so far the reader may wonder at the constituent elements of this story. african witchcraft, mysterious strangers, and barbaric women seem to be out of place when set in the sober framework of an english provincial town. but romance is not dependent upon landscape or on surroundings for its occurrence: it is to be found everywhere, and very often in the most unlikely places. here, for instance, by some trick of fate, certain people had come together, certain passions had been aroused, and now that the drama had been set in motion, it seemed likely that it would play itself out to a tragical conclusion. tragical, certainly; for herein the elements of comedy seem to be wanting. but then fate is so pessimistic.
for a whole week after the events already related, nothing new took place likely to alter the situation. maurice and david remained coldly polite, and very watchful of one another; neither mentioned the name of isabella, nor did the one or the other see the girl. mrs. dallas took care of that. acting, no doubt, under the advice of dido (for she had no will of her own), she kept isabella within doors, and refused to allow her to communicate with maurice. but, on the other hand, she did not force her to see david; and isabella was thankful for the consideration.
but there was one visitor to the wigwam whom isabella would gladly have avoided--no less an individual than dr. etwald. after the violent scene with maurice, the widow so overtaxed her strength that she became ill, and the doctor was sent for. his mere presence appeared to soothe mrs. dallas, and he came frequently. when she could, isabella absented herself; but this she was not able to do on all occasions, and so she had to endure his complimentary speeches, and the mesmeric quality of his gaze. this last, especially, was a trial to one of her sensitive organization, and one day she felt so uncomfortable that she remonstrated with etwald.
"you make me afraid, doctor," she said, impetuously. "your gaze is disagreeable to me."
"my dear young lady," replied the man, blandly, "i must look at you when i address you."
"then don't address me!"
"isabella, do not be rude!" cried mrs. dallas, who had overheard this passage at arms; whereupon the girl, with a defiant glance at her tormentor, left the room.
"i'm sure i don't know what i'll do with isabella," sighed mrs. dallas; "she is getting so disobedient."
"perhaps i can assist you."
mrs. dallas looked uneasily at her medical attendant.
"no," she said, quietly "i may persuade her into doing what i want."
"which is, to marry mr. david sarby," said etwald coolly. "in that case i can only hope that the young lady will continue obstinate, as i wish to marry her myself."
"i know--i know! but i don't want her to marry you, doctor. mr. sarby is the man for my daughter. he is good-looking and clever and--"
"and poor!" finished etwald.
"well, yes," assented mrs. dallas, "there is that objection. but it is not much of an obstacle, as isabella has money. the young couple can live on three thousand a year."
dr. etwald went home with this sum running in his head, and more than ever he resolved to marry isabella. he was in love with her, and would have taken her without a penny; but all the same, if she was an heiress in a small way, it was all the better. the doctor was clever but poor, and with an income like that he could move to london and do great things. there were many schemes in etwald's head, and certain of these he determined to put into execution at once, in order to secure isabella to wife.
some time previously major jen had asked etwald about the devil-stick, but only to be informed that the doctor knew nothing of the missing article.
"i have not set eyes on it since that night you showed it to me," declared etwald, coolly. "you refused to sell it to me, so of course i gave up all idea of possessing it. all the same," finished he, politely, "i am sorry that it is lost."
"lost! stolen, you mean," growled jen, tartly. "that negress--"
"dido! well, i admit that such a barbaric treasure would tempt her, the more particularly as she knows about such wizard instruments. ask her if she took it."
"i have done so, and i have asked mrs. dallas also," replied jen; "but it seems that dido wasn't out of the house on that night. she was ill--and, oddly enough, i hear, etwald, that it was you who made her ill."
"really!" said etwald, quite self-possessed. "i suppose mr. alymer told you so. i thought as much," he continued, as jen nodded. "he saw me calming dido's agitation when i arrived to ask mrs. dallas for her daughter's hand. this negress is hysterical, and on that day she happened to be so. i quieted her, yet mr. alymer accuses me of having caused her illness."
"i don't know anything about it, etwald; but truth to tell, maurice does not like you!"
"because i prophesied ill concerning him!"
"oh, that was rubbish," said jen, contemptuously. "you didn't mean it."
"didn't i! wait and see!"
after which etwald bowed his visitor politely to the door of the gloomy old house which he occupied in deanminster, and jen returned home, quite baffled as to what could have become of the devil-stick. all his inquiries proved futile, and he was unable even to conjecture how it had disappeared; yet knowing its fatal qualities, he was in constant dread lest it should reappear in connection with a tragedy. maurice still held to his idea that dido had taken the wand, but jen's inquiries proved that the negress had not been out of the house the night in question.
"then it must have been battersea!" said maurice, decidedly. "he is a friend of dido's, and a pensioner of isabella's. i'll find out if he stole the stick for the negress or for dr. etwald."
this was easier said than done, as mrs. dallas would not allow maurice to set foot in the house. still maurice hoped to learn the truth from the tramp himself, a hope that proved futile also, battersea had gone on one of his begging excursions, and for quite a week was not seen in the neighborhood of "ashantee." then he suddenly made his appearance at the house, and asked to see maurice. on being led into the hall, alymer came out to speak with him, and after a few words he took the old man into the library. jen, who was rather curious to know what maurice might learn from the disreputable old scamp, waited patiently for the termination of the interview. as alymer did not reappear, he sought the library, and found the young man alone.
"where is battersea?" asked jen, glancing round.
"oh, he has gone away!"
"what did he wish to see you about?"
"he had heard that i accused him of taking the devil-stick," explained maurice, "and came here to exculpate himself."
"well! and did he do so?"
"yes, he is quite innocent. he did not take the devil-stick."
"then who did?"
maurice paused, reflected, and looked anxiously at jen.
"i'll tell you that to-morrow," he said, after a pause.
"why not to-night?" asked jen, sharply.
"because i have a suspicion, which i can not prove at present. battersea gave me a hint, upon which i am determined to work. to-night i may learn the truth."
"from whom?"
"don't ask me. uncle jen; i can't answer you yet."
jen frowned, then laughed.
"well, just as you please," he said, raising his eyebrows, "but you are as mysterious as david."
"why, what about david?"
"only this, that he has gone up to town without bidding me good-by, save in this short note. i can't understand such conduct."
"nor i," said maurice, stretching out his hand. "please let me read the note. uncle jen. i wish to see precisely how it is worded."
the note which the major handed over was curt to the verge of rudeness. it merely stated that the writer had gone to london for a couple of days on business, and would be back as soon as possible. no explanation of what the business might be was given. maurice did not wonder than jen was annoyed at receiving such a missive from one whom he regarded in the light of a son; but in handing it back to the major he excused the writer.
"the fact is david has not been quite himself since this trouble about isabella," he said, gravely, "and he thinks it best to go away for a time. you know how he tortures himself over trifles."
"egad, this love business of you two young men is getting to be anything but a trifle," said jen, testily. "what between the lot of you and etwald, there seems to be nothing but trouble. i wish you'd marry the girl, maurice, and have done with it."
"perhaps i may settle affairs sooner than you think," said alymer, rising. "uncle jen, i won't be back to dinner to-night, as i have to go into deanminster."
"what about?"
"business connected with the devil-stick and isabella."
"h'm! you are pleased to be mysterious. why not tell me your business?"
"because i may fail," said maurice. "here, uncle jen, don't be cross; i'll tell you all about it to-morrow, and then you will see and approve of my silence to-night."
"well," said jen, with a shrug, "you are old enough to guide your own actions. but i must say that i don't like to be shut out of the confidence of my two boys in this way."
"you'll know everything to-morrow.'
"about david also?"
"perhaps i can even promise you that!" said maurice, with a smile.
"what!" cried jen, "do you know why david has gone to town?"
"not for certain; but i can guess. now, uncle jen, i shan't answer another question just now, as i must go into deanminster."
"will you take the dogcart?"
"no; i'll walk."
"walk--in evening dress?"
"i'm not going to put on evening dress," said maurice, impatiently. "i'll get some dinner in deanminster, and then go about my business."
it was useless to ask further questions, as jen saw that the young man was getting irritated; so, in no very pleasant temper himself, the major went up to his dressing-room. he was of a peace-loving and easy-going nature, fond of quietness, so it annoyed him not a little that all this disturbance should take place on account of a woman. "the sex is at the bottom of everything," said the major, uttering the old truth with conviction.
david and maurice both being absent, the one in london, and the other at deanminster, major jen was compelled to dine alone. this he disliked doing, so hurrying over his dinner with all speed, he betook himself to the smoking-room, with a book. here he lighted a cigar, chose a comfortable chair near the open window, and attempted to read; but the somnolent influence of the evening was upon him, and before his cigar was half done the good major was sound asleep.
outside a warm wind was blowing, and the air was filled with the perfume of flowers. in the dark blue sky hardly a cloud could be seen, and the moon, just showing her orb above the tree-tops, flooded the still loveliness of the night with wave after wave of cold light. all was full of charm, spellbound, as it were, by the magic of moonlight, when suddenly a long, wild cry struck shuddering through the silence.
accustomed as an old campaigner to sleep lightly. major jen was on his feet in an instant, and again heard that terrible shriek. it seemed to come from the direction of the high-road, and thinking that some evil was being done, jen, without loss of time, raced across the lawn and into the avenue. in a few minutes he arrived at the gate, and stepped out into the white and dusty road: a black mass was lying some distance down, and toward this ran jen with an indefinable sense of evil clutching at his heartstrings. the black mass proved to be the body of a man, cold and still. jen turned the corpse over and recoiled. the dead man was maurice alymer.
