The Wharf by the Docks by Florence Warden (novel24 TXT) 📖

for the poor fellow whose confession she was then hearing that she dared not even raise her eyes to his face again. He went on, hurrying his words, as if anxious to get his confession over:

"But I thought it all over last night, and I decided to say nothing to her, after all. I don't think I could, without making a fool of myself. For you know--you know my feelings about her; everybody knows. I had hoped--Oh, well, you know what I hoped--"

There was a pause. Dudley was afraid of breaking down.

"Oh, Dudley, is it really all over, then, between you? Oh, it is dreadful! For, you know, she cares, too!"

"Not as I do. I hope and think that is impossible," said Dudley, hoarsely.

There was another pause, a longer one. Then Queenie gave utterance to a little sob. Dudley, who was sitting on the table at which she was at work, got upon his feet with an impatient movement. His dark face looked hard and angry. As he paced once or twice up and down the small space available in the disordered room, the inward fight which was going on between his passion and his sense of right convulsed his face, and Queenie shuddered as, glancing at him, she fancied she could see in the glare of his black eyes the haunting madness at which he seemed so plainly to have hinted.

She rose in her turn.

"But, Dudley--" she began.

And then, unable to express what she felt, what she thought, any better than he had done, she turned abruptly away and sat down again.

There was silence for a few moments, and then she heard the door close. Looking round, she saw that he had left the room.


CHAPTER VI.

THE LITTLE STONE PASSAGE.

Queenie kept Dudley's half-confessed secret to herself for the whole of that day. She was hoping against hope that he would change his mind again and speak to Doreen himself. Since there must be a definite and final breach, she thought it would be better for the principals themselves to come to an understanding, without the intervention of outsiders. She would have told him so, but she got no further opportunity of speaking to him alone.

The day passed uncomfortably for everybody, although the only person who gave vent to his feelings by open ill-temper was Mr. Wedmore, who was waiting for the promised explanation which Dudley never attempted to give. And before dinner-time that evening the young barrister returned to town.

Mr. Wedmore, who had been out shooting with Doctor Haselden, was furious, on returning home, to learn of Dudley's departure.

"He has left a note for you, papa, in the study," said Doreen, who was, perhaps, a little paler than usual, but who gave no other outward sign of her feelings.

Her father went into the study, after a glance at his daughter, and read the letter. It was not a very long one. Following the lines of his guarded confession to Queenie, Dudley expressed the sorrow he felt at having to give up the hopes he had had of being something more than the mere old friend he had been for so many years. He had thought it better, at the last, to say this on paper instead of by word of mouth, and he ended by expressing the deep gratitude he should always feel for the kindness shown to him by Mr. Wedmore and all his family during the happiest period of his life.

Mr. Wedmore read this letter with little astonishment. It was, in fact, what he had been prepared to hear. He read it to his wife, who cried a great deal, but acquiesced in her husband's desire that Dudley should drop not only out of the ranks of their intimate friends, but even, as much as possible, out of their conversation.

"Let us do our best," said he, "to make Doreen forget him."

Mr. Wedmore showed the letter also to Doctor Haselden, who, perhaps, from pure love of contradiction, persisted in maintaining that the letter confessed nothing, and that the cause of the young man's withdrawal was, in all probability, quite different from what Mr. Wedmore supposed. The two gentlemen had quite a wrangle over the matter, at the end of which each was settled more firmly in his own opinion than before.

When they went upstairs for the night, Doreen came to Queenie's room and demanded to know what her younger sister and Dudley had been talking about so earnestly in the breakfast-room that morning.

"What do you mean by talking earnestly?" said Queenie, in the calm, dry manner which would have made any one but her sister think she was really surprised.

"Max told me," said Doreen, "and I mean to stay here until I know."

It needed very little reflection to tell Queenie that it was better for her sister to hear the truth at once. So she told her.

Doreen listened very quietly, and then got up and wished her sister good night.

"Well," said Queenie, "you take it very quietly. What do you think about it?"

"I'll tell you--when I know myself," answered Doreen, briefly, as she left the room. The first result of the talks, however, was a conversation, not with Queenie, but with her brother, Max. Doreen ran after him next morning as he was on his way to the stables and made him take a walk through the park with her instead of going for a ride.

"Max," she said, coaxingly, when they had gone out of sight of the house, "you have been my confidant about this unhappy affair of Dudley's--"

But her brother interrupted her, and tried to draw away the arm she had taken.

"Look here, Doreen," said he earnestly, "you'd better not think any more about him--much better not. I do really think the poor fellow's right in what he hinted to my father, and that he's going off his head; or, rather, I _know_ enough to be sure that he's not always perfectly sane. Surely you must see that, in the circumstances, the less you think about him the better."

"There I disagree with you altogether," said Doreen, firmly. "Max, papa and mamma can't understand; they've forgotten how they felt when they were first fond of each other. Queenie's not old enough, and she's too good besides. Now, you do know, you do understand what it is to be head over ears in love."

"Good heavens, Doreen, don't talk like that! You mustn't, you know!"

"Don't talk nonsense," interrupted his sister, sharply. "I tell you I love Dudley, and ever so much more since I've found out he is in great trouble; as any decent woman would do. Now I don't feel nearly so sure as everybody else as to what his trouble is, but I want you to find out, and to help me if you can."

"What, play detective--spy? Not me. It's ridiculous, unheard of. I've done it once on your account, and I never felt such a sneak in my life. I won't do it again, even for you, and that's flat."

And Max thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

"Won't you?" said Doreen, with a quiet smile. "Then I must, and I will."

Her brother started and stared at her.

"You! _You!_ What nonsense!"

"It's not nonsense, as you will find when you hear me get permission to go up to town to stay with Aunt Betty."

Max grew sincerely alarmed.

"Look here, Doreen, be reasonable," said he. "You can do no good to Dudley, believe me. He has got into some dreadful mess or other; but it's nothing that you or I or any earthly creature can help him out of. I confess I didn't tell you all I found out when I went up to town. I couldn't. I can't now. But if you will persist, and if nothing else will keep you quietly here, I--well, I promise to go up again. And I'll warrant if I do I shall learn something which will convince even _you_ that you must give up every thought of him."

"Will you promise," said Doreen, solemnly, "to tell me all you find out?"

"No," replied Max, promptly, "I won't promise that. I can't. But I think you can trust me to tell you as much as you ought to know."

With this promise Doreen was obliged to be content. And when, at luncheon time, it was discovered that certain things were wanted from town, and Max offered to go up for them, Doreen and her brother exchanged a look from which she gathered that he would not forget her errand.

Max had plenty of time, while he was being jolted from Datton to Cannon Street, to decide on the best means of carrying out his promise. He decided that a visit to Limehouse, to the neighborhood where the property of the late Mr. Horne had been situated, would be better than another visit to Dudley.

Plumtree Wharf was, he knew, the name of the most important part of the property which had belonged to Dudley's father. Putting together the two facts of the discovery of a ticket for Limehouse in Dudley's possession, and of the disappearance of Edward Jacobs after a visit to that locality on the same day, Max saw that there was something to be gleaned in that neighborhood, if he should have the luck to light upon it.

It was late in the afternoon, and already dark, before he got out of the train at Limehouse station, and began the exploration of the unsavory district which fringes the docks.

Through street after street of dingy, squalid houses he passed; some broken up by dirty little shops, some presenting the dull uniformity of row after row of mean, stunted brick buildings, the broken windows of many of which were mended with brown paper, or else not mended at all. Here and there a grimy public house, each with its group of loafers about the doors, made, with the lights in its windows, a spot of comparative brightness.

Many of the streets were narrow and tortuous, roughly paved, and both difficult and dangerous to traverse by the unaccustomed foot passenger, who found himself now slipping on a piece of orange peel, the pale color of which was disguised by mud, now risking the soundness of his ankles among the uneven and slimy stones of the road.

Max had to ask his way more than once before he reached the Plumtree Wharf, the entrance to which was through a door in a high wooden fence. Rather to his surprise, he found the door unfastened and unguarded. And when he had got through he looked round and asked himself what on earth he had expected to find there.

There was nothing going on at this late hour, and Max was able to take stock of the place and of the outlook generally. Piles of timber to the right of him, the dead wall at the side of a warehouse on the left, gave him but a narrow space in which to pursue his investigations. And these only amounted to the discovery that the troubled waters of the Thames looked very dark and very cold from this spot; that the opposite bank, with little specks of light, offered a gloomy and depressing prospect, and that the lapping of the water among the black barges which were moored at his feet in a dense mass was the dreariest sound he had ever heard. He turned away with a shudder, and walked quickly up the narrow lane