THE BRAND OF CAIN;
OR, WHAT COULD IT BE?

(by anonymous,
this edition: 1895)

CHURCH ROAD is a cheerful, open thoroughfare in a pretty London suburb. The houses on both sides are detached, with gardens before and behind, and have a comfortable, well-to-do appearance. The roadway is broad, and the asphalted side-walks, which are wide in proportion, are planted with maples at regular intervals. Standing at the bottom of the hill, in spring or summer, when the trees are in full leaf, and the gardens gay with flowers, and looking up the street to the handsome spire of our parish church, which crowns the lower eminence, I think you will allow that Church Road is as pretty and pleasant a street as one could wish to live in.

      And yet I am afraid that we shall have to leave it, and all through that horrid house opposite! Not that it is the fault of the house itself exactly — though I never liked it — but you shall hear.

      The cottage we occupy is situated at the end of Church Road, and close to its junction with Earl Street; and when we came to the neighbourhood, and for a long time afterwards, the corresponding corner opposite remained unbuilt on. It was an awkward, three-cornered piece of ground, and rather untidy — as unoccupied spaces in the neighbourhood of London are apt to be — but it contained a pretty clump of trees, among whose branches the robin sang in the autumn, and the thrush and blackbird in the spring and early summer; and I for one was very sorry when at length the all-devouring builder appeared upon the scene. The first thing he did was to cut down the trees; then he demolished the low wooden paling and built up a high brick wall, which not only is in itself an uninteresting thing to look at, but which also cut off the view we had hitherto enjoyed in Earl Street — the main thoroughfare.

      It was October before they began to build the house itself; but when once the foundations were dug and the walls commenced, the work went on with great rapidity — at the rate of a story per week. Wet or fine the bricklayers continued their task; and as the autumn proved a wet one, I not only pitied the workmen standing out day after day in the pouring rain, but also the unfortunate individuals who might hereafter come to reside within those damp walls. As soon as the roof was on, however, a noticeable change took place. Dawdling now became the order of the day, and it was not until the end of the following June that the dwelling was ready for occupation.

      Now that it was completed, the house — whatever it might be inside — was not an attractive one outside. It had too many staring windows, and looked too large and square for the piece of ground on which it stood.

      The front was towards Earl Street, but the back completely commanded and overlooked our modest cottage. The name, Montressor Lodge, was painted on the front gate and on the side door opening into Church Road.

      For three months the house remained empty; and then, one fine September day, the notice "To Let" was taken down; vans laden with furniture rolled up to the door, and Montressor Lodge was at last occupied.

      The tenant proved to be a lady, Miss Spencer by name, living alone and keeping three servants. Our house being exactly opposite we soon learned to recognize our new neighbour. I had abundant opportunities of observing her, for every fine morning she would slip out through the side door, over the way, and walk up and down Church Road for an hour or more at a time.

      She was a tall, lady-like, well-dressed woman, with something peculiarly graceful in her walk and carriage, and I liked to watch her as she paced pensively to and fro beneath the maples. As time went on, I began to pity her, for whether taking her morning stroll or afternoon drive in a hired victoria, she was always alone. Whether she was really as solitary and friendless as she appeared to be, of course, I could not tell. The lonely life she led might be of her own choosing, though it did not seem very likely, for there was nothing austere or forbidding in her appearance. Circumstances may condemn a woman to loneliness, but I never heard of one who liked it; and the thought of the solitary stranger at my own doors made me uncomfortable.

      "How dull Miss Spencer must be in that big house by herself," I remarked one morning at breakfast.

      "Yes; she can't be very lively," assented my husband, looking up from his newspaper. "Why don't you call on her? A nice, attractive-looking woman too. But there! — women are so abominably stiff and formal to their own sex."

      "Well, well; I am going to call on her," I answered, laughing at his vehemence.

      But perhaps I should not have carried out my intention as soon as I ultimately did, if it had not been for a little incident that occurred that same day.

      I was walking up Church Road, taking Carlo, our much indulged collie for a little exercise before lunch, when I observed Miss Spencer a short distance in front. My dog was in the wildest spirits, barking and circling round and round me; and not looking one bit where he was going, till, in the middle of a mad rush, he suddenly bounced up against Miss Spencer and nearly knocked her down. I hurried up and apologized.

      "Oh, don't mention it," she answered pleasantly. "I am fond of dogs." And Carlo, sensible of his fault, standing quietly beside me at the moment she put out her hand to caress him.

      To my surprise the dog drew back with an air of offence.

      "What a handsome fellow he is," she added, and again she essayed to touch him.

      This time Carlo uttered an unmistakable growl, and showed his teeth. If it had not been absurd, I should have said that there was fear as well as anger in the dog's mien.

      "He does not like me, I am afraid," she said, wistfully, her face clouding.

      "He is very badly behaved this morning," I rejoined, with a severe glance at the culprit.

      I was vexed at my favourite's unaccountable hostility; usually he was the most gentle and well-mannered of dogs.

      "He ought to be friendly, for we are near neighbours," I added; and I introduced myself, and mentioned that I hoped to call upon her.

      She looked pleased.

      "Come to-morrow," she said cordially.

      And I promised that I would.

      The acquaintance thus begun, proved mutually agreeable. I found Miss Spencer a well-read, cultivated woman, and a charming companion. There was a fascination about her difficult to resist and impossible to describe. When in her society I felt the spell strongly, but when absent I sometimes wondered what were my real feelings towards her.

      I could never be quite sure that my admiration and regard were not leavened by some adverse sentiment to which I could not give a name. That she was a woman capable of exercising a powerful influence over those with whom she came in contact, there could be no doubt.

      Had she chosen to enter society, she would, for all her forty years, have proved a rival whom even pretty girls in their youthful arrogance would not have been able to despise; but apparently she did not so choose; she rather drew back even from the friendly advances of those among whom she had come to dwell.

      As far as I am aware, I was the only person she admitted to anything approaching intimacy, and she did not come to see me nearly as often as I called upon her. She excused herself sometimes on one plea, sometimes on another; and when she did come never seemed at her ease as in her own house.

      Perhaps she resented Carlo's behaviour, which was certainly odd. If he happened to be in the room when she entered he invariably retreated under the sofa, and on one occasion gave vent to a loud and dismal howl which quite upset her. She turned pale and almost fainted.

      "See what a goose I am!" she exclaimed, recovering her composure by a manifest effort. "Too nervous to be fit for any house but my own. Waive ceremony, my dear Mrs. Hope, and come to see me often, and I will come to you — sometimes. You are much my junior, you know," she added with a winning smile.

      I went accordingly. My new acquaintance not only aroused my interest but also piqued my curiosity. There was a mystery about her which I could not fathom. What could be the meaning of the impenetrable reserve in which she enveloped herself?

      In all our long talks together she never spoke of father or mother, brother or sister, friend or lover. Ever ready to discuss books, pictures, music, politics, or any other subject of general interest, she never let fall the least allusion to her own past life, never began a sentence with the familiar words, "I remember." Once, in reply to a direct inquiry, she told me that her parents were dead; but the look on her face when I put the question did not encourage me to ask another.

      Whatever her troubles may have been, however — and it was clear that she had had troubles — want of money did not appear to be one of them. Her dress and style of living were indicative of ample means; and her servants, also, were of the well-trained, expensive kind. The cook and lady's-maid were English, but Louis, the butler and general factotum, was a foreigner — apparently a Frenchman.

      One of his duties was to accompany his mistress in her drives, and I never saw Miss Spencer in her carriage without Louis seated on the box beside the driver. Sometimes she would send him across in the morning with a message to ask me to drive with her in the afternoon, and as I had no carriage of my own, and the weather continued mild and open, I was glad to accept her friendly invitation as often as I could.

      One week, however, it so happened that I was obliged to decline on two consecutive occasions, and fearing lest Miss Spencer might think me ungracious, I went over to explain how it was.

      I found her looking unusually animated.

      "I have had a visitor," she said, cutting short my apologies. "Guess who."

      "Mr. Marshall, I suppose."

      "Yes. He told me he made a point of calling on all his parishioners. But I don't think he will call on me again," she added with a short laugh.

      "Why not?"

      "Because I was frank, and told him I had views of my own, and never went to church."

      "And what did he say?"

      I was amused. I could so well imagine our good vicar's horrified face.

      "He did not say much, but I am afraid he thought a good deal. Free-thinking in a man is bad enough, but in a woman it would seem to be an unpardonable sin."

      "But you are not a free-thinker, are you?" I asked, a little scandalized.

      I was mystified too, for I was sure I had seen Miss Spencer in church more than once. But if she chose to deny it, of course it was no business of mine.

      For a moment there was silence in the room, and Miss Spencer's white fingers played nervously with the china on the mantelpiece. Then she turned away, and with the languid grace peculiar to her, subsided into a chair.

      "I don't know what I am," she answered, with a sigh, passing her hand across her forehead. "I only know what I am not, and that is — orthodox."

      After this I was surprised the next time I called to find her leaning back in her favourite seat with an open Bible on her knee.

      "I suppose you have read the story of Cain and Abel?" she asked, when the usual salutations had been exchanged.

      She made the inquiry as though she were speaking of the last new novel.

      "Yes; of course," I replied.

      "Have you ever considered what was the nature of the mark set upon the first murderer?"

      "Sometimes."

      "And what conclusion did you arrive at?"

      Her tone was careless, but there was an intent look in her fine dark eyes.

      "It is impossible to arrive at any conclusion on such a point. We are told so little that we can but speculate."

      "Just so; but the speculation is an interesting one. For instance, should you think that the brand whatever its nature — was always apparent, or that it only became visible under certain circumstances?"

      "I don't know," I answered, after a moment's reflection. "The idea is new to me."

      "Whichever way it was, it could not have mattered much to him," continued Miss Spencer gloomily. "He knew that whatever he did — though he prayed fervently and repented bitterly — he must to the last hour of his life bear about in his person the mysterious mark of Divine displeasure. Oh, it was an awful fate!"

      And she wrung her hands together.

      "But you seem to forget that he killed his brother," said I, amazed at her vivid interest in such a character as Cain. "He deserved to suffer, for his sin was great. For my part I don't pity him a bit."

      "Oh, don't say so!"

      The words came quick like a cry of pain, and as her glance met mine it thrilled me through and through, and I shivered from head to foot.

      She saw it, and instantly resumed her old calm manner, as though it were a mask that had dropped for a moment.

      "And it was jealousy that was at the bottom of that first crime as of so many since," she observed. "It is a power potent for evil."

      "It is a hateful thing," I rejoined. "It is quite sickening to read of men murdering their sweethearts and offering jealousy as their paltry excuse."

      "You don't believe, then, in a person killing another for very love?"

      "No; I don't," I answered shortly. "Love never committed murder. Passion may prompt to evil deeds; love prompts to sacrifice and self-denial. Jealousy inflicts suffering; love bears it silently to promote the happiness of the one beloved."

      Miss Spencer looked at me long and curiously.

      "You have never known a great temptation," she said slowly; "you do not realize the wickedness one might be capable of. You are a good woman, Mrs. Hope, and I like to be with you."

      She put out her hand as though to take mine, and in so doing knocked down a book on a table at her elbow.

      I stooped to pick it up.

      "Farrer's 'Eternal Hope,'" I exclaimed, glad to change the conversation.

      "Yes; it is a favourite of mine. You have read it, of course?"

      "I'm ashamed to say I have not. But I like the idea," — idly turning over the leaves.

      "Ah, I might have known as much," she rejoined in a pleased tone, her face lighting up with a rare, sweet smile — "I might have known you would be on Mercy's side. Is not your name Hope, and did not I love you from the moment you told me so?" Then, as if half ashamed of the little outburst, she pushed the book into my hand. "There, child, run away and read it."

      I obeyed, and left Montressor Lodge that afternoon more puzzled and curious than ever.

      A few days later, Louis came across with a message from Miss Spencer.

      Was I inclined for a drive that day, and if so, would it be convenient to me to go before lunch instead of after? I returned an affirmative reply, and about twelve o'clock the carriage drew up at my gate.

      Miss Spencer looked very well that morning, and was dressed with even more care than usual. As I took my seat beside her, it struck me afresh what a charming, distinguished-looking woman she was.

      It was very pleasant driving, for it was a still, sunny, autumn day, and my companion seemed in very good spirits, and we chatted away quite gaily.

      We had been out two hours, and were within half a mile of home driving down the main street, when we approached a milliner's shop, with a photographic studio next door.

      Miss Spencer pulled the check-string, and the carriage stopped at the milliner's.

      "No; the photographer's," she said in clear accents.

      The coachman obeyed and Louis descended to open the door, but instead of doing so he stood for a moment with his hand on the handle, and I wondered at the trouble in his face.

      "Madame," he said.

      And there was a volume of urgent, respectful entreaty in the single word.

      Her eyes flashed.

      "Open the door!"

      And he would have been a bold man who refused to obey that quiet command.

      She stepped out and beckoned me to follow.

      "I am going to have my photograph taken. Come with me, Mrs. Hope."

      I alighted, and, as I did so, heard Louis sigh heavily. He looked at me imploringly, but did not dare to say another word. What in the world did it all mean?

      We entered the house, and were shown into the reception-room, hung round with photographs of different kinds and sizes. Smith was a very good photographer, and my husband and I had both been to him more than once. He operated himself, took the utmost pains with all his sitters, and rarely failed to give satisfaction.

      "Have you an appointment?" asked a young woman, coming forward.

      "Yes; two o'clock," answered Miss Spencer, giving her name.

      Whereupon we were promptly conducted to the studio.

      It was empty; and Miss Spencer walked across and stood looking out of the opposite window, while I chose out a comfortable chair, and sat down. Presently Smith emerged from the usual little dark closet in the corner, and recognized me, and inquired how I would be taken.

      "It is my friend," I replied, indicating the motionless figure by the window.

      As I spoke Miss Spencer turned slowly round, and the man started.

      He might well start. Was this the woman with whom I had chatted merrily barely ten minutes ago? Her eyes had grown suddenly haggard; her face was drawn and white, unmistakable suffering stamped in every line.

      "You are ill!" I exclaimed, springing forward in dismay. "Some water, quick!"

      "No," she answered.

      And she took her seat opposite the instrument, and signed to Smith to proceed. He obeyed, and disappeared into his closet. I remembered afterwards that he made no attempt to arrange her attitude, and did not utter a single syllable.

      "But what is the use of going on with it?" I urged, kneeling beside her, and endeavouring to chafe her ice-cold hands. "You are ill — not fit to have your likeness taken. Why, it wall look ghastly."

      An irrepressible groan broke from her lips; her right hand gripped the arm of the chair; her teeth were clenched, and great drops stood on her forehead. A horrible fear seemed to be taking possession of her, against which she was struggling with all the force of her powerful will.

      As I gazed I was seized with panic.

      "Oh, come away, come away," I cried, trying to drag her from her seat.

      But she resisted.

      "I must know," she whispered, hoarsely. "Stay with me. It is — all you — can do."

      I sank down at her side and hid my face, for I could not bear to look upon hers. I felt that I was assisting at a tragedy, and was the more frightened because I did not in the least know what there was to be afraid of.

      Time passed. I heard Smith walk to and fro a number of times, and at last his voice broke the silence.

      "Madam, I cannot take your portrait."

      I looked up, startled by his cold, stern tone, but Miss Spencer did not notice it. Without a word she rose and walked out of the house. Blank despair was on her face.

      We drove home in unbroken silence. At my gate she turned and kissed me for the first and only time.

      "Good-bye — a long good-bye to Hope and you."

      I could not ask her what she meant, for tears sprang into my eyes and sobs into my throat. Surely, at her own time she would explain the mystery.

      When my husband came home that evening I told him what had happened. He listened, but was inclined to make light of it, setting it all down to "nerves" and "fancy."

      "It was nothing of the kind," I retorted, rather nettled. "If you had seen her face you would not talk about 'fancy.'"

      The words were yet on my lips, when the housemaid opened the door, and announced that Mr. Smith, the photographer, wished to see me.

      "Show him in," said I.

      "Well, Mr. Smith," said my husband. "My wife has been telling me of something that took place at your studio to-day, which seems to have upset her."

      "I don't wonder," returned the man gravely; "I was upset myself. I don't know anything against the lady who came with Mrs. Hope to-day, but if she is a friend of yours, I think you ought to know that there is something very, very odd about her."

      "In what way?"

      "It is impossible to take her portrait."

      "Is that all?" said my husband contemptuously.

      "No; it is not all," replied Smith bluntly. "I have seen Miss Spencer before to-day. Five years ago, when I was chief operator to Messrs. B. and B.," — naming a well-known firm of West End photographers, — "she came to have her likeness taken; I could not succeed, and was obliged to tell her so."

      "Why couldn't you succeed?" asked my husband, growing interested.

      "Because every negative was covered with spots. To-day, for all she looked so white and frightened, I knew her again in a moment."

      "And the result?" I cried.

      "Was the same. I have printed off two proofs to show you. You had better look at them first, Mr. Hope," he said, significantly, handing them to him.

      I saw my husband's face change instantly. I could not bear the suspense, and stepped forward quickly and looked over his shoulder.

      Ah, me! what a sight! The photograph was thickly covered with spots, and each spot was the minute, but perfect picture of a face. The face of a dead man!

      I turned sick with horror; the room spun round; I believe I fainted.

      The next day my husband took me away; and when I returned at the end of a fortnight Montressor Lodge was empty. I cannot bear to look at it now, so striking is the contrast between the new, complacent, commonplace dwelling and the tragic mystery surrounding its first tenant. I have never seen Miss Spencer again; probably never shall.

      Whatever she may have done, I know that her punishment is great and her repentance bitter, and with all my heart I pity her.

(THE END)