"Behind a projecting ledge of stone from which a tattered rug still hung, I came upon two nails driven a few feet apart into a fissure of the rock. I had driven those nails myself long before for a certain gymnastic attachment much in vogue at the time, and on looking closer, I discovered hanging from them the rope-ends by which I was wont to pull myself about. So far there was nothing to rouse any but innocent reminiscences. But when I heard the dog's low moan and saw him leap at the curled-up ends, and nose them with an eager look my way, I remembered the dark marks circling the wrists about which I had so often clasped my mother's bracelets, and the world went black before me.
"When consciousness returned--when I could once more move and see and think, I noted another fact. Cards were strewn about the floor, face up and in a fixed order as if laid in a mocking mood to be looked upon by reluctant eyes; and near the ominous half-circle they made, a cushion from the lounge, stained horribly with what I then thought to be blood, but which I afterwards found to be wine. Vengeance spoke in those ropes and in the carefully spread-out cards, and murder in the smothering pillow.
The vengeance of one who had watched her corroding influence eat the life out of my honour and whose love for our little Roger was such that any deed which ensured his continued presence in the home appeared not only warrantable but obligatory. Alas! I knew of but one person in the whole world who could cherish feeling to this extent or possess sufficient will power to carry her lifeless body back to the house and lay it in her bed and give no sign of the abominable act from that day on to this.
"Miss Strange, there are men who have a peculiar conception of duty. My father--""You need not go on." How gently, how tenderly our Violet spoke.
"I understand your trouble--"
Did she? She paused to ask herself if this were so, and he, deaf perhaps to her words, caught up his broken sentence and went on:
"My father was in the hall the day I came staggering in from my visit to the grotto. No words passed, but our eyes met and from that hour I have seen death in his countenance and he has seen it in mine, like two opponents, each struck to the heart, who stand facing each other with simulated smiles till they fall. My father will drop first. He is old--very old since that day five weeks ago; and to see him die and not be sure--to see the grave close over a possible innocence, and I left here in ignorance of the blissful fact till my own eyes close forever, is more than I can hold up under; more than any son could. Cannot you help me then to a positive knowledge? Think! think! A woman's mind is strangely penetrating, and yours, I am told, has an intuitive faculty more to be relied upon than the reasoning of men. It must suggest some means of confirming my doubts or of definitely ending them."Then Violet stirred and looked about at him and finally found voice.
"Tell me something about your father's ways. What are his habits?
Does he sleep well or is he wakeful at night?""He has poor nights. I do not know how poor because I am not often with him. His valet, who has always been in our family, shares his room and acts as his constant nurse. He can watch over him better than I can; he has no distracting trouble on his mind.""And little Roger? Does your father see much of little Roger?
Does he fondle him and seem happy in his presence?""Yes; yes. I have often wondered at it, but he does. They are great chums. It is a pleasure to see them together.""And the child clings to him--shows no fear--sits on his lap or on the bed and plays as children do play with his beard or with his watch-chain?""Yes. Only once have I seen my little chap shrink, and that was when my father gave him a look of unusual intensity,--looking for his mother in him perhaps.""Mr. Upjohn, forgive me the question; it seems necessary. Does your father--or rather did your father before he fell ill--ever walk in the direction of the grotto or haunt in any way the rocks which surround it?""I cannot say. The sea is there; he naturally loves the sea. But I have never seen him standing on the promontory.""Which way do his windows look?"
"Towards the sea."
"Therefore towards the promontory?"
"Yes."
"Can he see it from his bed?"
"No. Perhaps that is the cause of a peculiar habit he has.""What habit?"
"Every night before he retires (he is not yet confined to his bed) he stands for a few minutes in his front window looking out.
He says it's his good-night to the ocean. When he no longer does this, we shall know that his end is very near."The face of Violet began to clear. Rising, she turned on the electric light, and then, reseating herself, remarked with an aspect of quiet cheer:
"I have two ideas; but they necessitate my presence at your place. You will not mind a visit? My brother will accompany me."Roger Upjohn did not need to speak, hardly to make a gesture; his expression was so eloquent.
She thanked him as if he had answered in words, adding with an air of gentle reserve: "Providence assists us in this matter. Iam invited to Beverly next week to attend a wedding. I was intending to stay two days, but I will make it three and spend the extra one with you.""What are your requirements, Miss Strange? I presume you have some."Violet turned from the imposing portrait of Mr. Upjohn which she had been gravely contemplating, and met the troubled eye of her young host with an enigmatical flash of her own. But she made no answer in words. Instead, she lifted her right hand and ran one slender finger thoughtfully up the casing of the door near which they stood till it struck a nick in the old mahogany almost on a level with her head.
