A Dark Intruder

Chapter I

A STRANGE PROMISE. Towards noon one cloudless day of August, Lilian Fane sat in a quiet part of Kensington Gardens, with a magazine open on her lap. She had been here half-an-hour, but never once turned a leaf. Now and then she glanced at the page, now and then along the path right and left, finally dropping her eyes on the print. " He was never late before," she thought. " Of course I often kept him waiting ; that's natural. But he is coming to hear when our wedding is to be, and he is late ! This unpunctuality may be mere justice. They say no woman likes mere justice, and if this is it I don't like it at VOL. I. B all, and when he does come I'll treat him with something more than mere justice. Where's the good of being a woman unless you have woman's rights, and can do what you like ? " It was only by straining words she could be called a woman, for she was a girl of twenty.

She was not really angry. She was acting a part for herself, to wile away this tedious waiting for Charlie. No sooner had she finished the unuttered speech than she smiled to think how well she had played the injured woman. When she smiled her face was very bright and happy. She had golden hair, and large, quick, laughing blue eyes, and a com plexion of milk and roses, and a beautiful freshness which made it seem that she brought dainty sunlight wherever she came. After keeping her eyes another while on the print, she thought, " I'll look up and down the patch once more.and if he is not coming, I'll read until I see his shadow on the paper, or hear his voice, or feel him sit down beside me. Then '' She did not finish the last sentence. Again she was trying to act the injured woman, but could not find heart.

She shook her head sadly over her failure as an actress, and smiled as she mused : — " He never yet did anything to make me angry. He could not do anything to make me angry now, or at any other time. He is too good and kind, and he loves me too much." She took her last look up and down the path, and, seeing no one to her mind, gathered herself resolutely together, and began to read in earnest. All sternness had melted from her face (it had no more natural resting-place there than snow on the summer grass), and in its place had come a look of anxiety and pain. She read words, but they brought no meaning. From moment to moment a feeling grew upon her that some dreadful accident had befallen Charlie Ashmore ; for was he not the most thoughtful, and kind, and perfect of lovers ? He must have suffered disabling mischief ; only the insuperable could B keep him from her, as only the insuperable could keep her from him.

Now and then he had been obliged to wait for her ; but never in all the months had she kept him so long as he was keeping her to-day. He would not, he could not, wilfully or willingly be unpunctual with her. He would not break an appointment with man or woman. He was too kind and gentle and fine-minded to be guilty of such a rudeness ; and at this meeting he looked forward to learning from her the day they were to be married ! He had told her that until he met her he never thought of love or marriage, that he had never said words of love to any woman before that day in spring when her mother was called out of the drawing-room and the two of them were left alone. Oh, what a delicious day was that ! And now some accident had befallen him, her Charlie, her darling ! " Lil, why did you wait for me, dearest ?

I do not deserve such indulgence ; but I could not come sooner." " Oh, Charlie ! " she dropped her magazine on the ground, held out both her hands to him, and fell back on the seat, leaning her head on the rail, and gazing up into his face. " What is the matter with my girl ? Why, there are tears in your eyes, on your cheek ! Oh, Lil, have I caused all this ? " " I told myself some awful accident had happened to you, Charlie. I did not tell myself — I did not dare — but in my heart I believed you were dead ! " He sat down beside her, saying tenderly, "My poor dear. You do look as if you had been frightened. I am not worth such fears, Lil. I would rather you cared less for me than that you should suffer so much. " "And I," said she, lightly brushing her eyes with her handkerchief, " would rather suffer ten times as much than care for you one bit less.

There, let us forget me and my foolish fancies. Let us talk of something else. Tell me, sir, how came you to keep a lady so long waiting ? " She was radiant now. " It was impossible for me to be here sooner. You may be sure the delay was not caused by any fault of mine. Most inopportunely a person whom I did not expect turned up, just when it was too late for a telegram to find you at home." " Am I not to know who this mysterious person is, sir ? " she said, with an air of mock dignity. " At present, Lil, I would rather say nothing more. It is an unpleasant subject." She looked at him anxiously. In the relief and excitement of his arrival she had not taken particular notice of him. Now she observed something which made her start and cry, " Charlie ! Charlie ! what is the matter ? You are all changed and queer.

The sight of you as you look is more terrifying than the want of you was a while ago. Oh, tell me what it is ! Are you ill ?" " Do not alarm yourself, dear. I am quite well. But I have had a shock, a desperate shock, and my good, kind, gentle Lil, I would ask you not to expect more particulars just now." "But you make me so uneasy. If you will only say you are in no danger I shall be content." Her voice was rich with solicitude, and again the tears were in her eyes. She had taken one of his hands, and was gazing into his face. His eyes were not turned towards the plead ing girl beside him. They were fixed straight before him, staring into vacancy, with an absorbed look. This strangeness of manner in one always so debonair and sympathetic filled her heart with tremulous misgivings. "My life or body is in no danger; but I am greatly troubled in mind," he said in a low voice.

She gazed at him without speaking. He con tinued staring into vacancy. " Charlie, what are you looking at ? " she asked in an awed whisper. She was beginning to wonder if this trouble had affected his reason. " Clouds." " But there isn't a cloud in the sky, and you are staring at the trees ! " she whispered. " I am thinking of the future." " The future ! Are there clouds in the future — in our suture ? " " I have not had time to think. I am greatly disturbed." She drew back from him. What could this be which had occurred ? If something of which he would not tell her affected him thus, she too saw the possibility of clouds in the future. At all events she would be clear on one point, she would ask him one question, on which the whole course of her life would depend : — " Is it about me, dear ?

" "No. Oh, no!" "Is it about money, dear ? Have you met any loss which makes you fear you have not enough for us ? I know you are better off than mother and I, Uncle Phil told us so ; but I could do with very little.-' " It is not about money, darling." " I could do with so little. I could do with next to nothing ; if I were only as sure as I have been up to this moment that you wanted me. I could do with just bread, Charlie. But if you do not want me, dear, I will go. If you would be happier with me away, we need not meet again. Let us say good-bye." She released his hand, and plucked at his sleeve. With a start he turned round, crying, " Oh, forgive me, Lil ! I have been behaving like a brute and a fool. You must think me mad, or worse. As I came along I was so absorbed in this bother, that I could not shake myself clear of it even when I saw you, or rather I did shake myself from it for a moment, and then it fixed on me with double force.

Child, I sweep it all away." He made a gesture of driving behind him the worry and strange mood. He smiled, and took her hand and pressed it, and made a sign which she understood to mean that he would kiss her there and then if the place were less exposed to public view. The bosom of the girl heaved. It was doubt ful if she would be able to restrain tears and sobs of relief. But she mastered her tumultuous emotions, and pressed his hand, saying, " I'll be all right in a minute, and then we can talk. Don't say any more for a little while." Then she told herself how he was not killed, nor had injury or accident of bodily kind be fallen him, nor had his reason gone, nor had he cause of quarrel with her, nor had he given her up ; but instead of all these dreadful things he was her own, her very own Charlie, sitting there safe and sound and faithful and loving as of old.

" If I lost you, or if anything came to separate us, Charlie," at length she whispered, " I should die. And now, as you said yourself, ' There, I sweep it all away ! ' " She made a pretty feminine imitation of his gesture, and looked at him gaily, saucily. " Now, sir, let us talk." " Of course," said he in a deep voice, at the bottom of which vibrated tremulous tenderness, "we have only one subject for this meeting. When will you come to me for good ? " She shook her head playfully. "That is more than you have any right to expect of me. I am not called upon to make such a one-sided bargain." " What do you mean ? I do not understand. I am very dull to-day." " Oh, indeed, you are very dull, and very un like a hero of romance at the feet of his en chantress. You are not to get me ' for good,' but ' for better, for worse,' aren't you, dear ?

You don't want me to be too perfect, only just as good as ever I can be ? I'm not bad, as it is, but I'm going to be better, until you grow really to like me." She leaned slightly against him, and looked pleadingly into his face with a demure, mischievous smiie. " By Jove, Lil, you mustn't say such things here, or I'll break all bounds and kiss you, even if George, Ranger and all his myrmidons stood round. But tell me, dear, when is it to be ? " She shook her head shyly. " I don't know. Since I saw you yesterday something has occurred which makes me unable to say." He started, and fixed his deep eyes upon her, and over his face again stole the shadow of trouble and the darkness of abstraction. " I know," he said, his face growing grey, " but does it — will it ? " He checked himself, and did not finish the question.

" Tell me, Lil," he recommenced in a tone of heavy anxiety, " What have you heard ? " Then came a sudden exclamation of impatience with him, " I must be an idiot to fancy you could have heard anything ; no one could have heard any thing — yet," whispering the last word. With the first shade of that old look on Ashmore's face the heart of the girl sank. Laying a reassuring hand on his arm, she said rapidly, " I did not hear a word about you. There is nothing to be heard about you which could make any difference to me. You must not mind what I said. I was only trying a bit of stupid mystification. When I got home after our meeting here yesterday I found a note from my mother, saying Uncle Phil had called, that my cousin Bert is coming home, and that Uncle Phil has made her run down to Enfield with him, as Aunt Fannie was not quite well.

Aunt is, however, much better, and mother will be back at three to-day ; so if you come to Effing ham Road between four and five, I'll have a cup of tea for you and the news you want. Now I must be getting home." They rose, and strolled south. " You are the best and dearest girl in all the world. There," said he, with a sweep of his hand, " for the second time I put all my gloom behind me. Let us talk of cheerful things. Remember our box at the opera is for to morrow night. Your mother will come, of course." They fell into a pleasant chat until they stood to part in Kensington Gore. " I must go back to my place," said he. " You can't believe how I loathe that gloomy old house, after these cheerful parts and this sunny company. Remember that the quicker I am out of that dingy barrack the better, and beg of your mother to let me migrate West and set up house as soon as ever she can.

Tell her I have sworn an oath never to live West as a bachelor." The girl smiled with tender amusement. " I will do my best for you, poor man." Then, as she was about to move away, he turned back. " I'll call on your mother between four and five. Before we separate now, I have one favour to ask." There was a return of the old look on his face, but his eyes were no longer introspective. He gazed eagerly at her, and then glanced uneasily about, as if fearing to see something, someone. I 15 " Of course, Charlie, I'll promise. Ask. What is it ? " "That if you hear or see anything which may seem against me you will take no notice of it. You will let nothing you may hear or see come against me, come between us, until I have had another opportunity of speaking to you alone, quite alone, on our old seat, the one we have just left."

He gazed with intense earnestness into her eyes. " Nothing can ever come between you and me if you yourself do not part us," she said, in a voice of firm faith, untouched by the strange ness of his request. She took her tone from the impressiveness of his manner and look and voice. " The promise I am asking must seem as if I were wilfully introducing a dark interest into our affairs which up to this day have been so open and simple. But I have overwhelming reasons for wishing you to give the promise in my words. Say that no matter what you may hear or see, you will let nothing come against me in your heart until we have spoken again alone — on that seat. Mind, no matter what you may hear or see." He spoke with enormous deliberation and distinctness, and looked like a man whose happiness for ever hung in the balance.

With grave collectedness she repeated the words prescribed. "Thank you," said he, " you have lightened my heart. I hope and pray we may never have more use of your promise. At present I cannot foretell what may happen, and you may have great need of faith. Good-bye, till later, dearest." So they parted that bright August afternoon in Kensington Gore, she crossing to Effingham Road, in Brompton, he turning to the left and setting his face eastward.

Chapter II. At The Crescent House

Charles Ashmore was eight-and-twenty years of age. His height was five-feet-ten, his hair, beard, moustache raven black, his skin dusky olive, his eyes the darkest shade of hazel, his nose aquiline and finely cut, his whole appearance handsome. At ordinary times he carried himself erect, and moved with dignity. After parting from Lilian Fane his head drooped, his steps became uncertain. He walked like a man buried in perplexing, un pleasant thought. Now and then he raised his head and glanced around him, with the eyes of one only half awake to surroundings. Anon vol. I. C he would clench his hands, hanging down by his side, and utter a stifled groan. In the middle of Knightsbridge the driver of an empty cab drew up, and touching his hat said : " Hansom, sir ? " The words roused Ashmore. " Yes," he said.

" To the nearest chemist's." He stumbled into the cab, the man whipped up his horse, and in a few minutes stopped at a shop in Piccadilly. "Wait," said Ashmore. He jumped out, leisurely crossed the footway, and, alert and alive now, disappeared behind the glass door. " Saw there was something wrong with him," muttered the cabby. Ten minutes went by. " They're taking their own time to put the toff right May be he's beyond them, and that I'll have to drive him to a hospital. Hope it isn't catching ; any way he does look like a chap who could pay the hardworking father of a family for loss of time and such like, if there's any of their blooming disinfecting to be done." The door of the chemist's swung open, and Ashmore, erect, observant, energetic, crossed the footway, sprang into the cab, and called out briskly, "Fleet Street end of Chancery Lane."

" It's sick in his mind he is," said the cabby to himself as he drove along. " Sick in his mind at the thought of lawyers. I wonder what he is up to, or what has he been up to ? He hasn't an Old Bailey dock look ; and yet you never can tell toffs by the look of them ; leastways you can tell but seldom." As the driver was indolently musing, the trap in the roof was thrust up, and the fare shouted : — " Stop at the first gunsmith's." "That settles it," thought the man on the perch. " He's lost a lawsuit, and he's going to take poison, and shoot his attorney. I have no grudge against the young joker ; but if it's an attorney he's going to shoot, I'm glad. A barrister is all right, but attorneys give me the hump. I never take my fare of one that I don't see in his eye a look saying as plain as a C police poster, ' It's your turn to rob and extort now, but when I get you up before the beak I'll make it hot for you, if you open your mouth too wide now ! ' " The hansom was pulled up at a gunsmith's. Ashmore alighted, and after a short absence returned, calling out : — " End of Chancery Lane."

When they reached the corner, Ashmore paid and dismissed the man ; then, turning into Chancery Lane, he pulled his hat down low over his eyes, and looked carefully up and down and across the street. His scrutiny seemed satisfactory, for he set off at a quick pace in the direction of Holborn. He kept on for a while, and then went down a street to the left, out of which he diverged into a narrow passage to the right, and then into a still narrower one, a mere footway, to the left. This footway was protected against vehicle or beast by an upright iron rod in the centre at the entrance, and was so narrow that a man in the middle could touch the opposite walls with outstretched hands. " Pleaders' Walk " appeared in white paint at the corner. The walls, about ten feet high, were those of the yards belonging to the corner houses right and left, the entrance being under one of these buildings.

It was a very quiet place at all times, one which no person unfamiliar with the district would think of traversing late at night. In the daytime strangers, judging it private, would hesitate to plunge into this narrow cleft, no matter how short a cut it seemed to afford. Forty paces from the iron bar, Pleaders' Walk widened into a crescent, and beyond the crescent narrowed again. In the middle of the crescent stood a large, square, isolated brick house, old, grim, shabby, neglected looking. It consisted of four floors and a basement. Blinds and curtains were on the windows of the ground floor and first floor. The windows on the third and fourth stared naked and blank against the light of day. The inner side of the crescent was formed of the walls of the yard belonging to the house. A line of iron railing was broken in the middle by four steps which led under a portico to the front door.

Opposite the house rose a high dead wall. A shabby, green wicket stood in the wall half way between the entrance of the passage at the iron bar and the point at which it expanded into the little crescent. At this neglected door Ashmore drew up. He whipped a key out of his pocket, thrust it with eager fingers into the lock, opened the door, slipped through, and instantly closed and locked the door behind him. From end to end of Pleaders' Walk there was only the solitary Crescent House, and to the rear of it this neglected green door gave access. Charles Ashmore was now within the bounds of his own house, and secure against pursuit, if he had reason to think anyone was following him ; yet his actions became a thief in search of plunder rather than a gentleman in his own place. He glanced up suspiciously at the backs of the houses overlooking his yard, and, keeping close to the wall, crept up to the forward part of his house.

At this side the yard was triangular ; there ran a narrow passage at the back, and on the other side lay another trian gular yard. Five windows of his house, one over the other, overlooked the yard in which he stood. They presumably lit landings, or a staircase. Of these windows Ashmore seemed in dread. At first he kept close to the wall of the house, so that no glimpse of him could be caught from them. When he moved out far enough to com mand a view of the windows he seemed uneasy, dissatisfied, in fear. It was plain he lacked resolution to do something which he con templated. With a look of dejection and defeat he stole back to the wall, and wiped his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief. Apparently the touch of the handkerchief sug gested a way out of his predicament. He took it down from his face with a start, and smiled.

He opened it wide, flung his hat on the ground, and tied the handkerchief loosely round his head, covering his face and beard. Then he crept along the wall of the house cautiously, with his right hand extended in front, feeling the bricks inch by inch as he advanced. When his fingers met the embrasure of the window he drew back, dropped on his hands and knees, and crept past it. On reaching the corner he rose and plucked off the handkerchief. He now stood in the narrow passage at the rear. Into this passage opened two doors, one in the middle of the house, and one close to where he stood. With a key he opened the near door, taking elaborate precautions against making a noise. Inside lay a small, dark back hall, lit only by a fan-sash. With as much care as he had opened the door he closed and locked it.

Charles Ashmore had in that great house only one servant, Mrs. Barton, a deaf old widow, who got him breakfast, cleaned his boots, and dusted and tidied his rooms. In the house he never ate any meal but breakfast. So far as Mrs. Barton knew, he always came and went by the front door. She had been with him since he took his house, twelve months since, on his return from abroad. She had noticed the door from the yard into Pleaders' Walk, but to her knowledge neither it nor the door into the little back hall, where Ashmore now stood, had ever been opened. She believed it was nailed up. The existence of the little back hall was wholly unknown to her. Of Ashmore's big house only six rooms were furnished. The dining-room, right side of the front door, his bedroom, left, and the study be hind the dining-room ; all on the ground floor.

In a back room of the first floor Ashmore had got a gas stove put up, and there the cooking was done. On the same floor Mrs. Barton had her sitting-room and bedroom, both in the back of the house. Mr. Ashmore was the most easily pleased gentleman she had ever served. When she had given him breakfast she rarely saw him again for the day, and as he ahvays shut doors gently, and she was deaf, she often did not know whether he had been in the house or out the whole day, or whether he had been in and out ten times. No visitor ever entered the house. Sometimes he ate breakfast in the dining room, sometimes in the study. That was all the change he ever made. He was the quietest and politest, and most good-natured and liberal gentleman she had ever attended ; morning, noon, and night she blessed the day which pro vided so excellent a place for a body no longer young or able to do heavy work, and whose poor old senses were beginning to fail.

For a while that August afternoon, Ashmore, hatless and perspiring, rested against the wall in the little back hall. A spiral staircase led to the floor above the ground floor, the site being higher in the front of the house than in the rear. Presently Ashmore ascended the spiral stairs, and found himself in a tiny closet, with one door. Against this door he placed his ear and listened. Apparently satisfied, he unlocked the door, turning the key with even more care than in the door below. He did not close this door after him, but leaving it wide, stepped behind a thick dark purple velvet curtain separating an embrasure from the rest of the room. He was now in the deep recess of a window in his own study, the door through which he had just come forming half or one leaf of the old-fashioned shutters.

Here he stood listening even longer than before, and then cautiously drew the edge of the curtain back an inch, and peered into the room. Finding it unoccupied, he stepped from behind the curtain. The study was large and square, and lined with well-filled bookshelves. The furniture was heavy and old-fashioned. Two windows looked into the narrow passage at the back of the house, but the light was poor, owing to the cur tains through which Ashmore had entered being partly drawn. The young man moved to the door leading into the main hall. This was not locked. He opened it noiselessly, crossed the main hall, and stood at his bedroom door, which he opened with a key that he carried, this making the fourth door he had unlocked on his stealthy way from Pleaders' Walk. He crept softly into the bedroom, locking that door behind him.

An hour later Mrs. Barton, in passing through the hall, was startled to hear a loud voice in the bedroom. Owing to the thickness of the door and her dull ears she could distinguish no word. She had never before heard her master's voice raised. Whom could he be talking to ? and in that loud, angry tone ? If there was anybody but the master in the room, this was the first visitor who had crossed the threshold of the Crescent House. The voice grew louder still, grew to shouts, to screams. Under her feet she felt the floor of the decrepid old house shake. A struggle was going on at the other side of that door ! She became alarmed. Perhaps a thief had broken in, and was trying to harm her master. The noise within continued, became fiercer, and the boards under her feet trembled more violently. She knocked at the door.

Then came the sharpest and loudest sound of all. Not a cry this time, but a quick, whip-like crack. Could it be the report of fire-arms ? Then she heard a ponderous, dull sound. The boards beneath her feet jumped this time. Something heavy had fallen. Again she knocked. A long silence followed. She turned the handle ; the door was fastened on the inside. She felt sinking with terror. She was about to rush out of the house for help when the bedroom door opened, and Ash more stepped into the hall, closing and locking the door after him, and putting the key in his pocket. The young man was flushed, and looked strangely excited. His appearance terrified Mrs. Barton. If she had not known him well, she would have thought him under the influence of wine, his eyes were so bright and fierce and wild, and his face so red, distorted, angry.