The Darrow Enigma, Melvin L. Severy [free biff chip and kipper ebooks TXT] 📗

>enjoy doing anything that he could not do well.”

 

“I mean to ask if his positions were steadily sustained - or if,

on the other hand, his manoeuvres were swift, and what you might

call brilliant.”

 

“I think you would call them brilliant.”

 

“Hum! How old are you?”

 

“Twenty-two.”

 

“Tell me your relations with your father.”

 

“We were most constant companions. My mother - she and my father

- they were not altogether companionable - in short, they were

ill-mated, and, being wise enough to find it out, and having no

desire to longer embitter each other’s lives, they agreed to

separate when I was only four. They parted without the slightest

ill-feeling, and I remained with father. He was very fond of me,

and would permit no one else to teach me. At seven I was drawing

and painting under his guidance. At eight the violin was put into

my hands and my studies in voice began. In the meantime father was

most careful not to neglect my physical training; he taught me the

use of Indian clubs, and how to walk easily. At eight I could

walk four miles an hour without fatigue. The neighbours used to

urge that I be put to school, but my father would reply - many a

time I have heard him say it - ‘a child’s brain is like a flower

that blossoms in perceptions and goes to seed in abstractions.

Correct concepts are the raw material of reason. Every desk in

your school is an intellectual loom which is expected to weave a

sound fabric out of rotten raw material. While your children are

wasting their fibre in memorising the antique errors of classical

thought my child is being fitted to perceive new truths for herself.’

It is needless to say his friends considered these views altogether

too radical. But for all that I was never sent to school. My

father’s library was always at my disposal, and I was taught how

to use it. We were constantly together, and grew so into each

other’s lives that ” - but her voice failed her, and her eyes

moistened. Maitland, though he apparently did not notice her

emotion, so busy was he in making notes, quickly put a question

which diverted her attention.

 

“Your father seemed last night to have a presentiment of some

impending calamity. Was this a common experience?”

 

“Of late, yes. He has told me some six or seven times of dreaming

the same dreams - a dream in which some assassin struck him out of

the darkness.” “Did you at any of these times notice anything

which might now lead you to believe this fancied repetition was the

result of any mental malady?”

 

“No.”

 

“Was his description of the dreams always the same?”

 

“No; never were they twice alike, save in the one particular of the

unseen assassin.”

 

“Hum!, Did the impression of these dreams remain long with him?”

 

“He never recovered from it, and each dream only accentuated his

assurance that the experience was prophetic. When once I tried to

dissuade him from this view, he said to me: ‘Gwen, it is useless;

I am making no mistake. When I am gone you will know why I am now

so sure - I cannot tell you now, it would only ‘ - here he stopped

short, and, turning abruptly to me, said with a fierceness entirely

alien to his disposition: ‘Hatred is foreign to my nature, but I

hate that man with a perfect hell of loathing! Have I been a kind

father to you, Gwen? If so, promise me ‘ - and he seized me by the

wrist - ‘ promise me if I’m murdered - I may as well say when I’m

murdered - you will look upon the man who brings my assassin to

justice - the thought that he may escape is damning - as your dearest

friend on earth! You will deny him nothing. You will learn later

that I have taken care to reward him. My child, you will owe this

man a debt you can never repay, for he will have enabled your

father’s soul to find repose. I dreamed last night that I came back

from the dead, and heard my avenger ask you to be his wife. You

refused, and at your ingratitude my restless soul returned to torment

everlasting. Swear to me, Gwen, that you’ll deny him nothing,

nothing, nothing!’ I promised him, and he seemed much reassured.

‘I am satisfied,’ he said, ‘and now can die in peace, for you are

an anomaly, Gwen, - a woman who fully knows the nature of a covenant,’

and he put his arm about me, and drew me to him. His fierceness

had subsided as quickly as it had appeared, and he was now all

tenderness.”

 

Maitland, who appeared somewhat agitated by her recital, said to

her: “After the exaction of such a promise you have, of course, no

doubt that your father was the victim of a mental malady - at least,

at such times as those of which you speak?”

 

Gwen replied deliberately: “Indeed, I have grave doubts. My father

was possessed by a strange conviction, but I never saw anything

which impressed me as indicating an unsound mind. I am, of course,

scarcely fitted to judge in such matters.”

 

Maitland’s face darkened as he asked: “You would not have me infer

that you would consider your promise in any sense binding?”

 

“And why not?” she ejaculated in astonishment.

 

“Because,” he continued, “the request is so unnatural as to be in

itself sufficient evidence that it was not made by a man in his

right mind.”

 

“I cannot agree with you as to my father’s condition,” Gwen replied

firmly; ” yet you may be right; I only know that I, at least, was

in my right mind, and that I promised. If it cost me my life to

keep that pledge, I shall not hesitate a moment. Have you forgotten

that my father’s last words were, ‘remember your promise’?” She

glanced up at Maitland as she said this, and started a little as she

saw the expression of pain upon his face. “I seem to you foolishly

deluded,” she said apologetically; “and you are displeased to see

that my purpose is not shaken. Think of all my father was to me,

and then ask yourself if I could betray his faith. The contemplation

of the subject is painful at best; its realisation may, from the

standpoint of a sensitive woman, be fraught with unspeakable horror,

- I dare not think of it! May we not change the subject?”

 

For a long time Maitland did not speak, and I forbore to break the

silence. At last he said: “Let us hope, if the supposed assassin

be taken, the discovery may be made by someone worthy the name of

man - someone who will not permit you to sacrifice either yourself

or your money.” Gwen glanced at him quickly, for his voice was

strangely heavy and inelastic, and an unmistakable gloom had settled

upon him. I thought she was a little startled, and I was considering

if I had not better call her aside and explain that he was subject

to these moods, when he continued, apparently unaware of the

impression he had made: “Do you realise how strong a case of suicide

the authorities have made out? Like all of their work it has weak

places. We must search these in order to overthrow their conclusion.

The insurance policies they were ‘too busy’ to read we must peruse.

Then, judging from your story, there seems little doubt that your

father has left some explanation of affairs hitherto not confided to

you - some document which he has reserved for your perusal after his

death. No time should be lost in settling this question. The papers

may be here, or in the hands of his attorney. Let us search here

first.”

 

“His private papers,” Gwen said, rising to lead the way, “are in his

desk in the study.”

 

“One moment, please,” Maitland interrupted, calling her back, “I

have something I have been trying to ask you for the last hour, but

have repeatedly put off. I believe your father’s death to have

resulted from poisoning. You know the result of the post-mortem

inquest. It is necessary to make an analysis of the poison, if

there be any, and an absolutely thorough microscopic examination of

the wound. I - I regret to pain you - but to do this properly it

will be necessary to cut away the wounded portion. Have we your

permission to do so?”

 

For a moment Gwen did not answer. She fell upon her knees before

her father’s body, and kissed the cold face passionately. For the

first time since the tragedy she found relief in tears. When she

arose a great change had come over her. She was very pale and

seized a chair for support as she replied to Maitland’s question

between the convulsive sobs which she seemed powerless to check:

“I - I have bidden him goodbye. We shall but obey his command in

sparing no pains to reach the assassin. You - you have my permission

to do anything - everything - that may be - necessary to that end.

I - I know you will be as gentle - ” But she could not finish her

sentence. The futility of gentleness - the realisation that her

father was forever past all need of tenderness, fell like a shroud

about her soul. The awakening I had dreaded had come. Her hand

fell from the chair, she staggered, and would have fallen to the

floor had not Maitland caught her in his arms.

 

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