Chapter 9

HATEFUL SUSPICIONS

The rest of that night I lay awake in my bed, the scene in the
verandah by the big blue-gum-trees haunting me all the time, much as
in earlier days the Picture of the murder had pursued and haunted
me. Early in the morning I rose up, and went down to Jane in her
little parlour. I longed for society in my awe. I needed human
presence. I couldn't bear to be left alone by myself with all these
pressing and encompassing mysteries.

"Jane," I said after a few minutes' careless talk--for I didn't
like to tell her about my wonderful dream,--"where exactly did you
find the picture of that house hanging over in the corner there?"

"Lor' bless your heart, miss," Jane answered, "there's a whole
boxful of them at The Grange. Nobody ever cared for them. They're up
in the top attic. They were locked till your papa died, and then
they were opened by order of the executors. Some of 'em's faded even
worse than that one, and none of 'em's very good; but I picked this
one out because it was better worth framing for my room than most of
'em. The executors took no notice when they found what they was.
They opened the box to see if it was dockyments."

"Well, Jane," I said, "I shall go up and bring them every one away
with me. It's possible they may help me to recollect things a bit."
I drew my hand across my forehead. "It all seems so hazy," I went
on. "Yet when I see things again, I sometimes feel as if I almost
recognised them."

So that very morning we went up together (I wouldn't go alone), and
got the rest of the photographs--very faded positives from
old-fashioned plates, most of them representing persons and places I
had never seen; and a few of them apparently not taken in England.

I didn't look them all over at once just then. I thought it best not
to do so. I would give my memory every possible chance. Take a few
at a time, and see what effect they produced on me. Perhaps--though
I shrank from the bare idea with horror--they might rouse in my
sleep such another stray effort of spontaneous reconstruction. Yet
the last one had cost me much nervous wear and tear--much mental
agony.

A few days after, I went away from Woodbury. I had learned for the
moment, I thought, all that Woodbury could teach me: and I longed to
get free again for a while from this pervading atmosphere of
mystery. At Aunt Emma's, at least, all was plain and aboveboard. I
would go back to Barton-on-the-Sea, and rest there for a while,
among the heathery hills, before proceeding any further on my voyage
of discovery.

But I took back Jane with me. I was fond of Jane now. In those two
short weeks I had