Blue Aloes Part 26

"Come now, my child; it is late, and you must be gone. Be careful. I know I need not remind you of the oath between us three."

"Silence--and suicide, if necessary," she murmured mechanically. She had taken the jewel from its case and was threading it on a chain round her throat, "Death rather than betray the other two."

"That's it," said the other, with cheerful firmness. "Now, good-night."

He lowered the lights and opened the door of the room. She pa.s.sed into the dark pa.s.sage, and he returned to the table and pressed a b.u.t.ton which opened the front door. When he heard it softly close, he knew that she was out of the house and on her way home.

But her adventures were not yet over. Before she had gone very far she was aware of being followed. A mirror in a shop window reflected, afar off, the silhouette of the only other person besides herself in the now silent street--a tall man in a slouch hat. Apparently he had on shoes as light as her own, for his feet made no more noise than hers, though her fine ear detected the steady beat of them behind her. For the first time, she knew terror. Supposing it were a detective who had tracked her from Syke Ravenal's door, and was now waiting to arrest her as she entered her own home! She realized that her courage had lain in the knowledge of absolute security, for now, at the menace of discovery, her heart was paralyzed with fright and she could scarcely breathe. Instinct told her to run, but acquired self-control kept her from this madness, and, by a great effort, she continued walking quietly as before. Gradually her nerve returned. She determined, by feint, to discover whether the man were really following her or if his presence were due to accident. Having now arrived at the residential part of the town, where every house stood back from the road and was sheltered by a garden, she coolly opened a gate at random and walked boldly in. The man was still some way behind, and she had ample time to pa.s.s through the garden and reach the veranda before he drew near.

It was a house strange to her, and she had not the faintest idea who lived there. All the windows and doors were closed and shuttered, but light showed through a fanlight over the hall door. The veranda, blinded by heavy green mats, contained the usual array of chairs, and she sank down on one, her heart beating like a drum, her ears strained to hear her pursuer pa.s.s. Instead, to her horror, she heard the gate briskly unlatched and footsteps on the path. Terrified by this unexpected move, and sure, now, that the end had come, she sprang to her feet and stood waiting like a straight, grey ghost for the man to enter the veranda. The light above the hall door fell full on him, and it is hard to say whether dismay or horror were strongest in her when she recognized Harlenden.

"Denis!" she stammered.

"Why are you here, Rosanne?" he asked quietly. "Do you need me?"

Astonishment kept her dumb for a moment, then, with a realization of the position, came anger.

"How dare you follow me?" she exclaimed, in a low, tense voice.

"I live in this house."

"_You live here?_" she faltered, and sat down suddenly, trembling from head to foot.

"Yes; and I have just returned from the club."

"Then it was _not_ you following me?"

At that she sprang up and threw herself into his arms in a frenzy of fear.

"Who was it, then? Oh, Denis, Denis, save me; take me into your house--hide me!"

"Hus.h.!.+" he said gently, and, keeping a supporting arm about her, guided her round the veranda, took a key out of his pocket, and let her and himself in by a side door. He closed and locked the door behind them, put her into a chair, then examined the window to make sure it was closed as well as shuttered. It was a man's sitting-room, full of the scent of leather and tobacco. Going to a spirit-stand on the table he poured out some brandy.

"Drink this," he said, in the same firm tone he had used all along, and mechanically she obeyed him.

"Where are we?" she murmured. "Whose house is this? I thought you lived at the club?"

"So I did until last week, when this house was lent me. Don't be afraid. The servants are all in bed, and there is no one about. You are much safer here than roaming about the streets at one in the morning."

"Then you _were_ following me?"

"Certainly I was following you. I saw you come out of Syke Ravenal's shop and I walked behind you, but only because your way and mine happened to be in the same direction."

She pa.s.sed her hand over her eyes with a hopeless gesture. It seemed as though this endless day of terrors and surprises would never be done, and she was weary, weary. He sat regarding her with grave eyes.

She looked like a little, tired, unhappy child, and his heart was sick with longing to gather her in his arms and comfort her and take her sorrows on himself. But he knew that there were things beyond his help here, unless she gave him her full confidence and cast her burdens into his hands.

"Rosanne," he said, at last, "I ask you to trust me."

She looked at him with wretched eyes and a mouth tipped at the corners as though she would weep if she could. In truth, the enchantment of this man's love and her love for him was on her again, and the poignant torment of it was almost too exquisite to bear. His voice stole through her senses like the music of an old dream. His lean, strong frame, the stone-grey eyes, and close-lipped mouth all spoke of that power in a man which means safety to the woman he loves. Safety! Only such a storm-petrel as Rosanne Ozanne, weary, with wings beaten and torn by winds whose fateful forces she herself did not understand, could realize the full allure of that word. She felt like a sailor drowning in a wild sea, within sight of the fair land he never would reach. That fair land of safety was not for her feet, that had wandered down such dark and shameful paths. But, oh, how the birds sang on that sweet sh.o.r.e! How cool were the green pastures! Small wonder that her face wore the tortured misery of a little child. Denis Harlenden's heart turned to water at the sight of it, and the blood thrummed in his veins with the ache to crush her to his breast and keep her there against the world and against herself, spite of all the unfathomed things in her which estranged him. But he was strong enough to refrain from even touching her hands. Only his voice he could not stay from its caresses.

"Is not love enough for you, Rosanne?"

She trembled under it like leaves in the wind and lifted her eyes to his. They looked long into each other's souls through those windows which can wear so many veils to hide the truth. But, in that moment, the veils were lifted, and both saw Truth in all her naked terror and beauty. What he saw scorched and repelled but did not daunt him; instead, a n.o.bler love, chivalrous and pitiful, was born of the sight.

And she saw that love, and knew it great enough to clothe her even if she came to him stripped of fair repute and the world's honours.

"Yes; it is enough," she said brokenly, and cast a thing she wore about her neck to the floor. Then, suddenly, she collapsed in her chair and fell into a fit of dry weeping. Long, bitter sobs shook her frame and seemed to tear their way out of her body. She was like a woman wrenched upon the rack. Harlenden could do nothing but stand and wait, his own face twisted with pain, until the storm was past. Gradually it died away, with longer and longer intervals between the shuddering sighs. At last, she uncovered her face, bleached and ravaged by the tearless storm, yet wearing a gentler beauty than ever it had known, and rose trembling to her feet.

"Take me home, Denis," she whispered. He wrapped her veil about her and she felt the thrill of his hands upon her, but he did not kiss her.

They had come closer to each other than any kiss could bring them.

Just as they were pa.s.sing from the room, she remembered something and stepped back.

"I must touch that vile thing again," she said, "because it does not belong to me and must go back to where it came from." She stooped and picked the black, glittering object from the floor.

A spasm contracted Harlenden's face, but he asked no question.

Silently they went from the house and into the dark streets. There was no moon. At her gate, he stooped and kissed her lips.

Mrs. Ozanne got up the morning of the following day with the urgent feeling on her of something to be done. It seemed as if there were some move to be made that would help her and her children in their unhappiness, only she didn't know what the move was. But she always remembered, afterward, with what feverish urgency she dressed, putting on walking-things instead of a wrapper, and stepping from her room into the bustling atmosphere of the house with a determined indifference to the tasks and interests that usually occupied her attention.

Rosalie was as surprised to see her mother dressed for going out as was the mother to find her daughter at the breakfast-table.

"Why, Rosalie, my darling, this is an unexpected joy!"

"Yes, mother; I thought I would make an effort."

It was the first time that the girl had been out of her room for over two weeks, and she looked frail as a snowdrop, and nearly as white.

"You can't have two daughters sick abed, you know," she added, with a wistful smile.

"Is Rosanne still----" Mrs. Ozanne often left questions and remarks about her other daughter unfinished.

The latter had spent the whole of the previous day in her room, seeming physically unable to leave her bed.

"Yes; I'm afraid she's really ill. She just lies there, not speaking or eating, and she looks--oh, mother, she looks so unhappy!"

"I begged her yesterday to see the doctor."

"She says no doctor can do her any good, and that we must just leave her alone. I fancy she's thinking out something that she's terribly worried about."

"There is something wrong," said the mother heavily. "Oh, Rosalie, if she were only like you, and would not hide her heart from those who love her!"

"We can't all be alike, mother darling! Rosanne has a stronger character for better or worse than I have. It is easy for me to throw my troubles on other people's shoulders, but she is capable of bearing in silence far greater sorrows, and of making far greater sacrifices."

"It is not a happy nature," sighed her mother. "I wonder if Kitty Drummund can do any good if I send for her?"

"Better not, mother. She says she wants to see no one at present, and you know she was at Kitty's the night before last."

"I have asked her so often not to go out at night like that--even to Kitty's. I dare say she caught cold driving."

"Poor Rosanne! It is more than a cold she has!"