Short Fiction

possible, your intention on the matter.

“Of course nothing would be easier than to bring the man to justice. I have not the slightest belief in his penitence, and I farther think, if he should recover, he will induce this infatuated woman to marry him for the sake of her small savings.

“I must ask your pardon, sir, for this long letter I have unwillingly troubled you with, and awaiting your orders, beg to remain,

“Your obedient servant,
“Jervis Hill.”

“Postscript.⁠—Since writing the above I have received a special communication from Dunwich Police Station, in which, perhaps, sir, you may feel interested. It relates to the conviction of a gipsy woman and tramp, for stealing. In her possession was found a long travelling cloak and thick veil. This she states she found in a plantation in your grounds about two months ago, when she had there taken refuge from a thunderstorm which had set in with violence. This thunderstorm, sir, we must all remember as occurring on the night Miss Warden’s body was found. This cloak and veil most probably belonged to her and enabled her to pass unnoticed and unknown through Dunwich streets, and were most likely thrown on one side by her when wearied and heated by her long walk she found them heavy and cumbersome. They remain at Dunwich Station to be claimed and identified, if possible, and may chance to be of great importance should you wish at any time to recommence the investigation I had the honour to conduct for you.

“J. Hill.”

To this Lord Hardcastle wrote in reply, at Mr. Warden’s request⁠—

“Sir⁠—

“Mr. Warden wishes me to thank you for your letter, and to inform you that he cannot ask you to recommence your former investigation for the simple reason that Miss Warden has returned to her family and friends, and will in due time communicate all that is wished to be known.

“As for Tom Williams, Mr. Warden has not the least intention of prosecuting him provided he gives up his malpractices and leads a sober, honest life. Please to have him informed of this, and also strongly counsel Miss Kempe to return to her home and keep her money in her own hands.

“Your obedient servant,
“Hardcastle.”

XIV

Amy’s story took long to tell. Not in one continuous narrative, but at long intervals, and in answer to many questions did she give her father the history of the days she had spent away from home.

And this is the substance of her narrative.

On that bright August morning, the day after her first ball, she went out of the house with a light step and a gay young heart. No thought of care or sorrow in her mind, on the verge of womanhood, with a life full of promise and brightness stretching out before her, the world, as it were, at her feet, and the crown of her youth and beauty on her head, suddenly a dark cloud fell over it all, shutting out the brilliant landscape and sunlight, and enveloping youth, beauty, hope and promise, the whole of the glory of the summer’s day, in the mist and darkness of the valley of the shadow of death.

Amy Warden, thinking only of her last night’s scene of triumph (for such it had been to her) walked gaily through her father’s grounds till she came almost to the verge of the park lands. Here she met the postman. “My letters, if you please,” she said, exchanging a kind “good morning” with the man. He handed two to her in feminine handwriting, and passed on. The first she quickly disposed of, it was from a young girl friend, declining an invitation of Amy’s for the following day. The second, in a strange foreign hand, although bearing the London post mark, she opened as she quitted the park for the Dunwich high road. It was (as has already been stated) market day at Dunwich, and two or three villagers from Harleyford passed at this moment with whom she exchanged greetings, and who, for the time, drew her attention from the letter.

Once more turning her eye upon the page, she read words which made park, woodland and road alike swim before her eyes, and which sent her young blood rushing to her face and back again with a chill to her heart. Recovering herself partially, she turned back into the park lands, and there, under the shadow of the great trees, read through her letter.

It was written partly in Cevenol patois, partly in good French, and thus it ran:⁠—

“Ma Mignonne⁠—

“Hast thou forgotten Isola, thy nurse? Hast thou forgotten the one who rocked thee in her arms to sleep, and led thee over the mountain to gather wild campions to weave garlands and crowns for thy beautiful mother? Dost thou know thou hast a mother living now among those mountains? Has he who shadowed and cursed her young life told thee the story of her suffering and wrong? For twelve long years, ma cherie, has she lived a life of loneliness and sorrow, and now she lies on a bed of sickness and pain with the hand of death upon her. She is wearying for thee, my Aimée, wilt thou not go to her? I am in London, and I wait all day long at your great Midland Station, for I know thou wilt come. I shall know your sweet face among a thousand, for have I not seen it night after night in my dreams? And thou! thou wilt know Isola, thy old nurse, by her brown hood and cloak of the mountains.”

In utter bewilderment and amazement, with every nerve in her body jarring and trembling, Amy read and reread her letter, and as she did so the conviction of its genuineness and truth forced itself upon her. Two thoughts only remained on her mind, the first, “my father told me a bitter cruel lie when he