite voice.
I was standing very still and in almost total darkness. The shock,therefore, was great when, in finally making up my mind to move, Ibecame conscious of a presence near me, totally indiscernible and assilent as myself.
Whose?
No watchman, or he would have spoken at the rustle I made stumbling backagainst the hedge-row. Some marauder, then, or a detective, like myself?I would not waste time in speculating; better to decide the question atonce, for the situation was eery, the person, whoever he was, stood sonear and so still, and so directly in the way of my advance.
Drawing the lantern from my pocket, I pushed open the slide and flashedthe light on the immovable figure before me. The face I beheld staringinto mine was one quite unknown to me, but as I took in its expression,my arm gradually fell, and with it the light from the man's features,till face and form were lost again in the darkness, leaving in mydisturbed mind naught but an impression; but such an impression!
The countenance thus flashed upon my vision must have been a hauntingone at any time, but seen as I saw it, at a moment of extremeself-abandonment, the effect was startling. Yet I had sufficientcontrol over myself to utter a word or two of apology, which was notanswered, if it was even heard.
A more exact description may be advisable. The person whom I thusencountered hesitating before Mrs. Carew's house was a man of meagerbuild, sloping shoulders and handsome but painfully pinched features.That he was a gentleman of culture and the nicest refinement was evidentat first glance; that this culture and refinement were at this momentunder the dominion of some fierce thought or resolve was equallyapparent, giving to his look an absorption which the shock attending theglare I had thus suddenly thrown on his face could not immediatelydispel.
Dazed by an encounter for which he seemed even less prepared thanmyself, he stood with his heart in his face, if I may so speak, and onlygradually came to himself as the sense of my proximity forced itself inupon his suffering and engrossed mind. When I saw that he had quiteemerged from his dream, I dropped the light. But I did not forget hislook; I did not forget the man, though I hastened to leave him, in mydesire to fulfill the purpose for which I had entered these grounds atso late an hour.
My plan was, as I have said, to visit the Ocumpaugh stables and have achat with the coachman. I had no doubt of my welcome and not much doubtof myself. Yet as I left the vicinity of Mrs. Carew's cottage and cameupon the great house of the Ocumpaughs looming in the moonlight aboveits marble terraces, I felt impressed as never before both by the beautyand magnificence of the noble pile, and shrank with something like shamefrom the presumption which had led me to pit my wits against a mysteryhaving its birth in so much grandeur and material power. The prestige ofgreat wealth as embodied in this superb structure well-nigh awed me frommy task and I was passing the twin pergolas and flower-bordered walkswith hesitating foot, when I heard through one of the open windows a crywhich made me forget everything but our common heritage of sorrow andthe equal hold it has on high and low.
"Philo!" the voice rang out in a misery to wring the heart of the mostcallous. "Philo! Philo!"
Mr. Ocumpaugh's name called aloud by his suffering wife. Was she indelirium? It would seem so; but why Philo! always Philo! and not onceGwendolen?
With hushed steps, ears ringing and heart palpitating with new andindefinable sensations, I turned into the road to the stables.
There were men about and I caught one glimpse of a maid's pretty headlooking from one of the rear windows, but no one stopped me, and Ireached the stable just as a man came sauntering out to take his finallook at the weather.
It was the fellow I sought, Thomas the coachman.
I had not miscalculated the nature of my man. In ten minutes we wereseated together on an open balcony, smoking and beguiling the time witha little harmless gossip. After a free and easy discussion of the greatevent, mingled with the naturally-to-be-expected criticism of thepolice, we proceeded under my guidance to those particulars for which Ihad risked losing this very valuable hour.
He mentioned Mrs. Ocumpaugh; I mentioned Mrs. Carew.
"A beautiful woman," I remarked.
I thought he looked astonished. "_She_ beautiful?" was his doubtfulrejoinder. "What do you think of Mrs. Ocumpaugh?"
"She is handsome, too, but in a different way."
"I should think so. I've driven rich and I've driven poor. I've even saton the box in front of an English duchess, but never have I seen suchfeatures as Mrs. Ocumpaugh's. That's why I consent to drive an Americanmillionaire's wife when I might be driving the English nobility."
"A statue!" said I; "cold!"
"True enough, but one you never tire of looking at. Besides, she canlight up wonderfully. I've seen her when she was all a-quiver, andlovely as the loveliest. And when do you think that was?"
"When she had her child in her arms."
I spoke in lowered tones as befitted the suggestion and thecircumstances.
"No," he drawled, between thoughtful puffs of smoke; "when Mr. Ocumpaughsat on the seat beside her. This, when I was driving the victoria. Ioften used to make excuse for turning
my head about so as to catch aglimpse of her smile at some fine view and the way she looked up at himto see if he was enjoying it as much as she. I like women who love theirhusbands."
"And he?"
"Oh, she has nothing to complain of in him. He worships the ground shewalks on; and he more than worshiped the child."
Here _his_ voice fell.
I brought the conversation back as quickly as I could to Mrs. Carew.
"You like pale women," said I. "Now I like a woman who looks plain oneminute, and perfectly charming the next."
"That's what people say of Mrs. Carew. I know of lots who admire thatkind. The little girl for one."
"Gwendolen? Was she attracted to Mrs. Carew?"
"Attracted? I've seen her go to her from her mother's lap like a bird toits nest. Many a time have I driven the carriage with Mrs. Ocumpaughsitting up straight inside, and her child curled up in this otherwoman's arms with not a look or word for her mother."
"How did Mrs. Ocumpaugh seem to like that?" I asked between puffs of mycigar.
"Oh, she's one of the cold ones, you know! At least you say so; but Ifeel sure that for the last three years--that is, ever since this womancame into the neighborhood--her heart has been slowly breaking. Thislast blow will kill her."
I thought of the moaning cry of "Philo! Philo!" which at intervals Istill seemed to hear issue from that upper window in the great house,and felt that there might be truth in his fears.
But it was of Mrs. Carew I had come to talk and not of Mrs. Ocumpaugh.
"Children's fancies are unaccountable," I sententiously remarked; "butperhaps there is some excuse for this one. Mrs. Carew has what you callmagnetism--a personality which I should imagine would be very appealingto a child. I never saw such expression in a human face. Whatever hermood, she impresses each passing feeling upon you as the one reality ofher life. I can not understand such changes, but they are veryfascinating."
"Oh, they are easy enough to understand in her case. She was an actressonce. I myself have seen her on the stage--in London. I used to admireher there."
"An actress!" I repeated, somewhat taken aback.
"Yes, I forget what name she played under. But she's a very great ladynow; in with all the swells and rich enough to own a yacht if she wantedto."
"But a widow."
"Oh, yes, a widow."
I let a moment of silence pass, then nonchalantly remarked:
"Why is she going to Europe?"
But this was too much for my simple-hearted friend. He neither knew norhad any conjecture ready. But I saw that he did not deplore her resolve.His reason for this presently appeared.
"If the little one is found, the mother will want all her caresses. LetMrs. Carew hug the boy that God in his mercy has thrown into her armsand leave other children to their mothers."
I rose to leave, when I bethought me and stopped to ask anotherquestion.
"Who is the gentleman I have seen about here--a man with a handsomeface, but very pale and thin in his appearance, so much so that it isquite noticeable?"
"Do you mean Mr. Rathbone?"
"I do not know his name. A light complexioned man, who looks as ifgreatly afflicted by some disease or secret depression."
"Oh, that is Mr. Rathbone, sure. He is sickly-looking enough and notwithout his trouble, too. They say--but it's all gossip, of course--thathe has set his heart on the widow."
"Mrs. Carew?"
"Of course, who else?"
"And she?"
"Why, she would be a fool to care for him, unless--"
"Unless what?"
Thomas laughed--a little uneasily, I could not help thinking.
"I'm afraid we're talking scandal," said he. "You know therelationship?"
"What relationship?"
"Why, his relationship to the family. He is Gwendolen's cousin and Ihave heard it said that he's named after her in Madam Ocumpaugh'swill."
"O, I see! The next heir, eh?"
"Yes, to the Rathbone property."
"So that if she is not found--"
"Your sickly man, in that case, would be well worth the marrying."
"Is Mrs. Carew so fond of money as all that? I thought she was a womanof property."
"She is; but it takes money to make some men interesting. He isn'thandsome enough, or independent enough to go entirely on his own merits.Besides, he has a troop of relatives hanging on to him--blood-suckerswho more than eat up his salary."
"A business man, then?"
"Yes, in some New York house. He was always very fond of Gwendolen, andI am not surprised to hear that he is very much cut up by our trouble. Ialways thought well of Mr. Rathbone myself,"--which same ended theconversation so far as my interest in it was concerned.