Read Ebook: The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation by Johnston Annie F Annie Fellows Barry Etheldred B Etheldred Breeze Illustrator

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Ebook has 1214 lines and 79461 words, and 25 pages

I suppose the half-eye that had discovered so much was his right one, for he proceeded to diminish it by screwing it up into a wink expressive of the penetration of its owner.

"The gentleman whom you think capable of forgery and murder is my brother, Captain Willard, of the--the never you mind; and if you give me any of your insolence, I'll report you to the authorities," I said, wrathfully.

The porter, who had evidently been drinking, was a little taken aback, to judge by his ejaculation of "Oh lor!" and as I walked off with my grandest air, I heard him mutter:

A multitude of questions came surging over my mind. What was George doing at Dover only a few hours before his wedding? Obviously his purpose was not to meet me, since he had avoided me. Why? Could it be that for some strange reason he was deserting Daphne on her bridal morning?--a thought that caused my pulses to throb quickly. Was it shame, or guilt, that had kept him from facing me? Oh, if I could but find him, and learn the truth from his lips!

"On the platform ten minutes ago."

Absurd as the idea may seem, I resolved to walk the streets of Dover during the next two hours, on the chance of meeting him.

The weather was of the character that popular fancy rather than historic fact has ascribed to the Yuletides of bygone days under the name of "an old-fashioned Christmas." The snow was lying several inches deep in the streets, deadening the sound of my footfalls. The big flakes, still falling, blinded my vision with their whirling eddies. Not a soul was to be seen out of doors. Not a sound was to be heard save the sea splashing faintly against the harbour walls. The town lay draped in white, a city of the dead. Not knowing in what direction to proceed, I walked on as chance directed, without seeing the person I was in quest of. Presently, as I was turning a corner, a figure, white as a ghost from head to foot, came into sight, startling me for the moment. It was a constable, and I questioned him.

"I saw a man in a grey cloak go by just three minutes ago."

"Carrying bag marked 'G.W.'?"

"I don't understand you," I returned sharply, wondering whether he, too, like the railway-porter, thought that my brother was a fugitive from justice.

"No offence, sir, but your friend seems to need looking after. He is either mad or dying. His eyes burned like live coals, and his face was as white as this snow here. I called out 'A rough night, sir!' but he glided on, looking neither to right nor left, and taking no notice of me."

These words increased my misgivings. I thanked the constable and, declining his proffered services, rushed on in the direction indicated by him. A line of footprints in the snow served to guide me, and following their course, I presently found myself in a street whose semi-detached villas were fronted with quiet unpretentious gardens separated from the pavement by stone balustrades.

There he was! Half-way down the street, standing beneath the light of a gas-lamp, was a cloaked man apparently taking a survey of a house facing the lamp, while shaking the snow from himself. I hurried forward to greet him, my feet making no sound on the soft snow.

"George!" I cried eagerly and breathlessly when within a few paces of him. "George!"

The figure turned to meet, but not to greet me. It was my brother's face I saw, but so haggard and disfigured by lines of pain as to be scarcely recognisable. His eyes frightened me as they gleamed in the lamplight; so glassy, so unnatural was their stare.

With dread at my heart I tried to clasp his hand, but he waved me back with a gesture suggestive of surprise, despair, terror, shame, grief--any or all of these might have prompted the singular motion of his arm. If I had come upon him in the very act of murder, he could not have shown greater agitation. The fingers of his left hand relaxed their grip, and the valise they were holding dropped silently upon the snow. His action said more plainly than words: "Go back! go back! There is that happening of which you must know nothing."

To my mind there could be but one cause of his emotion, a cause as awful to me as to him, and it burst from my lips in a hoarse cry.

"Good heavens, George! Surely--surely Daphne isn't dead?"

There was no reply. The laxity of his limbs and his reclining attitude against the iron column showed that he had scarcely strength to stand. Then a sudden gust of wind blew aside both his cloak and his coat, exposing his white vest to view. And there upon that vest, plain to be seen, was a red stain large and round! For one moment only was it visible in the fitful light of the gas-lamp; the next, the folds of his cloak enveloping him again, concealed it from view.

"What is the matter? Why don't you speak?" I cried, and overcoming the vague terror that had possessed me, I stepped forward.

But before I could touch him, he gave a swift glance around, apparently seeking some way of escape, and suddenly snatching up the valise, he darted through the gate-way opposite him. Hurrying up the garden-path, he ascended a flight of steps, and while I was still gazing after him in amazement, he disappeared within the portico that gave entrance to the house.

Here was a strange affair. George, on his wedding-morn in a town far distant from his bride, trying to avoid me, his brother, after having invited me to be his best man! A second explanation of his conduct occurred to me and found its way to my tongue.

"He is mad!" and I hesitated to follow. It is not an infrequent thing for the insane to think their dearest friends their foes. And this thought begot another, more fearful still to me;

To be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.

His wild air and the red stain on his breast might well be testimony to some tragedy; in a fit of insane jealousy he had killed Daphne! Paralyzed by the idea I leaned, as he had leaned before me, against the lamp-post, with the words, "Daphne dead!" ringing in my ears.

I broke from the spell of terror imposed on me by my own fancy, and prepared to follow my brother. Putting aside the fears for my own safety with the thought that in case of an attack my cries would summon the inmates of the neighbouring houses to my aid, I cautiously groped my way to the dark portico, not without a dread that his wild figure might spring out upon me; but, on mounting the snowy steps I discovered that the portico was empty, and the front door of the house securely shut.

I had heard no noise of knocking--no sound of the opening or closing of a door; and yet, if George had not passed the threshold, where was he? This was the second time the figure had eluded me. Was it after all an apparition?

The improbability of seeing my brother in such a place and at such an hour, his obstinate silence to my appeals, his weird aspect, the mysterious manner in which he had vanished, seemed to favour this hypothesis. Was this his wraith sent to apprise me of his death? The next moment I was smiling at the idea. A being that is merely a figment of the brain cannot be credited with the power of making footprints in snow, yet deep footprints there were leading up the steps, and terminating at the threshold of the door; footprints newly-formed, whose shape and size assured me were not my own.

I drew back to take a survey of the house in which George had evidently taken refuge. A brief inspection of the dwelling failed to afford any clue as to the character of the occupants. The blinds were drawn at every window, and, as might be expected at so early an hour, no light was anywhere visible. I knocked at the door once, twice, thrice. There was no reply. Then, seizing the knocker with a vigorous grasp, I executed a cannonade with it, loud enough to rouse not the inmates of that house only, but those of the whole street. At length my summons met with recognition from within. The door slowly opened. Fully expecting to meet my brother, his eyes aglow with passion, I drew back with arms upraised to protect myself from his rush, but nothing more terrible met my gaze than a venerable old man with silver hair, who shivered visibly as the cold wind drifted the snow into the passage. The lamp that he carried in his left hand, while he shielded it from the draught with his right, shone full on his face, which had such an air of quiet dignity that I felt quite ashamed of myself for having knocked so loudly. The disorder of his dress told me that he had but just risen from his bed.

The contrast between his grave demeanour and my excited bearing would have amused the spectator, had any been present. It struck me as a reversal of positions. I had expected to see a madman; he certainly took me for one, standing there as I did, breathless and silent in the wild snowy night, with my arms extended in front of me.

Too surprised to speak, I looked along the length of the passage as far as the kitchen, and then glanced up the staircase, but could not see George, nor any trace of him.

"Well, sir, may I ask why you rouse me thus in the dead of night?"

My eager impatience gave me no time for apology.

"I want my brother," I cried brusquely. "He came in here, I think."

"Your brother!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of surprise, that, if not genuine, was certainly well feigned. "Young man, you have been too long at the taverns this morning. There is no one in this house but myself."

It was difficult to refuse belief to this statement, for the old man had so grave and reverend an air that he might have stood for an image of Truth--of Truth in these later days, I mean, when, as is well known, he has become a little old and antiquated.

"You are mistaken," I replied, after listening vainly for some sound to proceed from within that might disprove his words. "Some one entered here only a minute or two ago, unknown, it may be, to you. These footprints are not mine."

But on looking downwards I found that a snow-wreath had drifted over the pavement, effectually covering the footsteps of myself as well as those of the refugee.

The old man smiled at my perplexity--a smile that was annoying, for it implied that he regarded me as a sad wine-bibber.

"Who is your brother?"

And then I stopped. I could perhaps have given him the titles of Caesar's ancient legions, but of the name of my brother's modern regiment I was totally ignorant.

"I really don't know the name of the regiment." The old man smiled again, as well he might. "He's in India now--that is to say, he is when he's there, you know," I stammered, conscious that I was blundering terribly.

"Captain Willard? I have never heard the name before. He is not here. You have mistaken the house."

I paused diffidently, for his reverend air did not harmonise well with the taking of a bribe. The old man's voice now assumed a tone of asperity. He was evidently getting tired of shivering half-dressed in the cold night air, and no wonder.

And, without more ado, the door was closed and locked, and I could hear the footsteps of the old man receding along the passage and ascending the stairs.

THE VEILED LADY

I looked at the time and found that I had an hour before the departure of the London train. I determined to watch the house for a short time, and then, if my brother did not appear, to betake myself to the station. The portico of the adjoining house was the spot I selected for my vigil, a place which, while concealing my own presence, gave me a full view of the strange dwelling.

The cold was intense. The wind blew keenly. The drops of perspiration caused by my violent run seemed slowly turning to icicles on my chilled skin. I took a deep draught of the brandy and water in my flask.

Taking a cigar from my case, I contrived to light it after some difficulty, and puffed away vigorously. Then I referred to my watch. "Only ten minutes elapsed? I thought it was half an hour. Time lags. Who was it that said 'Time flies?' If the ass were here to-night in my place I rather fancy he would revoke his saying. Am I really awake, I wonder? Can this be Daphne's wedding-morn, and am I here, at 3:30 A. M., in the snow at Dover, keeping watch on an absconding bridegroom? It must be a dream. I shall wake up presently at old Heidelberg, and hear the chapel-bell tinkling for matins."

A light had appeared at an upper window, and was shining faintly out into the night. My curiosity was raised to a high pitch, and I stole from my hiding-place to get a nearer view. The old man had not been burning a light previously to my arrival, and if he had gone to bed, what did he want with one now? Excitement drove all the cold from my body, and a tingling warmth succeeded, as with a quickly-beating heart I waited for some development of this apparent mystery; and no words of mine can describe my feeling of surprise as I saw the shadow of a woman glide across the blind of the lighted window. The dark silhouette stood forth for a moment distinct on the illumined white, and then vanished.

I was loth to depart, but the desire of witnessing the scene that would take place at my uncle's house in the event of George's non-appearance decided my course of action. I determined to wait no longer, and, having applied both eye and ear to the keyhole of the strange house without learning anything thereby, I set off for the station at a running pace.

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