The Coward Behind the Curtain
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 15: Dorothy Gilbert of Newcaster
Mrs Vernon was standing looking out on to the lawn, pinning some flowers in her blouse. Her daughter, coming on her from behind, laid her hands upon her shoulders, and then her cheek against her mother’s. The mother, continuing to arrange her flowers, suffered the soft cheek to remain against her own, for some seconds, in silence.
“Well, are we ready? The people will be coming directly--we told them four. Some of Jim’s friends appear to have come early, judging from the group of what seem to be boys he has with him at the end of the lawn.”
“So I see. Jim’s friends have hours of their own--they don’t care what time people put on cards. Mother, I’m worried about Dorothy.”
“Doesn’t the dress fit?”
“Perfectly!--and the hat; and the hairdressing is a complete success. She looks lovely, as I told her she would do--she’s certain to cut me out.”
“I don’t think you’re afraid of that.”
Frances sighed.
“I’m not--if only for the simple reason that she won’t even try.”
“Doesn’t she want to come down?”
“It’s so provoking; she’s not a bit like my Dorothy--at least, in a way she isn’t. I can’t think what’s the matter with her. She seems to be a bundle of nerves. I hardly dare open my mouth for fear of saying something which will make her jump.”
“She does seem to be more sensitive than, from your description of her, I expected; I’ve noticed it myself.”
“My darling mumkins, she’s not the same girl. Something’s wrong with her--I can’t think what--and I daren’t ask.”
“She doesn’t seem to be an easy person to ask questions of.”
“She used to be; we used to tell each other every single thing; we used to delight in answering each other’s questions; but now---- I believe she’s bewitched, I really do!”
“What do you mean by she’s bewitched?”
“Why, she’s--she’s so strange; she gives me the feeling that only her body’s here, while she is somewhere else; it--it really is uncanny. She never speaks unless you speak to her, and when you speak to her she doesn’t listen. You can see she tries to listen; then, when you’re in the middle of a sentence, you find that she’s paying not the slightest attention to you, and that she’s staring at something in such a way that you turn, with a start, to see whatever it can be; and you have quite an uncomfortable feeling when you discover that, whatever it is she’s looking at, it’s something which you can’t see.”
“Did you say she doesn’t want to come down?”
“I didn’t say so; but she doesn’t. She makes me really cross; it is so annoying! There she is, looking a perfect picture: she has only to show herself to take the people by storm. I had no idea she was so pretty! And she says she would rather stay indoors, after all the trouble I have taken with her, because she doesn’t feel like seeing anyone.”
“My dear Frances, she is your guest; it is her feelings you must consult, not yours.”
“Of course! All the same, if we were at the convent I should pick her up and plank her down right in the very middle of the lawn; I shouldn’t care for her tantrums; she’d get the fresh air if she got nothing else. As it is, I don’t mean to let her have all her own way, if I can help it.”
“I don’t doubt that, or it wouldn’t be you.”
“Well, mother, I believe that, at the bottom, it’s just shyness; she’s ridiculously afraid of meeting strangers; after the first plunge she’d be cured. So, after a while, I’m going up to see how she is, and to ask if she wouldn’t like to come down; and I’m going to keep on asking if she wouldn’t like to come down till she comes; then you’ll see if she’ll be any the worse for coming.”
On this programme Miss Vernon acted. But the people, when they did begin to appear, arrived so fast, by land and water, and occupied her so completely, that it was some time before she was able to pay a first visit to her friend; and then, so far as inducing her to put in an appearance on the lawn was concerned, it was paid in vain. A second and a third time she tried; and it was only on the fourth occasion she prevailed; then the girl yielded less to her importunity than to her assurance that many of the people had already gone, and the rest were presently going. The consciousness of the false position she was in weighed on Dorothy so heavily that again and again that afternoon she had wished, with all her heart, that she had never allowed the individual she had known as Eric Frazer to inflict her on these good people. If she had held out against him, as she ought to have done, he never could have brought her there. But she had not understood; it seemed to her that he had taken advantage of her ignorance.
The worst of it was she did not understand yet; exactly how false her position was still she did not know. For instance, was he really the Earl of Strathmoira? Her simplicity, on such points, was pristine. To her, an earl was a person so far above her that he was, practically, a being of a superior world. If he was such an effulgent creature why had he passed himself off to her as a common man?--a plain mister? Why had he condescended to notice her at all?--to give her shelter?--to feign interest in her sordid story?--it could only have been feigned. Why had he lied and played the trickster to save such an one as she from the fate which he, so superior a being, must have known that she deserved? His whole attitude in the matter was incomprehensible to her; it added to that confusion of her mental faculties which had been great enough before.
It would have been something if she had been able to ask questions; to glean information from those who knew him so much better than she did--if she could have gained some insight into the kind of man he actually was. But she dare not ask a question. One thing she did see clearly--too clearly--and that was the impression she had made upon the Vernons by what had struck them as her amazing statement that she had only known him as Mr Eric Frazer. Another word or two and, for all she could tell, she would have done what he had warned her not to do--she would have played him false. That he had played her false, in a sense, seemed true; but then, what he had done he had done for her; it behoved her to be careful that what she did was done for him.
So it came about that, for his sake, she was tongue-tied. Wholly in the dark as to his actual identity, as to the real part which he was playing; not knowing, even, what was the story he had told on her account, she had to walk warily lest, by some chance expression, she should do him a disservice. This was one of those girls who, when forced by circumstances into situations of the most extreme discomfort, are indifferent for themselves, and anxious only for others. She had taken that diamond ring off her engagement finger; but there was a tingling feeling where it had been, as if it still were there; and that tingling caused her, now and then, as it were, against her will, to glance at it; and, as she glanced, all that the ring stood for to her came back to her--she saw it all. She saw the room in ‘The Bolton Arms,’ in the light, and in the dark; and, in the dark, what was on the table. She saw herself, the coward behind the curtain, with quivering flesh, as that grisly something glowered at her through the silence of the darkened room. She heard--the awful sound--in the pitch blackness; and she fled headlong through the window, like a thing possessed, and dropped through the unknown depths below--she had only to shut her eyes to feel herself dropping. She saw people looking for her--everywhere she saw them looking; and when she saw what was in their eyes--that was the worst of it all--she was as one frozen with fear. Yet, could she have had her way, she would have gone straight off and given herself up to those who sought her, to let them do with her as they would--because she was afraid of what would come, of her not doing so, to others--to him whom she had known as Eric Frazer; to the good people of this house. That would be the worst drop of bitterness, in her bitter cup, if hurt came to others because of her. She had a feeling that, at that moment, the owner of the caravan, whatever his name might be, was plunging deeper and deeper into the mire, in a frantic, hopeless effort to get her clear of it. If he were to get in so deep that there would be no getting out of it again, for him, so that they were both of them engulfed in it, for ever? And these Vernons--what right had she to bring her sordid story into their pleasant lives? Would they not suffer when it became known that they had harboured, though unwittingly, one on whose head was set the price of blood? What would be their judgment on her when they knew?
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