Chapter IV

The joy with which my family welcome my return is largely mingled with surprise, but still more largely with curiosity, as to the cause of my so sudden reappearance. But I keep my own counsel. I have a reluctance to give the real reason, and possess no inventive faculty in the way of lying, so I give none. I say, “I _am_ back: is not that enough for you? Set your minds at rest, for that is as much as you will ever know about the matter.”

For one thing, I am occasionally rather ashamed of my conduct. It is not that the impression produced by my dream is _effaced_, but that absence and distance from the scene and the persons of it have produced their natural weakening effect. Once or twice during the voyage, when writhing in laughable torments in the ladies’ cabin of the steamboat, I said to myself, “Most likely you are a fool!” I therefore continually ward off the cross-questionings of my family with what defensive armour of silence and evasion I may.

“I feel convinced it was the husband,” says one of my sisters, after a long catechism, which, as usual, has resulted in nothing. “You are too loyal to your friend to own it, but I always felt sure that any man who could take compassion on that poor peevish old Jane must be some wonderful freak of nature. Come, confess. Is not he a cross between an ourang-outang and a Methodist parson?”

“He is nothing of the kind,” reply I, in some heat, recalling the libelled Robin’s clean fresh-coloured _human_ face. “You will be very lucky if you ever secure any one half so kind, pleasant, and gentleman-like.”

Three days after my return, I receive a letter from Jane:

“Weston House, Caulfield.

“MY DEAR DINAH,--I hope you are safe home again, and that you
have made up your mind that two crossings of St. George’s Channel
within forty-eight hours are almost as bad as having your throat
cut, according to the programme you laid out for _us_. I have good
news for you. Our murderer elect is _gone_. After hearing of the
connection that there was to be between us, Robin naturally was
rather interested in him, and found out his name, which is the
melodious one of Watty Doolan. After asking his name he asked other
things about him, and finding that he never did a stroke of work and
was inclined to be tipsy and quarrelsome, he paid and packed him off
at once. He is now, I hope, on his way back to his native shores,
and if he murder anybody it will be _you_, my dear. Good-bye, Dinah.
Hardly yet have I forgiven you for the way in which you frightened me
with your graphic description of poor Robin and me, with our heads
loose and waggling.

“Ever yours affectionately,
“JANE WATSON.”

I fold up this note with a feeling of exceeding relief, and a thorough faith that I have been a superstitious hysterical fool. More resolved than ever am I to keep the reason for my return profoundly secret from my family. The next morning but one we are all in the breakfast-room after breakfast, hanging about, and looking at the papers. My sister has just thrown down the _Times_, with a pettish exclamation that there is nothing in it, and that it really is not worth while paying threepence a day to see nothing but advertisements and police reports. I pick it up as she throws it down, and look listlessly over its tall columns from top to bottom. Suddenly my listlessness vanishes. What is this that I am reading?--this in staring capitals?

“SHOCKING TRAGEDY AT CAULFIELD.
DOUBLE MURDER.”

I am in the middle of the paragraph before I realise what it is.

“From an early hour of the morning this village has been the scene
of deep and painful excitement in consequence of the discovery of
the atrocious murder of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, of Weston House, two
of its most respected inhabitants. It appears that the deceased had
retired to rest on Tuesday night at their usual hour, and in their
usual health and spirits. The housemaid, on going to call them at
the accustomed hour on Wednesday morning, received no answer, in
spite of repeated knocking. She therefore at length opened the door
and entered. The rest of the servants, attracted by her cries, rushed
to the spot, and found the unfortunate gentleman and lady lying on
the bed with their throats cut from ear to ear. Life must have been
extinct for some hours, as they were both perfectly cold. The room
presented a hideous spectacle, being literally swimming in blood.
A reaping hook, evidently the instrument with which the crime was
perpetrated, was picked up near the door. An Irish labourer of the
name of Watty Doolan, discharged by the lamented gentleman a few days
ago on account of misconduct, has already been arrested on strong
suspicion, as at an early hour on Wednesday morning he was seen by a
farm labourer, who was going to his work, washing his waistcoat at a
retired spot in the stream which flows through the meadows below the
scene of the murder. On being apprehended and searched, several small
articles of jewelry, identified as having belonged to Mr. Watson,
were discovered in his possession.”

I drop the paper and sink into a chair, feeling deadly sick.

So you see that my dream came true, after all.

The facts narrated in the above story occurred in Ireland. The only liberty I have taken with them is in transplanting them to England.

POOR PRETTY BOBBY.

POOR PRETTY BOBBY.