The Silent House, Fergus Hume [romantic novels to read .TXT] 📗

rich marriage by becoming the second Mrs. Vrain. I never liked her, knowing that she was false and frivolous; but though I did my best to stop the marriage, my father would not be controlled. You know that this woman is pretty and fascinating."

"She is certainly the first, but not the last," interposed Lucian.

"At all events," resumed Diana disconsolately, "she was sufficiently fascinating to snare my poor foolish old father. We remained four months in Florence, and before we left it Lydia Clyne became Mrs. Vrain. I could do nothing with my father, as he was possessed of the headstrong passion of an old man, and, moreover, Lydia had learned to know his weak points so well that she could twist him round her finger. But, angered as I was at my father's folly, I loved him too well to leave him at the time, therefore I returned to Berwin Manor with the pair.

"There, Mr. Denzil," continued Miss Vrain, her face growing dark, "Lydia made my life so wretched, and insulted me so openly, that I was forced, out of self-respect, to leave the house. I had some relatives in Australia, to whom I went out on a visit. Alas! I wish I had not done so; yet remain with my colonial cousins I did, until recalled to England by the terrible intelligence of my father's untimely end."

"So the marriage was a failure?"

"Yes; even before I left, Lydia openly neglected my father. I am bound to say that Mr. Clyne, who is much the better of the two, tried to make her conduct herself in a more becoming manner. But she defied him and every one else. After my departure I received letters from a friend of mine, who told me that Lydia had invited Count Ferruci over on a visit. My father, finding that he could do nothing, and seeing what a mistake he had made, returned to his books, and soon became ill again. Instead of looking after him, Lydia—as I heard—encouraged him to study hard, hoping, no doubt, that he would die, and that she would be free to marry Count Ferruci. Then my father left the house."

"Why? That is a very necessary detail."

Diana thought for a moment, then shook her head despondingly. "That I cannot explain," she said, with a sigh, "as I was in Australia at the time. But I expect that his brain grew weaker with study, and perhaps with the strong drink and drugs which this woman drove him to take. No doubt the poor man grew jealous of Ferruci; and, unable to assert himself, seeing how ill he was, left the house and retired to Geneva Square to meet his death, as we know."

"But all this is supposition," remonstrated Lucian. "We really do not know why Mr. Vrain left the house."

"What does Lydia say?"

"She gives no feasible explanation."

"Nor will she. Oh!" cried Diana, "is there no way of getting at the truth of this matter? I feel certain that Lydia and the Count are guilty!"

"You have no proofs," said Denzil, shaking his head.

"No proofs! Why, you said yourself that a stiletto——"

"That is a supposition on my part," interrupted Lucian quickly. "I cannot say for certain that the deed was committed with such a weapon. Besides, if it was, how can you connect the Italian with the deed?"

"Can we not find a proof?"

"I fear not."

"But if we search the house?"

"There is little use in doing that," rejoined Lucian. "However, if it will give you any satisfaction, Miss Vrain, I will take you over the house to-morrow morning."

"Do!" cried Diana, "and we may find proof of Lydia's guilt in a way she little dreams of. Good-bye, Mr. Denzil—till to-morrow."

CHAPTER X THE PARTI-COLOURED RIBBON

The beauty and high spirit of Diana made so deep an impression on Lucian that he determined to aid her by every means in his power in searching for the assassin of her father. As yet Denzil had reached the age of twenty-five without having been attracted in any marked degree towards woman-kind; or, to put it more precisely, he had not yet been in love. But now it seemed that the hour which comes to all of Adam's sons had come to him; for on leaving Diana he thought of nothing else but her lovely face and charming smile, and, until he met her again, her image was never absent from his mind.

He took but a languid interest in his daily business or social pursuits, and, wrapped up in inwardly contemplating the beauties of Diana, he appeared to move amongst his fellow-men like one in a dream. And dreamer he was, for there was no substantial basis for his passion.

Many people—particularly those without imagination—scoff at the idea that love can be born in a moment, but such is often the case, for all their ill-advised jibes. A man may be brought into contact with the loveliest and most brilliant of women, yet remain heart-whole; yet unexpectedly a face—not always the most beautiful—will fire him with sudden fervour, even against his better judgment. Love is not an affair of reason, to be clipped and measured by logic and calculation; but a devouring, destroying passion, impatient of restraint, and utterly regardless of common sense. It is born of a look, of a smile, of a sigh, of a word; it springs up and fructifies more speedily than did Jonah's gourd, and none can say how it begins or how it will end. It is the ever old, ever new riddle of creation, and the more narrowly its mystery is looked into the more impossible does it become of solution. The lover of to-day, with centuries of examples at his back, is no wiser in knowledge than was his father Adam.

Although Lucian was thus stricken mad after the irrational methods of Cupid, he had sufficient sense not to examine too minutely into the reasons for this sudden passion. He was in love, and admitting as much to himself, there was an end of all argument. The long lane of his youthful and loveless life had turned in another direction at the signpost of a woman's face, and down the new vista the lover saw flowering meadows, silver streams, bowers of roses, and all the landscape of Arcadia. He was a piping swain and Diana a complaisant shepherdess; but they had not yet entered into the promised Arcadia, and might never do so unless Diana was as kindly as he wished her to be.

Lucian was in love with Diana, but as yet he could not flatter himself that she was in love with him, so he resolved to win her affection—if it was free to be bestowed—by doing her will, and her will was to revenge the death of her father. This was hardly a pleasant task to Lucian in his then peace-with-all-the-world frame of mind; but seeing no other way to gain a closer intimacy with the lady of his love, he took the bitter with the sweet, and set his shoulder to the wheel.

The next morning, therefore, Lucian called on the landlord of No. 13 and requested the keys of the house. But it appeared that these were not in the landlord's keeping at the moment.

"I gave them to Mrs. Kebby, the charwoman," said Mr. Peacock, a retired grocer, who owned the greater part of the square. "The house is in such a state that I thought I'd have it cleaned up a bit."

"With a view to a possible tenant, I suppose?"

"I don't know," replied Peacock, with a rueful shake of his bald head, "although I'm hoping against hope. But what with the murder and the ghost, there don't seem much chance of letting it. What might you be wanting in No. 13, Mr. Denzil?"

"I wish to examine every room, to find, if possible, a clue to this crime," explained Lucian, suppressing the fact that he was to have a companion.

"You'll find nothing, sir. I've looked into every room myself. However, you'll find Mrs. Kebby cleaning up, and she'll let you in if you ring the bell. You aren't thinking of taking the house yourself, I suppose?" added Peacock wishfully.

"No, thank you. My nerves are in good order just now; I don't want to upset them by inhabiting a house with so evil a reputation."

"Ah! that's what every one says," sighed the grocer. "I wish that Berwin, or Vrain, or whatever he called himself, had chosen some other place to be killed in."

"I'm afraid people who meet with unexpected deaths can't arrange these little matters beforehand," said Lucian drily, and walked away, leaving the unfortunate landlord still lamenting over his unlucky possession of a haunted and blood-stained mansion.

Before going to No. 13, Lucian walked down the street leading into Geneva Square, in order to meet Diana, who was due at eleven o'clock. Punctual as the barrister was, he found that Miss Vrain, in her impatience, was before him; for he arrived to see her dismiss her cab at the end of the street, and met her half way down.

His heart gave a bound as he saw her graceful figure, and he felt the hot blood rise to his cheeks as he advanced to meet her.

Diana, quite unconscious of having, like her namesake, the moon, caused this springtide of the heart, could not forbear a glance of surprise, but greeted her coadjutor without embarrassment and with all friendliness. Her thoughts were too taken up with her immediate task of exploring the scene of the crime to waste time in conjecturing the reason of the young man's blushes. Yet the instinct of her sex might have told her the truth, and probably it would have but that it was blunted, or rather not exercised, by reason of her preoccupation.

"Have you the key, Mr. Denzil?" said she eagerly.

"No; but I have seen the landlord, and he has given us permission to go over the house. A charwoman who is cleaning up the place will let us in."

"A charwoman," repeated Miss Vrain, stopping short, "and cleaning up the house! Is it, then, about to receive a new tenant?"

"Oh, no; but the landlord wishes it to be aired and swept; to keep it in some degree of order, I presume."

"What is the name of this woman?"

"Mrs. Kebby."

"The same mentioned in the newspaper reports as having waited on my unhappy father?"

"The same," replied Lucian, with some hesitation; "but I would advise you, Miss Vrain, not to question her too closely about your father."

"Why not? Ah! I see; you think her answers about his drinking habits will give me pain. No matter; I am prepared for all that. I don't blame him so much as those who drove him to intemperance. Is this the house?" she said, looking earnestly at the neglected building before which they were standing.

"Yes," replied Lucian, ringing the bell, "it was in this house that your father came to his untimely end. And here is Mrs. Kebby."

That amiable crone had opened the door while the young man was speaking, and now stood eyeing her visitors with a blear-eyed look of dark suspicion.

"What is't ye want?" she demanded, with a raven-like croak.

"Mr. Peacock has given this lady and myself permission to go over the house," responded Lucian, trying to pass.

"And how do I know if he did?" grumbled Mrs. Kebby, blocking the way.

"Because I tell you so."

"And because I am the daughter of Mr. Vrain," said Diana, stepping forward.

"Lord love ye, miss! are ye?" croaked Mrs. Kebby, stepping aside. "And ye've come to look at your pa's blood, I'll be bound."

Diana turned pale and shuddered, but controlling herself by an effort of will, she swept past the old woman and entered the sitting-room. "Is this the place?" she asked Lucian, who was holding the door open.

"That it is,