The Witness on the Roof (12 page)

“Oh, Paul, Paul, don't!”

The gesture no less than the words chilled and pained him. He was not a man who had frittered away his affections, but he had never found it difficult to gain a woman's liking, and he had been confident of Joan's love. He felt convinced that there was more than met the eye in his wife's fainting fit on Monday night, in the aversion with which she had turned from him. He could allow to the full for overtaxed nerves, but there were both pain and shrinking in the brown eyes as he bent nearer, and a quick, involuntary movement that was almost a shudder did not escape him. He had not understood her refusal to see him; the journey to London was difficult to explain as merely a whim. It was evident there was some mystery here that must be fathomed.

“What do you mean, Joan?” he asked quietly. “Aren't you happy with me?”

Joan's piteous glance round the room made him wince.

“Yes—yes—I am happy—of course I am happy!” she answered unsteadily. “But, Paul—”

“Yes. But”—Warchester's dark face was set in stern lines of pain—“Joan, does this mean that you have mistaken your own heart—that you do not care for me?”

Joan sat silent, her slender hands lying motionless on her lap; her long lashes flickered for a moment, then, drooping, veiled her eyes.

To Warchester it appeared that her silence could mean only one thing.

“Joan,” he said sharply, his tone quickened by fear, “is it so? Has it all been a mistake? Was I too old for you, dear? Why don't you speak? Joan—have you ceased to—love me?”

Joan raised her eyes slowly and looked steadily at him.

“No, you know it is not that.” The words were spoken with a manifest effort.

Warchester caught his breath. He held out his hands.

“Thank Heaven it is not that! Anything else we can bear together. Trust me, and tell me what troubles you.”

Joan's eyes still scrutinised his face. Was the resemblance as strong as she had fancied? Was not Warchester taller, broader than the man she had seen in the studio in Grove Street?

“Come, Joan!” Warchester's tone was more masterful.

“I—I can't tell you!” Joan said in a low tone.

How could she, she was asking herself—how could she tell him, who was in her eyes a veritable king among men, that she had found in him a likeness to an undiscovered murderer, and that the horror of it was driving sleep from her at night, and haunting her by day? No, no! At all hazards the secret must be kept—he must never know.

“It is only that I am nervous, fanciful.” She put out her hands with a little sob, “Bear with me, Paul!”

Warchester took her hands; his eyes were puzzled and unsatisfied.

“Can't you trust me, Joan?”

Joan's throat was hot and dry; she longed for the relief of tears, but she must not give way now.

‘‘It is nothing. One has strange fancies sometimes—most people, have, I think, haven't they?” with a piteous, wan smile. “But if one talks of them they seem worse, and I—I want to forget them, Paul.”

The appeal stirred Warchester's manhood; he bent down and touched her fingers with his lips.

“It shall be as you wish, Joan. Some day perhaps you will know me well enough to trust me with even these vagrant dreams of yours. Till then I will wait.”

The door opened, and Cynthia was ushered in.

“Now don't tell me that I have come at an inopportune moment!'' she exclaimed gaily, as she kissed Joan and gave her hand to Warchester. “This letter came for you by the last post, Joan, directed to our house by mistake, and as it is marked ‘Immediate' I thought perhaps you had better have it, though I don't suppose it is anything important.”

“For me?” Joan looked at the envelope listlessly. “I don't know the writing.”

Cynthia turned back to Warchester.

“After all, I believe I only made the letter an excuse for obtaining a little rational companionship. Reggie —you know what Reggie is after he has been about the farms listening to the tenants' grievances all day. I simply can't keep him awake, whatever I do! And I must relieve my mind about that dreadful Evelyn. She actually came over to see me this afternoon and they were silly enough to admit her. I have told them that I shall never be at home to her again. She is impossible, simply impossible!”

“Cynthia! Paul! I shall have to go to him. My father is ill—he is asking for me!”

Joan struggled to her feet and stood facing them, catching at the table beside her for support,

Cynthia stored at her blankly.

“What do you say? Who is ill? I don't understand.”

“My father.” Joan glanced at the letter in her hand. “This is from Amy, the eldest of the children—my stepsister. She says, ‘Father is very ill; the doctor says it is pneumonia, and he is not likely to get over it. Part of the time he is not himself, but sometimes he is conscious, and then he asks for you. Mother says it won't be any use, you are much too fine a lady to come here, but anyhow I promised Dad, so I am writing. From your affectionate sister, Amy.' You see, I must go,” Joan concluded, looking appealingly at her cousin.

Mrs. Trewhistle frowned and shook her head.

“I don't see the necessity at all. You haven't seen your father for years; he has never been a father to you in anything but name. I do not think there is the least need for you to go. Probably he would not know you when you got there. You see the girl says he is delirious most of the time, and it would harrow your feelings for nothing. Don't you agree with me, Lord Warchester?”

“I can't say I do,” he answered, going over to Joan's side and putting his arm about her. “I think Joan must go, Mrs. Trewhistle. I do not see how she can refuse. The only thing for us to do, it seems to me, is to help her to get there as soon as possible. Where is it, by the way? Let me see, Joan.” He took the letter. “Bell Hotel, Willersfield. Willersfield—ah, that is in Shropshire, is it not?”

Cynthia was too much amazed at his unexpected behaviour to reply. Joan gave him a grateful glance.

“I must go at once!” she said quickly. “To-night! When is there a train, Paul?”

Warchester looked at his watch.

“It is too late to-night. You could not get there. There is the express to Birmingham at 7.30. We can get that by driving to the junction, and Willersfield is only an hour's run from Birmingham. I shall take you of course.”

“You are very good,” Joan said wistfully. “But indeed I would so much rather you did not, Paul. I don't think I could bear that. No”—resolutely—“I would rather go alone or with Evelyn. Naturally Evelyn will want to go. I must send to her. I was forgetting Evelyn.”

J
UNE
though it was, the morning was cold. An east wind whistled round the station, working havoc among the flowers that bordered the line, blowing little scuds of rain in Joan's face as she stood waiting for the express. The girl shivered in her long coat, telling herself that when the sun came out she would be hot. At present she was feeling miserably cold and depressed. Treherne, her maid, who was standing near, did not look particularly amiable. She was evidently inclined to resent this hurried journey.

Warchester was at the bookstall buying papers for the journey. A groom from Davenant came up to Joan, touching his hat.

“Miss Davenant desires me to say, my lady, that she is very sorry, but she is too ill to come out this morning. She fainted while she was dressing. She sends her love and hopes she may be able to come by a later train.”

“What is it, Joan?” Warchester asked as he sauntered over to her. He looked very big and handsome in his big motoring coat with his cap pushed back from his brows. “Your sister ill? In that case you cannot go by yourself. I shall come with you.”

“No, please, Paul!” Joan put out her hand. “I shall be all right. I may be foolish, but I do not want you there—just when I first see them all again. Please, please, don't come, Paul!”

“Well, I suppose Treherne will look after you,” Warchester said gloomily. “And, mind, if you do not come back at the earliest moment I shall fetch you.”

The noise of the approaching train drowned the end of his sentence. He busied himself in looking out a comfortable corner seat in the carriage, and laid a big box of chocolates and a pile of illustrated papers beside Joan, and then stepped back as the train began to move.

“Remember what I said! I hope you will find your father better,” he cried, keeping pace with the train for a moment while Joan smiled at him from the window.

When at last he was out of sight and the girl turned back with a sigh, she found Treherne regarding her with dissatisfaction.

“We ought to have had a thicker rug, my lady, if it is going to be as cold as this.”

“I dare say it will be warmer by and by,” Joan remarked indifferently as she took up one of the periodicals and settled herself in her corner.

She had plenty of food for thought as the express thundered along through the pleasant Midlands, and it was only natural this morning that her mind should revert to her childish days.

In his rough way her father had been good to her, and had always interposed between her and Mrs. Spencer's violence. Since Mr. Hurst had brought her to Davenant she had not heard her father's name mentioned, but her memory had a certain tenacity—she had never forgotten him. Always when she had speculated on the possibility of becoming her grandmother's heiress she had made up her mind that in that case he should share to some extent in her good fortune. Now he was ill—probably dying. None of her schemes could benefit him. She fell to wondering how the passing of the years that had changed her from a child to a woman had affected him. She remembered him distinctly—his red, clean-shaven face, his, broad back, the crook of his knees when he walked. Then her thoughts strayed further to the mother she had never known, the strange girl, Mrs. Davenant's daughter, who had thrown the traditions of her caste to the winds and left her home to marry the man of her choice. That she had lived to rue it Joan had faintly guessed even in that far-off time of her childhood. Yet, though the bare outlines of the story were familiar to her, of the real mother, the girl who had lived at Davenant, the woman who had been John Spencer's wife, Joan knew almost nothing. She had never even seen a portrait of her, since every likeness of the rebellious daughter had been banished from sight at Davenant, save that as a child Joan had a faint recollection of being lifted up by Evie to kiss their mother's photograph.

Evelyn had taken the photograph away with her, and Joan had no real remembrance of the pictured face, but she knew that the photograph was among the papers Evelyn had placed in Mr. Hurst's hands, and she was looking forward to seeing it again. Next she thought of Evelyn herself. As she had said to Warchester only yesterday, Joan was realizing how impossible it was that they two, who had been parted for so many years, should feel the ordinary sisterly affection for one another. It seemed to her that if Evelyn had been with her now, if they had been able to compare their recollections as they went along, if they had gone together to their father's house, some remembrance of old association would have been revived.

It was a bitter disappointment that Evelyn was unable to come. She had appeared genuinely distressed at hearing of Joan's news the preceding evening, and had written at once to say that she would go up with her the next morning.

The journey to Birmingham ended before Joan expected. From there to Willersfield was but a matter of half an hour, and very soon the train was slowing down again. The girl looked out of the window anxiously. The environs had been picturesque, but the town itself looked grim and smoky, dominated by the tall chimneys of the ironworks. The streets were narrow and crooked and none too clean. There was no cab to be had at the station, so they were obliged to walk to the small hotel where Warchester had telephoned for rooms for them. Then Joan left Treherne while she set out to find the Bell Inn. It was only ten minutes' walk away, she was told, on the outskirts of the poorer part of the town.

She found that her father was the landlord of the Bell. The chamber-maid informed her that he was very ill—not expected to live the day out, she added, and was surprised to see the sudden pallor that overspread the visitor's face.

Joan walked quickly across the old market-place, paved with cobble-stones, and turned down one of the poorer streets to the right, getting a glimpse of the Wrekin between the gabled roofs of the houses before her.

The Bell Inn was easily found. A tiny child came out from the next door and ran along the pavement. Joan had an odd feeling that surely it must be Tim, but when the mother ran after him and picked him up she smiled at her own folly. Tim would be a big boy now.

The door of the inn stood open. Joan knocked at it timidly, but there was no response. She went into the wide-bricked passage; at one end there was the bar, but there was no one there; everything looked deserted. Joan was about to turn back, when a sharp, hard-featured woman came bustling in from the back regions. Joan knew her at once; this was the tyrant of her childhood. In imagination she could feel again the hard blows, hear the angry scolding that had made her life in her father's house one long misery.

Evidently the recognition was not mutual. Mrs. Spencer looked at her in some surprise.

“Did you wish to speak to me, ma'am?”

“Yes, yes!” Joan said hurriedly. “At least I want to see him—my father. How is he?”

“Your father!” The woman stared at her. “Do you mean to say—why, you can't be—no, it isn't Evie!”

“No, no! Not Evelyn—Joan! How is my father, Mrs. Spencer?”

Mrs. Spencer took no notice of the question.

“What—Polly! Well, I couldn't have believed it! You have growed into a fine-looking young woman. You favour my Amy a bit, though—I see that now—the one that wrote to you. But come in.”