A Discord in Avalon

Front matter

A Discord in Avalon.

By H. Bedford-Jones.

Chapter I

CHAPTER I.

ONE to Avalon. Thanks."

Allan Quentin plunged from the ticket window and at a half run made the gangway of the waiting Cabrillo just as the plank was being hauled in. With a laughing nod to the men, he was across the gap, drew a breath of secure relief, and started forward to obtain a seat.

There was the usual confusion of the usual last moment, with every one debating as to the best seats, and the possibility of finding any seats at all dwindling with alarming rapidity. The frown that had drawn Quentin's black brows together deepened when he observed that most of the passengers shared his dislike of the sunny side of the boat, but his quick eye caught a vacant place forward.

He beat a shivery little man to it, settling down with a sigh of huge satisfaction, and laughingly advised the refrigerated gentleman to take the sunny side and thaw out; whereat the other grinned and obeyed. Quentin ran a quick eye over the rest of the passengers, observed no one who attracted his notice except one very large, bull-necked man in blue clothes and blue derby, and thereupon cast out everything from his mind save sky and sea and the blue-ridged Catalinas ahead.

It was his first outing in three years, and he was enjoying it with his whole soul—though he subconsciously noted that the bull-necked man had very high blood pressure, and that two of the tourists were undoubtedly "lungers." For, though Quentin had left his office and practice behind, he could not leave his profession likewise.

He had promised to meet Tommy Wells and Bunt Green, for a three days' fishing trip down the coast, but it was with some difficulty that he had gotten away. While he was a young surgeon—as surgeons go—he was both strong of jaw and well established in Los Angeles; having buried a few wealthy patients and cured at least one, he was made both financially and socially. Tommy Wells and Bunt Green were social lights who had more money than horse power, and who confined themselves chiefly to the Country Club at the Catalinas, where they lived a languid existence on golf and fishing and Scotch and kindred pursuits. Quentin had cured young Green of fever impregnated with too much golf and Scotch, and, while by no means intimate with the pair, he saw no reason why he should not enjoy himself at their expense.

He gave his shoulders a little shake, looking back at receding San Pedro, and flinging off all worries. Men said that Allan Quentin was a good surgeon but too hardened for his age; yet this was because they noted his cold gray eyes, tight mouth, and rather aggressive carriage, and utterly failed to note the deftness of his fingers and the level brightness of his smile.

Thus far, he had taken no notice of the occupant of the chair next to his; but now his attention was attracted by an unusual movement on the part of the man in the blue derby, whose eyes were fastened at his side. Quentin eyed the man, sized him up as a detective or plain-clothes man—then shivered slightly at a light contact. He glanced down to see a hand stealthily approaching his coat pocket.

It was a woman's hand, slender and well shaped, perfectly manicured and with unexpected dimples over each knuckle. Its white perfection was unadorned by rings, although he noted a circle on one finger which told the tale of a ring recently removed. Then he glanced at the owner of the hand.

She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes fastened on the ocean, while a look of faint anxiety was evident in her features. Her whole attitude was one of strained concern, uncertainty; but even as he looked down at her, the hand left his coat. With a little sigh of relief, the girl settled back into her chair; the look of half-fearful worry vanished from her face, and her hand dropped into her lap again.

Quentin was thoroughly puzzled. His first thought was that she was a pickpocket, for the Catalina boats made an excellent place in which light-fingered gentry could ply their trade upon tourists; also, the bull-necked man in the blue derby was unquestionably a detective, and seemed to be watching the girl.

He looked down at her more keenly, for women whose hands went exploring were not apt to resent obtrusive stares. But she seemed to have lost all interest in him. It was as though that quick, light touch on his coat had sent flying some wandering uneasiness—and yet the notion was absurd.

His gray eyes softened as he watched her. The face was not beautiful, and still it bore an expression of patience which lent it indefinable sweetness. To Quentin it seemed that this expression might have been born of much suffering, though she had no appearance of ill health, in spite of the frailty of her throat and arms. Her oval face had a broad brow around which rippled a cluster of golden-brown waves of hair, and Quentin suddenly found it hard to eye her with his usual indifference to things physical.

She had removed her hat and the sea breeze was lifting her hair gently, loosing it and sending stray strands playing about her cheeks. A smile curved her lips and she tossed her head back- ward with a deep breath, as if she could not get enough of the salt-scented, sun-filled air.

Then their eyes met—or Quentin thought they did. And upon that, his conceit received a sudden shock, for he perceived that she was staring through him, past him, as though he did not exist. He thought at first that she had noted his detection of that stealthy hand, yet her face was quite calm and unflushed.

"Well?" he said quietly, coolly forcing the issue. "Your hand is a very light one, but I happen to be somewhat sensitive to touch."

He received another glimpse of eyes that met his quite frankly and yet evaded him. They held a peculiar quality in their violet depths—a quality that caused him swift remorse at his own words, and sent unwonted sympathy into his face. Then she gave a quick little rippling laugh and responded:

"Oh, you caught me? Well, I had to see what kind of person you were!"

Quentin was anything but prepared for such frankness.

"Yes—but2" he hesitated.

"Why was I feeling your coat? Isn't that what you want to know?"

"Why, if you don't mind—it really doesn't matter, you know," he stammered, feeling suddenly that he had blundered. She reassured him, laughing softly:

"You see, I could tell from the feel whether you were a gentleman or not."

"Sorry you couldn't tell from my face," he smiled, amused. She turned half away, a little flicker of pain crossing her own face. "And how did you class me?"

"Well," she hesitated, still looking away, "of course, I might make mistakes, but I can often tell by the cloth. I have studied it2"

"But why?" he insisted, wondering if she were trying to lie her way out of a difficulty. If so, it was a poor effort, he thought.

"Can't—can't you tell why?" She turned swiftly, her face to his. Again he felt that swift quality of her eyes, and he leaned back with a catch of his breath.

"Forgive me," he said quickly. To himself he added bitterly: "And I call myself a surgeon!"

The girl was blind.

However, he had little chance to reflect on his own brutality, as he termed it, for she leaned forward confidingly.

"Let me look at you."

Her fingers ran lightly over his face, then she settled back without comment.

Well?" he urged, smiling a little.

"Guess!" She rippled out a laugh.

Upon that, Quentin began to make himself agreeable; she seemed to be glad to get away from the topic of her blindness, and yet she appeared to sense the quick sympathy in him which was hidden from most eyes. His quiet poise had its effect, and soon she was chatting and laughing with him, listening to his description of the mountains behind and the sharpening outlines of the Catalinas ahead with unalloyed delight.

It puzzled him. What was she doing on this trip, purely a sight-seeing one, if she was blind? She was absolutely alone also, as he found by delicate questions which attained their object; yet she was well dressed, and evidently a girl of high intelligence and strong character—and he was undeniably puzzled.

More than once he found the eyes of the man in the blue derby fastened now on the girl, now on himself, in an oddly irritating fashion. Quentin reflected that the man was doubtless a policeman or detective on vacation, and was not above seeking prey in the shape of an unprotected girl. For he did not think it hard to see that the girl was blind.

The two hours' trip sped by rapidly, and long before Avalon Bay opened out he had quietly determined to see that she was cared for, unless friends were at the boat to meet her.

"You explain everything so clearly," and there was a hint of sadness in her tone when he had told her of the wharf ahead and the boys swimming about the ship and diving for coins. "And you don't seem to weary of it!"

"Well, you're an admirable listener," he smiled. "How is it that you're alone?"

She looked away, and, reproaching himself instantly for a brute, with some fear that he would be misunderstood by her evidently sensitive nature, he swung to the subject of the boys around them. The chatter and calls which floated up from the youngsters were amusing in the extreme, and speedily drew a rain of small change from the passengers.

"Aw, come on, sport! Don't be a piker! Loosen up, old man!" shouted an urchin at Quentin, who laughed and tossed out a quarter. There was a rush after it, a storm of spray, and one grinning youngster came up with the coin in his cheek and a yell for more.

"Come it again! You didn't throw straight, mister!"

"I do wish you could see all this!" laughed Quentin in the girl's ear.

"Thank goodness, I can hear it," she answered delightedly. "Oh, throw out some more money! I love to hear them yelling and splashing!

"Did he get it?" she added quickly, feeling the sweep of Quentin's arm.

"You bet he did—caught it in his mouth and was yelling for another before I got my arm down," he chuckled. "But here we are at the wharf—may I help you through the crowd?"

"Is—is there a crowd?" she faltered, suddenly relapsing into timidity.

"No, except on the gangplank. There's a rule here in Avalon, I understand, that all on shore must stay behind chalk lines until the steamer passengers are unloaded and have a chance to decide where they want to go. Are your friends to meet you?"

"I—I—no, I think not," she replied, her hands twisting at her handkerchief. Then she had turned lightly to him, laughing again. "Oh, I've so longed to come here! Do take me ashore, if it won't be too much trouble."

"I'll be delighted," he replied gravely. He wondered, however, why she was so delighted at the trip; perhaps her overacute senses gave her some perception of the things about her, after all. "Come!"

He guided her to the rear of the crowd, which was streaming thinly down the gangway. Ahead of them were the clamoring guides and touts and fishermen, staying well back of their chalked lines, while beyond these were the narrow streets rising against the hill, with the sun-blue sky and bay striking back the gorgeous hues on every hand. He looked down at the girl's face, and saw it quivering with delight; it was as if she actually felt the color of everything, and the hand that rested on his arm was trembling.

"Would—would it^ be imposing on you"—she half turned to him—"if I asked you to take me to the Metropole? After that I'll be all right, for my friends did not expect me, you see2"

"It's a pleasure," he reassured her, admiring her nerve in making this trip by herself. If she had friends at the hotel, she would soon be in good hands, though he felt a little thrill of disappointment at the idea of not seeing her again.

A burly form shoved past him, and he saw it was the man in the blue derby, who was making his way out to the end of the plank. Quentin and the girl pressed forward in his track, and a moment later were standing at the edge of the throng.

Since there was no mistaking the big hotel, he took her arm and they started toward the gate. There, however, he saw the man in the blue derby standing, watching them, and his anger began to rise. If the fellow was trying to enjoy himself, Quentin decided that he would get a lesson shortly. On the other hand, he suddenly thought the man might have been set to keep watch from afar on the girl; her friends might like to give her the impression of freedom, yet keep a careful guard over her.

As they came to the gate, however, Quentin lost this impression quickly.

The detective, if such he was, stepped forward with a sharp glance at Quentin, and caught the girl's arm.

"Just a minute, miss," he said roughly. "I'd like to know your name."

Chapter II

CHAPTER II.

Quentin caught the man's hand and flung it off curtly.

"What does this mean, my man?" he asked, his gray eyes very cold. The other flushed, then nodded his head at the startled girl.

"No offense, mister—I'm Bert Osgood, from Los Angeles headquarters. Is this young lady a friend of yours?"

"Yes," replied Quentin, seeing that he had misjudged his man.

"Let me have your names, please—I'm on a little job over here, but if I've made a mistake I ain't meaning no offense."

There was evident hesitation in the detective's manner, and he had spoken so softly that the girl had plainly heard nothing beyond that first startling sentence. Quentin thought swiftly; he did not know the girl's name, but through his mind raced one that he had heard on Dolly Burlington's lips, and he seized on it to be rid of the man.

"This is Miss Enid Elsmere, and I'm Doctor Allan Quentin, of Los Angeles. It's all right, officer—I guess you dropped on the wrong party."

The detective's black eyes swept across his face, then the man nodded and drew back with a gesture of apology. Quentin took the girl's arm again and quietly led her through the crowd.

"What's the matter?" she asked, looking up at him. "Who was that man?"

Quentin searched desperately for some answer that would satisfy her without causing her needless alarm.

"Just a beggar," he lied easily, and his voice was convincing. "It's all right."

He motioned the crowding touts away, and when they had passed beyond the mob he found her gazing at him with apparent wonder on her face.

"But how in the world did you know my name?" she asked simply.

Quentin gasped: "Your name?"

"Certainly. I heard you tell2"

"I said your name was Enid Elsmere, for lack of a better. My own name I gave."

"Then you are Doctor Quentin?"

"Why, of course!" he laughed, for there was wonder in her face. "But you don't mean to say that your name is really Enid Elsmere?"

"Yes," she said softly, then drew closer on his arm. "But can't we get to the hotel, and then talk? This is too—too public," and she glanced around, or seemed to do so, nervously. "You have helped me, and I feel that I owe you an explanation—and I would like more help2"

"Come along," he said briefly, and determined that she was the best liar he had ever met. He did not know who the real Elsmere girl was, except that she was some acquaintance of Dolly Burlington; but if this blind girl had been in fear of a detective, if she had really been exploring his pocket2

"Rot!" he said to himself, looking down at her face. "This may be the long arm of coincidence, after all."

He guided her up the steps into the big building, waving off the clustering bell boys, and led her across the palm-strewn lobby to a rather secluded corner, where he placed her in a chair and dropped into another at her side.

"Now," he began quietly, "tell me who Enid Elsmere is, please."

He saw that her hands were twisting nervously at her handkerchief again.

"Are you a friend of Doctor Burlington, please? Have you heard him speak of me?"

Quentin looked hard at her, startled in turn.

"No, Miss Elsmere. I know Hall Burlington slightly, but I know his daughter Dolly quite well. I have heard her speak of an Enid Elsmere as an acquaintance, that is all."

"Oh!" There seemed to be relief in her tone, which puzzled him. "Does Dolly call you Quent?"

"She does," he replied in new wonder, and she hesitated again. What could it mean? Why had he never heard of Enid Elsmere except in such a superficial way that the name had never provoked a question?

"Then you are2" She stopped with a furious blush, and he laughed out:

"No, Miss Elsmere. I'm sorry you've heard gossip, but Dolly is really in love with another man, and we're just playing the game to keep Mrs. Burlington contented pro tem. Dolly's a good chum, and I'm helping her out. But you haven't told me who you are."

"I'm Doctor Burlington's niece," she answered in a low voice.

Quentin felt his suspicions revolve again. He had known of Burlington for years, first as an indifferent physician living on indifferent means, and later with wealth from some unknown source, leaping into prominence socially and professionally—a quiet, heavy-jawed man who talked little. Mrs. Burlington, he knew well, had huge ambitions for Dolly, which he was helping Dolly to defeat. But he had never heard of a niece.

"I did not know he had a niece," he said quietly. "Miss Elsmere. if you are in any difficulty, I wish you would allow me to help you. Why are you over here alone? Surely the Burlingtons, who live at Long Beach, would have been glad to meet you?"

There was trouble in her sightless face, and she hesitated again.

"I—I have lived with them for three years," she said slowly. "If you were not a friend of my uncle's, I would be more ready to trust you."

Quentin stared at her, thunderstruck. It occurred to him that she was clever; she might have known of the Burlington family, she might have seized at a straw and made it into a rope—but it was hard to believe. Surely there was nothing about Hall Burlington to inspire those last bitter words of hers.

"My dear girl," he said finally, "I am merely an acquaintance of—of your uncle. If you are in any trouble, you may tell me in professional confidence."

"Even if I said that I hoped never to enter his door again?" she shot out with swift and passionate intentness.

"By Jove!" whistled Quentin to himself. "This is getting in deep!" Aloud, he reassured her briefly: "I make no reservation, Miss Elsmere."

"I will trust you, then, if you will see that I am taken to Mr. J. M. Mathews, who has a summer residence here on the island, and if you will promise not to reveal my whereabouts for at least two months. Will you?"

"Where such a promise is necessary it is seldom safe to trust," he responded. "None the less, I promise, and I will be very glad to help you."

Her hand fluttered to his arm in relief, then fell to her lap again.

"Then I will tell you," she said, simply as a child. "Three years ago I was left in care of Doctor Burlington. He is not really my uncle, though I have always called him so; I think he was a college mate of my father's. When I was orphaned, it was arranged that Doctor Burlington should have the use of my income, and should bring me up as his own daughter.

"This went well for the first year, but after that conditions grew insupportable, Doctor Quentin. I am of age, yet he controls my money unless my sight should be restored, which he assures me is impossible. He has kept me secluded, and although Dolly and I love each other dearly, not even she is allowed to mention me to visitors. People understand that there is an invalid in the house, perhaps, but no more. Even Dolly seems to think that her father is acting for the best—oh, it is terrible!"

She paused, her voice breaking. Quentin was biting his lips in helpless bewilderment at this strange story, truth of which seemed patent in her face and voice; his doubts had vanished utterly, and as he thought of Burlington in this new light, the thing began to assume probability.

"The Mathews," she went on, "are the only people who take any interest in me, for they were friends of my father's also. Doctor Burlington has assured them that my sight cannot be restored, but I intend to make a fight for it—Mr. Mathews will help me, when he understands everything, for he's a very fine lawyer. But you are a doctor—do you think2"

"I do not know, Miss Elsmere," replied Quentin very gravely. "I am not an eye specialist, and Burlington is really a good physician2"

"But don't you see?" she burst out. "He wants my money—as long as I am blind he'll have the use of it, and he'll keep me blind!"

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Quentin. "Look here, Miss Elsmere, this thing can't2"

He paused, for the dumb anguish in her face convinced him. He found his hand trembling, and shook himself together; recalling Burlington's sudden wealth and consequent rise in the world, he began to believe her.

"I can't tell you anything without a careful examination," he went on slowly. "But have you no proof of this thing?"

"None," she shook her head, "except my own convictions and things my uncle has let drop from time to time—but nothing definite. When I slipped out of the house this morning, I met some man in the street who steered me to the electric station, and helped me on a San Pedro car. The rest was easy. But Mr. Mathews will take care of me, and I do wish you would look at my eyes! I feel that I can trust you2"

She broke off, and he patted her hand quietly, soothingly.

"Later, Miss Elsmere, I promise you that I will do so. For the present the main thing is to get into touch with these Mathews people, and I'll soon see about that. I am to meet a couple of friends at the Country Club this afternoon, so as it's barely noon now, I'll find out where the Mathews people are. We'll have lunch here; then, after the Mathews take care of you, I'll be off to the club. J. M. Mathews, isn't it?"

"Yes, James Mortimer."

"All right. Wait here a moment."

He walked over to the desk and smilingly waved back the pen shoved at him by the desk clerk.

"No, I'll only be here for lunch, and we don't care to register. Do you know where a J. M. Mathews lives on the island?"

"Yes, sir—you'll find it quite a little walk, but easy to locate, just off Buena Vista Park. If you walk, the path's pretty steep, but you can go up by the incline railway just as well. It's the only residence up there, and Mr. Mathews only built last winter, after giving up his legal work in the city. Anything I can do for you?"

"No, thank you. I merely want to know where the house is."

Quentin turned, but as he started across the lobby he saw the burly form of Osgood, the headquarters man, come up and lean over the counter, talking to the clerk. He saw the latter fling a quick look in his direction, but it was improbable in the extreme that they were speaking of him, so he returned to his charge. It was agreed that, as she was tired, he would leave her at the hotel after lunch while he brought Mathews down to take care of her, since he could meet his friends at the club any time that afternoon.

So, without forebodings, he passed in to a very happy luncheon.

Chapter III

CHAPTER III.

After lunching, Quentin obtained a room for his charge, and left her at the elevator, in charge of a maid. Then, getting a telephone booth, he called up the club, found that both Tommy Wells and Bunt Green were on the links, and left word that he would arrive about five. Whereupon, with the afternoon before him, he left the hotel and walked down Crescent Avenue with no more worry upon his mind than Enid Elsmere.

She, however, provided worry enough. When he had passed the public gardens and the Greek theater, and had swung aboard the little railway car which would lift him to the park above, he had almost reached the conclusion that her incredible story was a lie.

He had known Dolly Burlington for years, but the intimacy between them had been only a firm friendship. Yet it seemed impossible that he should not have known—hold on! Had not Dolly written him while he was in his senior year at Stanford that her father had been appointed ward of an invalid girl? If she had, the memory was hazy, but once it had lodged the thought could not be shaken off.

He had spent a year in Europe, partly in study, partly in care of a wealthy paralytic, and it was possible that these changes had come about in his absence. In the two years since his return he had been fairly busy establishing himself in Los Angeles, had had little time to spend with the Burlingtons at Long Beach, and Dolly had been too much occupied with her own love affair to do other than accept a situation to which she must have become accustomed—providing Enid Elsmere's story was true.

Upon that the car had stopped. Quentin, who had never visited the Catalinas before, in common with most people who lived close by, obtained his direction from the conductor and made his way along the edge of the Buena Vista grounds.

Presently he came upon the place he sought—a snug home built in Swiss chalet style on the mountainside and having a goodly private garden, even though it was set so near the park grounds that it seemed almost a part of them. Observing that a wide veranda opening off the hillside had as much the appearance of a front entrance to the house as the stone steps which led up from a lower level of walk, Quentin chose the former route, walked the length of the veranda, and rang at the side door.

His ring brought no response, and he pressed the bell again and again. At length he was just turning in disgust when there came a shuffling step, the door was opened, and a wizened old man looked at him curiously.

"Well?"

"I'd like to see Mr. Mathews," answered Quentin.

"Not to hum, sir."

"Mrs. Mathews, then," he said, wondering if there were a Mrs. Mathews.

"No, sir. They ain't nobody to hum, 'cepting me."

"Well, where are they, then? I've got to see Mr. Mathews or one of the family as soon as possible." Quentin felt an absurd impulse to laugh at the little old man, who was plainly impressed with the importance of being left in charge of the place.

"I'm right sorry, sir," and the caretaker scratched his head, "but I ain't sure when they'll be back. Both on 'em went in on the eight-o'clock boat this mornin', and if they stay over in Los Angeles for a show to-night they ain't liable to git hum right sudden. May be back to-night, mebbe to-morrow. Sorry, sir."

Since there was no help for it, Quentin beat a retreat in no little consternation. This unexpected turn of affairs left him somewhat up a tree, he reflected. As planned, the fishing expedition was to leave Avalon that night for a point thirty miles down the coast, where three days would be spent fishing. He decided that he would go up to the club later in the afternoon, arrange to meet the other two men when they came down to embark, and trust to luck that Mathews would be back.

"If he isn't," he thought, "I'll have to chuck the fishing trip, that's all. And I guess I'd better do it anyhow; I'd sooner spend a few hours with that blind girl than with a couple of boozing millionaires, even with the fishing thrown in."

Reaching the Metropole again, he went direct to the girl's room, and the maid admitted him. He reported the issue of his mission briefly.

"Now," he concluded, in his cheeriest professional tone, "would you like to rest this afternoon? Or would a trip to the submarine gardens interest you?"

"Oh, by all means!" Her suddenly eager face fell. "But I must not detain you, Doctor Quentin. It's been very good of you to2"

"Nonsense!" he laughed. "My dear Miss Elsmere, I have positively nothing on hand more than a run up to the Country Club later in the afternoon, and we'll be back before three, as the tourists must catch the last boat back to Pedro. So come along, if you're sure you don't need rest."